The Fuller Memorandum (9 page)

“Bob?” Her voice is small and terrified.

“I’m okay!” I call. “Are you?”

Pause
. “Check.” She advances down the stairs, instrument raised and bow poised, wearing an intent, emotionless expression utterly at odds with her voice. As she comes closer I see a trickle of blood emerging from her fingertips where she grips the neck of the bone-colored violin. There’s always a cost to being entrusted with such instruments, and she’s half-past overdrawn at the bank of life, her hands spidering twitchily as she stalks the house room by room, confirming that Uncle Fester was alone.

My forehead’s damp and I feel sick. I reach out to push myself up so I can shut the front door in case a curious neighbor sees something that might damage their house valuation, and my vision blurs again. I try to wipe my face and my hand comes away red and sticky.
That’s odd,
I tell myself,
I’ve never been shot before
. Then everything gets very hazy and far away for a while.

HOSPITALS ARE BORING PLACES: MY ADVICE IS TO AVOID THEM
wherever possible, unless you happen to work there. Unfortunately I’m not always good at taking my own advice, which is why I spend three hours in the A&E unit, having my head bolted back together.

Actually, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. It’s just a bash and a scrape to my scalp: but head wounds bleed like crazy and they wanted to make sure I wasn’t concussed and didn’t have a fractured skull or a subdural hematoma or something. Then it was time for about a million butterfly sutures and I’m told I may never be able to take the paper bag off in public again, but that’s okay because they let me go home with Mo and the nice folks from Plumbing who look like extras from
The Matrix
.

Being attacked by a demonically possessed Russian with a silenced pistol is unusual but not exceptional in my line of work; sloppy of me not to have replaced my ward, though, or to have checked the spy lens in the door before opening up. Inexcusable not to have noticed that Andy’s messenger was at least half an hour early, too . . . but in my defense, I wasn’t exactly
expecting
to be attacked by a demonically possessed Russian with a silenced pistol. (At least, I
assume
he was Russian. He was speaking Russian, wasn’t he? I have some broken schoolboy French: therefore I’m from Quebec. Such are the perils of inductive logic. It was certainly demonic possession: probably class two, one of the minor feeders in the night. Otherwise I’d be worse than dead.)

Anyway. The point is, that sort of thing is
just not done
, at least not without some degree of warning, especially to someone who’s signed off sick for the rest of the week—I’m feeling distinctly peeved. It’s
unprofessional
. I’m just lucky Mo realized something was wrong and grabbed her violin in time to switch him off. She may be pale and shaking in the aftermath of—something very bad, I guess—but she’s a trouper, or trooper, or something, and her reflexes are everything that mine are not.

When we get home, our house has been invaded by spooks. An entire team of Plumbers are at work, rewiring the perimeter defenses and daubing exclusion sigils on the window frames. Andy is sitting at the kitchen table, tapping his fingers, briefcase open, which makes it official: it’s serious enough to drag management off-site. “Bob, Mo, good to see you!” He sounds relieved, which is worrying.

“Letter of Release.” I cross my arms.

“You don’t need it.” Andy glances at Mo. “Whether we like it or not, Bob is now involved in CLUB ZERO. At least, I’m assuming that’s what followed you home . . .”

“Oh dear,” she says heavily, and pulls out a chair. “Bob, I really didn’t want—”

“Too late, whatever it is.” I grimace. I still feel a little sick, but it’s mostly overspill from the music—not concussion, just a little
totenlied
—and I’m heartsick for her, too. “Andy, what’s going on?”

“Angleton’s missing,” he says, with a curious little half smile, as if he’s just cracked a really filthy joke and is wondering if you’ve even heard of the perversion he’s alluding to.

“Angleton’s
what
?” says Mo, just as I open my mouth to say exactly the same thing.

“He’s missing. Do you have any information . . . no, I guess not.” His cheek twitches.

Mo reaches across the table and takes my hand. I barely notice.

Angleton is just about the bedrock of the department. Yes, his position is shrouded in rumor and misinformation—to some, he’s simply a DSS, a Detached Special Secretary doing boring and esoteric work in Arcana Analysis; to others he’s involved in the occult equivalent of counterespionage: but the truth is a lot weirder. Angleton actually gets to talk to
the Board
, who nobody has actually seen in the flesh in forty years. He’s the whetstone that sharpens the cutting edge of the blade our political masters fancy they wield when they tell us what to do: the dog’s bollocks, in other words. He’s not the heart of the Laundry—no one person is ever indispensable to any well-run agency—but he’s probably important enough that if he is indeed missing, things are going to get unpleasantly exciting.

“What happened?” Mo asks.

“He missed a meeting this morning. I went to look in on him—he wasn’t in his office. A couple of hours later I ran into Sally Alvarez from Accounting, and she said he’d missed a meeting, too. So I began asking around, and it transpires that he didn’t check in this morning. Nobody’s seen him since he went home yesterday evening.” Andy’s bright and brittle tone reminds me of a thin layer of paint applied to cover the ominous cracks in the plaster that widen and shift over time . . .

“Why didn’t you phone him at home?” asks Mo.

“Because there’s no home phone number on file for him!” Andy grins manically. “No address, for that matter, would you believe it? HR don’t have any contact details at all! Just a bank account and a PO Box for correspondence.”

“But that’s—”

“Ridiculous?” Andy’s smile slips. “Yes, I’d have said so, but remember this is
Angleton
we’re talking about. Did either of you see him yesterday?”

The phrase “Yes, I did” escapes before I can press my lips together. Mo gives me a withering look. “I’m not concealing anything,” I tell her: “Nothing to hide!”

Andy goes for the jugular. “Tell me. Everything.”

“Not much
to
tell.” I slump back on my chair. “I was on my way home, but I figured I’d drop in on him on the way.” I frown, then wince as the butterfly stitches on my forehead tell me not to be an idiot. “Thing is, the other day—he sent me to Cosford to see something in a hangar—”

“The exorcism that went wrong,” Andy interrupts.

“No,
not
the exorcism—something else, something in the museum. It’s his usual showing-not-telling thing: he wanted me to see it before he explained. So I dropped in to talk to him because I didn’t manage to get to Hangar 12B in the end. He spun me some kind of line about an RAF squadron that was decommissioned in 1964, some photoreconnaissance unit or other, and gave me some file references to follow up next week. Squadron 666, he said. Yes, it was tangentially connected, but there’s no bloody way of knowing what he’s got in mind until you follow the trail of bread crumbs he lays out for you—you know how he is, mind as twisty as a derivatives trader. Then he said something about wanting me to deputize for him on a codeword committee, something like BLOODY BARON.”

“Damn. What time was this?”

“About twelve, twelve fifteen, I think. It was right after my session with Iris and Jo Sullivan. Why?”

“Because he was in the Ways and Means monthly breakout session on pandemic suppression systems that ran from two to four, according to at least six eyewitnesses.” Andy looks gloomy. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t you.” He glances at Mo. “What time did Boris call you?”

She jerks upright and pulls her hand away from me. “Around noon. Why?”

“Hmm. Doesn’t fit.” The pall hanging over him is threatening to throw a miniature thunderstorm. “You didn’t run into”—he jerks his chin sharply over his shoulder: in the hall, one of the Plumbers is reinscribing a Dho-Nha curve on the wall with a protractor and a Rotring pen full of colloidal silver ink—“until after, so it’s not
that
. . .”

“What’s not that?” I ask.

Andy takes a deep breath.

“Angleton’s missing, work is following people home, and the Russians are trying to put the dead back into ‘dead letter drop.’ You know the old saying, twice is coincidence but three times is enemy action? Well, right now I think it applies . . .”

“
Was
our visitor Russian?” Mo leans forward.

“Don’t know.” Andy looks mulish. “Did you get any indication of what he wanted?”

“He kept asking something,” I volunteer. “In at least two different languages, neither of which I speak.”

“Oh great,” he mutters. Stretching, he shakes his head. “Been a bad day so far, going to be a long one as well. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea?”

“Certainly—for you I can recommend the special herbal teas, monk’s hood and spurge laurel, although if you insist I can make a pot of Tetley’s . . .”

“That’d be fine.” Mo’s sarcasm flies right past him, which is the final warning I need that Andy is about ready to drop. Time to ease up on him a little, maybe, if he grovels for it.

“I’ll get it,” I say, standing up. “So let me see . . . Boris is running some kind of operation code named BLOODY BARON which involves something going down in Amsterdam which required Mo’s offices, and—”

They’re both shaking their heads at me. “No, no,” says Andy, and:

“Amsterdam was CLUB ZERO,” says Mo. “It’s a sideshow, and . . . did you bring that letter?” Andy produces an envelope. She pockets it: “Thanks.”

“Actually, it all boils down to CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN,” Andy says heavily. “The other operations are side projects; CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN is where it all starts.”

“Oh yes?” I ask casually, although those words send a chill up my spine.

“Yes.” He laughs halfheartedly. “It appears we may have been working under some false operating assumptions,” he adds. “The situation seems to be deteriorating . . .”

 

 

CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN IS THE CODE NAME FOR THE END OF
the world.

You might have noticed that Mo and I have no children. We don’t even have a pet cat, the consolation prize of the overworked urban middle classes. There’s a reason for this. Would you want to have children, if you knew for a fact that in a couple of years you might have to cut their throats for their own good?

We human beings live at the bottom of a thin puddle of oxygen-nitrogen vapor adhering to the surface of a medium-sized rocky planet that orbits a not terribly remarkable star in a cosmos which is one of many. We are not alone. There are other beings in other universes, other cosmologies, that think, and travel, and explore. And there are aliens in the abyssal depths of the oceans, and dwellers in the red-hot blackness and pressure of the upper mantle, that are stranger than your most florid hallucinations. They’re terrifyingly powerful, the inheritors of millennia of technological civilization; they were building starships and opening timegates back when your ancestors and mine were clubbing each other over the head with rocks to settle the eternal primate disagreement over who had the bigger dick.

But the Deep Ones and the Chthonians are dust beneath the feet of the elder races, just as much so as are we bumptious bonobo cousins. The elder races are ancient. Supposedly they colonized our planet back in the pre-Cambrian age. Don’t bother looking for their relics, though—continents have risen and sunk since then, the very atmosphere has changed density and composition, the moon orbits three times farther out, and to cut a long story short, they went away.

But the elder races are as dust beneath the many-angled appendages of the dead gods, who—

You stopped reading about a paragraph back, didn’t you? Admit it: you’re bored. So I’ll just skip to the point: we have a major problem. The dimensions of the problem are defined by computational density and geometry. Magic is a branch of applied mathematics, after all, and when you process information, you set up waves in the platonic ultrastructure of reality that can amplify and reinforce—

To put it bluntly, there are too many humans on this planet. Six-billion-plus primates. And
we think too loudly
. Our brains are neurocomputers, incredibly complex. The more observers there are, the more quantum weirdness is observed, and the more inconsistencies creep into our reality. The weirdness is already going macroscopic—has been, for decades, as any disciple of Forteana could tell you. Sometime really soon, we’re going to cross a critical threshold which, in combination with our solar system’s ongoing drift through a stellar neighborhood where space itself is stretched thin, is going to make it likely that certain sleeping agencies will stir in their aeons-long slumber, and notice us.