The Apocalypse Codex

11. THE APOCALYPSE CODEX

A DOOR IN A DARKENED HALLWAY: TO EITHER SIDE OTHER doors open onto rooms with front-facing windows. A grenade, fizzing acrid fumes from both ends, has just crashed through the window of the day room to the left and is spinning around on the floor like a dying hornet the size of a coke can. Then something heavy slams against the front door, nearly but not quite strong enough to take it off its hinges.

What do you do if you’re Johnny McTavish?

You close your eyes.

Johnny braces himself facing the front door, shuts his eyes, and puts his hands together as if in prayer. Between them he cradles a tightly folded sheet of rice paper. Within its folds sits a small RFID chip, pasted to the middle of a design inscribed upon it in conductive ink.

He feels a familiar presence at the back of his head, just as another crashing impact sends the door flying open. Johnny pulls his palms apart. ***Not now, Duchess, I’ve got my hands full.*** The silence is broken by the hissing of the gas grenade.

Johnny takes a step backwards, and opens his eyes—still holding his breath.

The door hangs open and the fully expanded paper chain lies on the hall floor. Of the attackers there is no visible sign—the paper chain has done its job. He stoops, picking it up gingerly by both ends, then runs forward through the open entrance, holding his breath as he passes the day room doorway (through which a thin mist is drifting). There’s nobody out front, but a crew cab pickup with blacked-out side windows and a boxy cargo container on the load bed is drawn up on the street. Glancing sideways, Johnny darts past the pickup, pausing only to bend and slash at the tires. Then he jogs towards his own wheels, not looking back.

(Johnny expects there to be a second pair of operatives around the back of the safe house, and he’s got maybe thirty seconds before they stop waiting for the prey to come to them and storm the house in search of their fellows—but by then Johnny intends to be gone.)

The chain sags heavily on the passenger seat as he climbs in and starts the engine. Revving, he slams the truck into second gear and pulls out without lights. As he leans forward over the wheel there’s an unwelcome and familiar metallic rattle from behind him. For a moment he’s livid with indignation: What do the fuckers think they’re doing, shooting in a residential neighborhood? Then he clocks it as a hopeful sign—they wouldn’t be hitting his tailgate if they were firing on the move—and rams the truck into third. There are no more bullet impacts; he brakes hard, takes a left without signaling, checks his mirrors, and finally turns on his lights when a passing car flashes its high beams at him. It wouldn’t do to get stopped by the traffic cops, not with what’s sitting on the passenger seat…

The paper chain rattles, like the echo of an occult manacle that immobilizes a pair of angry ghosts. But these two aren’t ghosts yet, and it’s already starting to ripple and distort; there isn’t a lot of power in the ward, and sooner or later it’s going to degrade, at which point the two game beaters trapped inside it are going to get out. When that happens, Johnny intends to be ready for them. It wouldn’t do to find out the hard way that they’ve got more tear gas grenades where that first one came from.

The downtown Denver safe house has been burned, which means—if the opposition are halfway competent—that the other two are also compromised. On the other hand, it’s a weekday evening, there is a light snowfall, and suburbia beckons. Johnny drives, looking for a certain kind of street, one with too many For Sale / To Let signs, too few lit windows and parked cars, unkempt lawns, foreclosed mortgages: the stench of neglect and decay. It’s not easy, to be sure, because real estate agents like to hide such signs (they pay landscapers to mow the lawns of empty houses) but he has a nose for the wild places and, presently, he finds a side road where half the street lights are dead and the potholes are unfilled. Slowing, he inspects the houses to either side as he drives. He’s after a specific type of vacant property—one with boarded-up windows and a backyard to park in, unobserved by neighbors.

“Just like that caper in Barcelona, Duchess,” he mutters to himself as he pulls over, checks for passers-by, then does a three-point turn and drives into the yard of the house he’s selected. “Had a bad feeling about that one, too.”

The snow in front of it is unswept, pristine; the windows boarded over. He rummages in the back of the cab for a laminated card proclaiming Big John’s Real Estate Services, lays it on the dash—often the simplest covers are the best—and heads for the front door.

The lock is easy. Once inside, Johnny pulls out a compact LED lantern and closes the door behind him. The house is dark and chilly as a pub toilet after closing time: the electricity is shut off and there’s a smell of mildew in the air. It’s just right for what he’s here to do. So many of the significant events of his career take place in rooms like these, cold and abandoned. He goes through into the combined kitchen-dining room. There’s junk strewn all over, and dust. A row of open cupboard doors gape at him like broken teeth in a screaming mouth as he kicks shattered crockery and rotting junk mail aside to reveal the wooden floor. He sets the LED lantern down on a countertop. Working fast with a can of spray paint he scribes the circle, joins the lines, and sketches the necessary sigils. He dumps the paper chain in the middle of the new grid and it jitters, the echo of a ram slamming into a door; working in haste he kneels outside the incomplete grid and links it up to a wire-wrap circuit board and a battery.

The folded chain of rice paper men jerks and jumps for a moment, casting long shadows from the lamp. Then it snaps. Johnny steps to one side so that his shadow is not cast across the circle, and draws both his knives. The heavies in the circle will probably have handguns, and Johnny isn’t carrying. On the other hand, the heavies in the circle were dumb enough to go in through the front door. From where they’re standing, an instant ago they were storming into a dim hallway; suddenly they’re in near darkness in the wrong place with a glowing violet circle around them that they somehow can’t bring themselves to cross—

“Cover! Left!—”

They’re wearing Mall Ninja body armor and black helmets with gas masks and they’ve got flashlights and lots of spurious accessories bolted to the barrels of their carbines: it’s all very Tactical Ted, in Johnny’s mildly contemptuous opinion. One of them stumbles sharply in a shower of sparks as he comes up against the edge of the grid.

“You!” He’s seen Johnny. The gun barrel comes up. “On the—Jesus—”

More blue sparks. The goon takes a dance-step backwards, nearly goes over. His companion is less talkative; there’s a hammering roar and a series of flashbulb-bright sparks go off at the boundary of the grid as the bullets strike it and go wherever it is that steel-jacketed bullets go when they run into an energized containment field. He seems to be trying to shoot out the lantern on the breakfast bar.

Johnny is coldly angry. He opens his mouth to speak as the first goon stumbles into the field again, then jitters twitchily backward in a shower of purple flashes. Johnny can barely hear his own voice through the ringing in his ears. “Drop your guns!” he bellows. “Drop ’em now or I’ll rip your lungs out and shit down your windpipes!”

The drill sergeant’s voice of command usually works on anything short of a meth head’s full-blown psychosis, but it’s less than effective when punctuated by gunfire in a confined space. The talkative one appears to be frozen, but the second goon, the one with the hate on for light sources, whips round and raises his gun. There’s a loud snick.

“Drop it, son,” Johnny snarls, drawing his right hand back. For an answer, the goon fumbles with the magazine release. That’s more than enough for Johnny. He releases the knife and it accelerates towards the grid. There’s a crimson flash as the design inscribed on its blade flares white-hot for an instant before it lodges hungrily in the man’s throat, and Johnny feels a brief stab of melancholy horror as he takes two quick strides forward across the shorted-out grid and punches the other goon in the face. The man goes down as if poleaxed; Johnny spins knife-first towards the trigger-happy one, but he’s already down in a growing puddle of arterial blood. The knife-shaped thing sticking out of his throat is drinking greedily; one glance tells Johnny that the cop’s beyond help. There’s always a cost for using such occult weapons, and Johnny will pay it later, of that he is sure; but for now he’s simply relieved to still be alive.

First he sees to the one he punched out. Johnny rolls him away from the blood, grunting with effort, and turns him into the recovery position. The man’s still breathing, albeit noisily—Johnny fumbles a pair of handcuffs from the goon’s belt and secures him, then bends to unfasten his helmet and gas mask, keeping one ear alert for police sirens in the distance. Then he searches him.

The one who’s still breathing is in his forties, unfit, a salt-and-pepper mustache adorning a flaccid upper lip. The bad news is, he’s wearing a law man’s badge: Officer Benson of the Pinecrest Police Department. Worse: so is the dead gunman. Not rent-a-cops, real cops, Johnny decides. Pinecrest: home of the Golden Promise Ministries. No, not like Barcelona: this is worse.

Benson is breathing, but won’t be answering any questions for a few minutes. Johnny turns to the trigger-happy goon’s body, stoops, and takes hold of the knife-thing in his throat. A brief electric jolt runs up his arm: the feeder is intent, gorging, and does not wish to return to its warded scabbard. Johnny grimaces and tugs. There’s very little blood as the knife-thing comes free. A thin sheen of red droplets that cling to the blade disappears under his gaze, as if sucked into the metal. He prepares to sheath it, but stops. The dead goon’s mouth is moving, opening—

“Well, well, well.” Johnny pokes at the emerging host with the tip of the blade: it flinches away, avoiding contact. “Fancy meeting a girl like you in a dive like this!” He pulls his knife back, unwilling to use it on such an unclean thing; hunting around for a suitable object he finds the fallen goon’s carbine and hammers the host flat with its butt.

Roughly three minutes have elapsed since he completed the grid and unlocked the two captive goons. Police response times to reports of gunshots out here won’t be speedy, but they’ll be along by and by. Johnny checks on Officer Benson—unconscious, breathing stertorous—then exits the house. He knows a ward that will cause eyes to glaze and slide aside from the building: it needs to be applied to the gateposts out front before anyone comes by to check.

Then he and Officer Benson are going to have a little chat.

IT’S GETTING DARK AND I NEARLY MISS THE BATTERED PICKUP as I drive along the side street, half wondering if she’s sent me on a wild goose chase. But something about it catches my attention, and as I slow down I think I recognize the woman in the driver’s seat, her hair tied back in a bun, head bowed over a book.

I don’t stop. Instead, I drive around the block, checking my mirrors for company and the side streets for other occupied vehicles. Finally, when I’m certain we’re alone, I park behind her.

The cab door opens. It’s Persephone, wearing nursing scrubs, a battered-looking handbag slung over one shoulder. She pauses beside the coupé and does something fiddly with a ward before she opens the door and slides into the passenger seat. “Drive,” she says. “They’re a half hour behind me, but that should delay them.” I glance at her. Her eyes have aged about a thousand years since the last time we met. I start the engine and pull out carefully, then hunt for an avenue that’ll take us south and east, back towards the highway.

After a couple of minutes, Persephone inhales deeply, then sighs as if she’s expelling her final breath.

I glance sideways. The handbag is on the floor and there’s a book in her lap, open. “Where do you want to go?” I ask.

“Johnny’s in Denver.” She turns to study me, her face expressionless. “Head back up the interstate.” A pause. “I’d like to collect him. We need to talk.”

I turn my eyes back to the road. I don’t want to see her expression. “You know I’ve been ordered home. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, don’t stop to pick up hitchhikers.”

“Yes.”

“The operation is a bust: we’ve been blown, and the only thing left to do is to withdraw. All three of us.” I can feel her eyes on me as I take a right turn. “Mind you, Lockhart thinks it’s a qualified success. He thinks we’ve got enough evidence to justify him starting an official investigation into Schiller’s activities.”

Persephone is silent for a while. Then: “He’ll be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

She doesn’t reply immediately, so I let the silence lengthen as I drive. I don’t like people trying to pull mystery-man (or -woman) head-games on me. “Pull over,” she finally says as we’re passing a drive-through Dunkin’ Donuts. I turn into the car park and kill the engine.

“What is Lockhart going to be too late for?” I ask.

“Armageddon.” She taps the cover of the Bible with a crimson nail.

“Arma-what?”

“It’s all in here.” She opens it, close to the back. “Testament of Enoch, Second Book of Dreams, the return of Azâzêl at the End of Days, the triumph of the elect.”

“Testament of…” It doesn’t ring any bells from RE lessons back when I was in school. “What kind of bible is that?”

“I had to leave Schiller’s little indoctrination session in a hurry. It wasn’t a teach-in, Mr. Howard; he was making converts. He has helpers—”

“Silver carapace, too many legs?” She tenses as I stick my tongue out at her, then the penny drops. She wiggles her tongue back at me, unsmiling: it’s pinkish and she can roll it. “I caught one,” I tell her. “It’s in my bag. In a grid.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“I was thinking of taking it home to see what the boffins in cryptozoology can make of it.” I pause expectantly. “What about that bible?”

“I took it from the nurse I stole the truck from. Believe me, the clinic she worked in—it would give you nightmares. It’s her bible and she is one of them, a true believer, not an involuntary convert.” She leafs through it, looking for something. “The first two sections are from the King James Version, I believe. Vanilla Protestant: Old Testament, New Testament. Then there are the Apocrypha, in a separate section. That’s not too unusual, even if it contains some rather dubious extras. But then there’s this.”

She points to a page near the back, open recto, a fancy border surrounding a title: The Final Codex. Then she turns the page. The Apocalypse of St Enoch the Divine.

“Uh—”

She stabs at the page with a finger: “‘This is the Revelation of Enoch, Seventh from Adam, which God gave unto him through his son Jesus Christ, to show unto his true servants the things which must be made to pass in the latter days—’”

“Hang on.” I rub my forehead. “Enoch is pre-Christian, right? I mean, really pre-Christian.”

She looks at me slightly pityingly. “Adam’s get were peculiarly long-lived, according to the mythos. So the contradiction you’re fishing for isn’t there.”

“Bugger.” I focus on the page. “‘Must be made to pass in the latter days’?”

“Yes.” She reads aloud: “‘And that the elect of the true creed shall listen and heed, for blessed is he that hears the words of this prophecy and law and sets his hand to building the kingdom of God on Earth. And grace be unto you, and peace, from him which is, and which was, and which is to come. And when the time is as prophesied and the son of God rises from his deathbed in the pyramid of the Black Pharaoh, all men shall bow before him, but first among them shall be the elect of the true creed, who shall be taken up bodily into the seven heavens of the pillars of law…’” She stops. “Want me to go on?”

“Please tell me this is a hoax?” Like the fakes titled Necronomicon that come out every couple of years and force the poor bloody sods in Records to run around like headless chickens making sure that nobody’s got their hands on something they shouldn’t (and don’t get me started on the full-dress fire drill the first time somebody brought a made-in-China plush Cthulhu doll to the office)…

“No.” She closes the book. “It’s no hoax. But it’s best not to overstate things. This is evidence that Schiller’s congregation march to a different drumbeat from the other Christian churches. Like all such, they believe in the literal truth of their holy book.”

“So they’re Pentecostalists with special sauce?”

She nods. “The question is, what do these extra apocrypha mean? What beliefs do they add to the mix?”

“The communion hosts…” I stare at the Bible. “That passage. The Apocalypse of St Enoch. Isn’t it a bit heavy on the thou shalt do this and that?”

“Yes. I didn’t have time to read further; I have other worries. But where the Revelation of St John is descriptive, this book is prescriptive. A road map for opening the way and speeding the return of Jesus Christ.”

I close my eyes. That dream. The skin in the small of my back crawls. “The Sleeper in the Pyramid.” The giant step pyramid on a waterless plateau, baked beneath the ruddy glow of a dying star, surrounded by its picket fence of necromantic sacrifices—

“Of course, the trouble with following occult texts blindly is that there is no guarantee that the thing the ritual summons is what it says on the label.”

“But they’re Christians. If you want to get them to raise something from the dungeon dimensions, of course you tell them it’s Jesus Christ. I mean, who else would they enthusiastically dive into necromantic demonology on behalf of?”

“I believe the KGB have a term for people like that. They call them ‘useful idiots.’” Her expression hardens. “I want to know who is behind them. Or what. Johnny had a theory. I think I discounted it too soon.”

“I’d be interested to hear it.”

She looks at me oddly. “Why are you still here? You said Lockhart ordered you home.”

“He did.” I peer at the doorway of the Dunkin’ Donuts. “But I don’t leave people behind. It’s a personal habit.” I try to explain: “Lockhart should have known that. He’s got my transcript. He could have asked Angleton—my regular boss.”

(It’s not quite that simple, but some years ago I was leaned on to leave someone behind—and refused. Which worked out for the best, insofar as when a subsequent job went wrong she returned the favor, and we’ve been happily married for some years now; and if that’s not positive endorsement for the idea of not leaving anyone behind, I don’t know what is.)

“Hmm. This is your first time working for Mr. Lockhart, isn’t it? Mr. Howard, Bob, you are working for External Assets. I think Mr. Lockhart regards everyone as disposable—including, ultimately, himself.”

“You’ve worked with him before?”

She shrugs and changes the subject: “I suggest we pick up Johnny and try to drive out. But if the airport is closed and more than one highway is blocked, that could be very difficult, don’t you think? We might be trapped here.”

I sigh. “I’ve been trying not to think of that.” I start the engine. “Next stop, Denver.”

RAYMOND SCHILLER SLUMPS IN THE BIG EXECUTIVE CHAIR behind his desk. The skin below his eyes form dark pouches in his face, wrinkled and tired. Joe Brooks studies him, concerned. Ray is powerful, but Joe’s seen him perform miracles before, understands the toll that God’s work exacts from his latter-day prophet. Please, Lord, let him be all right this time, he prays. The last thing the mission needs is for its shepherd to take to his sick bed for a week just now.

“Father.” Roseanne—now decently veiled and gowned—sounds as concerned as Joe feels. “Can I get you anything? Coffee and a Danish for your blood sugar? I can call one of Doctor Jensen’s residents if it’s your sciatica again—”

“Coffee and pastries all round.” Ray dismisses his handmaid with a tired wave. He yawns, then focusses on Joe: “I reckon we’re going to be here a long while, son.”

“Yessir.” Joe pauses. “You were right about the Hazard woman. I fed her fingerprints to our local FBI office. And her associate, the McTavish guy. They got back to me half an hour ago.” He wrings his hands together in his lap, fighting the urge to hold his face in them. “It’s not looking good.”

“Don’t blame me!” Pastor Holt is indignant: “How was I meant to know she’s some sort of witch—”

Schiller closes his eyes again. “Brothers. No use crying after spilled milk.” He raises a hand. “The Holy Spirit showed me what was in her mind. A black and evil faithless one, loyal to the Whore of Srebrenica—Babylon. An apostate and practicing witch. I should have warned you to hold her under guard until the communion service.” He opens his eyes and looks at Alex. “What do the FBI say?”

Alex swallows. “The name is genuine. British citizen, naturalized a few years ago. But there’s stuff that doesn’t add up. She’s tagged as a person of interest by a, a bureau in DC that I’ve never heard of. That’s a bad sign; when I asked agents Brooks and O’Neil they’d never heard of it either, so I called Sam Erikson in Denver and he just about shat a brick. Apparently nobody’s supposed to know that this, uh, Operational Phenomenology Agency even exists. Sam says they call it the Black Chamber, and what goes in never comes back out, and he can’t protect us if we draw their attention. And this Hazard woman is of interest to them. She shouldn’t be underestimated.”

The door opens: Roseanne slips in, followed by handmaiden Julie pushing a trolley loaded with refreshments.

“Julie.” Schiller smiles at her; she bobs a nervous curtsey. “I believe you escorted Ms. Hazard between the lecture theatre and her abrupt departure from the communion service?”

“Yes, Father.” She licks her lips, nervous and wide-eyed as a doe caught in headlights. Her voice is soft and hoarse. “She said she needed the restroom, so I led her there. I saw her go inside, but Pastor Dawes was paging me to find a clean surplice for communion so I had to go sort that out. When I got back she was still there and it was time for the service, so I led her straight there—” Her words come faster, until she’s nearly gabbling.

“Be at peace, my daughter.” Ray smiles at her again and Alex tenses. The stink of blame hangs in the air, a cloud of doom floating from head to head: it has just left Julie’s vicinity and is now bumping around, looking for a victim to attach itself to like an imp from hell. His expression hardens. “Alex. The cameras.”

Alex swallows again: his tongue is dry. This is the delicate bit. “I had Bill and Tony run the tapes. Julie had barely left when the Hazard woman came out of the toilet. She headed for one of the reception rooms, and did something to a PC. Then she went straight back to the toilet, and that’s where Julie found her. Near as I can work it out, she then went on…” He outlines the Hazard woman’s exit via the hospital ward and the car park while handmaid Julie pours Schiller a mug of coffee and passes him a pastry.

“Hmm. And just what exactly did our black sheep get up to on the computer?” Schiller is staring at Alex again, his gaze as black and sharp as an Aztec savage’s obsidian dagger.

“I don’t know, sir. She rebooted it right after, and didn’t leave anything attached. But in view of what happened next, I’m assuming the computers were her target all along, so I’ve taken the liberty of shutting down the entire admin network and calling in our best computer forensics dudes. They’ll be here this evening to take everything apart. They’ll be looking for keyloggers, rootkits, spyware—that’s my best guess. And when we find it, we’ll use it to feed our visitors what we want them to hear.”

“I’m glad you’ve got it all covered. Can you keep it locked down until after Sunday’s special service? It would be especially unfortunate if the Black Chamber were to become involved before the Harrowing.”

“We’ll work on it.” Alex licks his dry lips. “Mark and his team have a contingency plan. It comes with an increasing risk of exposure if we run it for too long, but today’s Saturday. If we activate the script tonight we can keep the whole city tight until Sunday evening, and maybe even Monday afternoon before the Feds start questioning the story they’re getting from their local offices. That should buy time for the main event at the New Life campus…”

“Do what you will; I wash my hands of it,” Schiller says dismissively. “What of the Hazard woman and her associates?”

“There are two angles to that. Firstly, we’re trying to establish what she knows.” Too much for comfort, that’s for sure, Alex thinks. She had to take a short cut through the Lost Lambs ward… “And we’re looking for where she went. We’ve got a warrant out for her on charges of aggravated assault and grand theft auto, thanks to the nurse she beat up—also firearms theft, because Nurse Stanhope had a pistol in her glove compartment. That’s going to get the attention of the State Patrol and every local PD in the region, and Sam Erikson is trying to get her on the TSA no-fly list.”

Holt harrumphs. “Can you do any more? Charge her with murder or something?”

Alex shakes his head. “Why bother? These are real felonies, they’re watertight enough to stand up in court. As long as the judge and jury and attorneys are all churched, nothing will leak; it’s always better not to lie, isn’t it? Besides, after tomorrow’s service and the Harrowing there won’t be much she can do. We’ll reel her in soon enough. What I’m more worried about are her associates, the McTavish man and her controller—”

“Controller?” Schiller straightens in his chair. He’s taken a bite out of his pastry and some color is returning to his cheeks. “The British spy in Denver, right?”

“I haven’t heard from Gordon and Lyons. They were supposed to bring him in four hours ago and they haven’t reported back. They’re not answering their cellphones.”

“Really?” Schiller’s expression is unreadable. “Gordon and Lyons. Hmm. I would have considered them to be reliable…” He takes a sip of coffee. “Be patient.” He glances at Alex sharply. “And what of the other man? McTavish?”

Alex swallows. “That’s the bad news. Stew went to take care of McTavish himself, with a posse: Benson, O’Brien, and Sergeant Yates. Stew’s called in. They tracked McTavish to a safe house. O’Brien and Benson took the front and—just vanished. McTavish exited in a hurry and got away from the deputy. Shots were exchanged. O’Brien and Benson are missing, there were no bodies—”

Schiller puts down his coffee mug and leans forward, his expression intent. “First, the presence in the arena in London—a fellow elect. I could feel him out there, watching me. Then this sudden interest from this British agency, and now the Operational Phenomenology people in DC. And an attempt to infiltrate the Omega Course.” He clears his throat. “Do you have a picture of this McTavish?”

“Sir…” Alex fumbles with his file for a few seconds. “This is the best I—”

He trails off. Schiller stares at the grainy picture, his expression unreadable. “That’s him. The elder in the audience. Back row. I could feel him. I was right to bring forward Operation Multitude and order the wards of sanctuary emplaced, it would seem. We are under attack. Hmm. Unless, of course, he is drawn to the Mother Church he deserted…”

“Sir?”

Schiller puts his palms together before his face in a gesture of prayer. “Almighty Jesus, I beseech you, share your divine wisdom with me…” He closes his eyes, breathes slowly, then presently lowers his hands and looks at Alex. “Stewart underestimated McTavish. O’Brien is dead. Benson is unconscious. They are both some distance away, perhaps in Denver. I will tell you where they are when Benson regains awareness.

“Meanwhile, Hazard and her employer are definitely in Denver, in a motel. I know this much by the blessing of Lord Jesus Christ. I can’t narrow it down further without the witch feeling God’s hot breath on the back of her neck, but our Lord will lead them into our nets by and by.” He blinks heavily. “Bring McTavish to me for a visit, Alex. The others you may kill if it’s possible to do so without scaring off McTavish, but he the Lord has a use for.” Alex is already standing to leave as he hears Schiller continue: “Everyone go, except sisters Roseanne and Julie. We must pray together now…”

LATER, AGONIZED AND PURIFIED, SCHILLER RETREATS TO HIS private chapel to seek guidance through solitary prayer.

The chapel is a small basement room, accessible via a bare, concrete stairwell branching from the corridor connecting his public office and his private apartments. Dominated by dark oak paneling, crumbling with age—bought from a seventeenth-century church in faraway Scotland that was being renovated—and featuring bare flagstones by way of a floor, the room is dominated by an altar and a featureless, man-sized stainless steel cross bolted to the wall behind the altar.

There is a bible on the altar—a huge, leather-bound affair, its cover studded with clasps and padlocks—and a stone chalice.

It is before these items that Raymond Schiller kneels, eyes closed and hands clasped in fervent prayer. He prays with his whole body, quivering and brimming with faith.

“Lord, hear thy loyal servant.” The words leak out through clenched teeth, more of a subvocalized whimper of desire than a verbal declaration: “For though I am but a weak vessel of flesh, damned to eternal torment for my sins, my sole desire is to serve the temple of righteousness and to raise the ancient of days. Lord, hear thy loyal servant. For though it says, ‘and in those days the destitute shall go forth and carry off their children, and they shall abandon them, so that their children shall perish through them: yea, they shall abandon their children that are still sucklings, and not return to them,’ I have brought mothers to the motherless and children to the barren, to be fruitful and multiply in service to thy will.

“Lord, hear thy loyal servant…”

Abruptly, Raymond’s chapel isn’t so small anymore.

The floor is still flagged with slabs of limestone as broad as a man’s arm is long, and the altar waits before him. But the walls have receded into the distance and faded to the color of time-bleached bone, and the ceiling overhead is open to the starry night. Alien constellations sparkle pitilessly against a backdrop of whorls and wisps of blue and green gas, the decaying tissues of a stellar corpse hidden from view by the horizon. Closer, a dusting of silvery specks flicker and flare as they drift across the vault of the sky—the skeletal remains of vast orbital factories, although Schiller is unaware of this.

If Schiller were to rise and walk to the walls, he would find a doorway in the center of each one. And if he were to venture beyond one of the portals, he would find himself leaving a temple atop a step pyramid towering above a desert plateau that stretches towards the distant, parched mountains in every direction that the eye can see.

And he would be able to see the moons, orbiting low and fast, which are blocked from his gaze by the walls.

***Report.***

The words thrust themselves into his mind like knife-sharp icicles rising from the thing that feeds between his legs, as a vast, chilly awareness slams up his spine and usurps his brain’s speech center to give voice to its demands. A bystander would hear nothing, but to Schiller, the still, small voice of his god is louder than thunder.

“I am a damned soul and a miserable sinner…”

***We will be your judge. But not in this time and place. Report!***

The force of the demand drives Schiller to his hands, abasing himself before the sarcophagus-shaped altar (which has grown longer and broader, and is now of pale gray stone, embossed with intricate and disturbing knotwork elements that confuse the eye of the watcher).

“Lord! The mission to the leadership of the British government has been an unconditional success! The introduction we seek will be forthcoming within days, and with an endorsement from the Prime Minister, the chair of News Corporation will have no alternative but to see us. Once Mr. Murdoch is one of ours, we will have full access to the largest satellite and news broadcasting organization on Earth to bring our ministry to—”

***There is a disturbance in Sheol. Are you responsible?***

“Lord? I don’t understand…”

***Four of the hosts I placed at your disposal are missing. Three have been destroyed but another is offline. Report.***

Schiller racks his memory, then realizes what his Lord is asking. “Ah, we have a small problem. A cell of spies dispatched by an autonomous arm of the British state has attempted to infiltrate us. We repelled their attack but three of our people were killed in the process. We are now searching for the apostates—”

***Three hosts are destroyed but one is offline. What befell the offline host?***

Schiller is baffled and terrified. A wind blows through his mind, a desiccating ice storm from an arctic valley where it hasn’t rained for a million years, drying up his will and freezing his brain in mid-thought. Then it subsides, as quickly as it blew up: his Lord has satisfied himself that Schiller has no answer to give and is still, at heart, entirely a creature of faith.

***Two active hosts were with your minions when they went to apprehend the British spymaster. One of them is dead. The other is beyond my awareness. Searching…ah.*** The expression of surprise is a sharp intake of breath on Schiller’s part; his Lord has no lungs with which to draw air, and has in any case long since exhausted the universe’s capacity for surprises. ***It is in the hands of an enemy. Our worshipers have met this British agent before. Do not attempt to convert him; bring him alive before Us. He will be of great service in the end times ahead.***

Schiller’s body shudders, muscles twitching spasmodically as the most distant echo of his Lord’s unhuman emotions bleeds through his amygdala, triggering a fit. Seconds pass; Schiller lies still for further minutes, recovering, before the inner voice addresses him again.

***What of the Task? Report.***

“As soon as I was informed of the attention we were attracting, I ordered Operation Multitude brought forward. It’s very early, but I felt I couldn’t take the risk of waiting any longer. So we are bringing forward the ministry to the people of Colorado Springs, and have invoked the miracle of Fimbulwinter, as instructed. The airports are closing, the Great Ward is in place, and we have arranged for highway patrol checkpoints on all the roads we can reach. Tomorrow we will perform the Rite of Awakening and the Harrowing of the unbelievers for the first time before a congregation of seven thousand. If it works as expected, we’ll ramp up from there—Colorado Springs today, the whole of the continental United States by this time next month. It will take longer and entail more risks than the original plan, but we can start tomorrow—”

***A hundred million souls must be Saved, Raymond, in order to free my mortal husk from this tomb.***

“Yes, my Lord. Thy will be done.”

***Then shall I bring about Heaven on Earth. And all shall be Saved who will accept my host into their heart.***

“Thank you, Lord!” Schiller prays fervently.

***Bringing you here and protecting you from the forces of darkness that assail me saps my strength in this enfeebled state. Go now, and bring to me the pure of heart that I may take strength from the power of their faith. Go now, and detain the British spy Howard and his employees against my immanent return. Go now, and prepare the Rite of Awakening. Glory to God in the highest!***

“Glory to”—Raymond rocks forward on his feet and finds himself once again in a small oak-paneled basement room—“God in the highest!”

IN THE BASEMENT OF THE NEW ANNEX, DOWN A DUSTY STAIRCASE with fire doors at the top and along a corridor painted institutional beige and lit by ancient tungsten bulbs (some of which have failed), there is a green metal door. There is no room number or name plate on the door: just a keyhole, an ancient brass handle, and—above the lintel—a security warning lamp, currently switched off. Were it not for the lamp it might be a janitor’s closet or a power distribution board. And despite the lamp, the delicate, almost invisible runes of power traced across the surface of the door ensure that most of the people who pass along the corridor mistake it for such.

Lockhart approaches the door with some trepidation. He pauses on the threshold, and an observer would conclude that he is nerving himself before he knocks, briskly.

The door opens.

“Come in,” says the room’s occupant.

“Thank you.” Lockhart steps inside the office and sits down in the visitor’s swivel chair opposite the strange metal desk with the hulking hood like a microfilm reader. As he does so Angleton locks the door with a strange silver key which he returns to a matchbox-sized wooden case, sliding it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“What’s he done this time?” Angleton asks as he stalks back towards his chair behind the projection turret of the Memex.

Lockhart exhales explosively. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Possibly nothing, yet.”

“Hmm.” Angleton glances at the elderly analog clock above the doorway. “It’s nearly twenty-one hundred hours. Not like you to be burning the midnight oil over nothing, is it? Can I ask why?”

“I’m afraid not.” Lockhart’s mustache twitches, caught somewhere between a smile and a sneer. “But I was hoping you might be able to help me with a question of character.”

“Character.” Angleton doesn’t seem at all put out by Lockhart’s refusal; he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “There’s a word I don’t hear often enough these days. Especially coming from you.”

“Of course not.” Lockhart is dismissive. “It’s a subjective value judgment and those don’t sit comfortably with ticky-boxes and objective performance metrics. It only comes into play when one is off the reservation.”

“And is Bob—” Angleton catches himself. “Of course he is. Ask away, ask anything you want. I can’t promise an accurate answer in the absence of exact details of the situation, but I’ll do my best.”

An observer, familiar with the internal pecking order of the Laundry, might at this point be justifiably taken aback. Here is Gerald Lockhart, SSO8(L), a middling senior officer in the backwater that is External Assets—a department most people (who are aware of it) think spends its time keeping track of loaned laptops—grilling DSS Angleton, a Detached Special Secretary (or, as scuttlebutt would have it, a Deeply Scary Sorcerer), one of the famous old monsters of the Operations Directorate: a man so wrapped in secrecy that his shadow doesn’t have a high enough security clearance to stick to his heels. But a typical observer wouldn’t understand the nature of External Assets. Or, indeed, be aware of Gerald Lockhart’s real job.

“Hypothetically, then. Can you think of any circumstances under which you’d expect our man to break cover in the field and disobey an explicit order? That’s expect him to disobey, not merely signal reluctance before complying, or make use of loopholes.”

Angleton’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you vetting him?”

Lockhart shakes his head. “I’m not vetting him. It’s just a general enquiry I’ve been told to answer.” His tone of voice is flat.

“Oh.” Angleton stares at him. “Oh dear.”

Lockhart shakes his head again. “What are Howard’s weak points?”

“Hmm.” Angleton stares at the ceiling for a few seconds. “The boy’s still hamstrung by a residual sense of fair play, if that’s what you’re asking about. He believes in the rule of law, and in taking responsibility for his actions. He’s personally loyal to his friends and co-workers. His personal life is boringly normal—he’s besotted with his wife, doesn’t use drugs, has no blackmail handles. In fact I don’t think he’s got any noteworthy character failings—these are all good characteristics in a junior officer. He’s not a sociopath if that’s what…oh.” Angleton sits up and leans towards Lockhart. “You didn’t give him a clearly illegal order, did you? Put him in a compromising situation or tell him to abandon a colleague or someone he’s personally loyal to—” Lockhart says nothing. “Oh dear.”

“What is he likely to do? In the circumstances you, ah, speculated about.”

Angleton grimaces humorlessly. “He has a history of, shall we say, being on the receiving end of abusive management practices. It has taught him to take a skeptical approach to obviously flawed directives. He’d use his initiative and try to square the circle—do whatever he was told to, while mitigating the consequences. He’d bend before breaking, in other words. He’s loyal to the Crown, but he’s not suicidal or stupid. However, conflicts of loyalty could be a very sticky wicket.”

“Ah.” Lockhart pause briefly. “You mentioned loyalty. Personal, organizational, or general?”

“I’m not sure I follow your distinction.”

“You said he’s unlikely to obey an order to abandon colleagues. What about civilian third parties? Informers and sources? Contractors and stringers? Family members or strangers? Where does he draw the line, in other words?”

Angleton fixes Lockhart with a beady stare. “Bob is too loyal for his own good. The lad’s got a troublesome conscience.”

“I…see.” Lockhart nods slowly. “That’s what I thought. Excellent.” He stands. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see myself out.”

“Just one moment.” Lockhart pauses halfway to the door. “Mr. Lockhart. The boy understands plausible deniability. And so do I. But I hope you’re not confusing deniability with disposability. That would be a mistake.”

“Who for? Howard?”

“No, for you.” Angleton doesn’t smile. “I will be very annoyed if you damage my trainee.”

“Dr. Angleton.” Lockhart doesn’t turn; his voice is a monotone. “I have no intention of burning Mr. Howard. If nothing else, he would be extremely difficult to replace right now. But I have been instructed to establish whether he has the moral courage to do the right thing when he believes he’s been cut loose, or whether he’ll run screaming for his mother.”

“Why would he believe—” Angleton pauses. “Are you expecting the OPA to take an interest?”

Lockhart, by way of reply, opens the door and slips out. He doesn’t pause to borrow the key. Angleton stares after him for a moment before silently mouthing an obscenity in a half-forgotten language. Then, his face set in a frown, he turns to his Memex’s keyboard and begins to tap out instructions.