“Bob, you went to the archives in person yesterday.” Jo tightens her grip on my elbow, painfully tight. “What did you withdraw most recently? Tell us!”
Truth and consequences time. “I asked for a copy of the Fuller Memorandum,” I tell her, which is entirely true and correct: “I was following up something Angleton told me to do a while ago.” Which is also entirely correct, and the most misleading thing I’ve said in front of witnesses all year.
“Fuller Memo-” I see a flicker of recognition on Boris’s face. “Tell me, when you go home last night, is Fuller Memorandum in safe?”
I nod. I don’t trust my tongue at this point because, as the man who used to be president said, it all depends on what you mean by the word “is.”
Jo stares at Boris. “What classification level are we talking about?” she asks.
Boris doesn’t answer at once. He’s staring at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be a tiny pile of ash right now. “Does Angleton say you are to the memorandum read?” he asks.
“Yup. Took me a while to track it down,” I extemporize. “So I left it in the safe overnight; I was going to look at it today.” All of which is truthful enough that I will happily repeat it in front of an Audit Panel, knowing that if I tell a lie in front of them the blood will boil in my veins and I won’t die-
Boris looks at Jo and nods, minutely. “Am thanking you for calling me. This is mess.”
“What was in the memo that’s so red-hot?” I ask, pushing my luck, because somewhere in all the fuss of expediting Angleton’s little scheme-taking the forgery he’d prepared and inserting it into the archives, then withdrawing it and planting the bait in my office safe-I hadn’t gotten round to asking him just what the original was about.
“Memorandum is control binding scripture for asset called Eater of Souls,” Boris says, and strangely he refuses to meet my eyes. “Codeword is TEAPOT. Consequences of loss-unspeakable.”
“Oh, shit.” I swear with feeling, because I’m not totally stupid: I worked out who Teapot was some time ago. I didn’t realize the Fuller Memorandum was his control document, though. The control document is the source code and activation signature for the geas that binds the entity called Teapot-the thing that over an eighty-year span became Angleton. It doesn’t even matter that our safe-breakers have stolen a ringer-at least, I assume Angleton gave me a ringer-the fact that they knew what to look for in the first place is really bad news.
“You’d better come with me,” says Jo, and I suddenly notice that she’s shifted her grip to my forearm and she’s got fingers like handcuffs. “Form R60 time, Bob. And this time it’s not just a FATACC enquiry. As soon as my people have gone over the incident scene with a fine-toothed comb this will be going before the Auditors. I’m sorry.”
I DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT £200, AND DO NOT BUY Piccadilly Circus. I don’t go to jail, either-not yet-but by the middle of the morning a thirty-year stretch in Wormwood Scrubs would come as a blessed relief.
“Committee of enquiry will come to order.”
I’ve been here before, and I didn’t like it the first time. The panel has requisitioned a small conference room, furnished in nineties government brutalist-lite: Aeron chairs and bleached pine table, health and safety posters on one wall, security notices on the other. The tribunal sits at the far end of the table, like a pin-striped hanging judge and his assistants. And they’ve rolled out that fucking carpet again, the one with the gold thread design woven into it, and the Enochian inscription, and the live summoning grid powerful enough to twist tendons and snap bones.
There is no peanut gallery at this trial. Jo is waiting outside with a couple of blue-suiters and the other designated witnesses, but the Auditors want no inconvenient onlookers who might have to be bound to silence or memory-wiped, should I accidentally disclose material above their level of classification.
“Please state your name and job title.” There’s a recorder on the desk, as usual: its light is glowing red.
“Bob Howard. Senior Specialist Officer grade 3. Personal assistant to Tea-er, DSS Angleton.”
That causes a minor stir. One of the Auditors-female, blonde, lateforties-turns sideways and says something to the others that I ought to be able to hear, but can’t. The other two nod. She turns back and addresses me directly. “Mr. Howard. You are aware of the terms of this investigation. You are aware of the geas it is conducted under. You have our special dispensation to respond to any question, the first time it is posed-and only the first time-by warning us if in your judgment the reply would require you to disclose codeword-classified information. Please state your understanding of this variance, in your own words.”
I clear my throat. “If you ask me about sensitive projects I’m allowed to stonewall-once. If you ask me again, I have to tell you, period. Uh, I assume that’s because you’d prefer to keep the enquiry from accidentally covering so many highly classified subjects that nobody is allowed to read its findings…?”
She smiles drily. “Something like that.” It feels like the Angel of Death has just perched on my shoulder, paused from sharpening its blade, and quietly squawked: Who’s a pretty Polly? Then the sense of immanent ridiculous demise passes. Ha ha, I slay myself…
The Chief Auditor nods, then looks at the legal pad before him. “Yesterday you visited the library front desk. What was your objective?”
Lie back and think of England -and nothing else. “Angleton gave me a reading list,” I said. “He told me to bring back a particular document.” Pause. “Oh, and Mo wanted me to pick up a copy of a report she’d asked for, but it wasn’t in yet.”
There is no prickling of high tension current in my legs to warn me that my partial truth is unacceptable.
“Who is ‘Mo’?” asks Auditor #3.
“Dr. Dominique O’Brien. Epistemological Warfare Specialist grade 4.”
Auditor #3 leans forward hungrily. “Why did this person ask you to collect a document on their behalf?” he demands.
I blink, nonplussed. “Because I told her I was going to the library, and she was busy. She’s my wife.”
Auditor #3 looks baffled for a few seconds, his bloodhound trail evaporating in a haze of aniseed fumes. “You’re married?”
“Yes.” This would be hilarious if I wasn’t scared silly by the sleeping horror I am standing on that will sense any attempt at deception and-
“Oh.” He makes a note on his pad and subsides.
The blonde Auditor gives him a very old-fashioned look, then turns to me: “Are you cleared for the content of her work?” she asks.
Huh? “I have no idea,” I say sincerely. “We only discuss projects we’re working on after comparing codeword access and if necessary asking for clearance.” Then the glyph on the goddamn rug forces me to add, “But this time it doesn’t matter, the document hadn’t arrived anyway.”
She scribbles something on her own notepad. “Did Dr. O’Brien tell you anything about this particular note?” she asks.
I blink. “I have no idea. She simply gave me the file reference number-no codeword.”
More notes, more significant looks. The senior Auditor stares at me over the gold half-moon rims of his spectacles. “Mr. Howard. Please indicate if you are familiar with any of these individuals. Matthias Hoechst, Jessica Morgenstern, George Dower, Nikolai Panin-” He nods at my hand signal. “Describe what you know about Nikolai Panin.”
“I had a pint with him in the Frog and Tourettes the day before yesterday.”
The effect is astonishing: the Auditors jerk to attention like a row of frogs with cattle prods up their backsides. I meet their appalled gaze with a sense of sublime lightness. They want the truth? Okay, they can fucking have the truth.
“I reported it as a contact to the BLOODY BARON committee at the first opportunity, and it was agreed to keep it quiet for the time being. Panin seems to have wanted to pass on a warning about Teapot. He was concerned that it was missing, and that as its last custodians we ought to ensure it was found before the wrong persons got their hands on it and, uh, ‘made tea.’” I smile blandly. “Angleton authorized me to read the WHITE BARON files and I have inferred the identity of Teapot.”