"I'm not a US citizen; I've got British citizenship and a green card residence permit. I just happen to work here because, well, there aren't a lot of research posts in my speciality elsewhere. If I'd stayed with my ex-husband I'd be eligible for Israeli citizenship, too. But they won't let me leave. I didn't realise it would be like this." She falls silent for a moment; seabirds squawk overhead. "When the Immigration Service made trouble the Pentagon sorted them out, can you believe it? Told them to get off my case."
I nod silently: this isn't good news. It means that someone, somewhere, thinks Mo is a strategic asset–special treatment, kid gloves, do not let this one out of your sight. We do similar things, sometimes: I'm not allowed to go on vacation outside the EU without written permission from my head of department. But that's because I do secret work for the government. Mo is just a professor, isn't she? I wish she'd be a bit more specific, and say which bit of the Pentagon is giving her grief, rather than just using it as a generic category for big government.
"When did the trouble start?" I ask.
She laughs. "Which trouble?"
Me and my big mouth. "Uh, the current batch. I'm sorry; nobody briefed me."
She looks at me oddly. "Just what kind of Foreign Office employee are you?"
I shrug. "If you don't ask me any questions, I won't have to tell you any lies. I'm sorry, but I can't discuss my work. Let's just say that when you started complaining someone with a bit more clout than the consulate was listening. They sent me to see if there's anything we can do for you. All right?"
"Bizarre." She looks askance at me. "Let's walk." She turns, and I follow her back toward the road. There's a footpath leading out of town, shaded by trees; we take it. "The trouble started in Miskatonic," she says. "David and I–we're divorced, now–well, it didn't work out. I didn't play the politics right; Miskatonic is really bad for internal backbiting. When it was obvious they weren't going to open the tenure track up any time soon, I got a feeler from someone at UCSC. Nice research grant, an interesting field close to my own, and a promise of the fast track if I got results."
Tenured professorship is the academic holy grail: a job for life, supposedly to let first-class researchers poke into any corner they feel like, regardless of how popular it is with the administration. Which is, of course, why they're trying to abolish it. "How did it go?"
"I flew over for the interview. I got the job. Only there was a lot of paper to sign. David is a lawyer, but by then–" She falls silent. I can fill in some of the gaps, I think.
We're walking uphill now, and the path narrows. Dappled patterns of light and shade ripple across the dusty track. It's mid-afternoon and the day is hot and bright. A couple of surf dudes wander past and look at us curiously. "How did you get into your current field of research?" I ask.
"Oh, it was a natural progression. In Edinburgh I was working on inferential reasoning. When I got the job in Arkham I started out doing more of the same, but the belief systems field has been undersubscribed for years, and it seemed like a good place to stake my claim, especially given the interesting closed archives in their stacks: Arkham has a really unique library, you know? I began publishing papers, and that's about when the shit began happening inside the department. Maybe it was departmental politics, but now I'm beginning to wonder."
"They've got long tentacles, not to mention other nameless organs. It would help if I could see the documents you signed."
"They're at the office. I can go in and pick them up later." We're on a steep slope now, going uphill and I'm breathing hard. Mo has long legs and evidently walks a lot. Exercise or habit?
"Your research," I say. "You're certain it's not about any specific military applications?"
I know immediately that I've made a mistake. Mo stops and glares at me. "I'm a philosopher, with a sideline in folk history," she hisses angrily. "What do you take me for?"
"I'm sorry." I take a step back. "I've got to make sure. That's all."
"I shan't be offended then." I get a creepy feeling that she means exactly what she says. "No. It's just, I'm certain–no, positive, in the exact meaning of the word–that it's not that. A calculus of belief, a theory for deriving confidence limits in statements of unsubstantiated faith, can't have any military applications, can it?"
"Did you say faith?" I ask, hot and cold chills running up and down my spine. "Specifically, you can analyse the validity of a belief, without–" I stop.
"Let's not get too technical without a whiteboard, hmm?"
"Faith can mean several things, depending on who uses the word," I say. "A theologian and a scientist mean different things by it, for example. And 'unsubstantiated' has a dismayingly technical ring to it. But let's take a hypothetical example. Suppose I assert that I believe in flying pigs. I haven't seen any, but I have reason to believe that flying peccaries, a related species, exist. You're saying you could place confidence limits on my belief? Quantify the probability of those porcine aviators existing?"
"It works." She shrugs. "The numbers are out there. It's a platonic universe; all we can see are the shadows on the wall of the cave, but there are real numbers out there, they have an existence in and of themselves. I just began looking into probabilistic metrics that can be applied to assertions of a theological nature. There are some interesting documents in the Wilmarth folklore collection at Miskatonic . . ."
"Aha." We round a corner and there's an odd little clearing ahead, ringed with trees, with a hillside rising from the far end. "So we're back to the old idea of a real universe, and an observable one, and all we know about is what we can observe. So the department of strategic folklore in the Pentagon was concerned about you showing other people where to find their high-altitude hams?"
She stops and looks at me, frankly sizing me up. She comes to some sort of decision because after a moment she answers: "I think they were more worried about the creatures that cast the shadows on the walls. In particular, the ones that ate the USS Thresher and a certain Russian Whisky-class hunter-killer about thirty years ago . . ."
* * * *
When I return to my motel room that evening the man in the plaid shirt from the bar is waiting for me. He's got a federal ID card, a warrant, and an attitude problem.
"Sit down, shut up, and listen," he begins. "I'm going to say this once, and once only. Then you're going to get the hell out of town because if you're still on this continent in twenty-four hours I'm going to have you arrested."
I drop my jacket on the back of my chair. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"I said shaddup." He produces a laminated card and I make a show of looking at it. It says, basically, that someone who may or may not be in front of me works for the Office of Naval Intelligence–assuming I'd know an ONI pass if I tripped over one by accident. I think for a moment that he's unusually trusting for a law enforcement officer–they usually make with the guns before they go in–then I realise why and stifle a shudder. His eyes are dead, and there's a funny-looking scar on his forehead, which means the mind animating the body is probably in a bunker miles away. "As far as I'm concerned, today you are a tourist. If you're still here tomorrow I will have to investigate the possibility that you are a foreign national engaged in activities detrimental to the security of this nation. But unless you tell me you're working for the Laundry right here and now, I don't have to act on that information until eighteen hundred hours tomorrow. Am I making myself clear?"
"What's the Laundry?" I ask, doing my best to look puzzled.
He snorts. "Wise guy, huh? Get this through your head–we have wards and sensoids and watchers. We know who you people are, we've got you covered. We know where you live; we know where your dog goes to school. Get it?"
I shrug. "I think you're making a mistake."
"Well." He tries the number four Marine Sergeant glare again, but it bounces off me. "You're wrong. We don't make mistakes. You've just spent the past two hours speaking to a national security asset and we don't like that, M
r. Howard, we don't like it at all. Normally we'd just pull her security clearance and sling her ass on the next flight out, but the piece you've been talking to may be carrying around some items in her head that are not going to be allowed out of this country. Understand? The matter is under review. And if you happen to have overheard anything you shouldn't have, we're not going to let you out either. Luckily for you we happen to know she didn't tell you anything important. Now make yourself a history of not being here, and you'll be all right."
I sit down and start taking my trainers off. "Is that all you've got to say?" I ask.
Plaid Shirt snorts again: "Is that all?" He walks over to the door. "Yeah buddy, that's all," he says, and opens it. Then there's a wet slapping sound and he falls over backward, leaking blood onto the carpet from both ears.
I roll sideways, out of the line of sight of the door, and grab for the small monkey's paw I wear on a leather thong round my neck. Electricity jolts the palm of my hand as the ward activates. ("Try not to get yourself killed on friendly territory," said Andy: Some joke that turned out to be!) Plaid Shirt is blocking the suite door from closing and this is one of those California motels where all the doors open off balconies. I steady my nerves, then get myself turned round behind the bathroom sidewall and make a grab for his nearest arm.
They never tell you how heavy a corpse is in training school. I lean forward thoughtlessly to take a two-handed grip under his shoulder and that's when a mule punches my exposed shoulder. I fall over backward, dragging Plaid Shirt behind me, and the door swings shut.
The pool of blood is growing, but I have to be sure; the bullet hole is somewhere above his hairline. I force myself to look closer–
There are faint letters inscribed on his forehead in an ancient alphabet. They glow briefly then fade as I watch.
I do not feel good about sharing a motel room with a ballistically decommissioned intelligence agency spy. Unfortunately there appears to be a lunatic with a rifle waiting for me outside. I have an edgy feeling that the other shoe is about to drop within the next ninety seconds, and if I don't get out of here I'm going to be answering some pointed questions. Of course, I'm not really meant to last that long–or am I? Did they know about the standard-issue ward? Maybe if I'm lucky the ward will keep on working; they don't like taking direct hits, but they lose efficacy bit by bit, not all at once.
There's a loud blat of engine noise from outside the balcony; a motorbike with a blown muffler revs up then shrieks out of the car park on a trail of rubber. I grab my trainers, yank them on (wincing every time I flex my left arm), grab my jacket, wrap a hand around the dry-dusty object in the right front pocket, and yank the door open–
Just in time to see the bike vanishing down the road, and not a single cop in sight.
I duck into the bathroom and run the taps, then thrust my hands under them to rinse the blood away. They're shaking, I notice distantly. After a moment I start thinking very fast; then I dry my hands and go into the bedroom and pick up my mobile phone. The number I want is already programmed in.
"Hello? Winchester Waste Management?"
"Hi, this is Bob H-Howard speaking," I say. "I've had a bit of an accident and I could do with some cleaning services."
"What did you say your address was?" asks the receptionist. I rattle off the hotel address. Then: "What sort of cleaning do you require?"
"The bedcovers will need changing." I think for a moment. "And I cut myself shaving. I'm going to have to go to work now."
"Okay, our crew will be around shortly." She hangs up on me.
The coded message I sent translates as follows: "Warning, my cover is shot. I've got to get out urgently, things are going bad, and under no circumstances should anyone approach me." I cut myself shaving: "Things turned bloody." This sort of code, unlike a cypher, is virtually impossible to crack–as long as you never use it twice. With luck it'll take whoever's tapping the line a few minutes to realise that I've pushed the panic button.
I drop the bathroom towels over Plaid Shirt's leaking head, then grab my jacket and flight bag and cautiously nudge the front door open. Nothing nasty happens. I step out onto the balcony, lock the door behind me, and head down to the car park. All thought of getting Mo's travel arrangements in hand is gone: my immediate job is to drive north, drop the rental off at the airport, and bump myself onto the next available flight.
When I zap the car it doesn't explode: the doors unlock and the lights come on. Clutching my lucky monkey's paw I get in, start the engine, and drive away into the night, shaking like a leaf.
* * * *
"Hello? Who is this?"
"Mo? This is Bob."
"Bob–"
"Yeah. Look, about this afternoon."
"It's so good to hear–"
"It was great seeing you too, but that's not what I'm calling about. Something's come up at home and I've got to leave. We'll be reviewing your case notes and seeing what pressure we can–"
"You've got to help me."
"What? Of course we'll–"
"No, I mean right now! They're going to kill me. I'm locked up in here and they didn't search me so they didn't find my phone but–"
CLICK.
"What the fuck?"
I stare at the phone, then hastily switch it off and yank out the battery in case someone's trying to trace my cell.
"What the fuck?"
My head whirls. Oh yeah, a redheaded maiden in distress just asked me to rescue her: a chunk of me is cynically thinking that I must be really hard up. There's a pithed spy in my hotel suite and my welcome mat is going to be withdrawn with extreme prejudice when his owners find out about it, just in time to get a cryptic phone call from my target who seems to be in fear for her life. What the–whatever–is going on, here?
In the Laundry we supposedly pride ourselves on our procedures. We've got procedures for breaking and entering offices, procedures for reporting a shortage of paper clips, procedures for summoning demons from the vasty deeps, and procedures for writing procedures. We may actually be on track to be the world's first ISO-9000 total-quality-certified intelligence agency. According to our written procedure for dealing with procedural cluster-fucks on foreign assignment, what I should do at this point is fill out Form 1008.7, then drive like a bat out of hell over Highway 17 until it hits the Interstate, then take the turnoff for San Francisco Airport and use my company credit card to buy the first available seat home. Not forgetting to file Form 1018.9 ("expenses unexpectedly incurred in responding to a situation 1008.7 in the line of duty") in time for the end of month accounting cycle.
Except if I do that–and if Mo's abductors are as friendly as my second visitor of the evening–I've just vaped the mission, screwed the pooch, written off the friendly I was supposed to be extracting, and blown my chances of a second date. (And we'll never find out whether the last thought to pass through the mind of the captain of the Thresher was, "It's squamous and rugose," or simply, "It's squamous!")
Looking around, I see the parking lot is still empty. So I pull out, and roll through a U-turn across the railway tracks, and back into town. It's time to apply a little thought to the situation.
* * * *
Mo lives in a rented flat not that far from the university campus. Now that I know her true name it takes me ten minutes with a map and a phone book to find it and drive over. There are no police cars outside and no sign of trouble; just a flat that's showing no lights. I know she's not home but I need something–anything–of hers so I park the car and briskly walk up the path to her front door, and knock as if I expect a welcome, hoping like hell that her abductors haven't left me a nasty surprise.
The screen door is shut but the inner door gapes open. Ten seconds with the blade of a multitool and the screen door's gaping too. The place is a mess–someone tipped over a low table covered in papers, there's a laptop inverted on the floor, and as my eyes become accustomed to the gloom I see a bookcase face down on the carpet in front of a corridor. I s
tep over it, one hand in my pocket, looking for the bedroom.
The bedroom's a mess: maybe someone searched it in a hurry, or maybe she's the nesting kind. There's a pile of clothing by the bed that looks worn, so I bundle a T-shirt into my bag and head back to the car. Skin flakes, that's what I need; I try not to think too hard about what might be happening to her right now.
As I'm going down the path I see someone coming the other way. Middle-aged, male, thickset. "Howdy," he says, slightly suspiciously.
"Hi," I say, "just dropping by. Mo asked me to water her plants."
"Oh." Instant boredom, conjured by her name. "Well, try not to leave your car there, it's blocking the disabled space."
"I'll be gone before anyone notices," I promise, and do my best to do just that.
Parked safely round the corner I pull out the T-shirt. In the dashboard light it looks faded; hopefully that'll do. I reach into my travel bag and pull out my hacked Palm computer, call up a specialised application that will erase itself if I don't enter a valid password within sixty seconds, pop open the expansion slot on its back, and swipe the concealed sensor across the fabric. Oh great: The arrow on the screen is pointing right back at me–I must have contaminated that swatch with my own biomagnetic whatever. Swearing, I restart the program and the machine promptly crashes. It takes another three tries before I get an arrow that's pointing somewhere else, and points in the same direction no matter which way I hold the gadget.
The wonders of modern technology.
* * * *
An hour later I’m lying on my belly in the undergrowth at the edge of a stand of trees. I'm clutching a monkey's paw, a palmtop computer, and a cellphone; my mission, unless I choose to reject it, is to prevent a human sacrifice in the house in front of me–with no backup.
The hiss and crash of Pacific surf drowns out any noise from the road behind me. There's an onshore breeze, and along with the dampness of the ground–it rained earlier–it is making me shiver. The bruise on my left shoulder smarts angrily: I probably won't be able to move it in the morning. (My damn fault for getting in the way of a bullet. The kinetic impact binding worked its intended miracle but I'm not covered anymore.)
The Atrocity Archives Page 7