“FSB activity in London has been rising steadily since 2001.” I shrug.
“The Litvinenko assassination, that embarrassing business with the wifienabled rock in Moscow in ’05, diplomatic expulsions; the old confrontation is still bubbling under. But BLOODY BARON is new to me, I will admit.”
I glance at the file on the table in front of me. “Anyway, there’s an organization. We don’t know their real designation because nobody who knows anything about them has ever defected and they don’t talk to strangers, but folks call them the Thirteenth Directorate—not to be confused with the original Thirteenth Directorate, which was redesignated the Fifth Directorate back in the 1960s. Nasty folks—they were the ones responsible for wet work, Mokryye Dela.
“The current bearers of the name seem to have been forked off the KGB back in 1991, when the KGB was restructured as the FSB. They’re an independent wing, much like us.”
The Laundry was originally part of SOE, back during the Second World War; we’re the part that kept on going when SOE was officially wound up at the end of hostilities.
“They’re the Russian OCCINTEL agency, handling demonology and occult intelligence operations. Mostly they stay at home, and their activities are presumably focused on domestic security issues. But there’s been a huge upsurge—unprecedented—in overseas activity lately. Thirteenth Directorate staff have been identified visiting public archives, combing libraries, attending auctions of historic memorabilia, and contacting individuals suspected of having contact with the former parent agency back before the end of the real cold war. They’ve been focusing on London, but also visible in Tallinn, Amsterdam, Paris, Gdańsk, Ulan Bator . . . the list doesn’t make any obvious sense.”
I swallow. “That’s all I’ve got, but there’s more, isn’t there?”
Everyone’s looking at me, except for Gustaffson, who’s watching Iris. She nods. “That’s the basic picture. Vikram?”
Choudhury looks at me curiously. “Is Mr. Howard replacing Dr. Angleton on this committee?”
I nearly swallow my tongue. Iris looks disconcerted. “Dr. Angleton isn’t currently available,” she tells him, sparing me a warning glance. “There are Human Resources issues. Mr. Howard is deputizing for him.”
Oh Jesus. Wheels within wheels—committee members who haven’t been briefed, Russian secret demonologists, cold war 2.0. What have I got myself into?
“Oh dear.” Choudhury nods, mollified. “Allow me to express my sympathies.” He has a fat conference file in front of him: he taps the contents into line with tiny, fussy movements. His suit is black and shiny, like an EDS consultant’s in the old days.
“Well then. We have been tracking a number of interesting financial aspects of the KGB activity. They appear to be spending money like water—we have requested information on IBAN transactions and credit card activity by the mobile agents we have identified, and while they’re not throwing it away on silly luxury items they have certainly been working on their frequent flier miles. One of them, Agent Kurchatov, managed to fly half a million kilometers in the last nine months alone—we believe he’s a high-bandwidth courier—as an example. And they’ve been bidding in estate auctions. The overall pattern of their activity focuses on memorabilia from the Russian Civil War, specifically papers and personal effects from the heirs of White Russian leaders, but they’ve also been looking into documents and items relating to the Argenteum Astrum, which is on our watch list—BONE SILVER STAR—along with documents relating to Western occultist groups of the pre-war period. Aleister Crowley crops up like a bad penny, naturally, but also Professor Mudd, who tripped an amber alert. Norman Mudd.”
Civil war memorabilia . . . ? A nasty thought strikes me, but Vikram looks as if he’s about to continue. “What’s special about Mudd?” I ask.
Choudhury looks irritated. “He was a mathematics professor and an occultist,” he says, “and he knew F.” The legendary F—the Laundry’s first Director of Intelligence, reporting to Sir Charles Hambro at 64 Baker Street—headquarters of the Special Operations Executive. Whoops. He cocks his head to one side: “If you don’t mind . . . ?”
I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m new to this.” Touchy, isn’t he? “Please continue.”
“Certainly. It looks as if the Thirteenth Directorate are taking an unusual interest in the owners of memorabilia associated with the late Baron Roman Von Ungern Sternberg, conqueror of Mongolia, Buddhist mystic, and White Russian leader. In particular, they seem to be trying to trace an item or items that Agent S76 retrieved from Reval in Estonia on behalf of our old friend F.” Choudhury looks smugly self-satisfied, as if this diversion into what is effectively arcane gibberish to me is supposed to be enlightening. “Any questions?” he asks.
For once I keep my gob shut, waiting to see if anyone else is feeling as out-of-the-loop as I am. I don’t have to wait long. Shona bulls ahead, bless her: “Yeah, you bet I’ve got questions. Who is this Baron Roman Von Stauffenberg or whoever? When was he—did he die recently?”
“Ungern Sternberg died in September 1921, executed by a Bolshevik firing squad after Trotsky’s soldiers captured him.” Choudhury taps his folio again, looking severe: “He was a very bad man, you know! He had a habit of burning paperwork. And he had a man nicknamed Teapot who followed him around and strangled people the Baron was displeased with. I suppose we could all do with that, ha-ha.” He doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care about—Iris’s fish-eyed glare. “But, aha, yes, he was one of those Russian occultists. He converted to Buddhism—Mongolian Buddhism, of a rather bloody sect—but stayed in touch with members of a certain Theosophical splinter group he had fallen in with when he was posted to St. Petersburg. Obviously they didn’t stay there after the revolution, but Ungern Sternberg would have known of his fellows in General Denikin’s staff, and possibly known of F, due to his occult connections. And the, ah, anti-Semitism.”
He looks pained. All intelligence agencies have skeletons in their closets: ours is our first Director of Intelligence, whose fascist sympathies were famous, and only barely outweighed by his patriotism.
“What can that possibly have to do with current affairs?” Shona’s evident bafflement mirrors my own. “What are they looking for?”
“That’s an interesting question,” says Choudhury, looking perturbed. He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “Mr. Howard might be able to tell us—”
“Um. What?”
My confusion must be as obvious as Shona’s, because Iris chips in: “Bob has only just come in on the case—Dr. Angleton didn’t see fit to brief him earlier.”
“Oh my goodness.” Choudhury looks as if he’s swallowed a toad. Live. “But in that case, we really must talk to the doctor—”
“You can’t.” Iris shakes her head, then looks at me again. “Bob, we—the committee—asked Angleton to investigate the link between Ungern Sternberg, F, and the current spike in KGB activity.” She looks back at Choudhury. “Unfortunately, he was last seen on Wednesday evening. He’s now officially AWOL and a search is under way. This happened the same night as Agent CANDID closed out CLUB ZERO. The next morning, CANDID and Mr. Howard were assaulted by a class three manifestation, and I don’t believe it’s any kind of coincidence that Agent Kurchatov was seen visiting the Russian embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens that morning—and left on an early evening flight back to Moscow.