The Apocalypse Codex

5. BASHFUL INCENDIARY

I KEEP MY GOB SHUT UNTIL WE GET BACK TO LOCKHART’S OFFICE. He shuts the door and flips the security lamp switch—to warn passers-by not to enter—then turns to me. “Sit down, Mr. Howard. I must congratulate you on not giving away the entire kitchen sink, along with the silver teaspoons…”

I sit on the edge of the hard visitor’s chair. I will confess to a slight degree of tension. There will be an exam: no shit, Sherlock. The real question is, who is examining whom?

“Do Operational Oversight know about this?” I ask bluntly.

Lockhart’s response is characteristically terse. “They aren’t cleared to supervise Externalities. We answer directly to Mahogany Row. The Auditors keep an eye on us, in case you were wondering about accountability.”

Great. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any dicier, it turns out we’re going behind the backs of the folks normally charged with keeping us on the straight and narrow, because the Big Bad themselves are giving us the hairy eyeball. “So, let me see if I’ve got things right…You’ve got wind of a televangelist who is in too tight with the Prime Minister. He’s got, at a minimum, some rudimentary talent; at worst, he may be a cultist. The PM is completely and utterly off-limits, so we’re going to set up a surveillance op that bypasses Operational Oversight specifically so we can violate our organization’s equivalent of the prime directive. Right?”

“Not exactly.” The caterpillar is unamused. “We are going to obey the letter of the law, Mr. Howard, and don’t you forget—”

“I’m so glad to hear that—” I begin before I realize he’s got more to say: “I’m sorry?”

“What did I tell you about using your ears?” I bite my tongue and give him the nod he’s waiting for. “When you’re not filling the external assets’ ears with your own opinions…anyway. As I was saying, we are bound to obey the law. The Laundry does not snoop on the PM or his associates. Caesar’s wife and all that. Nor does the Laundry employ external contractors.”

Then what was lunch about? I manage not to ask; instead I nod, trying to fake a thoughtful expression.

“It is possible that from time to time outside interlopers who, I emphasize, do not work for the Laundry, and who feature nowhere in our org chart, might take an interest in people associated with Number Ten. Wild cards, loose cannons.” Lockhart aims for the arch expression of a Sir Humphrey Appleby: on his round face it looks as authentic as a six pound note. “In which case we would of course be required to investigate them: strictly to ensure that the PM’s security was not violated, you understand.”

“Outside interlopers like BASHFUL INCENDIARY and her pet thug?” I stare at him in ill-concealed disbelief.

“You appear to be slightly perturbed.” Lockhart walks behind his desk and sits, stiffly. “Would you care to explain why, Mr. Howard?”

You gave me the dossier—I flap my mouth: noises come out. Get a grip, Bob. “Where shall I start?”

“At the beginning.” Lockhart laces his fingers together. “Tell me about BASHFUL INCENDIARY, then explain why you are uneasy.”

“Huh. Okay, then. We have a woman with no history before the age of eight. She first appears on the scene in Bosnia during the war, already aged eight, via a refugee camp. Doesn’t speak and is believed to be mute. After four months in the camp a couple of teenage thugs try to rape her. The UN peacekeepers notice the aftermath of the incident but write it off as a freak accident; by the time someone asks what sucked the soul out of two gangbangers, she isn’t there anymore. To this day, it’s an open question—precocious talent or a protective agency? There are isolated reports over the next two years. Living with a family of Roma in Albania, caught begging in Trieste, shoplifting in Milan. She slips through the net every time. Then, a year later, the trail firms up. She is formally adopted by Alberto and Marianne di Fonseca, whose lawyers convince the magistrate that despite the lack of paperwork it’s in the kid’s best interest for her to have a stable, loving, and fairly well-off family.”

I take a deep breath. “The di Fonsecas are persons of interest: a professor of theoretical mathematics and a former fortune teller with a reputation as a witch. He’s titled—duke of a historic statelet that hasn’t existed since the eighteenth century. There’s old money and influence there, not to mention his membership in a politically influential but very secretive masonic lodge—”

Lockhart makes a cutting gesture: “Fast-forward, if you please.”

“Okay. Our ten-year-old girl is enrolled in an expensive Liceo Scientifico where her academic performance goes from subpar in the first year to meteoritic in the second and subsequent. By fifteen she was taking her, ah, diploma di scuola superiore—ready to enter university four years early. Wednesday Addams, the Italian remix: a quiet, reserved pupil, doesn’t make many friends, spends holidays at home with her adoptive parents. Pay no attention to the word among the local lads about town that she’s a, a succubus; probably she’s just very good at creeping out teenage boys who hit on her.

“She’s staying with the di Fonsecas in their holiday villa—but not at home on the evening of July 19, 2002, when they are murdered. The murderers are gunmen reported variously to be members of the Palermo Mafia, the Brigado Rosso, or the Red Skull Cult, depending on who you ask. The girl, aged sixteen, is the sole survivor. Her claim to have been out on the town at the time is accepted by the local magistrates. She inherits roughly two million euros and the contents of the di Fonsecas’ library, changes her legal name, and moves out.”

I draw a deep breath. “Fast-forward two years—I’ll back up in a minute—and two badly decomposed bodies are dredged from a lake in Tuscany. DNA evidence places them at the scene of the massacre. The remains show signs of paranormal intervention.” That’s Laundry-speak for they were chewed on by extradimensional horrors.

“Inconclusive.” Lockhart frowns. “What next?”

How to summarize…? Oh, that’s easy. “She embarks on a five-year reign of terror. Instead of going to university, from September 2002 through to November 2007 BASHFUL INCENDIARY ran the most successful private occult intelligence service in history. The Hazard Network. An eighteen-year-old genius with a private income, the looks of a model, and a knack for identifying and hiring raw talent. She is, as it turns out, a very talented ritual practitioner”—one who risks their own cerebral cortex by working magic, raw, by force of will—“with a speciality in sex magic and, if that isn’t sickening enough, she’s a damn fine paralogician and a skilled programmer.” Ritual magic is rare enough; combining it with a talent for our kind of business is distinctly unusual.

“Let’s see: White Hat work. We know the Sultan of Brunei hired the Hazard Agency to track down a deep-cover Al-Qaida cell attempting to infiltrate the army intelligence service and the Sultan’s own personal bodyguard. A Swiss bank retained her services as a Tiger Team to test security on their new deposit facility—verdict: it needed serious improvements. That sort of thing.

“As for her Black Hat work, there’s nothing anyone can prove well enough to stand up in court—but a certain stench of brimstone attaches.” I begin checking off crimes and outrages on my fingers. “Suspected removal of occult artifacts and jewelry from sunken Roman merchant vessels in the Adriatic. Suspected involvement in smuggling of Egyptian antiquities. Suspected theft of previously stolen old masters from a rich collector’s hoard in Vienna, subsequent resale and blackmail—sexual as well as handling stolen goods—of their previous custodian. And an investment portfolio that bottomed out at 1.2 million euros in 2002 and peaked at just over one hundred million”—I do the Doctor Evil little-pinkie gesture at this point—“before the bottom fell out of the market in 2008.”

Lockhart nods. “Since that time?”

“In 2008 she retires to London. Waits six months, then dumps the thick end of twenty million pounds of her personal wealth into the property market—right after the initial crash—and another hundred thousand pounds in political donations that make her very difficult to dislodge. By this time she’s only got five or ten million left in the bank—she’s paid off her team—but she plays her hand expertly. She’s an EU citizen thanks to the di Fonsecas, a twenty-four-year-old millionairess who invites herself to the right parties and makes friends with the right Bright Young Things. Any crimes she did commit are swept under the rug, and she’s kept her nose clean for the past seven years. In fact, she’s done a terrifyingly professional job of turning herself into a pillar of the establishment. There’s absolutely nothing on her record after 2008 except for the financial and social work. To all intents and purposes it looks as if she dropped out of the whole occult world completely.”

“Yes, that’s always the way it works.” Lockhart nods.

“So why isn’t she one of us?” I ask bluntly. “She’d be a major asset…”

“You have no need to know.” The caterpillar stretches in a thin line: curls over and plays dead. “That decision was taken above your pay grade—or mine. However”—Lockhart places a hand on top of the BASHFUL INCENDIARY file—“you will doubtless have realized by now that if she was in here she would be required to work under the same constraints as you or I, which would severely reduce her value to us. And I am led to believe that, within certain parameters, her loyalty is absolute.”

I can’t help myself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lockhart’s cheek twitches. “For one thing, it means that she really does not like the Culto del Teschio Rosso and their playmates. And for another thing, if you ask her why she moved here, she will tell you that she conducted a rigorous survey of European occult defense agencies and concluded that we have the best chance of surviving CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. In her opinion.” His tone is dry enough to curdle milk. “It would be unwise to confuse a finely tuned survival instinct with loyalty to the Crown, Mr. Howard, but it counts for something.”

“So we’re her lifeboat and you trust her to bail if you hand her a bucket?”

“Something like that. Or so I have been led to believe by Mahogany Row. And what’s good enough for them is, ipso facto, good enough for us.”

“Jesus.” I shake my head. (So this is coming down from the very top of the organization: the stratospheric, secretive executive country that mere mortal scum like me don’t get to see even from a distance unless we’re very unlucky.) “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Ray Schiller of the Golden Promise Ministries is doing breakfast with the PM, and you’re a little upset because he’s disturbingly convincing and gives off bad vibes. We can’t snoop on the PM ourselves, so you point this loose cannon at the pastor—” I stop. “Oh no you don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Lockhart’s face is as unreadable as a professional poker player’s.

I’m on my feet and leaning over his desk; I don’t remember standing, and I am so damn angry that I’m shaking: “You’re setting me up! You’re going to spin it as a rogue operation with no oversight and if anything goes wrong—”

“Calm down, Mr. Howard!”

I’m not sure quite what it is about his tone, but his words are like a bucket of cold water in my face.

“You are not being framed. Quite the opposite. Your role in this operation is to monitor and report on BASHFUL INCENDIARY’s officially unauthorized and unsanctioned activities; nothing more and nothing less. You will have…noticed…that at no point did I instruct BASHFUL INCENDIARY to act on our behalf. In fact I have no authority over her. What Ms. Hazard chooses to do next is entirely up to her. It is not impossible that she will decide to occupy herself with the Grand National and the Chelsea Flower Show instead. Or to emigrate to Brazil, or paint herself orange and join a Buddhist nunnery. The point is, she is not under our control. Not under yours or mine. You don’t have command authority; your job is to keep an eye on the external asset, not to direct it.”

“But”—I begin to slow down: the implications are sinking in—“with what she knows, what if she’s a threat?”

Lockhart looks at me grimly. “I think that is very unlikely, Mr. Howard, otherwise I would not have mentioned our little problem to her. However, in the hypothetical case that the loose cannon were to explode in our faces, your job would be to deal with the consequences as you see fit. If you happen to be one of the survivors.”

“I”—squeak—“survivors?” It wouldn’t be the first time an operation has blown up under me with fatal consequences, but I really hate the way this is shaping up, with Hazard carrying the detonator and me trailing along with bucket and spade. But Lockhart evidently misunderstands the nature of my reservations.

“This is not a game, Mr. Howard. Your new pay grade comes with strings attached; I am not referring to the management training. Further advancement as an officer within this service will put you in situations where you will be responsible for whether other people live or die—this is inevitable as we move closer to CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. Worse: it is likely that you will encounter situations where you must choose who to save and who to cast adrift, answerable only to your oath of service and your conscience. I understand from your personnel file that you have been placed in situations where you have been required to use lethal force in self-defense. This is not the same.” He fixes me with a gimlet stare. “There is a huge difference between returning fire in personal self-defense and ordering an artillery strike on an inhabited civilian settlement suspected of harboring enemy forces. Do you understand?”

I sit down. My mouth is dry. Lockhart’s gaze is directed through me, almost as if he’s talking to a younger version of himself. Military background, I think. It’s his personal metaphor. Nightmare, whatever. Then I have a flashback of my own, to a buried temple: writhing bodies, hungry revenants in the surrounding darkness, a sacrifice of souls. “I’m afraid I do,” I say slowly. “Too bloody well.”

“Good.” His shoulders relax like an over-wound spring. “I trust that you were not suffering from the misconception that your promotion was directed towards a routine management role.”

“This doesn’t sound very routine to me.” As a joke, it falls flatter than a Brick Lane chapati.

The caterpillar twitches. “Ninety-eight percent of management work in this organization is routine. The other two percent is a tightrope walk over an erupting volcano without a safety net. Congratulations: here’s your balance pole.”

I lick my lips. “So what exactly am I managing?”

“Trouble.” Lockhart glances at his wristwatch. “Hmm. Well, I must be going—I have a meeting at four. I suggest you take the rest of the day off. Go home, check your go-bag, that kind of thing.” He looks at me again. “Make sure to wear a suit tomorrow.”

“What?” The phrase wear a suit does not fill me with joy.

“Be here tomorrow morning, nine thirty sharp. We’ll start by collecting your new passport. They’ll need to photograph you. Then we have a field trip.”

“New passport?”

“In all probability this operation will require you to travel outside the country.” Lockhart picks up the BASHFUL INCENDIARY file and bends over his office safe, putting his back between me and the keypad. “In which case you will need a passport with a diplomatic visa. In my experience, when pretending to be a diplomat working for the Foreign Office it usually helps to look the part.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “Well? What is it?”

I put my brain back in gear. “Where am I going?”

“Probably the United States, because that is where Schiller’s Golden Promise Ministries is headquartered—but in any event, wherever Ms. Hazard leads you. Remember: economy class on flights of less than six hours duration. Oh, and don’t forget to write.” He flicks his fingers at me. “Shoo.”

I shoo.

I AM IN THE BEDROOM PACKING MY GO-BAG WHEN MO GETS home.

There is a clattering from the front hall, then more noises from the kitchen—cupboard doors, the fridge, a dirty coffee mug rattling in the sink. Finally a loudly pitched question mark: “Bob?”

“Up here.” Five pairs of socks, six, or hit M&S for a new one-week pre-pack? I hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Who died?” she asks from the doorway.

“No one,” I say, straightening up. She’s seen the suit.

Actually, I own two suits these days. The other one is a black-tie job for formal bashes like the Institute of Chartered Demonologists’ annual ball. This one is my Reservoir Dogs Special. It does duty for all occasions that require a suit—court appearances, weddings, graduation ceremonies, funerals, and those situations when work absolutely requires something other than a tee shirt and jeans. It’s the kind of suit that is worn at arm’s length by a suit refusnik; the kind of suit that trails a screaming neon disclaimer overhead, saying: the occupant of this garment is clearly alive only because he wouldn’t be seen dead in one of these things; the kind of suit whose afterlife is destined to be spent surrounded by mothballs in a charity shop window display. I did not buy it willingly: when it became half past obvious that I needed one, Mo dragged me round the shops for seven solid hours until I finally surrendered.

“They’re sending you somewhere,” she says. “Diplomatic cover?”

“Er—”

Laundry employees are not supposed—in fact, not allowed—to discuss their work with civilians. But Mo is not a civilian. And (I don’t think Lockhart knows this) she and I have a special waiver to our binding geas to allow us to vent on one another’s shoulder. But this business with Raymond Schiller and BASHFUL INCENDIARY is a cut above the ordinary, and I’m not even sure she knows about Externalities and Lockhart’s little sideline.

While I’m vacillating over how much I can tell my wife, she works it all out for herself and nods, briskly: “Well, if they’re running you under FO cover they’ll want you to look like a junior FO staffer, and that won’t do. Let me see what you’ve got so far, then we can work out a shopping list to fill in the gaps.”

“A shopping—”

“Oh Bob.” She looks amused. “What do you think they pay me for?”

“Personal shopper?” It’s a bad joke; of course I know what they pay her for. Mo owns several suits, because part-time university lecturers are expected to look the part—and when she isn’t teaching, or researching, she’s traveling on business with one of the aforementioned diplomatic visas.

“Good guess.” She bends over the case. “Any idea how long you’ll be gone for? Or where?”

“You missed an ‘if’ out of those questions.” I shrug. “I may not be going anywhere at all. Or I may be going several places, in a hurry.”

“Oh, one of those jobs.” She frowns. “Okay, you pack for five days and work the hotel room service on expenses for priority cleaning if you overrun. Underwear, shirts, huh…is this your only tie?”

“Apart from the bow that goes with the dinner jacket, yes.” It’s a black silk tie with Wile E. Coyote’s head embroidered on it in raised relief, black-on-black. I’ve had it for two years; I was forced to buy it for my uncle’s funeral after the last neck-strangulator was disemboweled by the washing machine. (How was I to know they’re dry clean only?) I was wondering how long it would take her to notice.

“Jesus, Bob.” She shakes her head. “Okay, I’m taking you to work tomorrow. By tube, via the shops in Liverpool Street station. And I’m buying.”

“Why?” I will confess to sounding a tad querulous at this point.

“So you don’t end up with a diplomatic mug shot that makes you look like a hung-over hipster, that’s why.” She glares at me. “It’s work.”

I deflate. “No, it’s management bullshit,” I say weakly.

“Tell me about it.” For a moment her expression is bleak beyond anything her years entitle her to. And she’s five years older than me.

I take a chance. “There’s a department called—”

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and a taste of acrid brimstone fills my nostrils. So, being me, I try again.

“I’m working for—” There’s an immediate electric prickling in my eyes and a crawling on my scalp. Nope, oath of office ain’t having it.

“Looks like our usual waiver doesn’t apply to this job.” The ward of office agrees and refrains from frying my ass for explaining this to her.

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, but that’s some serious shit you’re in.” I nod enthusiastically, which seems to be allowed. “Coming right on top of that course on, what was it, leadership skills…” She walks around the bed and prods disconsolately at the graveyard of trainers. “You’ll be needing a good pair of running shoes, then. And something that doesn’t call you out as anything other than your normal boring embassy desk pilot. Assuming you’re doing what I think you’re doing.” She pauses. “Have you been to see Harry yet?”

“That was on my to-do list for tomorrow,” I admit. Harry is our armorer. “But if I have to tool up, everything will already have gone to shit.”

“In which case you will need to be carrying, in order to evacuate and report.” She pauses. “Scratch Harry; if you’re going overseas, guns are a liability. I think you want to have a word with Pinky tomorrow. He’s been working with a new application of SCORPION STARE, and you might be an ideal candidate for beta tester.”

I KNOCK ON LOCKHART’S OFFICE DOOR AT NINE THIRTY SHARP the next morning, wearing a sober suit and a new tie—one of three that Mo insisted on buying for me in Noose Hutch International on the way to work (which meant she got to vet them for cartoon wildlife first). It’s uncomfortable but I’m not panicking yet—I’ve got a compact Leatherman tool in my pocket, which means I can always stab it to death if it wakes up and tries to throttle me.

“Ah, Mr. Howard.” Lockhart’s stare is judgmental. “Come on, we’re running late.” He sweeps out of the office and I tag along in his wake.

Normally, when I apply for a passport I get some pictures taken in a photo booth, fill out a form, then go round to a post office and pay them to check the paperwork and send it off to the Identity and Passport Service. A couple weeks later a fat envelope flops through the letterbox. This is a bit different, and involves visiting an office about which we shall say as little as possible, because the Dustbin are not our friends (except when they’re arranging official cover documentation for our people, including shiny new passports with genuine diplomatic visas accredited by the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square without the need for an actual visit and interview).

After the photo-and-fingerprints session at Spook Central, Lockhart leads me outside the MI5 headquarters building and hails a taxi. Twenty traumatic minutes later we arrive at the sucking vortex of existential despair and chaos that is Euston, whereupon Lockhart hands me a rail ticket and leads me through the barriers. “Where are we going?” I ask. He ignores me, but pauses to buy a copy of the Daily Telegraph. The ticket, I note, is first class—something I thought was a strict no-no under our current hair-shirt expenditure controls.

Half an hour later, he folds his newspaper, stands up, and leads me off the train onto a platform in Milton Keynes Central. I shiver and look around, counting cameras. “Where are we going?” I ask again.

“To an obscure industrial park on the outskirts of town,” he replies as he strides out of the front of the station, head swiveling in search of taxis like a vigilant blackbird after a juicy earthworm. We pause beside a row of pantone-colored concrete seagulls. “A place called Hanslope Park. Home to an organization called HMGCC.”

“Her Majesty’s GNU C Compiler?” I blink stupidly at the daylight.

“No, Her Majesty’s Government Communications Centre. Very much not open source, Mr. Howard.”

“Oh.” Something about the address rings a bell from years ago, but I’m not certain yet. I stare at the seagulls. My skin crawls; I have bad memories of Milton Keynes, but they mostly center on the concrete cows and a compromised research station that may or may not have been located close to Hanslope Park. A sign beside the station entrance tells me that the local schools are having a seagull parade, with a charity draw and a prize for the best avian paint job. “So we’re making the rounds?”

“It generally attracts less attention than an external request.” A taxi pulls up between a puce seabird with bright red eyes and a startled expression and another gull wearing authentic 1940s Luftwaffe insignia. We climb in.

HMGCC is one of those boringly standardized cookie-cutter government installations that look like a blighted industrial estate: crappy seventies brutalist office architecture and prefabricated concrete warehouses with an open car park behind razor-wire-topped fences and signs saying BEWARE OF THE DOG. For all I know it could be right next door to the unit where I had my happy-fun encounter with Mark McLuhan; these places are so anonymous they could be anything. A bonded whisky warehouse, a bank cash center, or a factory where they build nuclear warheads. Further back, behind the buildings and out of sight of the road, there will be satellite dishes and exposed runs of cabling and pipes between buildings, and stuff of interest to spies and trainspotters—but first you have to get inside.

Lockhart stops our taxi driver at the front gate, pays, and we walk up to an impressive set of wire gates that are overlooked from three directions by white masts bending under the weight of CCTV cameras and antennae. My skin is just about ready to crawl off my neck and sprint screaming up the street—I know what those cameras are for!—but Lockhart pulls out his warrant card and advances on the gate guard. “Gerald Lockhart and Robert Howard to see Dr. Traviss. We’re expected.”

Half an hour and the electronic equivalent of a body cavity search later—I swear they’re using me as a guinea pig for the scanners for next decade’s airport security theater—we arrive in a small, dingy office with high, frosted-glass windows and too much furniture. It’s clearly one of the graveyards where the MOD filing cabinets go to die. There’s a too-small meeting table, and three occupied seats. The occupants stand as Lockhart shakes hands. “Bob, this is Dr. Traviss.” A tall, gloomy-looking fellow in a suit and horn-rimmed glasses, Traviss seems only marginally aware of his surroundings. “This is Alan Fraser”—a government-issue scientific officer, subtype: short, hairy, and explosive, probably screeches all over the home counties on a monstrously overpowered motorbike every weekend to reassure himself that he still has a life—“and this is Warrant Officer O’Hara”—a blue-suiter, middle-aged, clearly along for the ride with orders to shoot the boffins if they try to think too hard. “Dr. Traviss, Bob is the individual you were briefed on yesterday.” Oh, really? I think. “He’s going overseas. Bob, these fellows are going to equip you for inventory tracking.”

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “You aren’t planning on using destiny entanglement on me, are you? Because last time—”

Lockhart cuts across me: “Nothing of the kind,” he snaps. “Destiny entanglement leaks. It’s a security violation waiting to happen.”

Warrant Officer O’Hara pulls a file folder out from under his blotter and extracts a fearsome-looking document. “Read this and initial each page please, Mr. Howard.” His avuncular smile draws some of the sting from his words, but it’s quite clear that I’m not going to hear another word from these folks until I sign.

I read the first paragraph, clock that it’s the standard Official Secrets Act boilerplate with added Laundry special sauce that we use to bind people to silence under threat of a fate worse than prosecution, skim-read the rest to make sure there are no surprise whoopee cushions buried in it, and sign in blood, using the sterile lancet and pen that O’Hara provides for that purpose. The unusually heavy paper itches under my fingertips, a dry prickling sensation that reminds me of dead insects. O’Hara removes the form and slides it back into the folder as I apply a cotton wool pad to my hand.

“Now we can proceed,” says Traviss. He walks over to one of the filing cabinets and unlocks it, withdraws a zip-lock bag containing something that looks like a small photo album—the old dead-tree variety—and sits back down in front of me. He pulls the booklet out. “Mr. Howard. Have you ever seen one of these before?”

I squint at it. “A photo album. Yes?”

“Exactly.” Traviss looks glumly satisfied. “Nine pounds from WHSmith’s.” He carefully folds the first page open. “And this is a prepaid phone card.”

I nod, fascinated.

He flips to the next page. “This is a temporary tattoo.” Just like a million other tramp stamps sold on rolls of transfer paper in tat shops for kids who’re too chicken to let a weekend biker scribble on their skin with a needle gun. “And, oh look, another. Inventory tags, Mr. Howard.”

“Right.”

“The phone card goes in your wallet. There’s nothing special about it except that any call you make using this number will go through a switch that is monitored around the clock, so everything you say will be overheard.” He nods at Lockhart. “I believe Mr. Lockhart has a list of codewords for you to memorize.”

“Isn’t that a little crude?” I probe.

Traviss pulls a face. “There is a man behind the curtain but you should pay no attention to him, Mr. Howard. We’ve put a lot of effort into ensuring that if you ever use this phone card, nobody will pay it any particular attention. In fact, we encourage you to use it a lot—if you’re overseas, you can use it to call your wife.” I suppress a twitch. Clearly he doesn’t know that Mo is also a Laundry employee. “Would you rather engage in some cloak-and-dagger antics involving ad-hoc wifi networks running at set times in Starbucks, and laptops with hardware encryption dongles? So that when the black hats come to arrest you they find all your incriminating equipment and beat your password out of you with rubber hoses?”

I swallow. “I’m not used to that particular threat,” I admit.

“I suppose not.” Traviss looks satisfied.

“What about the tattoos?” I ask.

“Ah. Let’s see.” He flips rapidly through them: a goth’s trophy pentacle, a cherub’s kebab-skewer of love hearts, a hieroglyphic squiggle of ankhs and eye of Horus, even a couple of crosses. “Put these on your, ah, inventory items. They’re waterproof and will last until they rub off—typically three to six days, but possibly longer if the inventory items refrain from bathing or cover them with an occlusive dressing. The image itself is non-signifying—the ink contains suspended nanoparticles impregnated with—” O’Hara clears his throat. “Right.” Traviss pauses for a few seconds. “This is the master controller.” He flops to the back of the book and shows me a kitsch clockface tat. “Apply this and you can communicate with the satellite tattoos.”

“Um. How?” I ask.

“Contagion and blood magic,” says Fraser, with relish. He grins fiendishly. “Use a needle to prick yourself through the tat and you’ll be able to drop in on your subject. Or just use pain, in emergency pinch skin—but that can damage the tattoo. You can talk by subvocalizing or thinking the words—you can communicate silently.”

I blink. It sounds almost too good to be true. “What are the drawbacks?” I ask.

“Well, there’s some sensory leakage; while you’re connected, you can feel their emotional state to some extent, see through their eyes. And physical pain—that transfers much too easily. You really don’t want to call one of your satellites right after they’ve been shot in the stomach. The second real risk is that the opposition will find the tattoo and deduce what it is and what it’s for before one of you can remove it. Oh, and you really don’t want to activate it while you’re in proximity to an unshielded trophic resonator—soul-suckers, or demons, or anything that can get a lock on your nervous system—they’re attracted to such channels, and a ward won’t save you.”

I shiver. Suddenly it’s not looking that convenient after all.

“It’s a tool,” O’Hara explains slowly, as if to a particularly stupid schoolboy, “to allow you to silently and untraceably talk one-on-one with field operatives, or snoop on their activities. In enemy territory, under the nose of the bad guys. It is not a magic wand. There are countermeasures, and if you are not careful and run into them it can betray you as thoroughly as being caught with a shortwave radio and a code book. But not to civilians.” By which he means the likes of the FBI and police.

I take a deep breath. “Got it. Is there an FAQ?”

“I’ll email it to you.” Traviss’s words are directed to Lockhart. “You can share it with Mr. Howard, I’m sure.”

I do not like this. I do not like the way Lockhart takes the slim flipbook and pages through it, frowning thoughtfully—the caterpillar is disturbed—or the way these cowboys are tag-teaming us. “Is that all?” I ask sharply.

“Is that all?” Traviss sounds appalled.

“Yes, Bob, that is all.” Lockhart stares at me with watery, dyspeptic eyes. “I think we’ll be going now,” he says, sliding the book back into its bag. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He stands, and we file out.

LOCKHART DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING UNTIL WE GET BACK TO THE New Annex; he takes the admonitions about careless chatter so seriously that while we’re out and about he’s as conversational as a badger that’s been dead for three days. Once back in his office he opens up—in my direction, unfortunately.

“You will not discuss our operational parameters in the presence of members of external organizations ever again,” he says coldly. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Uh?”

He walks around me where I stand, more or less rooted to his office carpet. “You mentioned destiny entanglement, Mr. Howard. How do you know that Dr. Traviss and his companions were cleared to know about that technology?”

I blink rapidly. “My geas didn’t—”

“No, it didn’t, Mr. Howard. But you should not rely on your oath of office as an infallible guide to the perimeter of our security cordon. It relies on your own cognizance of threats to determine what level of security to apply. You of all people should understand that there are individuals who your geas would passively allow you to talk to who are nevertheless enemies—moles, enemies within who have official clearance. It may be that Dr. Traviss and Mr. Fraser and Warrant Officer O’Hara are familiar with destiny entanglement tools like the one you used in conjunction with agent RANDOM a few years ago. Very probably they are, because the inventory tracking tags rely on a very watered-down version of the same technology—one that does not risk your mind fusing with that of your target if it isn’t forcibly disconnected after a handful of days. The problem is that they now know that you too are familiar with such tools.”

Enlightenment dawns, somewhat too late. “Oh. Shit.”

“That is the correct word, Mr. Howard. Most likely it is an insignificant slip—but if, for example, Mr. Fraser turns out to be a mole in the employ of the Thirteenth Directorate, you have just delivered valuable information about your own capabilities to an unfriendly organization. Security is not just an externally directed process, it must be an internal one. Do you understand me?”

I nod jerkily. “Good.” He makes a cutting gesture with one hand and suddenly my feet can move again. “You’re a smart lad. If you have any concerns, you can bring them to me whenever you like. I will not mock you for asking stupid questions; we all have to start somewhere. But I would appreciate your keeping them private.”

“Um,” I say again.

“Yes?”

“If I’m going overseas, do I have any defensive issues?”

“Are you expecting to be physically attacked?” He raises an eyebrow.

I pause for a few seconds. “I am not expecting anything,” I say slowly. “But I try to be prepared for all circumstances. I really don’t like being held at gunpoint. And it’s happened before.”

For a few long seconds Lockhart stares at me. Then he nods approvingly. “Use your discretion,” he finally tells me. “No firearms; remember you will be traveling under diplomatic cover.” I wonder why he’s so certain about that, but now is probably not the time to poke him. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Go. I’ll send you the FAQ on the tracking tags when I receive it.”

I can take a hint; I go.

I HATE FIGHTING. I’M NOT PARTICULARLY GOOD AT IT, COMPARED to some of my acquaintances. Hell, I’m not even as good at it as my wife. If you have to fight, it means things are already badly out of control. So I generally try to avoid physical confrontations; my preferred defensive tactic is to run away. However, I can handle a Glock 17 and a Hand of Glory, and I’m certified for certain classes of occult self-defense. Mo said something about a device that Pinky and the Brain are testing over in Facilities…so after grabbing a quick lunch in the canteen I bail out of the office and head across town to what they used to jokingly call Q Division.

Unlike HMGCC, which is not part of the Laundry, Field Support Engineering is, and my warrant card is enough to get me inside. Whereupon I make my way through a drab corridor floored in carpet tiles that look to be a decade past their replace-by date, to an office door with a frosted-glass window and a No Entry sign. A pair of concrete seagulls to either side serve as gate guardians—these ones are unpainted, and unpleasantly lifelike—and there’s a bumper sticker instead of a name plate. Q: What are we going to do tonight, Brains? A: The same thing we do every night, Pinky: Try to take over the world!

I enter, and close the door behind me. Pinky—not his real name—is hunched over his computer’s screen, messing around with a digitizer pen. After a moment he blinks and looks up at me. “Bob?” He grins enormously and comes bounding out from behind the desk. “Bob!”

“Long time no—”

“Bob! You really must see this! It’s brilliant!” He zips across the room and begins sifting through a mountain of what looks at first sight like junk (but probably isn’t). “You’re going to love this,” he promises, turning round and offering me a slim box. After a second I recognize it.

“It’s a camera, right?” Digital, subtype: compact. I take it.

Of an instant, Pinky’s expression is all concern. “Hold on a minute! Don’t switch it on yet.”

I turn it over in my hands. “Huh.” There’s a legend on the front: Fuji FinePix Real 3D. Suddenly I remember the seagull gate guardians and my blood turns to ice. “Jesus, Pinky. Tell me this isn’t what I think it is?”

“I don’t know, Bob.” He cocks his head on one side. “What do you think it is?”

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “What happens if I turn it on?”

He shrugs. “It switches on.”

“And what happens if, say, I took a photograph of you?”

He shrugs again. “It takes a rather crappy 3D photograph. Why?”

“Where’s the special sauce?” I ask tensely.

“On this.” He produces an SD memory card with a flourish. “It’s just a 3D camera until you reflash it with this special firmware.”

“And then…” I lick my lips again. “Don’t tell me. It’s SCORPION STARE in a box that looks like a consumer digital camera. Right?”

“Yup.” And Pinky, the idiot, looks indecently pleased with himself. “Mo said you might be needing a personal defense weapon and, well, you’ve used a basilisk gun before? Only bigger, bulkier, and much crappier.”

You could put it that way.

Most of the magic we work with here in the Laundry is about using computational transforms to send messages that induce certain entities from outside our universe to sit up and pay attention. But sometimes there’s cruder stuff.

We’ve known for years that sometime soon we’ll be living through a crisis period; magic gets easier to perform the more people are around to perform it. It’s a computational, cognitive process and humans are cognitive machines…so are computers. We’ve got a population bubble, and a computing bubble, and they coincide. For the next few decades conditions are right for rupture and invasion by entities from outside our universe.

Some folks (ritual magicians) actually do the symbol-manipulation thing in their heads, risking death by Krantzberg syndrome and worse. It’s not an approach to defending the realm that scales, because you can’t take a random reasonably bright teenager and reliably turn them into a sorcerer. But you can turn some of them into computer scientists—and a whole lot more into IT support drones who can use a canned toolkit to perform a limited range of occult manipulations.

One of the weapons Her Majesty’s Government is developing to deal with the threat is the SCORPION STARE network. Two or more observing viewpoints—cameras—feeding the right kind of hardware/software network can, shall we say, impose their own viewpoint on whatever they’re looking at. In the case of SCORPION STARE, about ten percent of the carbon nuclei in the target are randomly transformed into silicon nuclei as if by magic. Messy pyrotechnics ensue: gamma radiation, short-lived muons, some really pretty high-energy chemistry, and lots of heat. We worked out how to do it by reverse-engineering basilisks and medusae—animals and unfortunate people suffering from a peculiar, and very rare, brain tumor. Now we’ve got defensive camera-emplacements on every high street, networked and ready to be controlled centrally when the balloon goes up. Street cleaning by CCTV-controlled flame thrower.

“What are its capabilities?” I ask Pinky, holding up the camera.

“Right now, it’s running the camera firmware,” he says. “Slide the lens cover down to switch it on. Point, shoot, it’s a camera.” I slide the lens cover down. As expected, the display back lights up. There’s a honking great gunsight frame superimposed over it. I turn it off hastily. “Load the basilisk firmware and you’ll see a gunsight. Point and shoot and instead of taking a snap, it sends a bang.”

“You’ve been practicing on the seagulls,” I accuse. “In Milton Keynes.”

“They’re vermin, Bob. They’ve been driven inland by over-fishing and now they’re spreading disease, attacking waste collections, keeping people awake in the small hours, and carrying away stray cats and small dogs. Next thing you know they’ll be cloning credit cards and planning bank robberies.”

“Yes, but…” I see no point in arguing; it’s not as if I like seagulls.

“It’s got an effective range of about a hundred meters, and enough juice to fire eighty times on a single battery charge,” Pinky adds. “It looks innocuous, which is more than you can say for a Glock; you can carry it on an airliner or through a security checkpoint, right?”

I sigh. “I hate these things.” Being shot at with them is a good enough reason, in my books.

“So use it wisely!” Pinky beams brightly. “Mo said you’d be calling, so I took the precaution of booking it out to you as a beta tester. Sign here…”

He’s learned from Brains’s mistake last year: he’s got the correct release forms in triplicate, and a memorandum of approval from the head of FSE, and a fearsome-looking end-user agreement that commands and compels me to ensure that the said device shall be returned to FSE, whether intact or in pieces, and all usage documented—this isn’t going to be a repeat of the JesusPhone fiasco.

“Okay.” I read the small print carefully and sign, repeatedly, in blood before he hands me the rest of the kit—charger, sync cables, spare SD card full of dodgy firmware, and a neck strap. By the time I leave his office, my suit pockets are bulging. But at least if any bad guys try to shoot me I can snap right back.