‘There is an investigation in the Summer Court now,’ Peter said finally. ‘I have not dared to send regular reports since I found out. George told them that a mole exists, although apparently no more than that. And now the Dzhugashvili thing has everyone on their toes. Once C is less distracted by the war, he is going to turn over every luz stone in the Court. It will be dangerous to remain much longer.’
‘Shpiegelglass will be disappointed,’ Nora said.
‘Have you heard from him? I cannot figure out who warned Dzhugashvili.’
‘Our comrade is pursuing that question right now very … zealously,’ Otto said. ‘He thinks there were Stalinists amongst the Communist Party in Madrid, although the Termin Procedure has failed to uncover them so far.’
Nora looked at Peter sharply. ‘We all saw the Presence instruct you to keep your cover, Comrade. Are you telling me that you are questioning those instructions because things are getting uncomfortable? Or is the increased risk merely an excuse for your recent lack of results, like your failure to assume leadership of the Dzhugashvili operation?’
‘No, of course not! I was … distracted. Something else turned up.’
‘I am sure Comrade Shpiegelglass would be delighted to hear about this distraction,’ Nora said. She removed her mittens and flexed her strong fingers. Her palms were covered with callouses and there were black cracks in her fingernails.
This was not how it was supposed to go, Peter thought. This was not what George would have said if he was in danger. Then again, George was dead and Faded, and had betrayed both Peter and the Presence. Perhaps Nora’s brutal honesty was better.
‘There is a file,’ Peter said. ‘I saw it in the prime minister’s mind. It is somehow connected to all his thinking about Spain and the war.’
‘What is the subject of this file?’ Otto asked.
‘A scientific project in the twenties, investigating some little-known aspect of Summerland. I have a Winter Court asset trying to obtain a copy of it.’
Nora rolled his eyes. ‘It sounds as valuable to the cause as the prime minister’s used lavatory paper.’
‘Please excuse my wife,’ Otto said. ‘However, you must consider the fact that extraction operations can fail and put us all at risk. Before taking that risk, I would strongly recommend obtaining … more actionable intelligence. I am sure Comrade Shpiegelglass would appreciate it.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Peter said. His hands were nearly numb and he stuffed them in his pockets. ‘West is obsessed with it. It dominates his soul-spark, if you only could have seen it—’
‘Obsession is not necessarily the same as importance,’ Otto said. ‘I believe the gentleman in question is also obsessed with little boys’ war games.’
Peter blinked. Was it possible that he had misinterpreted what he had seen? Was CAMLANN some dead-end pet project, a senile old man’s hobby horse? His own thinking on West could well be clouded, because of the Presence’s answer to his second question, long ago.
He leaned back, thinking hard. The rain had stopped and he could see a clear patch of the evening sky, with a smattering of stars bright enough to outshine London’s lights that spilled upwards. Peter had not seen stars for a long time, and suddenly they reminded him of a passage from The Science of Death.
There is no reason why life could not have evolved on other planets besides Earth. The soul-seeds fall upon the whole three-plane of our aether, as far as we know. Intelligence could have evolved anywhere, in our own Solar System, and beyond.
So where are they? Where are the Martian ghosts? Some of the planets in our own System are much older than our world. There are stars much older than our Sun. Summerland should teem with the spirits of otherworldly intellects. Yet it is occupied only by a narrow slice of humanity …
The possibility that occurred to him then was colder than the wind, sharp and terrible like Nora’s chisel. In an instant, it pierced all his doubt.
‘I think I know what project CAMLANN was about,’ he said quietly. ‘If I am right, it is infinitely more important than Spain or my cover.’
‘Do enlighten us, FELIX,’ Nora said.
Peter told them. At first, they were sceptical, but when he laid out the argument, even Nora’s eyes widened—with fear or elation, he could not tell.
‘I concur,’ Otto said finally. ‘If you can obtain proof for this hypothesis, Comrade Shpiegelglass would undoubtedly recommend applying the Termin Procedure to ensure the Presence has full access to it. When do you think you will be ready?’
‘Less than a week. Three days, perhaps.’
‘Very well. We will set up an extraction protocol. Nora will prepare a new set of emergency Hinton codes. They will take you to a temporary charter-body so we can transport you to a safe location for the Procedure.’
Peter frowned. He had imagined that once his task was done, the Presence would simply whisk him away, as if by magic. Then he realised he was being childish. It was not possible to thought-travel to the Presence—it was impossible to visualise His vastness. The Presence had to come to you, and the feedback loop at the heart of the Termin Procedure required a human body to anchor it.
Nora took Peter’s hand. Her rough hands were warm.
‘I was wrong about you, Comrade FELIX. I don’t think you are a coward. I think you are completely mad. But it is a glorious kind of madness. Bring us CAMLANN. We’ll be waiting.’
Otto and Nora left, arm in arm, and were carried away by the river of people on the street. Peter was cold but sat alone for a while, hands in his pockets, watching the stars and listening to the ticking of Pendlebury’s spirit crown.
After leaving the Blue Dog, Rachel found a telephone box, reached Joe at his club, booked them a table for a late dinner at Quo Vadis on Dean Street, and went home to change before heading to the restaurant.
She decided on just a trace of makeup and a blue dress she knew Joe liked. The restaurant itself was part of the plan: a public place would make it harder for him to run away when they got to the difficult topics. Besides, the Modernist pastel-coloured mosaic windows were glorious, a grid of green, salmon and orange.
She sat at the table alone and waited, a little cold, rubbing her bare arms.
‘Madam? Would you like an aperitivo while you wait?’ The maître d’—a small, neat Italian man—had appeared from somewhere,
‘Hm? No, no thank you. Not right now. Maybe later.’
Truthfully, she was desperate for a drink, but her empty stomach was so tense she felt like she had swallowed an ice cube. Instead she waited, played with the edge of the flawless white tablecloth and thought about what she was going to say.
The problem was that Joe never talked about the war.
It was always there, from the first time they met: a secret whose presence she could sense with an interrogator’s instinct. Against her nature, she left it alone. They shared an understanding of the things that did not need to be said. It was enough to exchange a smile or a glance that said look how ridiculous this world is.
She even knew when he was going to propose, possibly before he did himself. It was a low-key thing. They were walking along a windswept Atlantic beach in France and huddled behind a rocky outcropping when he produced a ring from his pocket, cradled it in his palm like a child who had found a pretty rock in the sand.
‘I have been thinking we should make this more permanent,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
She said yes, and he hollered, threw her down onto the sand with a rugby tackle that made her whoop as well. The sand got everywhere.