13. THINGS THAT EAT US
AT SIX O’CLOCK, ANGLETON EMERGES FROM HIS OFFICE- where he has been inexplicably overlooked by the searchers for the entire duration of his “disappearance”-and stalks the darkening corridors of the New Annexe like the shade of vengeance incarnate. A humming cloud of dread follows him as he passes the empty offices and the taped-over doorway in the vaguely titled Ways and Means Department. My office is, of course, empty: Angleton has rearranged meeting schedules in the departmental Exchange database to ensure that certain players will be elsewhere when he makes his way to Room 366.
There’s a red light shining over the door, and a ward inscribed on the wood veneer beneath it glows gently green in defiance of the mundane rules of physics. Angleton ignores the DND light and the ward and enters. Faces turn. “James.” Boris’s face is ashen. “What are happen?”
(Boris isn’t Russian and the accent isn’t a fake; it’s a parting kiss from Krantzberg syndrome, brain damage incurred by performing occult operations on Mark One Plains Ape computing hardware-the human cerebral cortex. Magicians use computers because chips are easier to repair than brains which have had chunks scooped out by the Dee-space entities they accidentally let in when they began to think too hard about those symbols they were manipulating.)
“The baited trap has been sprung,” Angleton says lightly. He pulls out a chair and collapses into it like a loose bag of bones held together by his dusty suit. “Trouble is, our boy was holding the bait when they grabbed it.”
“Oh bugger.” Andy, tall and dandelion-haired as the famous graphic artist whose name he uses as an alias, looks distinctly displeased. “Do we know who they are yet?”
“Not yet.” Angleton plays a scale on the invisible ivories of the tabletop, his fingertips clattering like drumsticks. “I was expecting to reel them in at tomorrow’s BLOODY BARON meeting, but that might be too late.”
“Where’s Agent CANDID?”
Angleton grimaces. “I sent her on a little errand, en route to hook up with Alan Barnes and the OCCULUS unit. They’re on station in Black-heath, ready to hit the road as soon as we give them a target. I’ve gone to the Board: they authorized an escalation to Rung Three. I have accordingly put CO15 on notice to provide escort and routing.” CO15 is the Traffic Operational Command Unit of the London Metropolitan Police.
“MAGINOT BLUE STARS are in the loop and ready to provide covering fire if we need to go above Rung Five.” The notional ladder of escalation’s rungs are denominated in steps looted from Herman Kahn’s infamous theory of strategic conflict: in a good old-fashioned war, Rung Five would mark the first exchange of tactical nuclear weapons.
“Is it that bad?” Boris asks, needy for reassurance. Even old war horses sometimes balk in the face of a wall of pikes.
“Potentially.” Angleton stops finger-tapping. “CLUB ZERO is definitely getting ready to perform in London. The new research ‘findings’”-Andy flushes-“are out in the wild and widely believed, and with any luck they’ve swallowed them whole and are going for broke this time. They successfully stole a report on Agent CANDID’s weapon, which I admit I did not anticipate, and they think they’ve stolen the Fuller Memorandum.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath from Choudhury, whose previous stuffed-shirt demeanor has evaporated. “That’s what the break-in was about?”
Angleton nods. “As I said, the baited trap has been sprung. They’re going to try and steal the Eater of Souls, bind him to service and use him as a Reaper. I cannot be certain of this, but I believe their logical goal would be to break down the Wall of Pain that surrounds the Sleeper in the Pyramid. With the Squadron grounded we’ve had perilously little recon info on the state of the Sleeper for the past two years-the drone over-flights had to be suspended due to erratic flight control software glitches-and during CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN, awakening the Sleeper will be an obvious goal for the cultists. Of course, the logical flaws in Dr. Ford’s report will take somewhat longer to come to light, and I am confident that even if they mounted such an attack it would fail, but the collateral civilian damage would be unacceptable to our political masters.” His smile is as ghastly as any nuclear war planner’s.
“Why has nobody nuked the pyramid?”
Angleton inclines his head as he considers Choudhury’s question. “There is a contingency plan for the Squadron to fly such an operation,” he admits. “But it probably won’t work, and it might disrupt the Wall of Pain. Can we take this up later? I believe we have an operation to mount-tonight.”
“Tell us what to do.” Andy lays his hands on the table. They’re white with tension. “Are we going to be able to recover Bob?”
“I hope so.” Angleton reaches into his pocket and produces a small cardboard box. “Here is a standard paper clip. Until yesterday, it spent nearly five years at the back of a drawer, in close proximity to another paper clip, which is currently attached to the false Fuller Memorandum. The clips were stored in close proximity inside a Casimir amplification grid designed to boost the contagion field. It should be quite receptive right now.” He places it on the conference table and produces a conductive pencil from his breast pocket. “If you will excuse me?”
Angleton places a sheet of plain paper on the tabletop, then rapidly sketches an oddly warped pentacle, with curves leading off from its major vertices. Next, he shakes the paper clip from its box into the middle of the grid. Then he produces a sterile needle and expresses a drop of blood from his left little finger’s tip, allowing it to fall on the paper clip. Finally he closes his eyes.
“Somewhere on Norroy… Road,” he says slowly. “Off Putney High Street.” Then he opens his eyes. The glow from his retinas spills sickly green across the paper, but fades rapidly.
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to use a GPS tracker?” carps Andy.
MEANWHILE: A WOMAN WITH A VIOLIN WALKS INTO A PUB.
An hour and a half has passed since Mo spoke to Angleton. She’s been home to get changed and collect her go-bag, but still makes the meeting in a popular wine bar off New Oxford Street with time to spare, thanks to her warrant card and a slightly confused police traffic patrol. (External Liaison will raise hell about it tomorrow, but tomorrow can fend for itself.)
The middle-aged man in the loose-cut Italian suit is already there and waiting for her, sitting in the middle of a silent ring of empty tables while his dead-eyed bodyguards track the access routes.
“Mrs. O’Brien,” says Panin. “Welcome.”
She pulls out a chair and releases her bulky messenger bag, dropping it between her feet as she sits. She has her violin case slung across her chest, like a soldier’s rifle.
“Добрый вечер, как ты?”
Panin’s lips quirk. “Quite well, thank you. If you would prefer to continue in English…”
“My Russian is very limited,” Mo admits. “My employers are more interested in Arabic-not to mention Enochian-these days.”
“Well, let us consider drinking to the bad old days, may they never return.” He raises an eyebrow. “What’s your poison?”
His English is very good. Mo shakes her head. “A lemonade. I don’t use alcohol before an operation.”
Panin glances over his shoulder. “A lemonade for the lady. And a glass of the house red for me.”
“I didn’t know they had table service here.”
“They don’t. Rank has its privileges.”
They wait for a surprisingly short time. The minder delivers the drinks, as ordered, and retreats to his stool in the corner. “Angleton told you he was sending me,” she says, tentatively laying out the terms of discussion.