Laundry #05 - The Fuller Memorandum Charles Stross

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"Brains installed--"

"He's working on a port of OFCUT to the iPhone platform at work. I think he thought mine was an official phone . . . I've got to take it into the office and get it scrubbed before I even think about trading it in, or the Auditors will string us both up by the giblets." I shudder faintly, but Mo is visibly distracted.

"Hang on. They've ported OFCUT to the iPhone? What does it look like?"

"I'll show you . . ."

Fifteen minutes later I am on my way to the office, sans shiny. Mo is still sitting at the kitchen table with a cold mug of coffee, in thrall to the JesusPhone's reality distortion field, prodding at the jelly-bean icons with an expression of hapless fascination on her face. I've got a horrible feeling that the only way I'm going to earn forgiveness is to buy her one for her birthday. Such is life, in a geek household.

ACTUALLY, I HAVE A MOTIVE FOR GOING IN TO WORK THAT I don't feel like telling Mo about.

So as soon as I've stopped in my office and filled out a requisition for the file numbers Angleton scribbled on that scrap of paper for me--we can't get at the stacks directly right now, they're fifty meters down under the building site that is Service House, but there's a twice-daily collection and delivery run--I head down the corridor and across the walkway and up the stairs to the Security Office.

"Is Harry in?" I ask the guy in the blue suit behind the counter. He's reading the afternoon Metro and looking bored.

"Harry? Who wants to know?" He sits up.

I pull my warrant card. "Bob Howard, on active. I want to talk to Harry--or failing that, whoever the issuing officer is--about personal defense options."

"Personal def--" He peers at my warrant card: then his eyes uncross and he undergoes a sudden attitude adjustment. "Oh, you're one of them. Right. You wait here, sir, we'll get you sorted out."

Contrary to popular fiction, there is no such thing as a "license to kill." Nor do secret agents routinely carry firearms for self-defense. Me, I don't even like guns--I mean, they're great fun if all you want to do is make holes in paper targets at a firing range, but for their real design purpose, saving your ass in a life-or-death emergency, no: that's not on my list of fun things. I've been trained not to shoot my own foot off (and I've been practicing regularly, ever since the business on Saint Martin), but I feel a lot safer when I'm not carrying a gun.

However, two days ago my primary defensive ward got smoked in a civilian FATACC, yesterday I got doorstepped by a killer zombie from Dzerzhinsky Square, and I now have a dull ache in the life insurance policy telling me that it's time to tool up. Which in my case means, basically, dropping in on Harry, which means--

"Bob, my son! And how's it going with you? Girlfriend glassed your head up?"

Harry the Horse is our departmental armorer. He looks like an extra from The Long Good Friday: belt-straining paunch that's constantly trying to escape, thinning white hair, and a piratical black eye-patch. Last time I saw him he was explaining the finer details of the care and feeding of a Glock 17 (which we've standardized on, damn it, because of an ill-thought requirement for ammunition and parts commonality with the Sweeney); I responded by showing him how to take down a medusa (something which I have unfortunately too much experience at).

I recover from the back-slapping and straighten up: "It's going well, Harry. Well, kinda-sorta. My ward got smoked a couple of days ago and I'm on heightened alert--there's been an incident--"

"--As I can see from your head, my son, so you're thinking you need to armor up. Come right this way, let's see what we can kit you out with." He yanks the inner door open and pulls me into his little shop of--

You know that scene in The Matrix? When Neo says: "We need guns," and the white backdrop turns into a cross between Heathrow Airport and the back room at a rifle range? Harry's temporary office in the New Annexe Third Floor Extension Security Area is a bit like that, only cramped and lit by a bare sixty-watt incandescent bulb supervised by a small and very sleepy spider.

Harry pulls something that looks like an M16 on steroids off the wall and picks up a drum magazine the size of a small car tire. "Can I interest you in an Atchisson AA-12 assault shotgun? Burst-selectable for single shot or full auto? Takes a twenty-round drum full of twelve-gauge magnum rounds, and I've got a special load-out just for taking down paranormal manifestations--alternate FRAG-12 fin-stabilized grenades, white phosphorus rounds, and solid silver triple-ought buck, each ball micro-engraved with the Litany of Khar-Nesh--right up your street, my son." He racks the slide on the AA-12 with a clattering clash like the latch on the gates of hell.

"Er, I was thinking of something a little smaller, perhaps? Something I could carry concealed without looking like I was smuggling antitank guns on the bus?"

"Wimp." Harry puts the AA-12 back on the rack and carefully stows the drum magazine in a drawer. I can tell he's proud of his new toy, which from the sound of it would certainly blast any unwanted visitor right off my doorstep--and the front path, and the pavement, and the neighbors opposite at number 27, and their back garden too. "So tell me, what is it you really want?"

That's the cue for business: "First, I need to indent for a new class four- certified defensive ward, personal, safe to wear 24x7." I pause. "I also want to draw a HOG, cat three with silvered base and a suitable carrier. And--" I steel myself: "I'll take your advice on the next, but I was thinking about drawing a personal protective firearm--I'm certificated on the Glock--and a box of ammunition. I won't be routinely carrying it, but it'll be kept at home to repel boarders."

"You don't need a Glock to get rid of lodgers, my son." He spots my expression. "Had a problem?"

"Yeah, attempted physical intrusion."

"Hmm. Who else will have access to the weapon?"

I choose my next words carefully: "The house is a level two secure site. The only other resident is my wife. Dr. O'Brien isn't certificated for firearms, but she has other competencies and knows not to play with other kids' toys."

Harry considers his next words carefully: "I don't want to lean on you, Bob, but I need more than your word for that. Seeing as how it's for you and the delectable Dominique--give her my regards--I think we can bend the rules far enough to fit, but I shall need to put a ward on the trigger guard."

"A--How?" That's new to me.

"It's a new technique the eggheads in Q-Projects have come up with: they take a drop of your blood and key the trigger guard so that the only finger that'll fit through it is yours. Of course," his voice drops confidingly, "that doesn't stop the bad guys from chopping your finger off and using it to work the trigger; but they've got to take the gun and the finger off you before they can shoot you with it. Let's just say, it's more about stopping pistols from going walkies in public than about stopping your lady wife from offing you in a fit of jealous passion."

I roll my eyes. "Okay, I can live with that."

He brightens: "Also, we can make it invisible, and silent."

"Wha--hey! You mean you've got real concealed carry?"

He winks at me.

"Okay, I would like that, too. Um. As long as it's not invisible to me, also. And, um, the holster. An invisible gun in a visible holster would be kind of inconvenient . . ."

"It'll be invisible to anyone who doesn't have a warrant card, my son, or your money back."

"Will you match my life insurance, if it isn't and some bright spark sets an SO19 team on me?" (One of the reasons I am reluctant to carry a handgun in public is that the London Metropolitan Police have a zero-tolerance approach to anyone else carrying guns, and while their specialist firearms teams don't officially have a shoot-to-kill policy, you try finding a Brazilian plumber who does call-out work during a bomb scare these days.)

"I think we can back that, yes." Harry sounds amused. "Is that your lot?"

"It'll do." A new ward for myself, a Hand of Glory if I need to make a quick strategic withdrawal, and a gun to keep at home that I can carry in public if I absolutely have to: What more could an extremely worried spook ask for? Ah, I know. "Do you have any alarms?" I ask.

"I thought you was dead-set on home defense the DIY way." Harry looks momentarily scornful, then thoughtful: "Things ain't that bad yet, are they?"

"Could be." I shove my hands deep in my pockets and do my best to look gloomy. "Could be."

"Whoa." Harry's forehead wrinkles further. "Listen. There could be a problem: you drawing a HOG and a gun, and your good lady wife's violin, that makes you a regular arsenal, dunnit? Now, if I was signing out an alarm to, oh, that nice Mrs. Thompson in Human Resources"--I shudder--"there'd be no problem, on account of how she and her hubby and that no-good son of theirs ain't certificated for combat and wouldn't know a receiver from a slide if they trapped their fingers between them. Right? But let me just put it to you: suppose I sign an alarm out to you, put you and your missus on the watch list, and a bad guy comes calling at your front door. You and Dr. O'Brien go to the mattresses, and you activate the alarm, and being you and the missus you give as good as you get. Thirty seconds later the Watch Team are on your case and zoom in. Heat of battle, heat of battle: How do the Watch Team know that the people shooting from inside your house are you and your wife? What if you've gotten out through the back window? That's how blue-on-blue happens, my son. I figure you ought to think this one through some more."

"Okay." I look around the compact armory. "Guess you're right."

We've got a panic button, it's part of the kit the Plumbers fitted us out with; but an alarm of the kind I'm talking about is portable, personal, you carry it on your body and there's a limited list of folks who carry them--that kind of cover is computationally expensive--and if you're on the watch list and you trigger the alarm, SCORPION STARE wakes up and starts looking for you. And for everyone who might be threatening you. You don't want to press that button by accident, believe me.

"One ward, one HOG, and a +2 magic pistol of invisible smiting. Anything else I need to know?"

"Yeah. Come back in an hour and I'll have all the paperwork waiting for you to sign. The HOG and the ward I can give you once I get your chop; the pistol will take a little longer." Harry shrugs. "Best I can do, awright?"

"You're a champ." I make my good-byes, then head off. I've got other things to do before I go home.

I'M ON MY WAY TO ANDY'S OFFICE WHEN IRIS RUNS ME down.

"Bob! What are you doing here? I thought I told you to take the week off?" She sounds mildly irritated, and a little out of breath, as if she's been running around looking for me. "Hey, what happened to your head?"

I shrug. "Stuff came up."

She looks concerned. "In my office."

I demur: her office is her territory. "Look, Mo came back from . . . a job . . . in pieces, really rattled. Then the job followed her home, and that's a full-dress panic--"

Her eyes narrow: "How bad?"

"This bad." I point to the row of butterfly closures on my head and she winces. "Have you heard anything about--about upswings in non-affiliated agency activity in London this week?"

"My office," she says, very firmly, and this time she means it.

"Okay."

Once inside her office, she locks the door, switches on the red DND lamp, then lowers the blinds on the glass window that lets her view the corridor. Then she turns to me. "What codewords do you know?"

"I've been approved for CLUB ZERO"--she gives a sharp intake of breath--"and CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. Not to mention MAGINOT BLUE STARS, but Harry the Horse wouldn't give me an alarm buzzer without your chop on the order form. And Angleton just told me to deputize for him on BLOODY BARON, although I haven't been briefed on that yet."

"Wow. That's a bundle." She eyes me warily. "Angleton dumps a lot on your shoulders." For someone so junior, she leaves unsaid.

"Yes." I focus on her more closely: wavy chestnut hair that is currently unkempt and beginning to show silvery roots, crow's-foot worry lines at the edges of her eyes, a restlessness to her stance that suggests she's far busier than she wants me to see. "Your turn."

"Wait, first--what happened yesterday?"

"Andy was with the Plumbers on cleanup; it should be on today's overnight events briefing sheet."

"That was"--her eyes widen--"you? Active incursion and assault by a class three, repelled by agents? Those stitches, it was that?"

"Yeah." I flop down on her visitor's chair without a by-your-leave.

"They tried to rearrange my features: it was a close call. I came in today to draw a personal defense item, but also to ask what the hell is going on? And this business about Angleton--"

"You saw him the day before yesterday."

"Yes." I pause. "He's still missing. Right?"

She nods.

"Do you want me to look round his office? In case he left anything?" Iris sniffs. "No." I think she's a poor liar. "But if you know anything . . . ?"

"I don't like being kept in the dark." Coming over all snippy on the person who is my nominal manager isn't clever, I know, but at this point I'm running low on self-restraint. "It seems to me that a whole bunch of rather bad things are happening right now, and that smells to me like enemy action." I'm echoing Andy. "Whoever the enemy is, in this context. Right, fine, you keep on playing games, that's all right by me--except that it isn't, really, because one of the games in question just followed my wife home and tried to kill her. Us." I point to the row of butterfly sutures on my forehead, and to her credit, she winces. "Remember, it costs."

"You've made your point," she says quietly, sitting down behind her desk. "Bob, if it was just up to me, I'd tell you--but it isn't. There's a committee meeting tomorrow, though, and I'll raise your concerns. Ask me again on Monday and I should be able to pull you in on the BLOODY BARON committee, and at least add you to the briefing list for CLUB ZERO. In the meantime, if you don't mind me asking--what items did Harry sign out to you?"

"He's processing them now." I enumerate. "We've also had our household security upgraded, in case there's a repeat visit, although I think that's unlikely. We're alerted now, so I'd expect any follow-ups to happen out in public: it's riskier for them than it was, but right now the house is a kill zone so if they want Mo badly enough they'll have to do it in the street."

"Ouch." She leans back in her chair and rests one hand on her computer keyboard. "Listen. If you're really sure you want an alarm, I'll sign for one. But . . . what Harry said? Listen to him. It's not necessarily what you need. The gun--well, you're certified. Certificated." She gives a moue of annoyance at the mangled language we have to use: "Whatever. Just keep it out of sight of the public and don't lose track of it. As for the rest--"

She exhales: "There has been an uptick in meetings in public places conducted by three junior attaches at the Russian embassy who our esteemed colleagues in the Dustbin"--she means the Security Service, popularly but incorrectly known as MI5--"have been keeping track of for some time. It's hard to be sure just which organization any given diplomat with covert connections is working for, but they initially thought these guys were FSB controllers. However, we've had recent indications that they're actually working for someone else--the Thirteenth Directorate, probably. We don't know exactly what's going on, but they seem to be looking for something, or someone."

"And then there was the Amsterdam business," I prod.

Another sharp look: "You weren't cleared for that."

"Andy procured a Letter of Release for Mo." I stare right back at her, bluffing. The I'll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours tap dance is a tedious occupational hazard in this line of work.

"Well, yes, then." The bluff works--that, and her ward told her I'm telling the truth about the Letter of Release. "Amsterdam, CLUB ZERO, was indirectly connected."

"So we've got an upswing of activity in the Netherlands and the UK--elsewhere in Europe, too?" I speculate: "Remember I've sat in on my share of joint liaison meetings?"

"I can't comment further until after the steering group meeting tomorrow." And my bluff falls apart: "I've told you everything I can tell you without official sanction, Bob. Get your kit sorted out, clear down your chores, and go home for the weekend. That's an order! I'll talk to you on Monday. Hopefully the news will be better by then . . ."

LOST IN COMMITTEE

I GO BACK TO HARRY'S PLACE AND COLLECT MY KIT, THEN I catch the bus home, shoulders itching every time it passes a police car. Yes, I'm legally allowed to carry the Glock and its accessories, which are sleeping in my day sac in a combination-locked case. The gun and its charmed holster are supposed to be invisible to anyone who doesn't carry a Laundry warrant card; but I'll believe it when I see it. Luckily the bus is not stormed by an armed SO19 unit performing a random check for implausible weapons. I arrive home uneventfully, unpack the gun and place it on the bedroom mantelpiece (which is just to the left of my side of the bed), and go downstairs to sort out supper with Mo.

Friday happens, and then the weekend. I register the JesusPhone: it wants a name, and Mo suggests christening it (if that's the right word) the NecronomiPod. Her attitude has turned to one of proprietorial interest, if not outright lust: damn it, I am going to have to buy her one.

We do not discuss work at all. We are not doorstepped by zombies, shot at, blown up, or otherwise disturbed, although our next-door neighbor's teenage son spends a goodly chunk of Saturday evening playing "I Kissed a Girl" so loudly that Mo and I nearly come to blows over the pressing question of how best to respond. I'm arguing for Einsturzende Neubauten delivered over the Speakers of Doom; she's a proponent of Schoenberg delivered via the Violin that Kills Monsters. In the end we agree on the polite voice of reason delivered via the ears of his parents. I guess we must be growing old.

On Saturday morning, it turns out that we are running low on groceries. "Why not go online and book a delivery from Tesco?" asks Mo. I spend a futile hour struggling with their web server before admitting to myself that my abstruse combination of Firefox plug-ins, security filters, and firewalls (not to mention running on an operating system that the big box retailer's programmers wouldn't recognize if it stuck a fork in them) makes this somewhat impractical--by which time we've missed the last delivery, so it looks as if we're going to have to go forth and brave the world on foot. So I cautiously hook the invisi-Glock to my belt for the first time, pull my baggiest jacket down to cover it, and Mo and I hit the road.

Anticlimax. As we trudge home from the supermarket, laden down with carrier bags, I begin to relax slightly: even when my jacket got caught up on the front of a suicide grannie's shopping trolley, nobody noticed the hardware and started screaming. (This is twenty-first-century England, home of handgun hysteria: they're not being polite.) "By the way," Mo comments edgily as we wait to cross a main road, "don't you think you should be keeping your right hand free?"

I scan the surroundings for feral supernatural wildlife: "If I need my hand the shopping can take its chances."

"Then don't you think it'd be better to be carrying the bag with the bread and cheese in that hand, rather than the milk and the jar of pickled cucumbers?"

I swear quietly, try to switch hands, and get the bags inextricably entangled, just as the green man illuminates. We are a cover-free couple for the entire duration of our panicky scurry across the street crossing: "I should have held out for an attack alarm," I grumble.

"We'll sort one out on Monday," Mo says absentmindedly. "Watch the vegetables, dear."

On Sunday, we're due to have lunch with my parents, which means catching the tube halfway across London and then rattling way the hell out into suburbia on a commuter line run by a bus company distinguished for their hatred and contempt for rail travelers. I wear the holster, this time keeping my right hand free, and Mo carts her violin case along. Our trains are not ambushed by dragons, suicide bombers, or chthonian tentacle monsters. Frankly, given the quality of the postprandial conversation, this is not a net positive. Mo's face acquires much the same impassive expressiveness as an irritated Komodo dragon when Mum makes the usual fatuous (and thoughtless) comment about wishing for the patter of tiny feet. We are not, perforce, allowed to discuss our work in the presence of civilians, so we are short of conversational munitions with which to retaliate--they still think I work in computer support, and Mo's some sort of statistician. By the time we make our excuses and leave I'm thinking that maybe I'd better leave the gun behind on future parental visits.

"Did you enjoy the vegetables?" I ask the steaming vortex of silence beside me as we walk back up the street towards the railway station.

"I thought you were going to roast them at one point."

"Sorry, I'm chicken."

She sighs. "You don't need to apologize for your parents, Bob. They'll get over it eventually."

"They're not to know." I glance back over my shoulder. "We could, you know. There's still time. If you want."

"Time to fit in all the heartbreak and pain of raising wee ones so they're just old enough to appreciate the horror of it all? No thanks."

We've had this conversation before, a few times: revisited the situation for an update. No, the world we work in isn't a suitable one to inflict on a child you love.

"Besides, you're not the one who'd have to go through a first pregnancy in your late thirties."

"Certainly not just to please them."

We walk back to the station in morose silence, a thirty-something couple out for a Sunday afternoon stroll; nobody watching us needs to know that we're pissed off, armed, and on the lookout for trouble.

It's probably a very good thing indeed for the local muggers that they're still sleeping off their Saturday night hangovers.

MONDAY DAWNS BRIGHT AND HOT AND EARLY, AND I FIND MY SELF waking to the happy knowledge that I can go back to work, and nobody will order me home. I roll over, feel the cooling depression across the mattress--continue my roll and sit up, relieved, on the wrong side of the bed.

Mo's clearly been up for a while: when I catch up with her in the kitchen she's listlessly spooning up a bowl of yogurt and gerbil food. I attend to the cafetiere. She's wearing what I think of as her job-interview suit. "What's up?" I ask.

"Need to look the part for an off-site." She frowns. "Do you think this looks businesslike?"

"Very." She looks like she's about to foreclose on my mortgage. I spill coffee grounds all over the worktop, finish spooning the brown stuff into the jug, and add boiling water. "What kind of meeting?"

"Got to see a man about a violin. Conservation."

"Conservation . . . ?"

"They don't grow on trees, you know." The frown relaxes: "It's not something common like a Stradivarius. We've got three on inventory, but only twelve were ever made and they're all unavailable for one reason or another. A couple got bombed during the war, three are unaccounted for--presumed lost during extra-dimensional excursions--and the rest belong to other agencies or collectors we can't touch. Operational Assets are looking for a supplier who can make more of them, but it's turning out to be really difficult. Nobody is quite sure of the order in which Zahn applied his bindings; and as for what it's made of, just owning the necessary supplies probably puts you in breach of the Human Tissues Act of 2004, not to mention a raft of other legislation."

"Ow." I look at the battered violin case, propped up in the corner next to the recyclables bin. That's the trouble with a defense policy based on occult weapons: the sort of folks who make magic swords can rarely be bothered with the BS 5750 quality certification required by government procurement committees. "So what are you doing?"

"Carting my violin across town so an expert can examine it." She finishes her cereal bowl. "A restorer, very expensive, very exclusive. The cover story is I'm working for one of the big auction houses and we've been commissioned to get an estimate of its worth--don't look at me like that, they do this all the time, for stuff they don't have any in-house expertise with. I've got to go along because our other two violins are booked solid, and I'm not letting this one out of my sight . . ." She eyes the coffeepot. "What are you planning?"

"Got to go see Iris after her morning meeting, then we'll see." My cheek twitches as I pour two mugs of coffee. "Got some files to read. Angleton told me to deputize for him on a committee. Then there's the structured cabling in D Block to worry about. The glamorous life of the secret agent, when he's not actually out there saving the world . . . I was thinking, that story Andy came up with--do you want to look into it? Sanity-check Dr. Ford's analysis?" I finish the question slowly, trying not to think too hard about the implications.

"You read my mind." She adds milk to her coffee, stirring. "Not that everybody else in Research and Development with CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN won't be doing exactly the same thing, but you never know. I think I'll go pay Mike a little visit this afternoon, if he's got time." She looks at me, eyes wide. They're blue-green, I notice; it's funny, that: I don't usually pay attention to her eyes. "Are you all right?"

I nod. "Just a little unfocused today."

"You and me both." She manages a little laugh by way of conversational punctuation. "Well, I need to be off." She takes a too-big mouthful of coffee and winces. "Sorry I'm leaving you with the washing up again."

"That's okay, I've got an extra hour." No point showing up before Iris's steering group meeting, is there? "Take care."

"I will." She picks up her handbag and the violin case and heads for the door, heels clicking: "Bye," and she's away, looking more like an accountant than a combat epistemologist.

I putter around for a while, then get dressed (jeans, tee shirt, gun belt, and linen blazer--mine is not a customer-facing job at present, and I hate ties) and prepare to head out. At the last minute I remember the NecronomiPod, sleeping (but not dead) beside the laptop. I grab it along with my usual phone and head for the bus stop.

"WELCOME TO BLOODY BARON," SAYS IRIS, OFFERING ME A recycled cardboard folder with MOST SECRET stamped on the cover: "You have two hours to familiarize yourself with the contents before the Monday afternoon team meeting."

She smiles brightly as she drops it on my desk, right on top of the archive box full of dusty paperwork that I've just signed for, care of the wee man with the handcart who does the twice-daily run to the stacks: "There will be an exam. On the upside, I've given your structured cabling files to Peter-Fred and the departmental email security awareness committee meeting for Wednesday is canceled due to illness--Jackie and Vic are spouting from both ends, apparently, and aren't expected in until next week--so you've got some breathing space."

"Thanks." I try not to groan. "I'll try not to obsess about Peter-Fred fucking up the wiring loom too much."

"Don't worry." She waves a hand vaguely: "The cabling's all going to be outsourced from next year anyhow."

That gets my attention. "Outsourced?" I realize that shouting might deliver entirely the wrong message about my suitability for return to work and moderate my voice: "There are four, no, five, no--several, very good reasons why we do our own cabling, starting with security and ending with security. I really don't think outsourcing it is a very good idea at all, unless it's the kind of outsourcing which is actually insourcing to F Division via a subcontractor arrangement to satisfy our PPP quota requirements . . ."

And that's another ten minutes wasted, bringing Iris up to speed on one of the minutiae of my job. It's not her fault she doesn't know where the dividing line between IT support scut-work and OPSEC protocol lies, although she catches on fast when I explain the predilection of class G3 abominations for traveling down Cat 5e cables and eating clerical staff, not to say anything about the ease with which a bad guy could stick a network sniffer on our backbone and do a man-in-the-middle attack on our authentication server if we let random cable installers loose under the floor tiles in the new building.

Finally she leaves me alone, and I open the cover on BLOODY BARON and start reading.

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER I'M THOROUGHLY SPOOKED BY MY reading--so much so that I've had to put the file down a couple of times when I caught myself scanning the same sentence over and over again with increasing disbelief. It comes as something of a relief when Iris knocks on my door again. "Showtime," she says. "You coming?"

I shake the folder at her. "This is nuts!"

"Welcome to the monkey house, and have a banana." She taps her wristwatch. "Room 206 in four minutes."

I lock up carefully--the files I requisitioned from the stacks aren't secret or above, but it'd still be professionally embarrassing if anyone walked in on them--and sketch a brief ward over the door. It flickers violet, then fades, plugging into the departmental security parasphere. I hurry towards the stairs.

Room 206 is up a level, with real windows and an actual view of the high street if you open the dusty Venetian blinds. There's a conference table and a bunch of not-so-comfortable chairs (the better to keep people from falling asleep in meetings), and various extras: an ancient overhead slide projector, a lectern with a broken microphone boom, and a couple of tattered security awareness posters from the 1950s: "Is your co-worker a KGB mole, a nameless horror from beyond spacetime, or a suspected homosexual? If so, dial 4-SECURITY!" (I suspect Pinky has been exercising his curious sense of humor again.)

"Have a chair." Iris winks at me. I take her up on the invitation as the door opens and three more attendees show up. Shona I recognize from previous encounters in ops working groups--she's in-your-face Scottish, on the plump side, and has a brusque way of dealing with bureaucratic obstacles that doesn't exactly encourage me to insert myself in her line of fire. I think she's something to do with the Eastern Europe desk. "This is Shona MacDonald," says Iris. "And Vikram Choudhury, and Franz Gustaffson, our liaison from the AIVD--Unit G6." Franz nods affably enough, and I try to conceal my surprise. It's an unusual name for the Netherlands, but I happen to know that his father was Danish. The last time I saw him, he was on what I was sure was a one-way trip to a padded cell for the rest of his life after sitting through one PowerPoint slide too many at a certain meeting in Darmstadt. The fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

"We've met," I say, guardedly.

"Have we?" Franz looks at me with interest. "That's interesting! You'll have to tell me all about it later."

Oh. So they only managed to save part of him.

"Allow me to introduce Bob, Bob Howard," Iris tells them, and I nod and force a bland smile to cover up the horror.

"Mr. Howard is an SSO 3 and double-hats as our departmental IT security specialist and also as personal assistant to Dr. Angleton. A decision was taken to add him to this working group." I notice the descent into passive voice; also some disturbing double takes from around the table, from Shona and Gustaffson. "He also--this is one of those coincidences I was talking about earlier--happens to be married to Agent CANDID."

At which name Gustaffson drops all pretense at impassivity and stares at me as if I've just grown a second head. I nod at him. What the hell? Mo has a codeword all of her own? Presumably for overseas assignments like the Amsterdam job, but still . . .

"Bob. Would you be so good as to summarize your understanding of the background to BLOODY BARON for us?"

Oh Jeez. I clear my throat. "I've only had an hour and a half with the case files, so I may be misreading this stuff," I admit. Shit, stop making excuses. It just makes you look lame. "BLOODY BARON appears to be a monitoring committee tasked with--well. The cold war never entirely ended, did it? There are too many vested interests on all sides who want to keep it simmering. And the upshot is that Russian espionage directed against the West has been rising since 2001. We kind of forgot that you don't need communism to set up an east/west squabble between the Russian Empire and Western Europe--in fact, communism was a distraction. Hence the current gas wars and economic blackmail."

Iris winces. (I'm wincing inside: if you had our heating bills last winter, you'd be wincing too.) "Enough of the macro picture, if you don't mind. What's the micro?"

"FSB activity in London has been rising steadily since 2001." I shrug.

"The Litvinenko assassination, that embarrassing business with the wifienabled rock in Moscow in '05, diplomatic expulsions; the old confrontation is still bubbling under. But BLOODY BARON is new to me, I will admit."

I glance at the file on the table in front of me. "Anyway, there's an organization. We don't know their real designation because nobody who knows anything about them has ever defected and they don't talk to strangers, but folks call them the Thirteenth Directorate--not to be confused with the original Thirteenth Directorate, which was redesignated the Fifth Directorate back in the 1960s. Nasty folks--they were the ones responsible for wet work, Mokryye Dela.

"The current bearers of the name seem to have been forked off the KGB back in 1991, when the KGB was restructured as the FSB. They're an independent wing, much like us."

The Laundry was originally part of SOE, back during the Second World War; we're the part that kept on going when SOE was officially wound up at the end of hostilities.

"They're the Russian OCCINTEL agency, handling demonology and occult intelligence operations. Mostly they stay at home, and their activities are presumably focused on domestic security issues. But there's been a huge upsurge--unprecedented--in overseas activity lately. Thirteenth Directorate staff have been identified visiting public archives, combing libraries, attending auctions of historic memorabilia, and contacting individuals suspected of having contact with the former parent agency back before the end of the real cold war. They've been focusing on London, but also visible in Tallinn, Amsterdam, Paris, Gdansk, Ulan Bator . . . the list doesn't make any obvious sense."

I swallow. "That's all I've got, but there's more, isn't there?"

Everyone's looking at me, except for Gustaffson, who's watching Iris. She nods. "That's the basic picture. Vikram?"

Choudhury looks at me curiously. "Is Mr. Howard replacing Dr. Angleton on this committee?"

I nearly swallow my tongue. Iris looks disconcerted. "Dr. Angleton isn't currently available," she tells him, sparing me a warning glance. "There are Human Resources issues. Mr. Howard is deputizing for him."

Oh Jesus. Wheels within wheels--committee members who haven't been briefed, Russian secret demonologists, cold war 2.0. What have I got myself into?

"Oh dear." Choudhury nods, mollified. "Allow me to express my sympathies." He has a fat conference file in front of him: he taps the contents into line with tiny, fussy movements. His suit is black and shiny, like an EDS consultant's in the old days.

"Well then. We have been tracking a number of interesting financial aspects of the KGB activity. They appear to be spending money like water--we have requested information on IBAN transactions and credit card activity by the mobile agents we have identified, and while they're not throwing it away on silly luxury items they have certainly been working on their frequent flier miles. One of them, Agent Kurchatov, managed to fly half a million kilometers in the last nine months alone--we believe he's a high-bandwidth courier--as an example. And they've been bidding in estate auctions. The overall pattern of their activity focuses on memorabilia from the Russian Civil War, specifically papers and personal effects from the heirs of White Russian leaders, but they've also been looking into documents and items relating to the Argenteum Astrum, which is on our watch list--BONE SILVER STAR--along with documents relating to Western occultist groups of the pre-war period. Aleister Crowley crops up like a bad penny, naturally, but also Professor Mudd, who tripped an amber alert. Norman Mudd."

Civil war memorabilia . . . ? A nasty thought strikes me, but Vikram looks as if he's about to continue. "What's special about Mudd?" I ask.

Choudhury looks irritated. "He was a mathematics professor and an occultist," he says, "and he knew F." The legendary F--the Laundry's first Director of Intelligence, reporting to Sir Charles Hambro at 64 Baker Street--headquarters of the Special Operations Executive. Whoops. He cocks his head to one side: "If you don't mind . . . ?"

I shake my head. "Sorry. I'm new to this." Touchy, isn't he? "Please continue."

"Certainly. It looks as if the Thirteenth Directorate are taking an unusual interest in the owners of memorabilia associated with the late Baron Roman Von Ungern Sternberg, conqueror of Mongolia, Buddhist mystic, and White Russian leader. In particular, they seem to be trying to trace an item or items that Agent S76 retrieved from Reval in Estonia on behalf of our old friend F." Choudhury looks smugly self-satisfied, as if this diversion into what is effectively arcane gibberish to me is supposed to be enlightening. "Any questions?" he asks.

For once I keep my gob shut, waiting to see if anyone else is feeling as out-of-the-loop as I am. I don't have to wait long. Shona bulls ahead, bless her: "Yeah, you bet I've got questions. Who is this Baron Roman Von Stauffenberg or whoever? When was he--did he die recently?"

"Ungern Sternberg died in September 1921, executed by a Bolshevik firing squad after Trotsky's soldiers captured him." Choudhury taps his folio again, looking severe: "He was a very bad man, you know! He had a habit of burning paperwork. And he had a man nicknamed Teapot who followed him around and strangled people the Baron was displeased with. I suppose we could all do with that, ha-ha." He doesn't notice--or doesn't care about--Iris's fish-eyed glare. "But, aha, yes, he was one of those Russian occultists. He converted to Buddhism--Mongolian Buddhism, of a rather bloody sect--but stayed in touch with members of a certain Theosophical splinter group he had fallen in with when he was posted to St. Petersburg. Obviously they didn't stay there after the revolution, but Ungern Sternberg would have known of his fellows in General Denikin's staff, and possibly known of F, due to his occult connections. And the, ah, anti-Semitism."

He looks pained. All intelligence agencies have skeletons in their closets: ours is our first Director of Intelligence, whose fascist sympathies were famous, and only barely outweighed by his patriotism.

"What can that possibly have to do with current affairs?" Shona's evident bafflement mirrors my own. "What are they looking for?"

"That's an interesting question," says Choudhury, looking perturbed. He glances at me, his expression unreadable. "Mr. Howard might be able to tell us--"

"Um. What?"

My confusion must be as obvious as Shona's, because Iris chips in: "Bob has only just come in on the case--Dr. Angleton didn't see fit to brief him earlier."

"Oh my goodness." Choudhury looks as if he's swallowed a toad. Live. "But in that case, we really must talk to the doctor--"

"You can't." Iris shakes her head, then looks at me again. "Bob, we--the committee--asked Angleton to investigate the link between Ungern Sternberg, F, and the current spike in KGB activity." She looks back at Choudhury. "Unfortunately, he was last seen on Wednesday evening. He's now officially AWOL and a search is under way. This happened the same night as Agent CANDID closed out CLUB ZERO. The next morning, CANDID and Mr. Howard were assaulted by a class three manifestation, and I don't believe it's any kind of coincidence that Agent Kurchatov was seen visiting the Russian embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens that morning--and left on an early evening flight back to Moscow.

"Let me be straightforward: all the signs suggest that the Thirteenth Directorate are suddenly playing very dangerous games on our turf. If the cultists who CLUB ZERO shut down turn out to be a front for the Thirteenth Directorate, then we have to assume that CLUB ZERO is connected with BLOODY BARON--and that turns it from a low-key adversarial tactical analysis into a much higher priority for us. They're not usually reckless, and they're not pushing the old ideological agenda anymore--they wouldn't be acting this openly for short-term advantage--so we need to find out what they're doing and put a stop to it, before anyone else gets hurt. Yes, Bob? What is it?"

I put my hand down. "This might sound stupid," I hear myself saying, "but has anyone thought about, you know, asking them?"

I'M NOT BIG ON HISTORY.

When I was at school, I dropped the topic as soon as I could, right after I took my GCSEs. It seemed like it was all about one damn king after another, or one war after another, or a bunch of social history stuff about what it was like to live as an eighteenth-century weaver whose son had run off with a spinster called Jenny, or a sixteenth-century religious bigot with a weird name and a witch-burning fetish. Tedious shite, in other words, of zero relevance to modern life--especially if you were planning on studying and working in a field that was more or less invented out of whole cloth in 1933.

The trouble is, you can ignore history--but history won't necessarily ignore you.

History, it turns out, is all around us. Service House--where I used to have my cubicle--is where the Laundry moved in 1953. Before that, it used to belong to the Foreign Office. Before that, we worked out of an attic above a Chinese laundry in Soho, hence the name. Before that . . .

There was no Laundry, officially.

The Laundry was a wartime work of expedience, magicked into existence by a five-line memo headlined ACTION THIS DAY and signed Winston Churchill. It was directed at a variety of people, including a retired major general and sometime MI6 informer, whose dubious status was probably the deciding factor in keeping his ass out of an internment camp along with the rest of the Nazi-sympathizing Directorate of the British Union of Fascists--that, and his shadowy connections to occultists and mathematicians, his undoubted genius as a tactician and theorist of the arts of war, and the nuanced reports of his political officer, who figured his patriotism had a higher operator precedence than his politics. That man was F: Major-General J. F. C. "Boney" Fuller. He's been in his grave for nearly half a century, and would doubtless be spinning in it fast enough to qualify for carbon credits as an environmentally friendly power source if he could see us today in all our multi-ethnic anti-discriminatory splendor.

But who cares?

That is, indeed, the big-ticket question.

Before the Laundry, things were a bit confused. You can do magic by hand, without computers, but magic performed by ritual without finite state automata in the loop--calculating machines, in other words--tends to be haphazard, unreliable, uncontrollable, prone to undesirable side effects, and difficult to repeat. It also tends to fuck with causality, the logical sequence of events, in a most alarming way.

We've unintentionally rewritten our history over the centuries, would-be sorcerers unwinding chaos and pinning down events with the dead hand of consistency--always tending towards a more stable ground state because chaos is unstable; entropy is magic's great enemy. When the ancients wrote of gods and demons, they might well have been recording their real-life experiences--or they may have drunk too much mushroom tea: we have no way of knowing.

Let's just say that you can't always trust the historical record and move swiftly on.

On the other hand, unreliability never stopped anyone from using a given technology--just look at Microsoft if you don't believe me.

During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the scholars of night systematized and studied the occult with all the zeal Victorian taxonomists could bring to bear. There was a lot of rubbish written; Helena Blavatsky, bless her little cotton socks, muddied the waters in an immensely useful way, as did Annie Besant, and Krishnamurti, and a host of others.

And then there were those who came too damned close to the truth: if H. P. Lovecraft hadn't died of intestinal cancer in 1937 something would have had to have been done about him, if you'll pardon my subjunctive. (And it would have been messy, very messy--if old HPL was around today he'd be the kind of blogging and email junkie who's in everybody's RSS feed like some kind of giant mutant gossip squid.)

Then there were those who were sitting on top of the truth, if they'd had but the wits to see it--Dennis Wheatley, for example, worked down the hall in Deception Planning at SOE and regularly did lunch with a couple of staff officers who worked with Alan Turing--the man himself, not the anonymous code-named genius currently doing whatever it is they do in the secure wing at the Funny Farm. Luckily Wheatley wouldn't have known a real paranormal excursion if it bit him on the arse. (In fact, looking back to the dusty manila files, I'm not entirely sure that Dennis Wheatley's publisher wasn't on the Deception Planning payroll after the war, if you follow my drift.)

But I digress.

It was to our great advantage during the cold war that the commies were always terrible at dealing with the supernatural.

For starters, having an ideology that explicitly denies the existence of an invisible sky daddy is a bit of a handicap when it comes to assimilating the idea of nightmarish immortal aliens from elsewhere in the multiverse, given that the NIAs in question have historically been identified as gods (subtype: elder). For seconds, blame Trofim Lysenko for corrupting their science faculty's ability to cope with new findings that contradicted received political doctrine. For thirds, blame the Politburo, which, in the 1950s, looked at the embryonic IT industry, thought "tools of capitalist profit-mongers," and denounced computer science as un-Communist.

Proximate results: they got into orbit using hand calculators, but completely dropped the ball on anything that required complexity theory, automated theorem proving, or sacrificial goats.

But that was then, and this is now, and we're not dealing with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, we're dickering with the Russian Federation. (When we're not trying to save ourselves from the end of the world, that is.)

The Russians are no longer dragged backwards by the invisible hand of Lenin. Their populace have taken with gusto to god-bothering and hacking, their official government ideology is "hail to the chief," and Moscow is the number one place on the planet to go if you want to rent a botnet.

There's a pragmatic and pugnacious attitude to their overseas operations these days. Their ruling network, the siloviki, aren't playing the Great Game for ideological reasons anymore, even though they came up through the KGB prior to the years of chaos: they're out to make Russia great again, and grab a tidy bank balance in the process, and they're playing hardball because they're pissed off at the way they were shoved off the board during the 1990s--consigned to the dustbin of history, asset-stripped by oligarchs and bamboozled by foreign bankers.

And so, to the present. The whole of Western Europe--and a bunch of far-flung outposts beyond--are currently crawling with KGB foot soldiers. No longer the stolid gray-suited trustees of Soviet-era spy mythology, they come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but they have two things in common: snow on their boots and blood in their eyes. And if they're looking for something connected with our founder, and deploying supernatural weapons on our territory--

We need to know why.

RED ORCHESTRA

LET US TEMPORARILY LOOK ASIDE FROM YR. HMBL. CRSPNDNT'S work diary to contemplate a very different matter: a vignette of street life in central London. I am not, myself, a witness: so this is, to some extent, a work of imaginative reconstruction.

Visualize the scene: a side street not far from Piccadilly Circus in London, an outrageously busy shopping district crammed on both sides with fashion chains and department stores. Even the alleys are lined with bistros and boutiques, tidied up to appeal to the passing trade. Pedestrians throng the pavements and overflow into the street, but vehicle traffic is light--thanks to the congestion charge--and slow--thanks to the speed bumps.

Here comes a red-haired woman, smartly dressed in a black skirt, houndstooth-check jacket, medium heels. She's holding a violin case in one hand, her face set in an expression of patient irritation beneath her makeup: a musician heading to a recital, perhaps. She looks slightly uncomfortable, out-of-sorts as she weaves between a pair of braying office workers, yummy mummies pushing baby buggies the size of lunar rovers, a skate punk in dreads, and a beggar woman in hijab. She cuts across the pavement on Glasshouse Street, crosses the road between an overheating BMW X5 and a black cab, and turns into Shaftesbury.

Somewhere in the teeming alleys behind Charing Cross Road there is a narrow-fronted music shop, its window display empty but for a rack of yellowing scores and a collection of lightly tarnished brass instruments. The woman pauses in front of the glass, apparently examining the sheet music. In fact, she's using the window as a mirror, checking the street behind her before she places one hand on the doorknob and pushes. Her close-trimmed nails are smoothly sheathed in enamel the color of overripe grapes: there are calluses on the tips of her fingers.

A bell jingles somewhere out of sight as she enters the shop.

"Good afternoon?"

One side of the shop is occupied by a counter, glass bound in old oak, running back towards a bead-curtained alcove at the rear of the premises. A cadaverous and prematurely aged fellow with watery eyes, dressed as conservatively as an undertaker, shuffles between the hanging strings of beads and blinks at her disapprovingly.

"Mr. Dower? George Dower?" The woman smiles at him tightly, her lips pursed to conceal her teeth.

"I have that honor, yes." He looks at her as if he wishes she'd go away. "Do you have an appointment?"

"As a matter of fact"--the woman slides a hand into her black leather handbag and produces a wallet, which falls open to display a card--"I do. Cassie May, from Sotheby's. I called yesterday?" The card glistens with a strange iridescent sheen in the dim artificial light.

"Oh yes!" His expression brightens considerably. "Yes indeed! A restoration project, I am to understand . . . ?"

"Possibly." The woman swings her violin case up above the glass counter then gently lowers it. "Our client has asked us to obtain a preliminary valuation, and also to inquire about the cost of certain necessary restoration work for an instrument of similar manufacture that is currently in storage in a degraded condition--it's too fragile to move." She reaches into her handbag again and when she takes her hand out, she's holding an envelope. "Before examining the instrument, I would like you to sign this non-disclosure agreement." She removes a thin document from the envelope.

Mr. Dower is surprised. "But it's just a violin! Even if it's a rarity--" He does a double take. "Isn't it?"

The woman shakes her head silently, then hands him the papers.

Mr. Dower scans the first page briefly then glances up at her. "This isn't from Sotheby's--"

"If anybody asks you who I am and why I'm here, you will tell them I'm Cassie May, from Sotheby's auction house, inquiring about a valuation." She doesn't smile. "You will now read the document and sign it."

Almost as if he can't help himself, Mr. Dower's eyes return to the document. He scans it rapidly, mumbling under his breath as he turns the three pages. Wordlessly, he produces a pen from his inside jacket pocket.

"Not like that." The woman offers him a disposable sterile needle: "First, you must draw blood. Then sign using this pen." She waits patiently while he presses a digit against the needle, winces, and rubs the nib of the pen across the ball of his thumb. He makes no complaint about the unusual request, and doesn't seem to notice the way she produces a small sharps container for the office supplies and carefully folds the document back into its envelope. "Good. By the authority vested in me I bind you to silence, under pain of the penalties specified in this document. Do you understand?"

Mr. Dower stares at the violin case as if stunned. "Yes," he mutters.

The woman who calls herself Cassie May unclips the lid of the violin case and lays it open before him.

Mr. Dower stares into the case for ten long seconds, barely breathing. Then he shudders. "Excuse me," he says, hastily covering his mouth. He turns and stumbles through the bead curtain. A few seconds later she hears the sound of retching.

The woman waits patiently until Mr. Dower reappears, looking pale. "You can shut that," he tells her.

"If you want." She shrugs. "I take it you've seen one before."

"Yes." He shudders again, his gaze unfocused. He seems to be staring down inner demons. "What do I have to do to get you to take it away?"

"You give me a written evaluation." She has another piece of paper, this one containing a short list of bullet points. "As I said, a preliminary estimate of the cost of repairing such a . . . relic. A half-gram sample excised from the corpse of another identical instrument. All necessary materials to be provided by the customer. If you can assess the nature of the bindings that hold it together, my employers would like to be able to replicate them."

He stares at her. "Who are you from? Who sent you here?"

"I'm from the government department responsible for keeping instruments like this out of your shop. Unfortunately there is a time for business as usual, and then . . . well. Can you do it?"

Mr. Dower stares at the wall behind her. "If I must."

"Good. If you attach your invoice to the report I will see that it is processed promptly."

"When do you need the report?" he asks, shaking himself as if awakening from a dream.

"Right now." She walks over to the door and flips the sign to CLOSED.

"But I--" He swallows.

"I'm required to stay within arm's reach of the instrument at all times. And to remove it from your premises when you are not working on it." The woman doesn't smile; in fact, her expression is faintly nauseated.

"Why? To prevent me stealing it?"

"No, Mr. Dower: to prevent it from killing you."

I'M BACK IN MY OFFICE AFTER THE BLOODY BARON MEETING. The committee have minuted that I am to try and think myself into Angleton's shoes (ha bloody ha); the coffee mug is cooling on the mouse mat beside my cranky old HP desktop as I sit here, head in hands, groaning silently and wishing I'd paid more attention in history classes rather than staring at the back of Zoe McCutcheon's head and thinking about--let's not go there. (Sixteen-year-old male: fill in the blanks.) All this Russian stuff is confusing the hell out of me--why can't we go back to worrying about Al Qaida or pedophiles on the internet or whatever it is that intelligence services traditionally obsess about?

There's a pile of dusty manila folders sitting on my desk. Angleton said they were interesting, right before he went missing, and if that wasn't a deliberate clue I'll eat my pants. He's a slithy old tove and I wouldn't put it past him to have meant something significant, damn him. But all I've got is a list of hastily scrawled file reference numbers, pointers into the shelf positions documents are stored at in the stacks--nothing as simple as filenames, of course, that would be giving valuable information to the enemy. How like Angleton.

I pick up the first folder and open it. It contains a creased, dog-eared, and much folded letter, handwritten on paper that's a weird size. I peer at the faded scrawl, trying to make head or tail of it. "Jesus, boss, what the hell . . . ?" Luckily I have a scanner with an automatic document feeder. I carefully feed the brittle pages to the computer, one at a time, twitching the software to maximum resolution. On the first page I pick up a reasonable high-contrast scan--there's some ghosting, what looks like pale scribble showing through, as if the author tried to scrub something out--and zoom in. I puzzle out the date, first: October 11th, 1921. Then I turn the handwriting recognition software loose and sit back. After a while, it's cooked and ready to read.

CLASSIFIED: S76/45

Dear John,

First of all, greetings from Reval! I sincerely hope this letter finds you experiencing a more clement climate than the Estonian autumn, which has clamped down in earnest this past week. Please give my best regards to Sonia.

I assume you have already received word through the wires about the execution of the Beast of Dauria last month. By all accounts he was given as fair a trial as the Reds could manage, and if even a tenth of the allegations leveled against him are true then I can't see that they had any alternative but to shoot him. I have been paying special attention to the reports filtering out of Siberia about Semenov's bandits, and Ungern Sternberg was by far the worst of a bad bunch. It was a beastly affair, and a bad end to a thoroughly bad fellow, and perhaps we should thank the Reds for ridding us of this monster.

However, his death leaves certain questions unanswered. I decided to visit his parents--not his father, but his mother and her husband, Sophie Charlotte and Baron Oskar Von Hoyningen-Huene. They live in Jerwakant, and although the weather is dismal--the snow is already lying four feet thick on the ground--I was able to arrange a weekend visit.

As you probably know, madness stalks the Ungern Sternberg line; the Baron's father Theodor--once a keen amateur geologist, noted for his interest in unusual fossils--is in a sanatorium to this day. In my estimate Sophie Charlotte suffered considerably by proximity, for he deteriorated while they were still married; it is a difficult topic to raise in conversation, especially in light of the unfortunate fate of her son, and so I did not seek to disturb her, but made my observations indirectly.

The Hoyningen-Huene estate is a stately home that would grace any family of means, in any country. By winter it presents a fairy-tale face to the world, its steeply pitched roofs and turrets peaceful beneath a blanket of snow, an island of tranquility in the middle of the gloomy pine forest. But it is a fairy tale out of the Brothers Grimm, rather than the bloodless and bowdlerized fare that our parents' generation sought to raise us on! This is a castle of the German aristocracy, descendants of the Teutonic Knights and servants of the Russian Empire until the late upheaval deprived them of the object of their loyalty. And it is an estate that has been cut down to size, thanks to the decrees of the Riigikogu relating to land reform and the rights of the peasants to the fruits of their labor.

Evgenia and I visited with the Hoyningen-Huenes last weekend, ostensibly to write a tub-thumper for the Guardian about the equitable settlement in Rapla County, which has not seen so much turbulence and persecution of the former rulers as other areas: I put it about that we would also like to see the countryside thereabouts, and talk to some of the local landlords about the recent changes. The Guardian's status as an English newspaper outweighs its political reputation in the backwoods: I had no shortage of correspondents, mostly of the Indignant of Colchester variety so familiar to us from the letter columns.

On Sunday afternoon, after the obligatory morning visit to the chapel--which was very Lutheran in that manner that is peculiar to the Baltic territories, with gloomy danse macabre and carved skull heraldry above the bare wood pews, and do I need to add, unheated even in winter?--I had a chance to chat with the Baron, and by way of two or three glasses of schnapps the subject of the Prodigal rose to the surface.

"He has always been a disappointment to me, and a tribulation to his mother," quoth Oskar Hoyningen-Huene. "This latest shame is but the final straw--luckily the final one--on the pyre of his depravity." He sighed deeply at this point. "I tried to beat sense into him when he was young, you know. But he was always a wild one. Took after his father, and then there was the obsession with Shamanism, like the nonsensical garbage Theodor plagued my wife with before she divorced him."

"Garbage?" I asked, digging. I intimated, indirectly, that I had been asked to prepare a column about his adoptive son, but had declined to do so out of respect for the recently bereaved.

Oskar snorted. "No son of mine," he said, with cold deliberation, "would have done what that beast did. He wrote us letters, you know, boasting of it! Executing prisoners by quartering--tying their limbs to springy saplings. Mass hangings, stabbings, shootings. Said he was going to line the road to Moscow with Commissars and Jews, impaled every couple of yards--heaven knows I've got no time for yids myself, but he pledged to kill them all, to purify Russia and reinstate serfdom. Can you believe it? And there was other stuff, dark stuff. Absolutely disgusting."

I asked what he did with the letters.

"I burned them!" he said indignantly. "All but a couple that Sophie refused to let me have. I hadn't the heart to deprive her of . . . well. Memories." He subsided into a sulky silence for a few minutes, but bestirred himself with the assistance of a fresh glass. "There were his father's fossils, you know. I think that's where the rot set in."

"Fossils?" I asked.

"Rum things, never seen anything like them. I think Sophie left them in the boy's room. He used to play with them when he was a tot, you know. I'd find him staring at the things. Thought he was going to grow up to be a geologist like his pa, which would have been no bad thing compared to how he turned out."

Knowing of your interests, and learning that his mother had actually preserved the Prodigal's bedroom--untouched! As if she expected her son to return!--I availed myself of an opportunity to look inside, in hope of getting some insight into his character.

(ENCLOSED: 8 faded black and white photographs of irregular pieces of rock, cleaved along fracture planes. Most of the pieces appear to be slate, although it is hard to be certain. The fossils resemble certain other samples referenced by codeword: ANNING BLUE SKULL.)

I think we've seen the like of these pieces before, haven't we? "In those days, giants walked the Earth . . ."

I shall make indirect enquiries to see if it is possible to acquire Roman Von Ungern Sternberg's boyhood fossil collection for the nation, and (if possible) his mother's collection of letters. I shall also attempt to arrange a follow-up visit, although it is now unlikely to be practical until the spring thaw. (Chateau Hoyningen-Huene is somewhat isolated, and polite society does not travel much in winter: a premature visit would invite unwelcome scrutiny.) Meanwhile, I shall be wintering in Reval and will make use of my free time to investigate further the matter of the Bloody White Baron and the mystery he discovered in the Bogd Khan's palace.

Your obedient friend,
Arthur Ransome

THE WOMAN WHO CALLS HERSELF CASSIE MAY WAITS PATIENTLY, sitting on a backless stool behind the antique cash register in George Dower's shop while keeping an eye on the proprietor, who is busy in the workshop behind the bead curtain (which she has tied back, to afford her a clear view).

The back of the shop is not what she had expected. She's been in instrument makers' workshops before, smelled the glue and fresh-planed wood, the wax and varnish. She's familiar with other musical specialties as well, with signal generators and plugboards, amps and filters, the hum and hot metallic smell of overdriven amplifiers. Dower's shop is not like any of these. It has some of the characteristics of a jeweler's workshop, or a watch repairer's--but it is not entirely like either of those. It's summer but the air is uncharacteristically chill, and not from air conditioning: it's stuffy, and there's a faint charnel-house scent, as if something has died under the floorboards.

Dower has donned a pair of white cotton conservator's gloves and hung a dictaphone around his neck. He keeps the bone-white violin at arm's length, as if he doesn't want to hold it too close, muttering into his microphone: "C-rib thickness varies between 3.2 and 5.5 millimeters; as with the right lower curve, this material appears to be ductile and rigid, although examination at 6X magnification reveals the characteristic spongiform structure of endochondral ossification . . ." He swallows, as if nauseous--as well he might be. (The instrument is indeed made of bone, preserved and treated to give it a rigidity and resonance similar to mountain maple. The treatments that modify the material in this way are applied while its donor is still alive, and in excruciating pain.) Peering into a fiber-optic probe, the end of which is inserted through one of the violin's f-holes: "The upper block appears to be carved from the body and lesser cornu of os hyoideum; the greater cornu is avulsed in a manner usually indicative of death by strangulation . . ."

Dower may suspect, but the woman knows, that the materials used to construct this instrument were harvested from the bodies of no less than twelve innocents, whose premature deaths were believed to be an essential part of the process. Before he became a highly specialized instrument maker, Dower trained as a surgeon. He's a sensitive, trained to see what lies before his eyes: most people wouldn't recognize the true horror of the instrument, seeing merely a white violin. Which is why the woman came here, after checking the files for a list of suitable examiners.

After almost three hours, Dower is flagging, but his work is nearly done. The woman is checking her watch now, with increasing concern. Eventually, finally, he replaces the bow in its recess and folds the lid of the case shut, snapping the latches closed. He steps back and fastidiously peels off his gloves, then drops them in a rubbish bin, being careful not to touch their contaminated outer surface with his bare skin. Finally he clicks off the dictaphone. "I'm done," he says flatly.

The woman stands, smooths the wrinkles out of her skirt, and nods. "Your written report," she says.

"I'll write it up after I've had some lunch. You can collect it after four, this afternoon . . ."

She shakes her head. "I won't be back." Reaching into her bag she pulls out another envelope. "Print out one copy of your report--and no more--and place it in this envelope. Then seal it and post it." There is no address on the envelope. "After you have done that, you should destroy your records. Erase your word processor files, burn the tapes, whatever it takes. You will be held responsible if your report leaks."

"But there's no--" He takes the envelope. "You're sure?"

"If you post that envelope I will have the contents on my desk by morning," she tells him, staring at him with pale green eyes as unquiet as a storm surge.

"I don't want to see that thing ever again," he tells her.

"You won't."

"But you want to know how to make more--"

"No." Her face is as smooth as plaster, as if any hint of human emotion might crack the surface of her glaze: "I want to prove to my superiors that the cost is too high."

"Isn't that obvious?"

"Not given the magnitude of the threat we face. Desperate measures are called for; I merely believe this one to be too desperate. Good-bye, Mr. Dower. I trust we shall never meet again."

BACK IN THE OFFICE:

Photograph One:

A large slate, resting on a table beside a wooden measuring rod. According to the rod it is twenty inches high and (inferred using a ruler) eighteen inches wide. Cleaved along a plane, it reveals a well-preserved fossil of what appears to be a starfish of class Asteroidea.

On closer inspection, there is something wrong with the fossil. Although it possesses the characteristic five-fold symmetry, each tentacle tip appears to be blunt, as if truncated. Moreover, the body doesn't show signs of radial segmentation--it's an integral whole, giving an effect more like a cross section through an okra fruiting body, or perhaps an oversized echinoderm--a sea cucumber.

Photograph Two:

Is another large slab of broken rock, this time revealing the partially dissected and fossilized arm of a juvenile BLUE HADES . . .

Photograph Three:

Is in the pile Bob has just dumped on the floor.

I rub my eyes and quietly snarl: "Fuck this shit!" The temptation to start jumping up and down and shouting is well-nigh irresistible, but my office shares a plasterboard partition with that of an easily distracted computer-phobic project manager, and the last time I punched the wall he made me come round and put all of his GANT chart stickies back in the right order on pain of being forced to attend a training course on critical path analysis. Which is deeply unfair, in my book--if the lines on one of Roskill's charts don't join up, all that happens is a project goes over budget: nobody gets eaten or goes insane (unless the Auditors decide to get involved)--but there's no arguing with him: ex-RAF type, thinks he runs the country.

It's almost too late for lunch, and all I've succeeded in figuring out so far is that F had a lot of interesting correspondents in the Baltic states, not to mention a huge and not entirely rational hard-on for the Bolsheviks. (Mind you, he was a bit unhinged in more ways than that.) On the other hand, this Ransome chap seems to have had his head screwed on. A journalist, obviously, but corresponding with a colonel in the War Office? And his correspondence ended up filed in the Laundry archives? That's pretty suggestive. And those photographs . . . ! Roman Von Ungern Sternberg clearly had a disturbed childhood if his idea of fossil-collecting involved elder race relics. No wonder Daddy ended up in the loony bin and Mummy shacked up with a boringly conventional country squire with no questionable hobbies.

I look at the stack of files: nine of the bloody things, brown manila envelopes with dates and security classifications scribbled on their front, beneath the familiar Dho-Nha geometry curve of the Internal Security Sigil ("read this without authorization and your eyeballs will melt," or words to that effect in one of the simpler Enochian metalanguages). They're identified by number, using a system we call the Codex Mathemagica--four three-digit quads, just like IP addresses (and isn't that a significant coincidence, given that the Laundry archives predate the internet by thirty years? Although the Laundry stacks use decimal as a native format, not two hex digits, now that I think about it: Does that mean their original numeric routines were written to manage BCD primitives?)--with no overall meaning except that they're unique in the index . . .

Nine folders.

I rummage around on my desk for the original paper Angleton gave me. Weren't there ten files there? Ten sets of numbers? I can't find the note, damn it, but I know where I entered the document retrieval request. I wake my computer and call up the transaction log. Yup, ten files requested.

I look under my desk. Then I look behind my desk. Then I look in the circular filing cabinet, just in case. I recount the folders, double-checking inside them just in case the missing file has been interleaved.

Nine folders. Shit.

Have you ever found yourself in a cold sweat, your palms clammy and your clothes sticking to the small of your back? Heart hammering, even though you're sitting down? Mouth dry as a mummy's tomb?

I am a rough, tough, hardened field agent (yeah, right). I have been in the Laundry for nearly a decade. I've met gibbering horrors from other universes, been psychically entangled with a serial killer fish goddess, stalked by zombies, imprisoned by a megalomaniac billionaire, and I've even survived the attention of the Auditors (when I was young, foolish, and didn't know any better). But I've never lost a classified file before, and I don't ever want there to be a first time.

I force myself to sit down and close my eyes for what feels like an hour, but is actually just under two minutes according to the clock on my computer's screen. When I open my eyes, the problem is still there, but the sweat is beginning to dry and the panicked feeling has receded . . . for now. So I get down on my knees and start picking up the photographs, working through them until I am certain I've got them all in sequence, and then I put them in the correct envelope and very carefully stack it on my chair.

I pick up a Post-it pad and copy the number on the front of the envelope. Then I repeat, eight times, for the remaining envelopes. Then I hunt across my desk until--aha!--I find Angleton's original spidery scrawl, numbers swimming before my eyes like exotic fish.

Ten numbers. I go through them checking off the files I've got, until I identify the number that's missing. 10.0.792.560. Right.

I call up the requisition and look for 10.0.792.560. Sure enough, it's there. So I ordered it, but it isn't in my office. Double shit. I dumpster-dive the transaction file, looking for my request: Did they fill it? Oh. Oh my. DOCUMENT NOT FOUND ON DESIGNATED SHELF.

I just about faint with relief, but manage to force myself to pick up the phone and dial the front desk number. "Hello? Archives?" The voice at the far end is female, distracted, a little squawky, and all human--for which I am grateful: not all the archive staff are warm-blooded.

"Hi, this is Bob Howard in Ops? Back on Thursday I requested an archival document retrieval, ten dead files. I'm going through them now, and one of them is missing. I've got a file number, and an annotation saying DOCUMENT NOT FOUND ON DESIGNATED SHELF. Can you tell me what that means?"

"It means"--she sounds irritated--"the librarian couldn't find your file. They looked where it was supposed to be and it wasn't there."

"Oh. Is there a direct mapping between the document reference number and a given shelf?"

"Yes, there is. You should really use code names and the index in case the file's been assigned a new number, you know. It happens sometimes. Do you have a codeword for me? I could look it up for you . . ."

"I'm sorry, my colleague just gave me a list of document reference numbers," I explain. "And he's, uh, off sick. So I'm trying to figure out what's missing. I was worried that the file had been sent over and got misplaced, but if it's missing in the stacks I suppose that just means it's been renumbered. Or he wrote down the wrong reference. Or something." I don't believe that last one for a split second--no way would Angleton get a file number wrong--but I don't want some nosy librarian poking her nose into my investigation. "Bye." I put the phone down and lean back, thinking.

Let's see: Angleton was working on BLOODY BARON. When I came back to the office he gave me a list of ten files to read, then he went missing. This coincides with an upswing in Russian activity, including a marked willingness to use extreme measures. Nine files came from the stacks, and they turn out to be tedious backgrounders relating indirectly to the historical investigation side of BLOODY BARON. The tenth file isn't on its shelf. All I've got is a number, not a name.

I think it's time to do some unofficial digging . . .

MEANWHILE, BACK TO THE HISTORICAL RECONSTRUCTION:

It is nearly six o'clock when Mr. Dower finishes typing his report.

He's lost track of the time, his head locked inside the scope of his postmortem on the instrument. He's read about its like before. Their design is attributed to a deaf-mute German violinist in Paris in the early 1920s, but nobody actually built one until the ghastly Dr. Mabuse commissioned an entire string section from a certain Berlin instrument maker in 1931. (It should be no surprise that the instrument maker prospered under the subsequent regime, but was executed after a summary trial by SMERSH investigators in 1946.) This particular instrument made its way to the West in the luggage of a returning GI, was retrofitted with electric pickups during the 1950s, and after a spectacular run of accidents was acquired by a reclusive collector in 1962--believed by some to be a front for a British government department who, as a matter of state policy, did not like to see such instruments in the wrong hands.

He dreads to think what its reappearance portends. On the other hand, the young woman who brought it to him--Mr. Dower thinks of everyone aged under fifty as "young"--seemed to have a sober appreciation of its lethality.

He shudders fastidiously as the last of five pages of single-spaced description hisses out of the ink-jet printer. It joins the half dozen contact pages of photographs, including his fiber-optic examination of the interior of the instrument, and an invoice for just over two thousand pounds. He shakes the bundle of pages together, and binds them neatly with a paper clip from a desk drawer. Then they go inside the envelope the woman who called herself Cassie May gave him. He licks the flap and seals it, then, in a moment of curiosity, he switches on the anti-counterfeit lamp he keeps by the cash register and examines it under ultraviolet light. Nothing shows up: it bears none of the UV-fluorescent dots the Post Office prints on envelopes to control their routing.

If "Cassie May" thinks she can retrieve an unmarked envelope from the postal system she's welcome to it, in Mr. Dower's books. He turns back to the computer and deletes his work, then sighs and glances at the clock. Five minutes to closing time: no point keeping the shop open any longer. He stands and stretches, switches the computer off, and goes through an abbreviated version of his regular closing routine; no point banking the cash register contents (his takings before the woman's visit barely amounted to petty cash). He pulls on his coat, turns his coffee mug upside down on the draining board, switches off the lights, and opens the front door.

The woman is waiting for him. She smiles. "Have you finished your report?" she asks.

Mr. Dower nods, confused. "I was going to post it, as you requested." He pats his coat pocket.

"I'm in a hurry. There's a rush on. If you don't mind . . . ?" She looks at him impatiently.

"Of course." He pulls out the envelope and hands it to her. "My invoice is enclosed."

"You don't need to worry about that side of things." She slides the envelope into her black patent leather handbag and smiles.

"I suppose not. You people always pay your debts eventually."

"Yes, you can be absolutely certain of that."

He turns back to the door and fumbles with his key ring. Which is why he doesn't see her withdraw a silenced pistol from her bag, raise it to the back of his head, and discharge a single round into his cerebellum. The gun makes little sound--just the racking click of its action--but as she fires, the suppressor fitted to its muzzle frosts over with clear fluid, air in contact with it liquefying as it chills to just above absolute zero. Mr. Dower slumps forward against the door. The woman's arm follows him down with absolute precision and discharges a second round into the top of his skull, but it is unnecessary: he is already dead.

She looks around with green eyes as deep as sacrificial cenotes, eyes in which a sensitive witness might see luminous worms writhing. But there are no sensitive witnesses to see through the glamour: just the ordinary post-work crowd hurrying about their business on the London streets. For a moment her face shimmers, the facade sliding--her attention is strained, flying in too many directions to maintain the illusion effectively--but then she notices and pulls herself together. She returns the chilly pistol to her bag. Then, turning on one spiked heel, she strides away from the corpse: just another professional woman on her way home from the office. Nobody has witnessed the killing, and it will be twenty minutes before a passing policeman realizes that the drunk sleeping in the doorway is never going to rise again.

BEER AND TEA

YOU CAN FOCUS ON THINKING YOURSELF INTO THE OTHER guy's shoes until the cows come home, but it's not going to do you a whole lot of good if he's actually wearing sandals. More to the point, what if he's got an entire shoe rack to choose from, and the pair you need is the one that's missing? There is a chicken-and-egg problem here, or more accurately a sole-and-bootstrap one, and I'm not going to solve it by sitting in my office. Nor am I going to fix matters by hollering down the speaking tube at the gnomes buried in the stacks, not with just two delivery runs a day.

On the other hand, if you go and actually look at the other guy's footprints you might just find something new. And so, in a spirit of enquiry, I set out to burgle Angleton's office.

Now, it just so happens that Angleton has officially been declared missing. And I am his assistant trainee tea-boy. In a more paranoid working environment I might just be under suspicion of having disappeared him myself: perish the thought and pass the ammunition. But Angleton is reckoned to be sufficiently formidable that . . . well, let's say it's unlikely. Besides, we don't generally play politics with the kid gloves off. (There are exceptions, such as the late and unlamented Bridget; but they're exactly that: exceptions. The hard fact is that all the real players can turn the game board into a smoking hole in the map. Which generally forces them to tread lightly.)

Skulking past Iris's office window, I tiptoe around the coffee station and duck down the back staircase, through the fire doors, round the bend, down the fire escape stairs, and then pause outside the unmarked green metal door. I do not encounter anyone in the process, but you can never be sure--there are cameras, and there is Internal Security, and if you're really unlucky there are the caretakers from the night shift. This is a security agency after all. However slipshod and dustily eccentric it might appear at times, you should never take things for granted if you are perpetrating monkey business.

I pull out the NecronomiPod and fire it up. Happy fun icons glow at me: Safari, YouTube, Horned Skull, Settings, Bloody Runes, Messaging, Elder Sign, you know the interface. Bloody Runes gets me into the ward detector, which is showing the usual options. I point the camera at the door and peer into the shiny screen. Sure enough, in addition to Angleton's trademark Screaming Mind someone has ploddingly inscribed a Langford Death Parrot, with a sympathetic link to a web stats counter so they can monitor how many intruders it's headcrashed from the comfort of their laptop. Tch, what are standards coming to? I pause as a nasty thought strikes me and I triple-check the door frame, then the ceiling above the entrance, then the other side of the corridor, just in case--but no, nothing. This is strictly amateur hour stuff, so rather than zapping the LDP I pull out my conductive pencil and sketch in a breakpoint and then an exception list with a single item: the signature of my new ward. The Screaming Mind already knows me well. Three minutes later I put the phone away, place my hand on the doorknob, twist and push.

Angleton's office: here be monsters. Silent and cold, it is home to the ghosts of a war colder by far than the one the ignorant public thought we won in 1989--a room walled in floor-to-ceiling file drawers, a gunmetal desk with organ-pedals and teletype keyboard, dominated by a hooded microfiche reader--the silent heart of an intelligence stilled, no longer beating out the number station signals across the Iron Curtain. I half-expect to see cobwebs in the corners, to smell the stale cigarette ash of a thousand tense nights beneath the arctic skies, waiting for the bombers.

I shake myself. History lies thick as winter snow in this room: I could drown beneath its avalanche weight if I don't pull myself together. And in any case, Angleton was here--in his office I mean, not in this actual spot--before the cold war. I've seen a photograph from 1942, the man himself smiling at the camera, visibly no older (or younger) than he is today. It's an open question, the extent to which he was involved in the occult affairs of government before the Second World War. Just how far back does he go? Human Resources don't have a home address on file, which is itself suggestive. I wonder . . .

Before I sit down behind his desk, I scan the walls, floor, and ceiling up and down with the NecronomiPod. Sure enough, certain of the file drawers are booby-trapped with lethal-looking webworks of magic--not drawn in the plodding journeyman hand of the outer door's vandal, but sketched in Angleton's spidery scrawl, complex arcs and symbols linking arcane declarations and gruesome probability matrices. I could reverse engineer them in time and maybe worm my way inside, but knowing the boss there's probably nothing there but nitrogen triiodide on the drawer rails and a jack-in-the-box loaded with tear gas: he was a firm believer in keeping the crown jewels in his head--or its annex, the thing in the green metal desk.

The Memex . . .

You've got to understand that although I've read about the things, I've never actually used one. It's an important piece of the history of computing, leaked to the public as a think-piece commissioned by the Atlantic Weekly in 1945; most of the readers thought it was a gosh-wow-by-damn good idea, but were unlikely to realize that a number of the things had actually been built, using a slush fund earmarked for the Manhattan Project. The product of electromechanical engineering at its finest, not to mention its most horrendously complex, each Memex cost as much as a B-29 bomber--and contained six times as many moving parts, most of them assembled by watchmakers. It wasn't until HyperCard showed up on the Apple Mac in 1987 that anything like it reached the general public.

I believe Angleton's Memex is the only one that is still working, much less in day-to-day use, and to say it takes black magic to keep it running would be no exaggeration. I approach the seat with considerable caution, and not just because I'm absolutely certain he will have taken steps to ensure that anyone who sits in it without his approval and pushes the big red on button will never push another button in their (admittedly short) life; he knows how to use the thing, but if I crash it or break the cylinder head gasket or something and he comes back, the only shoes I'd be safe in would be a pair of NASA-issue moon boots (and maybe not even then).

I drag the wooden chair back from the Memex--the tiny casters squeak like agonized rodents across the worn linoleum floor--and lower myself gingerly into the cracked leather seat. The oak arms are worn smooth beneath my hands, where his palms have pressed upon them over the decades. I grab the solid sides of the desk and ease myself forward until my feet rest lightly on the pedals. There's an angled glass strip facing me from the far end of the desk, and a light in the leg-well that comes on as my heels touch the kick-plate: it's a periscope, giving me a view of my toes and the letters at the back of each pedal. I turn the gunmetal turret of the microfiche reader towards me, place the NecronomiPod on the desktop, and push the power button.

There's a clunk of relays closing, and then a thrumming vibration runs through the machine. It's easy to forget that though it weighs more than a ton, its average component weighs less than two grams: the gears alone took two months' entire output from the largest watch factory in America. I stare into the hooded circular screen in something like awe. Machined to submicron precision, yet less powerful than the ancient 68EC000 in my washing machine, these devices were the backbone of the Laundry's Intelligence Analysis section in the late 1940s. It's like a steam locomotive or a stone axe: just because it's obsolete doesn't make it any less of an achievement, or any less fit for purpose.

The screen lights up--not like an LCD monitor, or even an old cathode ray tube, but more like an antique film projector.

WRITE USERNAME.

The moment of truth: I cautiously kick-type BOB, then spend a fruitless minute hunting for the return key before I realize there's a paddle-shaped lever protruding level with my left knee--like the handle on a manual typewriter. I nudge it.

There's a clunk from inside the desk and the injunction vanishes, to be replaced by a picture of the organization coat of arms. Then more words appear, scrolling in from the bottom of the screen, wobbling slightly:

WRITE CLEARANCE.

What the hell? I laboriously type BLOODY BARON, and knee the return paddle. (There's something weird about the foot-keyboard: then I twig to the fact that its abbreviated supply of characters means it's probably a Baudot Code system. Which figures. Older than ASCII . . .)

The screen fades to white after a couple of seconds, then a bloody sigil flashes into view. It doesn't kill me to look at it, but the disquieting sense that the void is inspecting the inside of the back of my skull makes me squirm on my seat. There is an eye-warping loop to one side of it that feels familiar, as if it's tied to my soul somehow.

WRITE: STILL ALIVE? Y/N:

Knees knocking, I type Y (RETURN).

WELCOME BOB, YOU ARE AUTHENTICATED.

If you are reading this message, I am absent. Welcome to the dead man's boots: hope you don't find them too tight. You are one of only four people who have access to this machine (and at least two of them are dead or dying of K Syndrome).

You may: read all files not flagged with a Z-prefix, search all files not flagged with a Z-prefix, and print any files flagged with a prefix from A to Q.

You may not: read or search Z-prefix files. Print files flagged with a prefix from S to Z. Dismantle or reverse-engineer this instrument.

WARNING: LETHAL ENFORCEMENT PROTOCOLS ARE ENFORCED.

WRITE: GOTO MAIN MENU? Y/N:

This is Angleton. He doesn't bluff. I make a note of those clearances on my phone, then, hesitantly, I type Y.

I have, in fact, seen worse-designed user interfaces. There are abominations out there that claim to be personal media players that--but I digress. The Memex is a miracle of simplicity and good design, as long as you bear in mind that it's operated by foot pedals (except for the paper tape punch), the display is a microfilm reader, and it can't display more than ten menu choices on screen at any time. Unlike early digital computers such as the Manchester Mark One, you don't need to be Alan Turing and debug raw machine code on the fly by flashing a torch at the naked phosphor memory screen; you just need to be able to type on a Baudot keyboard using both feet (with no delete key and lethal retaliation promised if you make certain typos). There's nothing here that's remotely as hostile as VM/CMS to a UNIX hacker. I've just got an edgy feeling that the Memex is reading me, and sitting in quietly humming judgment. So I spend half an hour reading the quick start guide, and then . . .

WRITE: DOCUMENT TO RETRIEVE:

I find the shift pedal, kick the Memex into numerical entry mode, and type:

FETCH 10.0.792.560

NOT FOUND.

WRITE: DOCUMENT TO RETRIEVE:

Shit. I try again.

FETCH INDEX.

There is a whirring and a chunking sound from within the desk. Aha! After several sluggish seconds a new menu appears.

WRITE: ENTER DOCUMENT CODE NUMBER:

FETCH 10.0.792.560

More whirring and a brief pause. Then the screen clears, to display everything the Memex knows about the missing file:

DOCUMENT INDEX ENTRY:

NUMBER: 10.0.792.560

TITLE: THE FULLER MEMORANDUM

DEPOSIT DATE: 6-DECEMBER-1941

STORAGE LOCATION: STACK VAULT 10.0.792.560

COPY STATUS: FORBIDDEN

CLASSIFICATION: BEYOND TOP SECRET, Z-CLEARANCE

EXPIRATION: DOES NOT EXPIRE

CODEWORDS: TEAPOT, WHITE BARON, CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN

SEE ALSO: Z-ANGLETON, Z-EXECUTION PROTOCOLS, Z-FINAL EXIT

END OF INDEX ENTRY

CLASSIFIED: S76/47

Dear John,

Once again, greetings from Reval. I hope you can forgive my lack of enthusiasm; it's godforsaken cold here in January. I thought I knew what winter was (Moscow in winter is enough to teach anyone a grudging respect for Jack Frost) but this is absolutely unspeakable. There are few railways in Estonia, and those which remain after the armistice are under military control, to deter any passing fancy that might occur to Comrade Trotsky in his spare time. (I am sure we shall not be invaded again, at least before he has finished pacifying Siberia, but one can hardly blame Mr. Piip for his caution.)

I have a most unexpected cause to write to you--a gift horse just presented its head at my transom window! Such a gift horse was this that it would be insane not to look it in the mouth, but I have inspected its back teeth and I assure you that the mare is, although middle-aged, by no means anything other than that which it appears to be: namely, the bereaved mother of the Prodigal we were discussing in our earlier correspondence.

It seems that my sympathetic questioning made more of an impression on Madame Hoyningen-Huene than I imagined. There was a brief thaw in the bitter cold we have lately been experiencing, and being of a mind to visit the capital for a few weeks she took advantage of it. She is even now ensconced in our parlor, where Evgenia is entertaining her.

And the Prodigal son's fossil collection?

"Take them!" she cried. "Oskar told me how they caught your fancy; perhaps you know of a curator in London who will put them to some better use? Vile things, I don't want to remember my son by them!" Her man, who was burdened with the heavy box all the way from Rapla to Reval, can only have wholeheartedly agreed. And so they are even now in a shipping trunk, awaiting more clement weather before I dispatch them to you by sea.

Madame Hoyningen-Huene is a sensitive soul, and her life has been blighted by domestic tragedy, from her first husband's breakdown and incarceration to the deaths of two baby daughters, and now to the fate that has overtaken her son (however much he might have deserved it). She takes little interest in politics, and is transparently what she is: the daughter of Baron Von Wimpffen of Hesse, wife of Baron Oskar Von Hoyningen-Huene, a devoted family lady. Quite why her life has circled this vortex of unspeakable tragedy eludes her entirely, as does the nature of her privileged upbringing and the precarious status of the Prussian aristocracy in the Baltic states--but she is near to sixty, a child of the previous century, and simply unable to adapt to the chill winds of change sweeping the globe.

"He wrote to me often of his fears and uncertainties," she said, showing me a sheaf of letters. I think she needed to share her pain, that of a mother for her son, the last love and succor of any man, however much of a brute he may be. "You see, he was by inclination deeply religious, but unfortunately it brought him much pain. I hold the shamanic eastern mystics responsible--vile orientals! And the Jews." Her aristocratic nostrils flared. "If they hadn't fomented this disgraceful revolution he would not have thought to rise up against the government." (Such sentiments are common among the aristocracy here; they have an unhealthy identification with the late Tsar.)

"What did he believe?" I asked. "As a matter of curiosity . . ."

"Ohh--he took it into his head to convert to a vile farrago of oriental superstitions! Nothing as honest and Aryan as Theosophy. He picked these filthy beliefs up in Mongolia, nearly ten years ago, when visiting. He met a witch doctor by all accounts, a man called the Bogd Khan--" She rattled on at some length about this.

"Would you mind if I read his letters on religion?" I asked her, and to cut a long story short, she acceded. I now have not only Ungern Sternberg's fossil collection, inherited from his father, but his surviving letters--those he sent to his mother. And they are very interesting indeed.

I attach my (admittedly imperfect) translation of selected extracts of his letters from 1920; I will forward the originals by separate cover from the fossils. Meanwhile, I strongly recommend that you should motivate your fellows in the Order to start searching for the missing Teapot.

Your obedient friend,

Arthur Ransome

THERE COMES A TIME IN EVERY COUNTERESPIONAGE INVESTIgation when you have to grit your teeth, admit that you're at your wits' end, admit defeat, and bugger off home for a Chinese takeaway and a night in front of the telly. Then you get a good night's sleep (except for the nocturnal eructations induced by too much black bean sauce) and awaken, refreshed and revived and in a mood to do battle once more with--

Bollocks.

I have gotten somewhere: I now know that the missing file is called the Fuller Memorandum (which by a huge leap of inductive logic--I hope I'm not getting ahead of myself here--I deduce is a memorandum, by or about F). It was filed in 1941, was absolutely mega-top-secret burn-before-reading stuff sixty-five years ago, and has some bearing on CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. It's also missing. Those last three facts would be enough to give me industrial-grade stomach ulcers if it was my fault. Luckily, it's not my fault. All I have to do is find Angleton and I'm sure he can explain it all, and also explain what the flaming fuck it has got to do with BLOODY BARON.

This much is not time-critical. Getting that Chinese takeaway, with or without black bean sauce, is time-critical, lest I starve to death on the case. Going home and doing sweet, sappy, quality time things with Mo is time-critical too, lest she files for divorce on grounds of neglect. And so is not having a nervous breakdown while waiting for the board of enquiry findings, lest I find myself without a career, in which case they'll put me in charge of pushing that handcart full of dusty files around the department. So I stand up, stretch, push the off button on the Memex, and leave Angleton's lair.

I pause briefly in my own rabbit hutch of an office, scan my email, respond to a couple of trivial pestiferations (no, I am no longer in charge of the structured cabling specifications for D Block; yes, I am still attached to the international common insourcing and acquisition standards committee, for my sins in a previous life; no, I do not have a desktop license for Microsoft Office, because my desktop PC is a Microsoft-free zone for security reasons--and would you like fries with that?). The scanner has finished digesting all those dusty letters from Arthur to John; I squirt the PDFs across to the NecronomiPod and then I grab my backpack and umbrella and head for home. Iris isn't in her office as I pass the window, and Rita on the front desk has pissed off early--then I check my watch and do a double take. It's six forty. Shit. Mo will kill me, I think as I head down the main staircase at a fast clip and barrel through the staff exit.

This is London. South Bank, south of the center, north of Tooting, and west of Wandsworth (come on, you can alliterate too)--suburban high street UK. It is early evening and the streets are still crowded, but most of the shops are closed. Meanwhile, the pubs are half-full with the sort of hardcore post-work crowd that go drinking on a Monday evening. I turn left, walking towards the nearest tube station: it's fifteen minutes away but once it gets this late there's no point waiting for a bus.

This is London. The worst thing that can happen to you is usually a mugging at knifepoint, and I do my best not to look like a promising victim, which is why it takes me a couple of minutes to realize that I'm being tailed. In fact, it takes until the three of them move to box me in: at that point, disbelief is futile. I've done the mandatory Escape and Evasion training, not to mention Streetwise 101; I just wasn't expecting to need it here.

Two of them are strong, silent types in black leather biker jackets worn over white tees and jeans. They've got short stubbly blond hair and the sort of muscles you get when you go through a Spetsnaz training course--not bodybuilders: more like triathletes. They come up behind me and march along either side, too damn close. The third of them, who I guess is their boss, is a middle-aged man in a baggy Italian suit, his open shirt collar stating that he's off the office clock and on his own time. He slides in just ahead and to the left of Thug #1 as I glance sideways. He winks at me. "Please to follow this way," he says.

I glance to my right. Thug #2 matches my stride, step for step. He stares at me like a police dog that's had its vocal cords severed. I glimpse his eyes and look away hastily. Shit.

"Who are you?" I ask, my tongue dry and stumbling, as Mr. Baggy Suit pauses in the doorway of the Frog and Tourettes.

"You may wish to call me Panin." He smiles faintly. "Nikolai Panin. It's not my real name, but it will serve." He gestures at the door. "Please allow me to buy you a drink. I assure you, my intentions are honorable."

My ward is itching; nevertheless I am disinclined to bet my life on it. Panin, whoever he is, is a player: his definition of "honorable" might not encompass allowing me to escape with my life, but he's unlikely to start something in the middle of a pub with an after-work crowd. "Would you mind leaving the muscle outside?" I ask. "I assume they're not drinking."

"Nyet." He snaps his fingers and says something to the two revenants. They split, taking up positions to either side of the street front of the pub. "After you," he says, waving me into the entrance.

If I was James Bond, this is the point at which I would draw my concealed pistol, plug both heavies between the eyes, get Panin in an armlock, and pistol-whip some answers out of him. But I am not James Bond, and I don't want to precipitate a diplomatic incident by assaulting the Second Naval Attache and a couple of embassy guards or footballers or whatever (not to mention sparking a murder investigation which would result in the Plumbers having to conduct a gigantic and expensive cover-up operation, all of which would come out of my departmental operating budget and drive Iris to distraction). And anyway, everyone knows that you don't get useful answers by torturing people, you get useful answers by making them trust you.

(Why don't you talk to them? I'd asked the committee.

(Because we might unintentionally tell them something they don't already know, said Choudhury, after staring at me for a minute as if I'd grown a second head.

(Fuck that shit, like I said.)

So I let Panin buy me a pint. "By the way, do you mind if I text my wife to tell her I'm going to be late?" I ask.

"If you think it necessary, but I promise I will keep you only half an hour."

"Thanks." I smile gratefully and whip out the NecronomiPod and tap out a text: HAVING A BEER WITH UNCLE FESTER'S BOSS, HOME LATE. Panin holds up a purple drinking voucher and it has the desired effect: money and a pair of pint glasses change hands. He carries them over to a small table in the back of the pub and I follow him. Panin's assistants gave me a nasty turn, but it seems this is to be a friendly chat, albeit for extremely unusual values of friendly. I keep both my hands on the table. Wouldn't do to give the Spetsnaz goons the wrong idea--I have a feeling it would take more than Harry's AA-12 shotgun to stop them in their tracks.

"To health, home, and happiness," he proposes, raising his glass.

"I'll drink to that." My ward doesn't nudge me as I bring the drink to my lips. "So. I guess you wanted to talk?"

"Mm, yes." Panin, having taken a mouthful, puts his glass down. "Do you have any clues to its whereabouts?"

"Have what?" I ask cautiously.

"The teapot."

"Tea--" I take another mouthful of ESB. "Pot?" There was something about a teapot in those letters, wasn't there? Something Choudhury said in the meeting, maybe?

"It's missing." Panin sounds impatient. "Your people have lost it, yes?"

I decide to play dumb. "If any teapots have gone missing, I suppose Facilities would be the people who'd deal with that . . . Why do you ask?"

"You English!" For a moment, Panin looks exasperated, then he quickly pulls a lid over it. "The teapot is missing," he repeats, as if to a very slow pupil. "It has been missing since last week. Everyone is looking for it, us, you, the opposition . . . ! You were its last keepers. Please, I implore you, find it? For all our sakes, find it before the wrong people get their hands on it and make tea."

Committed to paper, this dialogue might sound comical: but coming from Panin's mouth, in his soft, clipped diction, it is anything but.

I shiver. "Ungern Sternberg's teapot didn't get misplaced by accident," I hazard.

Panin's response takes me by surprise: "Idiot!" He leans back in disgust, raises his glass, and takes a deep and disrespectful swig. "You are fishing, now."

Bother, I've been rumbled. "'Fraid so. Let me level with you? I know it's missing, but that's all I know. But I'll tell you what, if you can tell me what happened in Amsterdam last Wednesday and why it followed my wife home on Thursday I would be very grateful."

"Amster--" Panin shuts his mouth with a click. "Your wife is unhurt, I hope?" he asks, all nervous solicitude.

"Shaken." But not stirred. "The--intruder--was attributed to your people, did you know that?"

"Not unexpected." Panin makes a gesture of dismissal with one hand. "They do that, you know. To muddy the waters."

"Who? The opposition?"

Panin gives me that look again, the look you might give to the friendly but stupid puppy that's just widdled on the carpet for the third time that day. "Tell me, Mr. Howard, what do you know?"

I sigh. "Not much, it seems. I have been seconded to a committee that's trying to work out why you folks are currently running up an eBay reputation score like there's no tomorrow. I am trying to deal with an unpleasant domestic situation, namely work following my wife home. My boss is out of the office, and I'm trying to pick up the pieces. If you thought you could shake me down for useful information, I'm afraid you picked the wrong spy. I could tell you more than you could possibly want to know about the structured cabling requirements for our new headquarter building's fourth subbasement, but when it comes to missing teapots, nobody put me on the flash priority classified briefing list."

"I see." Panin looks gloomy. "Well, Mr. Howard, many would not believe you--but I do. So, here is my card." He passes me a plain white business card--unprinted on either side, but pressed from a very high grade of linen weave. It makes my fingertips tingle. "Should you have anything to discuss, call me."

I slide it into my breast pocket. "Thanks."

"As for the teapot, it was never the same after Ungern Sternberg retrieved it from the Bogd Khan's altar."

He's studying my face. I do my best not to twitch. I've heard those names before. "I'll keep my eyes open for it," I reassure him.

"I'm sure you will," he says gravely. "After all, it would be in everyone's best interests for the teapot to return to its rightful office." He drains his beer glass. "I will see you around, I am sure," he says, rising.

"Bye." I raise my glass to his back as he turns towards the door, shoulders hunched.

CLASSIFIED: S76/47 ANNEX A

Dear Mother,

Salutations from Urga! I greet you as Khan Sternberg, Outstanding Prosperous-State Hero of Mongolia, first warlord and general of the Living Buddha and Emperor of Mongolia, His Holiness Bogd Djebtsung Damba Hutuktu! Great events, bloody battle, heroic struggle, and glorious victory have contrived to elevate me to the threshold of my destiny, as inheritor of the empire of Genghis Khan. It is spring in Mongolia, and already I have purged this land of Bolsheviks, terrorists, and subhumans; soon my armies will commence their march on St. Petersburg, to restore the blessed Prince Michael to his rightful throne and to cleanse Mother Russia of the depravity of revolution and the filthy degenerates who have turned their back on the holy Tsar.

(Once I have restored the Tsar I consider it my duty to retake those lands that have been stolen from the Empire, including our homeland. I trust you will think kindly of me for raising the yoke of anarchist tyranny from the necks of the true aristocracy of Estonia when I come to purify the Baltic lands and restore the just weight of monarchy to the upstart Poles.)

The conquest of Urga presented me with a considerable challenge, and I shall describe it for you. Urga lies in a valley between hills, along the banks of the Tula river. When I laid siege to it, the river was frozen; but the degenerate Chinese occupiers had constructed trenches, barricades and barbed wire defenses around Upper Maimaichen . . .

[Lengthy description of the siege of Ulan Bator, 1920.]

Now here is a curiosity:

When we stormed the palace of the Bogd Khan to take the Living Buddha from his Chinese captors, the fighting was fierce: after liberating His Holiness my men executed a tactical withdrawal. But once his excellency was safe, when I ordered the main attack on the Chinese host occupying the city, I detailed a reliable man--my ensign Evgenie Burdokovskii, who the men call Teapot--to secure the treasury against looters. It is a sad fact that Reds and wreckers are everywhere and in these degenerate times the swine I have to work with--rejects and deserters of the once-great army--are as likely to turn to banditry and crime as to bend the neck before my righteous authority. Burdokovskii is a stout fellow, a cossack: powerful and broad-chested, with a little curly blond head and a narrow forehead. He always does what I ask of him, which is a blessing, and if there is one man I would trust to stand guard on a treasure-house for me, it is he.

During the occupation, Teapot set his sixteen men to stand guard with bayonets fixed outside the great hall where the treasures and gifts of five hundred lamaseries are kept. It is a remarkable place, a museum of wonders unknown in all of Europe. There is a library with shelves devoted to manuscripts in a myriad of languages, and there are chests full of amber from the shores of the Northern Sea, carved walrus and ivory tusks, rings with sapphires and rubies from China and India, rough diamonds the size of your fingertip, bags of golden thread filled with pearls, and side-rooms filled with cases containing statues of the Living Buddha made from every precious material under the sun.

Now Teapot is among the most obedient of my officers, but in the course of restoring order to the city and chasing the remaining enemy rabble out into the wilderness it was some days before I could return with the Bogd Khan to inspect his treasures. In that time I am afraid to say that he disgraced himself. Teapot did not steal the Buddha's treasures, else I would have hanged him as high as any other wretch; but he idly looked through the library, and I fear what he did may turn out for the worse in the long run.

There are, as you can imagine, scrolls and books unnumbered in there, and they include the most remarkable works of sorcery and prophecy imaginable. All the numerous punishments of hell that are reserved for souls who indulge in the sins of the flesh are documented and indeed illustrated in the finest, one might almost say pornographic, detail. It was to these works that Teapot allowed his salacious imagination to draw him.

It is not clear exactly when Teapot found the scroll, but two days after the fall of the palace his sergeant was dismayed to come upon him lying on the floor of the library, crying inarticulately and clutching a crumpled fragment of scripture in his chubby hands. According to the other witnesses, who I have questioned diligently, Teapot showed other signs of distress: bleeding from the eyes, moaning, and clutching his belly.

They put him to bed in the hospital supervised by Dr. Klingenberg, who was minded to euthanize Teapot to spare him from this misery, but wiser counsel prevailed and my cossacks continued to care for him until he began to recover the following day, babbling in tongues and occasionally ululating: "Ieyah! Ieyah!"

On the third day, just as I was on my way back to the palace, Teapot is said to have sat up in bed, whereupon he asked, "What year is it?" Upon being told it was 1920, he collapsed in a dead faint. And although he is now back at his duties, he is not the same. There is a cold intellect in him that was hitherto absent. Before, he was a loyal brute, but limited: he gave no thought to the morrow. Now he anticipates my orders with eerie efficiency, organizes the men under his command to meet any contingency, shows an unerring ability to sniff out spies--indeed, he has begun to unnerve me, the more so since I discovered he has other qualities. It is commonplace for war to degrade a good man to the level of a brute, but unique in my experience for it to elevate one such as Ensign Burdokovskii.

Consequently, I would like to ask a favor of you, dear mother.

Enclosed with this letter I send a copy of the Buddhist scripture that so turned Teapot's mind. It is written in an archaic dialect of Barghu-Buryat. I have heard that Professor Sartorius of the Schule des Toten Sprachen in Berlin has some expertise in material of this nature, and I would deeply appreciate it if you could forward the document to him and commission a translation, at my expense! This is a matter that I am extremely reluctant to entrust to any of my political associates, for they scheme and plot incessantly, and I am sure there are many who believe that I dabble in the blackest sorcery; I would not like to place such incendiary ammunition in their hands. I implore you not to soil your precious eyes with the contents of this scroll, for it is illustrated with such vile and obscene diagrams that I would be tempted to burn it, were it not for the effect it seems to have on those who read it! But it is for that very reason that I urgently need to obtain the advice of a savant who might tell me what those who read the fragment become. And so, I commit it to your gentle hands.

Your loving son,

General Baron Ungern Von Sternberg

CLUB ZERO

I GET HOME AN HOUR AND A HALF LATE, BONE-TIRED, BAMBOOZLED, and bothered. I haven't had a good day at the office, all things considered: a confusing briefing on Russian OCCINT activities in Western Europe, an old acquaintance who doesn't recognize me anymore, the discovery that the Fuller Memorandum is missing, and now Panin's evident patronizing contempt for my lack of insight. I've got a feeling that all the pieces of the jigsaw are within my grasp, if only I could figure out where they lie--probably dragged under the sofa by an invisible cat, knowing my luck.

It's after eight as I turn my key in the lock, pass my left hand over the ward, and slope into the front hall. The lights are on in the kitchen, and there's a pleasant smell--Mo is roasting a chicken, I think. "Hello?" I call.

"Up here!" She's upstairs and she doesn't sound pissed off, which is a relief.

I dump my jacket and take the stairs two at a time. The bathroom door's open and she's stewing herself in the tub in an inordinate amount of green foam and some kind of mud mask, so that she looks a little like the creature from the black lagoon. "Did you get my text?" I ask.

"Yes. Who was the Addams Family reference about?"

I do a double take: "What--Oh shit." I shake my head. "Never mind." Obviously she can't read my mind, otherwise there'd have been an Artist Rifles' brick staking out the pub before I'd taken my first mouthful of beer. I'm losing my touch. "I'm screwing up," I admit.

"You're . . . ? Huh. Bet you I've had a more boring day."

"Boring, maybe; unproductive, hardly."

She snorts and blows a handful of bubbles my way. "I spent most of the morning and afternoon sitting on a wooden stool, watching a burned-out sixty-something expert mumble into a dictaphone. Then I had to run for a meeting. After that I looked in on the office but Mike wasn't there, so I came home. Picked up a free-range bird at Waitrose; it's in the oven now. I was hoping you might want to fix some side helpings?"

"I can do that." I glance at the bath. "You going to be long?"

"Half an hour at least. I put the chicken in before I came up here; you want to look in on it in fifteen minutes or so."

I'd rather spend my time here with her, but I can tell the difference between an order and a request: I sketch a salute. "By the way," I say, trying to sound casual about it, "I've been stuck with Angleton's work on BLOODY BARON, and I'm finding it a bit confusing. And nobody's sent me the briefing papers on the other job yet, the one--you know. Last week."

She's silent for almost a minute. Then she sighs. "There's a bottle of Bordeaux at the back of the cupboard under the plates and crockery. Open it and give it a while to breathe."

"Okay. Um, sorry." I back out of the bathroom, leaving her to try and rebuild the warm, scented bubble that I just burst.

I scrub and boil potatoes, then shove them in a roasting pan, check the chicken, chop some carrots, and have the vegetables just about ready when Mo comes downstairs in her bathrobe, hair in a towel. "Smells good," she remarks, then looks skeptically at my potatoes. "Hmm." She takes over; I get the plates out and pour two generous glasses of wine. It's later than I expected and I'm really rather hungry.

Food and wine settle stomach and soul; neither of us is a very sophisticated cook (although Mo is much more experimentally minded than I am), but we can eat what we prepare for ourselves, which is a good start, and after half an hour we've methodically demolished half a small roast chicken and a pan of roast vegetables, not to mention most of a bottle of wine. Mo looks content as I shove the plates in the dishwasher and sort out the recyclable bits. "You wanted to know what Thursday was about," she says, staring at what's left in her wineglass.

"I keep running into people who expect me to know." I go in search of another bottle to open. "It's not something I can ignore."

"How much of CLUB ZERO are you familiar with?"

"I'm not." I get the waiter's friend out and go to work on a pinot noir.

"Oh." She pauses. "I'm sorry, but--are you sure you don't know?"

"Don't know what?" I ask irritably as I scrape away the plastic seal on the bottle. "Are we in known unknowns territory, or unknown unknowns?"

"They're known okay." She shakes her head. "Fucking cultists."

"Cul--" I do a double take. "That's CLUB ZERO?"

She nods. "None other."

Cultists. They're like cockroaches. We humans are incredibly fine-tuned by evolution for the task of spotting coincidences and causal connections. It's a very useful talent that dates back to the bad old days on the savannah (when noticing that there were lion prints by the watering hole and then cousin Ugg went missing, and today there are more lion prints and nobody had gone missing yet, was the kind of thing that could save your skin). But once we developed advanced lion countermeasures like stone axes and language, it turned into our secret curse. Because, you see, when we spot coincidences we assume there's an intentional actor behind them--and that's how we create religions. Nature does weird stuff, so it must be governed by supernature. There's lightning in the clouds: Zeus must be throwing his thunderbolts again. Everyone's dying of plague except those weird folks with the strange god who wash every day: it must be evil sorcery. And so on.

Being predisposed to religion has its uses, but it's a real Achilles' heel if your civilization is under threat by vastly powerful alien horrors. We have a rich repertoire of primate behavior which includes the urge to suck up to the big bad alpha male, and a tendency to assume that any intelligence smarter or nastier than we are is the top of the pack hierarchy. Finally, we've got any number of dark religions out there. The followers of Kali or Mictecacihuatl or the various other faces of the lady of death. Certain splinter sects of millennialist Christianity who believe that the Revelation of St. John is black propaganda and that Satan will triumph. Strange heresies, by-blows of the Albigensians who trace their heritage back to secret cells who worshiped Ahriman in the palace basements of the Persian Empire. Other groups who are less familiar: syncretistic heresies spawned by bizarre collisions between seekers of hidden knowledge and followers of Tibetan demon princes. And, of course, bat-winged squid gods, although I find it hard to believe that anyone takes that seriously these days.

None of their specific beliefs matter. What matters is that if a cell or coven or parish or whatever get their hands on a genuine summoning ritual, the things at the other end of the occult courtesy phone aren't fussy about what they're called as long as the message is "chow time."

I take a deep breath. "What variety of cult was it this time?"

"The rich American expat kind." She takes a deep breath.

"American? But didn't the Black Chamber--"

"They didn't lift a finger." Her voice rises. "Instead, the Dustbin got a reluctant tip-off from the FBI that a bunch of nutty Jeezmoids from the every-sperm-is-sacred crowd were planning on making a big splash at the UN Population Fund summit in Den Haag last week. It's not terrorism in America this decade if they shoot doctors or firebomb family planning clinics, you know?"

I let her simmer for a minute while I pull the cork on the wine bottle and pour the last of the first bottle into her glass. "How did it get punted our way?"

"Chatter and crosstalk." She drains her glass and shoves it towards me. "These aren't your regular god-botherers, they've got form." (A history of criminal activity, in other words.) "The Dustbin and the Donut are both keeping tabs on them. They tipped off the Dutch AIVD, which is good, but then they forgot to include us in the loop, which was anything but good. What finally pulled us in was when the AIVD Watch Team who were keeping an eye on the hundred kilograms of sodium chlorate and the primer cords they'd stockpiled noticed the church supplies catalog and the white goats. The Free Church of the Universal Kingdom--"

"The Free Church of the what?"

Mo takes a big mouthful of wine. "The Free Church of the Universal Kingdom. Officially they're pre-millennial dispensationalists with a couple of extra twists, subtype: utterly barking and conflicted; oh hell. According to their party line Jesus was just there to set a good example, and we all have the ability to save ourselves. Who will be saved is predestined from the beginning of time, it's their job to bring the Church militant to everybody on the planet by fire and the sword, and, er, it gets complicated real fast, in ever diminishing epicycles of crazy. I swear, the doctrinal differences between some of these schismatic churches are fractal . . . Anyway, the key insight you need to bear in mind is, they're anti-birth control. Very anti-birth control, with overtones of accelerating the Second Coming by bringing more souls to Earth until Jesus can't ignore their suffering anymore--is this ringing any bells yet?"

"You're telling me they're CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN groupies?"

Mo nods vigorously. "They're mesmerized. What they believe doesn't make sense in terms of traditional Christian theology, never mind real-world logic. That's because the outer church is just a cover for something even weirder. The members we were monitoring were laboring under a really horrid glamour, level four or higher--I'm not sure."

I shudder. I knew someone with a level three glamour about her once. Men would die for a chance to bed her if she crooked her little finger at them--often literally. The theological equivalent . . . I don't want to think about it. "So. Amsterdam, then . . . ?" I prompt her.

"Four of them were already there. Another three flew in the week before; that's why the full-dress incident watch was started. AIVD thought it was preparation for an abortion clinic bombing campaign at first. But then the pastor bought a couple of white goats and the penny dropped and they threw it at Franz and his friends, who asked us to chip in."

"Goats--"

"Goats, sacrificial, summoning, for the purpose of. The Watch Team were so busy keeping an eye on the explosives stockpile that nobody noticed the metalworking tools and the crucifixes, or the fact that they'd rented a deconsecrated Lutheran chapel three months earlier and invited their bishop over for a flying visit. It was only last Tuesday that they put two and two together and realized what was really going on. That's when they called me in."

She looks bleak and alone, clutching her wineglass as if it's the sole source of warmth in the world.

"The bomb was a decoy. Turns out there were two cells working, one of whom--outer church--didn't know they were set up as a cover story. The other cell, the ones with the goat and the summoning grid in the crypt of the chapel, they were the real operators, initiates of the true faith. They were all set to open a gate to a, a--" She swallows. I sit down next to her and take her free hand in mine. "I hate those things," she says plaintively.

"It wasn't just goats, was it?" I probe. "The goats were the setup for something else."

"The chapel was right next to a nursery school," she says, and falls silent.

Ick is about all I can say to that, so I keep my mouth shut and squeeze her hand gently until she feels like continuing.

"We'd picked up a squad of UIM specialists and a police anti-terrorism group who prepared to seal off the area. Trouble is, it was mid-afternoon and the neighborhood was busy; the last thing you want to do is to run an anti-terrorism exercise next door to a nursery school when the parents are coming to pick their kids up. It's a target-rich zone and it draws journalists like flies to a sewage farm. So we were going to hold off until evening. But then the OCCULUS command truck monitors lost the sound from the bugs, and I began to pick up probability disturbances in the vicinity of the chapel, and it looked too risky to hold off. The troops went in, and I followed them. It was unpleasant."

"What did they . . . ?"

"They'd built a summoning grid in the altar. And they'd set up a greater circuit, with a geodesic pointing straight at the . . . the nursery school over the road." She dry swallows again. "They started with the goats as a warm-up exercise. But there was a homeless woman, and they'd used her as, as--" Mo gulps, then wipes her lips. "Intestines. Ropes and hanks and skeins of--a greater circuit made of human guts, still joined to the sacrifice." She's not swallowing: she's trying not to throw up.

"Stop." I try to let go of her hand. "You don't need to go on."

"I need to." She clenches her fist around my fingers and stares at me. "They'd crucified her, you know? The microphones picked up their prayers earlier: I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me--they meant it literally. I don't know why we didn't hear the screams, I think they might have sedated her first. I hope they, they did that." That's a forlorn hope; pain is a power source in its own right. But I don't remind her of this. She's shaking now: "The gate was open, Bob. I had to go through."

My Joan of Arc. I rescued Mo, once, years ago; it's ironic, a real giggle, that she turns out to be stronger and tougher than I am. Would you dive through a steaming intestinal gate into a soul-sucking void, armed only with a violin flensed from the bones of screaming sacrifices? She did. And she kept a lid on it afterwards, a stiff upper lip, while I was shuddering and stressed over what was basically an industrial accident. It's a good thing to put your problems in perspective from time to time, but right now I'd rather not, because I'm doing the comparison right now and I find I'm coming up so short I'm ashamed of myself.

"The things in the cultists' bodies had already eaten the blonde teacher's face and most of her left leg," Mo tells me earnestly, "but the Somali boy-child was still screaming, so I had to go after him."

I feel my gorge rising: "Too much." I splash wine into my empty glass and take a too-hasty swig. "Jesus, Mo--"

Jesus was evidently the wrong word; she stands and manages to make it as far as the doorway, en route to the bathroom, before she doubles over and sprays the wine-soaked remains of her dinner on the floor.

I make it to the sink and pull the plastic bowl and the cleaning supplies out, then fetch her a glass of tap water. "Rinse and spit," I say, holding the bowl under her mouth.

"Fucking gods, Bob--"

"Bed. Now."

"We killed the bad things, but, but the little girl with the pigtails, I managed to carry her head back but it was too late--"

She's crying now, and it's all coming out, all the ugly details in a torrent like a vomiting storm sewer unloading a decade of pain and bloody shit and piss, and I carry her up the stairs as best I can and tuck her under the duvet. And she's still crying, although the racking sobs are coming further apart. "Sleep and remember," I tell her, touching her forehead: "Remember it's all over." I pull my ward over my head and hang it round her neck. "Repeat command light paramnesia level two, eight hours REM, master override, endit." Then I touch her forehead again. "It's over, Mo, you can let go of it now."

As I go downstairs to clean up, I hear her beginning to snore.

MOPPING UP VOMIT AND CONSIGNING THE WRECKAGE OF DINNER to the recycling bin and the dishwasher keeps me distracted for ten minutes, but unfortunately not distracted enough to avoid looping through everything Mo said in my mind's eye. I can't help it. I've been through some bad shit myself, similar stuff. I've been through situations where you just keep going, keep pushing through, because if you stop you'll never start again: but for all that, this one was particularly horrifying.

I think it's the civilian involvement that does it; I'm more or less able to look after myself, and so is Mo, but a primary school . . . I don't want to think about that, but I can't stop, because this is where we're all going, when the walls of reality come tumbling down and the dead gods begin to stir in their crypts. It's put me in a theological frame of mind, and I hate that.

Let me try to explain . . .

I generally try to avoid funerals: they make me angry. I know the purpose of a funeral is to provide comfort and a sense of closure for the bereaved; and I agree, in principle, that this is generally a good thing. But the default package usually comes with a priest, and when they start driveling on about how Uncle Fred (who died aged sixty-two of a hideous brain tumor) is safe in the ever-loving arms of Jesus, the effect it has on me is not to make me love my creator: it's to wish I could punch him in the face repeatedly.

I'm a child of the enlightenment; I was raised thinking that moral and ethical standards are universals that apply equally to everyone. And these values aren't easily compatible with the kind of religion that posits a Creator. To my way of thinking, an omnipotent being who sets up a universe in which thinking beings proliferate, grow old, and die (usually in agony, alone, and in fear) is a cosmic sadist. Consequently, I'd much rather dismiss theology and religious belief as superstitious rubbish. My idea of a comforting belief system is your default English atheism . . . except that I know too much.

See, we did evolve more or less randomly. And the little corner of the universe we live in is 13.73 billion years old, not 5,000 years old. And there's no omnipotent, omniscient, invisible sky daddy in the frame for the problem of pain. So far so good: I live free in an uncaring cosmos, rather than trapped in a clockwork orrery constructed by a cosmic sadist.

Unfortunately, the truth doesn't end there. The things we sometimes refer to as elder gods are alien intelligences, which evolved on their own terms, unimaginably far away and long ago, in zones of spacetime which aren't normally connected to our own, where the rules are different. But that doesn't mean they can't reach out and touch us. As the man put it: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Any sufficiently advanced alien intelligence is indistinguishable from God--the angry monotheistic sadist subtype. And the elder ones . . . aren't friendly.

(See? I told you I'd rather be an atheist!)

I push the button on the dishwasher, straighten up, and glance at the kitchen clock. It's pushing ten thirty, but I'm wide awake and full of bleak existential rage. I don't want to go to bed; I might disturb Mo, and she really needs her sleep right now. So I tiptoe upstairs to check on her, use the bathroom, then retreat downstairs again. But that leaves me with a choice between sitting in a kitchen that smells of bleach and a living room that smells of sour fear-memories. I can't face the inanities of television or the solace of a book. I feel restless. So I clip on my holster, pull on my jacket, and go outside for a walk.

It may be summer but it's already dark and the streetlights are on. I walk down the leafy pavement, between the neatly trimmed front hedges and the sleeping cars parked nose to tail. The lichen-stained walls and battered wheelie bins are stained by the stale orange twilight reflected from the clouds. Traffic rumbles in the distance, pulsing with the freight of the unsleeping city. Here and there I see front windows illuminated from within by the shadow puppet play of televisual hallucinations. I turn a corner, walk downhill under the old railway bridge, then left past a closed back street garage. Cats slink through the moonless twilight with nervous stealth; the smell of night-blooming pollen meshes with the gritty taste of diesel particulates at the back of my throat. I walk through the night, wrapped in my anger, and as I walk I think:

Angleton is missing. Why? And where? He doesn't live anywhere, according to Human Resources; doesn't have a life. Well, that's not much of a surprise. Angleton's grasp on mundane humanity has always struck me as tenuous--the idea that there's a four-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a village in the countryside, and a Mrs. Angleton puttering around hanging out the laundry on a line in the back garden, simply doesn't work for me. He goes beyond the usual monasticism of the man who married his job; he never takes holidays, he's always in the office, and then there's the photograph. (Maybe he inherited it from Dorian Gray?) So, let this be Clue #1 that something is wrong. Angleton never does anything by accident, so either something is rotten in the state of Denmark, or he's embarked on a caper he didn't see fit to tell anyone about.

I turn right, across a main road--quiet at this time of night--then along and left down an alleyway that leads between rows of high back-garden fences. Grass grows beneath the crumbling, silvery woodwork and around the wheelie bins; here's a concrete yard where someone has parked a decaying caravan, its windows frosted dark in the urban twilight.

The Fuller Memorandum is missing. Whatever is in it is still a hot potato after seventy-odd years. Angleton was interested in it, and in BLOODY BARON, and in this new business about CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN coming into effect sooner rather than later.

Item: Why are the Russians sniffing around? And what did Panin mean about finding the Teapot? He can't be talking about Ungern Sternberg's psychotic batman, can he? I did some checking. Teapot was fragged by Ungern Sternberg's own rebellious troops in 1921, right before they handed the Baron over to Trotsky's commissars. At least, the mutineers said they shot him. If he'd run away into the Siberian forest, alone, might they have concocted some cock-and-bull cover story . . . ?

I make a right turn into a narrow path. It leads to a tranquil bicycle track, walled in beech and chestnut trees growing from the steep embankments to either side and sporadically illuminated by isolated lampposts. It used to be a railway line, decades ago, one of the many suburban services closed during the Beeching cuts--but it wasn't a commuter line. (I stumbled across it not long after we moved to this part of town, and it caught my attention enough to warrant some digging.)

The Necropolis Service ran from behind Waterloo station to the huge Brookwood cemetery in Surrey; tickets were sold in two classes, one-way and return. This is one of its tributaries, a tranquil creek feeding the great river of the dead. Today, cyclists use it to bypass the busy main roads on their way into the center. It is, however, unaccountably unpopular with the after-work exercise set, and I have the left lane to myself as I walk, still chewing over what I know and what I don't know.

CLUB ZERO and Mo. Who sent Uncle Fester? I see three alternatives: Panin and his friends, the cultists she was sent to shut down, or some third party. Taking it from the top: Panin is a professional, and can be expected to usually play by the rules. Sending a zombie to doorstep an officer in a foreign nation's service at home just isn't done; it's not businesslike, and besides, once you start sending assassins to bump off the oppo, you've got no guarantee that their assassins aren't going to outperform yours. The reason great powers don't usually engage in wars of assassination is that it levels the playing field. On the other hand, cultists like the perps behind CLUB ZERO are far more likely to do that sort of thing. Assassination and terrorism are Siamese twins: tools for outsiders and pressure groups. So my money is on Uncle Fester being an emissary from the cultists the AIVD called Mo in to neutralize . . . unless there's a third faction in play, a prospect I find far too scary to contemplate.

The cycle path narrows, and descends deeper into its cutting. The lights are more widely spaced here, and a number of them are out. Hearing a rustling scampering sound behind me, I glance round as something flickers in the bushes between lights--dog-like, with a great bush of a tail. An urban fox? Maybe: I didn't see the ears or muzzle, though. Urban foxes aren't a problem (unless you're a cat), but feral dogs might be another matter. I keep walking in the twilight. London is warm and humid in summer, but down here it's almost clammy-cold, and there's a faint whiff of something like a sewer, sweet and slightly rotten. I break into a slow jog, aiming to outrun the stench.

I have a growing, edgy feeling that I've missed something critically important. I've been plowing along, in harness and under stress, assuming that the crises I'm trying to deal with are all independent. But what if they aren't? I ask myself. What if Angleton's disappearance is connected to Panin's search for the Teapot, what if the Fuller Memorandum holds an explanation, what if the cultists know that we stand closer to the threshold of the End Times than we realize and are trying to topple the balance, or perhaps to steal--

There's a crack of dead branches under the trees behind me. Panting inhuman breath punctuates the thudding of a four-footed pursuit. The orange sodium glare leaches away around me, giving way to a different shade of darkness. Trees loom overhead, clutching at each other with wizened arms as bony as concentration camp victims'. A thin mist at foot level obscures the tarmac path and my stomach lurches. I'm not running through suburban London anymore; I'm running along the ghostly track bed of the Necropolitan line, and the hounds of hell are on my trail, and I left my protective ward with Mo, and I am a fucking imbecile. Shit, shit, shit.

Whatever the thing behind me is, it's only seconds away. My heart's already thudding uncomfortably from jogging an hour after dinner--fucking stupid of me--but while I'm ninety percent sure that I'm being tracked by something that's about as bad as the proverbial hellhound, in which case I really ought to simply plug it with my pistol and ask questions later, I've got an even nastier feeling that it's tracking me for someone, or worse, herding me along.

I have: a gun, a Hand of Glory, and a JesusPhone. So of course I draw my phone and flip the case open, thumb-swipe to unlock, and spin round, raising the camera to focus as I tap the grinning skull icon.

There's method in my madness and my pursuer isn't mindless--I get a glimpse of flying haunches and bushy tail as it leaps off the path and into the trees with a startled "yip!"

The screen flashes a red-rimmed maw gaping at me and my hair stands on end as the phone and my fingertips are engulfed in pale blue fire. Balefire , it used to be called. I hastily go back to the main screen and stab another app: a diagnostic. Seeing what it says, I swear quietly and pull up another one that sets a spinning wireframe projection of a 5D Tesseract on the screen as it does its valiant best to set up a ward around me. The dog-thing is hiding and the tendrils of mist draw away from my feet, so I shove the phone in my pocket--still running--and draw my pistol. Then I turn back to the way I was going.

The emulator running on the phone's a poor substitute for a real ward, and it's only going to keep it up for as long as its battery can keep its tiny electronic brain running at full power, but armed and warded is the first step to survival and now I see the peril I'm in with an icy clarity. The second app I looked at was the thaumometer, and I should have kept an eye on it earlier, as I walked--it's almost off the chart. And all because I'm walking the Necropolitan line. If you wanted to set up a ley line, what better source of power could you hope for than the accumulated grief and sorrow of millions of mourners, to say nothing of the decaying lives of the corpses that traveled it? I should have seen it coming--but I usually only use this cycle path as a shortcut to and from the tube station, in daylight.

I'm pretty sure I'm being trailed by cultists. When I left home I was angry in the abstract but now I am really fucked off. These are the bastards who murdered a bunch of nursery school tots and their teachers, put Mo through the horrors--and they're trying for me now. The only question is, are they chasing me or herding me?

I keep going, slowing my jog to a brisk walk, scanning ahead as I move. I hold my gun at the ready with both hands, close to my chest, relying on the invisibility ward to make it look as if I'm just clutching my right wrist with my left hand. The mist at ground level coils and curdles around a pair of translucent parallel rails the color of old bones, resting on a bed of ethereal track sleepers. The trees writhe and knot overhead, clutching at each other, imploring and beseeching. In the distance I hear odd noises--the ghost of sobbing, deep voices intoning something, words I can't quite make out.

I'm sure it's all very eerie, but when reality starts to imitate a second-rate computer game you know the bad guys have over-egged the pudding. Some fuckhead is hitting me with a glamour in hope of spooking me. It's the sort of tactic that might stand a chance of working if I was a little less cynical, or if they had enough imagination to make it, oh, you know, horrifying , or something. Luckily for me they don't seem to have grasped the difference between a Sam Raimi movie and standing by your dad's hospital bed trying to work up the nerve to switch off the ventilator. So I find the fact that they're sending me woo-woo noises and mist perversely encouraging.

(I'm having second thoughts about the cultist thing, though. The probability of running into two different cells of the fuckers in the same month is vanishingly slim; and if this nonsense is a message from the same group that tried to landscape downtown Amsterdam last week, they've definitely sent the B-Team.)

I up my pace again, and just then I hear a scraping noise from the embankment to my left and every hair on my neck stands on end simultaneously.

I swing round, extending my arms in front of my face and sliding my index finger through the trigger guard as this thing clatters and scrambles down the side of the cutting in a mad dash towards me, a growl of hatred and hunger sounding an organ note deep in its chest, and I have time to think, I hate fucking dogs, just as it launches itself towards me.

I squeeze the trigger twice, aiming below where my eyes are focused on it--I can't look away; I get a flash of bared fangs and slavering tongue, eyeless and horrid and taller than any dog I've ever imagined--and there's a sound like a palm slapping a lump of wet meat as the gun kicks silently in my hand. I jump sideways as it slams into the track sleepers where I was standing a moment ago, howling a scream of agony and snapping those huge jaws at its own shoulder.

It's not a dog. Dogs aren't as black as a hole in space, and their musculature and articulation follow mammalian norms--this thing bends wrong as it bites and flails around, and I have an inkling of a memory that tells me I should be very afraid right now. But I'm not. I started out pissed off and I am now toweringly angry. Which is why I walk behind the flailing body, lower my aim towards the back of its skull, and call: "Show yourself right now, or the doggie gets it!"

There's a low chuckle. "Give us the Teapot and we will let you live, mortal."

Mortal? Yes, it's the B-Team all right; probably in robes with upside-down crucifixes or something. They're the occult equivalent of the kind of suicide bombers who post their confession videos on YouTube two weeks before they learn the hard way that trying to blow themselves up with chapatti flour isn't going to do anything except give the police an excuse to pat themselves on the back and reassure the public that Everything Is Under Control. "Come out where I can see you," I demand.

The hound-thing on the ground whines in agony. It's getting on my nerves, cutting through the barricade of my determination--then I notice out of the corner of one eye that the shoulder I blew a fist-sized chunk out of is writhing and foaming, dark tubules questing inwards from the ripped and shredded edges. Shit. If this is what I think it is, then by summoning it the B-Team have bitten off more than they can chew--and so have I. "You've got five seconds," I add. "It won't die, but it's going to be real pissed off. And I reckon it's fifty-fifty whether it blames me or blames you."

"Do you truly believe you can shoot one of the Hounds with impunity, mortal?"

I've got a bearing on Windbag now. Your typical B-Team idiot is either a religious fanatic who's grown up listening to preacher-men ranting and foaming in seventeenth-century English, or they're a wannabe who's seen too many horror flicks. I'm betting on the second kind here. I take a step back--accidental contact with this particular species of doggie is about as safe as licking the third rail on the Underground--then quickly slip my left hand into my pocket and mutter the command word to ignite the Hand of Glory as I pull it out of my pocket.

Of course the HOG lights off promptly, but its little pinky is tangled in my pocket lining and comes free with a foul gust of scorched linen--something else to hold against the gloating ratfucker. I take a long step sideways, then another, holding the wrinkled hand at arm's length out to one side. The Glock is a numbing drag on my opposite arm: nothing like as bad as a Browning, but I can't keep this up forever.

A second voice chirps up from behind the thrashing Hound, about where I was standing five seconds ago: "Hey, where'd he go?"

(He sounds . . . dim. Let's call him Minion #1.)

"Fuck!" That's Windbag. He sounds pissed off. "We're going to lose him! All-Highest will be displeased!"

"I've got the path." A third voice, female and coldly controlled. Maybe she's an A-Team player assigned to ride herd on the clown car. (She can be Minion #2 until proven competent.) "You walk the--"

No plan survives contact with the enemy--especially when the enemy is invisible, within earshot and taking notes--but even more importantly, no cultist survives physical contact with one of the Hounds. The doggie of doom flails one paw against the ground and its back arches as it goes into the seizure I've been expecting ever since I plugged it with a banishment round. Which is bad luck for Minion #1, who is in the path of one viciously barbed paw. He gives a brief gurgling scream, but is already dead by the time the sound reaches me: it's just air venting from the corpse's lungs and reverberating through its larynx on the way out. Every muscle in his body contracts simultaneously with a strange popping sound as his joints dislocate and ligaments tear, in a spasmodic breakdance that ends in a pile beside the Hound.

I don't wait to see what they do next--I scramble up the dry soil embankment, moving diagonally between tree trunks.

"We're going to lose him!" Minion #2 calls in a high, bell-ringing voice. "Fallback plan!" Okay, she's promoted to Mistress. I think for a moment that she's telling Windbag to withdraw, but then I hear the second truly spine-chilling noise of the evening, the unmistakable sound of someone racking the slide on a pump-action shotgun.

I throw myself flat against the side of the embankment and roll over on my back, still clutching the Hand of Glory and my pistol as the two robed figures on the path raise their weapons and pour fire past each other, sweeping up and down the bike path. They set up a reverberating roar that jars the teeth in my head: they're not aiming, they're simply spraying clouds of buckshot at waist level. I'm about two meters up the embankment above them, and twenty meters away. Holding my breath, I glance at the HOG in my left hand. The fingertips are burning steadily--I have perhaps three or four minutes of invisibility. Odds of two to one, shotguns against silenced pistol, at twenty meters? Not good. I could probably take them--probably, but I'd have to put the Hand of Glory down, and if I didn't get them both with my first two shots I'd be giving the survivor a muzzle flash to aim for. With a shotgun, let's not forget.

Fucking B-Team cultists. If this was the A-Team, they'd summon something exotic and deadly to set on my ass--something I'd have a chance of banishing. But the B-Team were at the back of the queue the day All-Highest was handing out death spells, so they just blaze away with shotguns.

Ten rounds later--it feels like having my head slammed in a doorway ten times in a row--they lower their guns. "He's legged it," says Windbag.

"Right. We're leaving." Mistress's voice is so chilly you could rent it out as an air conditioner. "Philip is dead. This will not be received well by All-Highest. Let me do the talking, if you value your life."

"But can't we--" Windbag whines.

I don't hear what he says next, though, because Mistress says something in a voice that distorts weirdly as she speaks: and then a hole in the air opens and closes, and they're not there anymore. Neither is the Hound. It's gone, taking the corpse of Minion #1 back to wherever it is that the Hounds come from. The glamour is gone, too: below me, the cycle path is restored--just another rustic suburban alleyway, lit by the streetlight glare from the nighttime clouds overhead.

I shudder uncontrollably for a minute. Then I carefully extinguish the fingers of the HOG, holster my pistol, stumble back down the embankment to the footpath, and dust myself off.

They weren't after Mo: they were after me. They knew how to find me and they wanted to know about the Teapot. Once is happenstance, but twice is enemy action, which means it's time to go to work.

NIGHT SHIFT

WALKING TO THE OFFICE ISN'T SOMETHING I'D NORMALLY DO, because it takes about three hours, but I am feeling inconveniently surveilled and I don't like the idea of the MAGINOT BLUE STARS network being able to track me. So I follow the footpath for another half kilometer before reigniting the Hand of Glory and dashing back almost all the way I've come, then exiting onto a side street. I take two corners and jump a fence into somebody's backyard before I extinguish the HOG again, then walk out casually with my shoulders back and my chin up.

A bus ride in an irrelevant direction takes me ten minutes farther away from the office--then it's into a back alley and time to reignite the HOG for a brisk kilometer. Finally I snuff it out and catch a different bus that passes close enough to the New Annexe that I can walk from the stop.

I march up to the darkened C&A staff entrance and key my number, then swipe my pass card. The door clicks, and I step inside. It's totally black, and in the gloom I can hear the restless shuffling of one of the night staff. I pull out my warrant card hastily, lest I be eaten by a grue: arguing with the night watchmen is singularly futile unless you do it with a chain saw or a baseball bat.

"Brrrrr--"

"Get me a torch," I snap. The warrant card is all very well--it sheds a faint, nacreous glow--but the backlight invocation has unpleasant side effects if you crank up the lumens too high. (Why is it that all the movies make it look as if wizards find invoking light easy? Tenuous glows and balefire are all very well, but there's a reason we use fluorescent tubes around here.)

"--rains?" he asks plaintively.

A torch flicks on and I see the wizened face of its holder. "Here, give me that." I take the torch, being careful to hold the warrant card between me and the doorman. I think he might be Fred from Accounting, but if so, he's definitely a bit the worse for wear these days; it's several years since he died, and not everyone around here gets the deluxe Jeremy Bentham treatment. Mostly HR just arrange for one of us to stick them in a summoning grid and bind one of the eaters in the night to service (weak, minimally sentient efflorescences of alien will, that can animate a corpse and control it just about enough to push a broom, or scare the living daylights out of unwanted nighttime visitors). I gather it saves on funeral expenses. "Stay here and forget I came this way. That's an order."

I climb the stairs, leaving the residual human resource behind to eat any unwitting B-Team cultists who were stupid enough to tail me. It's past midnight and they make regular inspection rounds, so I keep my card out and hope like hell the battery in this plastic piece of shit lasts until I make it to my office. I keep a proper torch there, a Maglite that'll work properly when it's time to go visit Angleton's lair and turf those files from top to bottom. Luckily the plastic piece of shit holds out and I let myself in, flick on the light, shut the door, and flop down behind my desk with a sigh of relief.

"Took your time getting here, didn't you, boy?"

In the time it takes me to peel myself off the ceiling and return my pistol to its holster, Angleton takes up residence in my visitor's chair, folding his ungainly limbs around himself like a spindly black spider. The skeletal, humorless grin tells me I'm in trouble even before I open my mouth.

"I've waited here for three consecutive nights. What delayed you?"

I close my mouth. Then I open it and close it again a couple of times, just for practice. Finally, when I trust myself to speak, I say one word: "Cultists."

"Three days, boy. Suppose you tell me what you've learned?"

"One moment." My paranoia is growing. I take out my phone and peer at him through its camera. TRUESEER tells me that I am, indeed, looking at my boss, who is looking increasingly irritated. I make the shiny vanish. "Okay. From the top: the Fuller Memorandum is missing, the Russians have gotten all upset, cultists are throwing their toys out of the pram, and everyone wants to know about the Teapot. Oh, and someone in Research and Development says that CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN isn't going to wait a couple of years, but is due to kick off in a few weeks or months at the most. What am I missing?"

Angleton stares at me coldly. "You're missing the spy, boy."

"The"--I nearly swallow my tongue--"spy?"

"Yes: Helen Langhorn. Aged seventy-four, widow of Flight Lieutenant Adrian Langhorn, long-term resident of Cosford, working part-time at the museum as a volunteer. Met her husband while she was in the WRAAF back in 1963. Which is a pretty interesting occupation for her to have been in, considering that she was also a captain in the Russian Army and a GRU Illegal who was inserted into the UK in 1959, when she was barely out of her teens."

I make an inarticulate gurgling noise. "But she--the hangar--she wasn't--she can't have--"

Angleton waits for me to wind down. "The many-angled ones are not the only enemy this country has ever faced, boy. Some of us remember." (It's okay for him to say that--I was about ten when the cold war ended!)

"Helen Langhorn's primary assignment did not come to an end just because the Soviet Union collapsed. To outward appearances her utility had been in decline for many years, after her husband failed to achieve advancement, costing her access to people and bases; once she hit sixty with no long-term prospects they wrote her off. That is one of the risks one runs with long-term Illegals--their entire life may be marginalized by one or two unfortunate and unpredictable errors. There are probably fifty others like her in the UK--retired bank managers and failed politicians' wives pruning their privet hedges and daydreaming of the revolution that failed them. Or perhaps they accept it gladly, happy to no longer be a pawn on the chessboard. But in any case, Helen's career appears to have undergone a brief second flowering in the last few years."

"But she"--I flap my jaws inarticulately--"she was halfway to dementia!"

"Was she?" Angleton raises a skeptical eyebrow. "She was on the front desk of a museum gallery barely two hundred meters from Hangar 12B, where Airframe 004 is being cannibalized for spare parts to keep the other three white elephants airworthy. You may think that no more than a coincidence, but I don't."

"You never told me what that stuff about the white elephants was about--"

"I expected you to find out for yourself, boy." Then Angleton does something I absolutely never expected to see: he sighs unhappily.

"Boss?"

Angleton leans back in his chair. "Tell me about Chevaline," he asks.

"Chevaline?" I frown. "Wasn't that some sort of nuclear missile program from the sixties or seventies, something like that?"

"Chevaline." He pauses. "Back in the 1960s, when Harold Wilson cut a deal with Richard Nixon to buy Polaris missiles for the Royal Navy, the tacit assumption was that a British nuclear deterrent need merely be sufficient to pound on Moscow until the rubble bounced. During the 1970s, the Soviets began to construct an anti-ballistic-missile shield around Moscow. It was crude by modern standards: anti-missile rockets with nuclear warheads--but it would have rendered the British Polaris force obsolete. So during the 1970s, a succession of Conservative and Labour governments pushed through a warhead upgrade scheme that replaced the original MRV warheads with far more sophisticated MIRV buses, equipped with decoys and able to engage two targets rather than one. The project was called Chevaline; it cost a billion pounds back in the day--when a billion pounds was real money--and they didn't even tell the Cabinet."

"A billion pounds? With no oversight?" I blink rapidly. We're subject to spot audits on office stationery, all the way down to paper clips.

"Yes." Angleton smiles sepulchrally. "We helped ensure security, so that it was relatively easy for them to spend an extra two hundred million pounds in 1977 to keep the Concorde production lines at Filton and Bristol open for long enough to produce four extra airframes for the RAF," Angleton says blandly. "The Plumbers ensured that nobody remembered a thing afterwards."

"RAF 666 Squadron fly Concordes?"

"Flew them," Angleton corrects me. "The long-range occult reconnaissance model, not the nuclear-armed model the RAF originally asked for in 1968. You may not be aware of this, but Prototype 002 was built with attachment points for a bomb bay before the project was abandoned; Bomber Command wanted to replace V-force with a fleet of supersonic bombers that could carry Blue Steel nuclear stand-off bombs to Moscow, but the Navy won the toss. Instead, the RAF got the recon version, with supercargo space for the six demonologists and the optics bench to open the gate they needed to fly through."

My jaw is beginning to ache from all the speechless opening-and-closing cycles. "You're shitting me."

Angleton shakes his head. "The Squadron was based in Filton and Heathrow, flying in British Airways livery--the aircraft movements were described as charter flights, and they wore the hull numbers of BA airframes that were currently undergoing maintenance. They flew one mission a week, departing west over the Atlantic. They refueled from a VC-10 tanker, then the supercargo would open a gate and they'd make a high-speed run across the dead plateau before reopening the gate home and landing at Filton for decontamination and exorcism. It's all in CODICIL BLACK SKULL. Which you are cleared to read, incidentally."

I shake myself and take a deep breath. "Let me get this straight. You're telling me that the RAF has a squadron of black Concordes which they currently keep in a hangar at RAF Cosford? Helen Langhorn was a former Soviet spy who, by a happy accident--for her employers--was in a position to poke around them? Which she did, with results that . . ." I shudder, remembering again: a purple flash, face shrinking and crumpling in on itself around the harsh lines of her skull. "And now the Thirteenth Directorate are sniffing round?"

"Very good! We'll make a professional paranoid out of you one of these days." Angleton nods, grudging approval.

"Concorde." I do a double take. "But they've been retired, right?"

"That put a crimp on the cover story, certainly. These days they fly only at night, described as American B-1Bs if anyone asks. A big bomber with four engines and afterburners is a much flimsier cover, and the plane spotters and conspiracy theorists keep the Plumbers busy, but we cannot neglect the watch on the dead plateau. If the thing in the pyramid should stir--" He makes an abrupt cutting gesture with the edge of one hand.

"Dead plateau? Thing in the pyramid?" I've got no idea what he's referring to, but it sounds ominous.

"You've been through a gate to elsewhere." I remember a world in the grip of fimbulwinter, where the rivers of liquid air ran down through valleys of ice beneath a moon carved with the likeness of Hitler's face. "There are other, more permanent, elsewheres. Some of them we must monitor continuously. That world . . . pray you never see it, boy, and pray that the sleeping god in the pyramid never awakens."

I tilt my head from side to side, trying to spill the invisible goop that's clogging up my mind. Thinking in here is difficult, as if the air, hazy with the congealed fumes of state secrets, is impeding my ability to reason--

"Boss. Why are you here? Everyone thinks you've gone missing, AWOL with no forwarding address."

Angleton grins skeletally. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

My eyes are feeling hot and gritty from too much stress and too little sleep, but I manage to roll them anyway. "Big problem: you just tipped me off. Can you give me a reason not to out you to the BLOODY BARON team--other than 'because I said so'?"

"Of course." He looks increasingly, alarmingly, amused. What have I gotten myself into this time? "You'll keep it to yourself because while the cat's away the mice may play, and one of this particular bunch of mice appears to be a security leak, and I'm setting a trap for them. You're the bait, by the way."

"I'm the--"

"And to sex you up so they come after you, I've got a little job for you to do."

"Right, that's it, I'm through with--"

"Assuming you want to nail the scum responsible for the CLUB ZERO incident in Amsterdam."

"--fucking cultists--really?"

"Yes, Bob." He has the good grace not to look too smug. "Now shut up and listen, there's a good boy."

He deposits a slim memo on my desk, then places a small plastic baggie on top of it. I squint at it: it's empty except for a paper clip.

"Here's what I want you to do . . ."

CLASSIFIED: TEAPOT BARON TYBURN

FROM: Fuller, Laundry

TO: 17F, Naval Intelligence Division

Dear Ian,

Hope all's well (and my best regards to your mother, long may she keep her nose out of operational matters).

You enquired about Teapot.

Subsequent to the death of Burdokovskii in 1921, Q Division determined that the preta referenced in the Sternberg Fragment had returned to the six paths, and if it could be recalled and bound into a suitable host it might be compelled to the service of the state. Given the magnitude of the powers possessed by this particular entity, this was considered a desirable objective; however, its reincarnation required that we provide the hungry ghost with a new host. Obviously, this presented them with a headache; so some bright spark finally came up with the idea of asking the Home Office. A request was accordingly submitted in 1923.

Due to the 1924 election and subsequent upheavals and crises, the request was not actually considered at ministerial level until 1928, in which year the Prime Minister and Home Secretary agreed, not without considerable argument, to sanction the use of the ritual as an alternative method of capital punishment on one occasion only. I am not at liberty to disclose the identity of the murderer in question--he has in any case paid the ultimate price--but after his hanging was announced, he was relocated to a secret location. No less a surgeon than Mr. Gillies, working under an oath of strict secrecy, was employed to remodel the features of the sacrificial vessel lest any former acquaintance recognize him. Then the Hungry Ghost Ritual was performed, in a ceremony so harrowing that I would not relish being called upon to perform it again.

I shall not burden you with the tiresome sequence of obstacles that fate threw before us after we summoned the Teapot. Teaching it to speak, and to walk, and to make use of a human body once more was tedious in the extreme; for example we had to straitjacket and gag it for the first six months, lest it eat its fingers and lips. For almost a year it seemed likely that we had made a horrible mistake, and had merely driven a condemned murderer into the arms of insanity. However, in early 1930 Teapot began to communicate, and then to retrieve portions of the deceased memories--speaking in Russian as well as English, a language with which the vessel was unfamiliar. Shortly thereafter, it began also to evince a marked skill in the more esoteric areas of mathematics, and to show signs of the monstrous, cold intellect that so disturbed Baron Von Ungern Sternberg.

When the Teapot committee received permission to reincarnate the preta it was immediately realized that we would need to bind it to our service. Ungern Sternberg was able to placate it with a steady supply of victims, but His Majesty's Government in time of peace was not so well placed. (If we had received the go-ahead to deal with the Socialists, things would have been different; but it's no use crying over spilt milk.) Consequently, from 1928 to 1930 we worked tirelessly on a new model geas or binding--one that can restrain not only a human soul, but an eater of same. I shall spare you the grisly details, but in April 1930 we performed the binding rite for the first time, and Teapot was demonstrated to be under our full authority. It did not submit willingly, and I regret to inform you that the death of Dr. Somerfeld in that year--attributed to an apoplectic fit in his obituary in the Times--was only one part of the heavy price we paid.

Having bound the Angra Mainyu it was now necessary to indoctrinate it and train it to pass for a true Englishman. To this end, we obtained a place for it as Maths tutor at Sherborne, where it was enrolled in Lyon House as a master. Every public school in England is crawling with masters who are not entirely right in the head as a result of their experiences on the Front, and it was our consensus opinion that Teapot's more minor eccentricities would not attract excessive notice, while the major ones (such as the regrettable tendency to eat souls) could be kept under control by our geas.

I retired from the Teapot committee with my official retirement from service in 1933. I did not encounter Teapot again until 1940 and my reactivation in this highly irregular role.

Today, Teapot is almost unrecognizable. When we set out to turn the monster into an Englishman we succeeded too well. He is urbane, witty, possessed of a wicked but well-concealed sense of humor, and utterly lacking in the conscienceless brutality of the hungry ghost that possessed Ensign Evgenie Burdokovskii in Ulan Bator all those years ago. Sherborne did its usual job--that of turning savages into servants of empire--and did it to our carefully constructed house master just as thoroughly as to any Hottentot from the home counties.

I am afraid that our initial objective--to chain a hungry ghost to the service of the state--has only been a qualified success: qualified because we succeeded too well. Teapot sincerely believes in playing the game, in honor and service and all the other ideals we cynically dismiss at our peril. Unfortunately this renders him less than useful for the task in hand. We have (I hesitate to say this) reformed a demon in our own image, or rather, in the image we were trained to revere. We would be fools to undo this work now: this preta knows us too well. We captured it once, but next time we might not be so lucky.

Despite being useless to us as an Eater of Souls, Teapot is not without worth. I have drafted it into this new organization, where I believe we can put it to good use while maintaining a discreet watch. We can always use a hungry ghost, possessed of a disturbing brilliance in the dark arts, hidden within the urbane skin of an Englishman. It understands what makes us tick, shares--thanks to years of compulsion and indoctrination--our goals, and it has an eerie judgement of character, too--I believe it may be of significant use to the Doublecross committee in rooting out enemy spies. But if you're thinking of using it as a weapon, I would advise you to think again: I'm not sure the geas, or Teapot's indoctrination, would hold together if it is allowed to unleash its full power. Teapot is the sort of gun you fire only once--then it explodes in your hand.

Signed: J. F. C. Fuller

I'M NOT GOING TO EXPLAIN HOW I GOT HERE FROM THERE: JUST take it as given that it is now ten o'clock in the morning, I am still in the office (but called Mo half an hour ago to see she's okay), I haven't shaved or slept, and there's a BLOODY BARON meeting in five minutes. I've got Amarok running on my desktop (playing "Drowning in Berlin" on endless repeat, because I need a pounding beat to keep me awake) and I've plowed through the CODICIL BLACK SKULL file that Angleton left me, and then on into a bunch of tedious legwork for this morning's session. I'm suffering from severe cognitive dissonance; every so often you think you've got a handle on this job, on the paper clip audits and interminable bureaucracy and committee meetings, and then something insane crawls out of the woodwork and gibbers at you, something crazy enough to give James Bond nightmares that just happen to be true.

I close the CBS file and I'm just sticking it back in my secure document safe when Iris pops her head round the door. "Bob? Are you ready to do battle with BLOODY BARON yet?"

I groan quietly. "I think I need a coffee, but yeah, I'll be along just as soon as I've locked this . . ." I poke at the keypad and it tweedles happily. Not that an electronic lock is the only security we rely on; anyone who tries to crack this particular safe is going to wake up in hospital with a hangover the size of a whale.

"White, no sugar, right?"

"You're a star. I'll be right with you." Did I remember to say good management cures the King's Evil and makes coffee, too? Because if not, it's all true.

Ten minutes later I'm sitting in Room 206 again, with a mug of passable paint stripper in front of me and a printout of the minutes. It's a very cut-down rump session today. Franz is absent, Iris is tapping her fingers and Shona is looking as if she'd like to be away with the fairies while Choudhury drones on: "No observed deviations from traffic intercept patterns established over the past week, and no notified agent movements yesterday--"

What the hell, I'm bored. I clear my throat.

Choudhury glances at me, irritated: "What is it, Howard?"

"These non-existent agent movements wouldn't happen to include Panin, would they? Because I'm sure if Panin so much as farted in F-flat minor our boys would be up his arse with a gas spectrograph, wouldn't they?"

I am pleased to see that both Shona and Iris are paying attention: Shona's nostrils flare unconsciously and Iris raises an eyebrow at me. Choudhury, however, is a harder nut. He frowns. "Don't be silly. Of course they'd spot him if he was in the UK."

"Really?" I lean back, cross my arms, and bare my teeth at him. Maybe he'll mistake it for a grin. "Explain last night, then."

"Last n--" He stops dead. "What happened last night?"

I glance at the Sitrep folder. "Panin isn't in the UK, according to that folder. So how exactly is it that he picked me up as I was leaving work and bought me a pint of ESB in the Frog and Tourettes?"

"Preposterous." Choudhury glares. Neither Shona nor Iris is smiling.

"You'd better explain," Iris tells me.

"What I said. Here is a hint: Panin knew. He tried to pump me about Teapot, so I played dumb. He knows the rules; left me a calling card. It's downstairs in the Security Office safe. For reasons of operational security I didn't report the contact immediately, but I'm reporting it now. The Plumbers should be able to confirm it from the pub CCTV." I sit up. "Personally, I find the implications highly suggestive."

"Why did you not tell Security--" Shona stops, her eyes widening.

"We're not as secure as we'd like to be. I'd rather not spread it around beyond this committee for the time being."

Iris's brows furrow. "You're taking rather a lot on your shoulders, aren't you?"

"I'm only doing what Angleton would advise."

Choudhury has spent the past thirty seconds or so looking hurt and offended. Now he collects his dignity: "This can't possibly be right--Oversight don't get their movement reports wrong. Perhaps you were taken in by an impostor? I assure you, you didn't see Panin last night--he was in Madrid."

I am getting tired of this shit. "According to your Sitrep he was sighted in Madrid at four p.m.," I point out. "That's plenty of time to catch a flight into London City and accost me outside the front door at a quarter past eight. If you had bothered to check the duty rota behind that sighting"--gosh, I didn't know he could turn that shade of pink!--"you'd know that the Madrid office files their report at five, local time, which is sixteen hundred hours on British Summer Time, and they go home at six. And if you got out from behind your desk once in a while you'd know that the Madrid office consists of two cotton tops and their pet chihuahua, whose job is to take whatever the Guardia Civil feeds them and barf it over the wire on demand, rather than actually running surveillance boxes on visiting opposition controllers. Like I said: the pub CCTV--not to mention the MAGINOT BLUE STARS network and Panin's mobile phone company's logfiles--will back me up on this. I'm right, you're wrong, and I would appreciate it if you'd stop acting like a complete prat and pay attention."

I find that during my little rant I must have stood up: I'm leaning over the table, balanced on my fists, and Choudhury is leaning over backwards in his chair, not balanced in the slightest. "This is harassment!" he splutters. "Intimidation!"

"No." I sit down hastily, before Iris can get a word in: "Intimidation is when you're boxed by a Thirteenth Directorate officer and two Spetsnaz thugs he borrowed from the embassy. I'd recommend it sometime: it'll be good practice for when the Auditors decide to rake you over the coals."

Shona has been bottling it up for some time, and now she lets rip: "Bob, what exactly did Panin want? I think you'd better make a full statement right now." That's right, she's with Oscar-Oscar, same as Jo, isn't she?

"Panin tried to pump me; I don't pump easily. His specific concern is Teapot. The Teapot is missing, he told me: You'd better find it before the wrong people get their hands on it and use it to make tea. There was a lot of tap-dancing, but that's the basic substance of it." I carefully avoid thinking about our inconclusive exchange on the topic of Amsterdam, which is now looking even murkier in context: They do that, you know. To muddy the waters. (Fucking cultists.) "He offered to trade, if we have anything to offer."

"Wonderful." Shona is making notes. "So that's it?"

"Substantially, yes." Because all I know for sure about the cultist connection is inference--and Angleton's instructions. (Thus do we damn ourselves, by the treachery of our own words.)

"Okay, I'll compile this and add it to the minutes, so at least we've got it on paper somewhere. That should cover you. Then we can decide how and when to send it up the chain." She stares at me blackly. "I assume that's why you brought it up here?"

"Yes. I want to keep it confidential to the BLOODY BARON committee for now. I'm worried about how Panin knew who to talk to and where to find him. Not to mention when."

Iris speaks up: "Yes, that's very disturbing." She looks appropriately disturbed for a split second, then flexes her management muscle. "Vikram, would you be a dear and make sure to accidentally lose the minutes of this session between your desk and your email program? I think it wouldn't hurt for distribution to be delayed for a few days, until the situation settles one way or the other."

Despite the aging biker chick style that she affects, the temperament and training of a steely home-counties matron lurk not too far under the skin; put her in twinset and pearls and you can see her biting the heads off hunt saboteurs. When she turns the big guns on Choudhury he runs up the white flag at once. "Ah, certainly, madam." He spares me a poisonous glance, which I ignore. "SSO 3 Howard's unfortunate encounter will be thoroughly misfiled until I hear otherwise."

"Do you expect Panin to make contact again?" Shona demands. "In your personal judgment."

"Um." Now that's a question and a half. "He left me a card in case I want to contact him, but I wouldn't rule it out. I got the impression he was worried about timing. If the Thirteenth Directorate are running to some kind of schedule we need to know, don't we?"

Iris looks grimly pleased. "Minute that."

"Schedules." Shona stares at Vikram. "What does the calendar have for us?"

"The calendar? It's August bank holiday in a couple of weeks--"

"I believe she was asking about significant intersections," Iris interrupts, sparing me a quelling glance. "Summit conferences, international treaties, Mayan great cycle endings, general elections, prophesied apocalypses, that sort of thing. It'll be in Outlook under events. You're the one with the laptop, why don't you look it up?"

Choudhury manages to look long-suffering. "What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Anything!" Shona makes a curse of the word. "Whatever might interest Panin."

I blink. Suddenly a rather unpalatable thought occurs to me. Forget dates that interest Panin: What about dates relevant to the Teapot? Assuming the Teapot in question is the one I'm thinking of.

Trying not to be too obvious about it, I pull out my phone and start hunting. There's an ebook reader, and a Wikipedia client, and a bunch of other stuff. What was Ungern Sternberg's adjutant called again . . . ?

"Bob, what are you doing?" It's Iris.

I grin apologetically. "Checking a different calendar." 19 August 1921. That's when the mutineers murdered Teapot. At least, that's when they said they did the deed. And the ninetieth anniversary is coming up in the next week: How interesting. I quickly scan for other significant anniversaries on that date: Salem witch trial executions, Hungerford massacre, twentieth anniversary of the collapse of the USSR . . . "No, sorry, nothing there," I say, putting my phone away. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

It's like this: If you were going to try and break the geas that restrains an extra-dimensional horror called the Eater of Souls, wouldn't you pick the anniversary of its last taste of freedom? Dates have resonance, after all, and this particular horror has been living quietly among human beings, the lion lying down with the lamb, for so long that our patterns of thought have imprinted upon it.

Isn't that just the sort of nutso thing that the cultists might be up to? Trying to free a vastly powerful occult force from its Laundry-imposed chains? And isn't this exactly the sort of thing that Panin might anticipate? Well maybe. There's a slight motivational gap: Just what makes cultists tick, anyway? Besides the obvious--having your head turned by a hugely powerful glamour, being bound by a geas, that sort of thing--what's in it for them? Fucked if I know: I mean, what makes your average high school shooter tick, for that matter?

Suddenly, not knowing is making me itch--but the only person who can answer for sure is the one person I don't dare to ask: Angleton.

"Maybe we could wire Bob?" Shona suggests.

What? I shake my head. "What do you mean?"

"If Panin makes contact again, it would really help if you had a recording angel," she points out.

"There was a word in that sentence: if." I look at Iris for support but she's nodding thoughtfully along with Shona. "Panin's not going to make contact on working hours, and if it's all right by you, I'd rather not wear a wire during all my off-duty life. Now, if you want me to use that business card and wear a recorder while we're talking, that's another matter. But I think we ought to have something to trade with him before we go there, otherwise he's not going to give us anything for free."

"Point," says Iris.

Vikram looks at me through slitted eyes. "We should wire him anyway," he suggests maliciously, "just in case."

I sink back in my chair, racking my brain for plausible defenses. We've only been in this meeting for half an hour and already it feels like a decade: what a morning! But it could be worse: I've got to run Angleton's little errand at two o'clock . . .

10.

THE NIGHTMARE STACKS

THERE IS A RAILWAY UNDER LONDON, BUT IT'S PROBABLY NOT the one you're thinking of.

Scratch that. There are many railways under London. There are the tube lines that everyone knows about, hundreds of kilometers, dozens of lines, carrying millions of people every day. And there are the London commuter rail lines, many of which run underground for part or all of their length. There are the other major railway links such as CrossRail and the Eurostar tunnel into St. Pancras. There's even the Docklands Light Railway, if you squint.

But these are just the currently operational lines that are open to the public. There are other lines you probably don't know about. There are the deep tube tunnels that were never opened to the public, built to serve the needs of wartime government. Some of them have been abandoned; others turned into archives and secure stores. There are the special platforms off the public tube stations, the systems built during the 1940s and 1950s to rush MPs and royalty away from the capital at an hour's notice in time of war. These are the trains of government, buried deep and half-forgotten.

And then there are the weird ones. The Necropolis railway that ran from behind Waterloo to Brookwood cemetery in Surrey, along the converted track bed of which I ran last night. The coal tunnels that distributed fuel to the power stations of South London and the buried generator halls that powered the tube network. And the MailRail narrow-gauge tunnels that for over a century hauled sacks of letters and parcels between Paddington and Whitechapel, until it was officially closed in 2003.

Closed?

Not so fast.

The stacks, where the Laundry keeps its dead files, occupy two hundred-meter stretches of disused deep-dug tube tunnel not far from Whitehall. They're thirty meters down, beneath the hole in the ground where Service House is currently being rebuilt by a private finance initiative (just in time for CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN). How do you think we get files in and out? Or librarians in and out, for that matter?

Angleton has a job for me to do, down in the stacks. And so it is that at one thirty I'm sitting in my office, nursing a lukewarm mug of coffee and waiting for the little man with the handcart to call, when the NecronomiPod begins to vibrate and make a noise like a distressed U-boat.

"'Lo?"

It's Mo. "Bob?" She doesn't sound too happy.

"Yeah? You at home?"

"Right now, yes . . . not feeling too well."

I hunch over instinctively. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes." Oh, right. "Listen, about last night--thanks. And thanks for letting me lie in. I'm just wrung-out today, so I've begged off my weekly and I was thinking about taking the afternoon to do what we talked about earlier, to go visit Research and Development. But there's a little job I needed to do in the office and I was wondering if you could . . ."

I glance at the clock on my desktop. "Maybe; depends what, I'm off to the stacks in half an hour."

"The stacks? In person?" She cheers up audibly. "That's great! I was hoping you could pull a file for me, and if you're going there--"

"Not so fast." I pause. "What kind of file?"

"A new one, a report I asked for. I can give you a reference code; it should be fresh in today."

"Oh, right." Well, that shouldn't be a problem--I can probably fit it in with my primary mission. "What's the number?"

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