“Yeah. Come back in an hour and I’ll have all the paperwork waiting for you to sign. The HOG and the ward I can give you once I get your chop; the pistol will take a little longer.” Harry shrugs. “Best I can do, awright?”
“You’re a champ.” I make my good-byes, then head off. I’ve got other things to do before I go home.
I’M ON MY WAY TO ANDY’S OFFICE WHEN IRIS RUNS ME down.
“Bob! What are you doing here? I thought I told you to take the week off?” She sounds mildly irritated, and a little out of breath, as if she’s been running around looking for me. “Hey, what happened to your head?”
I shrug. “Stuff came up.”
She looks concerned. “In my office.”
I demur: her office is her territory. “Look, Mo came back from . . . a job . . . in pieces, really rattled. Then the job followed her home, and that’s a full-dress panic—”
Her eyes narrow: “How bad?”
“This bad.” I point to the row of butterfly closures on my head and she winces. “Have you heard anything about—about upswings in non-affiliated agency activity in London this week?”
“My office,” she says, very firmly, and this time she means it.
“Okay.”
Once inside her office, she locks the door, switches on the red DND lamp, then lowers the blinds on the glass window that lets her view the corridor. Then she turns to me. “What codewords do you know?”
“I’ve been approved for CLUB ZERO”—she gives a sharp intake of breath—“and CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. Not to mention MAGINOT BLUE STARS, but Harry the Horse wouldn’t give me an alarm buzzer without your chop on the order form. And Angleton just told me to deputize for him on BLOODY BARON, although I haven’t been briefed on that yet.”
“Wow. That’s a bundle.” She eyes me warily. “Angleton dumps a lot on your shoulders.” For someone so junior, she leaves unsaid.
“Yes.” I focus on her more closely: wavy chestnut hair that is currently unkempt and beginning to show silvery roots, crow’s-foot worry lines at the edges of her eyes, a restlessness to her stance that suggests she’s far busier than she wants me to see. “Your turn.”
“Wait, first—what happened yesterday?”
“Andy was with the Plumbers on cleanup; it should be on today’s overnight events briefing sheet.”
“That was”—her eyes widen—“you? Active incursion and assault by a class three, repelled by agents? Those stitches, it was that?”
“Yeah.” I flop down on her visitor’s chair without a by-your-leave.
“They tried to rearrange my features: it was a close call. I came in today to draw a personal defense item, but also to ask what the hell is going on? And this business about Angleton—”
“You saw him the day before yesterday.”
“Yes.” I pause. “He’s still missing. Right?”
She nods.
“Do you want me to look round his office? In case he left anything?” Iris sniffs. “No.” I think she’s a poor liar. “But if you know anything . . . ?”
“I don’t like being kept in the dark.” Coming over all snippy on the person who is my nominal manager isn’t clever, I know, but at this point I’m running low on self-restraint. “It seems to me that a whole bunch of rather bad things are happening right now, and that smells to me like enemy action.” I’m echoing Andy. “Whoever the enemy is, in this context. Right, fine, you keep on playing games, that’s all right by me—except that it isn’t, really, because one of the games in question just followed my wife home and tried to kill her. Us.” I point to the row of butterfly sutures on my forehead, and to her credit, she winces. “Remember, it costs.”
“You’ve made your point,” she says quietly, sitting down behind her desk. “Bob, if it was just up to me, I’d tell you—but it isn’t. There’s a committee meeting tomorrow, though, and I’ll raise your concerns. Ask me again on Monday and I should be able to pull you in on the BLOODY BARON committee, and at least add you to the briefing list for CLUB ZERO. In the meantime, if you don’t mind me asking—what items did Harry sign out to you?”
“He’s processing them now.” I enumerate. “We’ve also had our household security upgraded, in case there’s a repeat visit, although I think that’s unlikely. We’re alerted now, so I’d expect any follow-ups to happen out in public: it’s riskier for them than it was, but right now the house is a kill zone so if they want Mo badly enough they’ll have to do it in the street.”
“Ouch.” She leans back in her chair and rests one hand on her computer keyboard. “Listen. If you’re really sure you want an alarm, I’ll sign for one. But . . . what Harry said? Listen to him. It’s not necessarily what you need. The gun—well, you’re certified. Certificated.” She gives a moue of annoyance at the mangled language we have to use: “Whatever. Just keep it out of sight of the public and don’t lose track of it. As for the rest—”
She exhales: “There has been an uptick in meetings in public places conducted by three junior attachés at the Russian embassy who our esteemed colleagues in the Dustbin”—she means the Security Service, popularly but incorrectly known as MI5—“have been keeping track of for some time. It’s hard to be sure just which organization any given diplomat with covert connections is working for, but they initially thought these guys were FSB controllers. However, we’ve had recent indications that they’re actually working for someone else—the Thirteenth Directorate, probably. We don’t know exactly what’s going on, but they seem to be looking for something, or someone.”
“And then there was the Amsterdam business,” I prod.
Another sharp look: “You weren’t cleared for that.”
“Andy procured a Letter of Release for Mo.” I stare right back at her, bluffing. The I’ll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours tap dance is a tedious occupational hazard in this line of work.
“Well, yes, then.” The bluff works—that, and her ward told her I’m telling the truth about the Letter of Release. “Amsterdam, CLUB ZERO, was indirectly connected.”
“So we’ve got an upswing of activity in the Netherlands and the UK—elsewhere in Europe, too?” I speculate: “Remember I’ve sat in on my share of joint liaison meetings?”
“I can’t comment further until after the steering group meeting tomorrow.” And my bluff falls apart: “I’ve told you everything I can tell you without official sanction, Bob. Get your kit sorted out, clear down your chores, and go home for the weekend. That’s an order! I’ll talk to you on Monday. Hopefully the news will be better by then . . .”
5.
LOST IN COMMITTEE
I GO BACK TO HARRY’S PLACE AND COLLECT MY KIT, THEN I catch the bus home, shoulders itching every time it passes a police car. Yes, I’m legally allowed to carry the Glock and its accessories, which are sleeping in my day sac in a combination-locked case. The gun and its charmed holster are supposed to be invisible to anyone who doesn’t carry a Laundry warrant card; but I’ll believe it when I see it. Luckily the bus is not stormed by an armed SO19 unit performing a random check for implausible weapons. I arrive home uneventfully, unpack the gun and place it on the bedroom mantelpiece (which is just to the left of my side of the bed), and go downstairs to sort out supper with Mo.
Friday happens, and then the weekend. I register the JesusPhone: it wants a name, and Mo suggests christening it (if that’s the right word) the NecronomiPod. Her attitude has turned to one of proprietorial interest, if not outright lust: damn it, I am going to have to buy her one.
We do not discuss work at all. We are not doorstepped by zombies, shot at, blown up, or otherwise disturbed, although our next-door neighbor’s teenage son spends a goodly chunk of Saturday evening playing “I Kissed a Girl” so loudly that Mo and I nearly come to blows over the pressing question of how best to respond. I’m arguing for Einstürzende Neubauten delivered over the Speakers of Doom; she’s a proponent of Schoenberg delivered via the Violin that Kills Monsters. In the end we agree on the polite voice of reason delivered via the ears of his parents. I guess we must be growing old.