She’s silent for almost a minute. Then she sighs. “There’s a bottle of Bordeaux at the back of the cupboard under the plates and crockery. Open it and give it a while to breathe.”
“Okay. Um, sorry.” I back out of the bathroom, leaving her to try and rebuild the warm, scented bubble that I just burst.
I scrub and boil potatoes, then shove them in a roasting pan, check the chicken, chop some carrots, and have the vegetables just about ready when Mo comes downstairs in her bathrobe, hair in a towel. “Smells good,” she remarks, then looks skeptically at my potatoes. “Hmm.” She takes over; I get the plates out and pour two generous glasses of wine. It’s later than I expected and I’m really rather hungry.
Food and wine settle stomach and soul; neither of us is a very sophisticated cook (although Mo is much more experimentally minded than I am), but we can eat what we prepare for ourselves, which is a good start, and after half an hour we’ve methodically demolished half a small roast chicken and a pan of roast vegetables, not to mention most of a bottle of wine. Mo looks content as I shove the plates in the dishwasher and sort out the recyclable bits. “You wanted to know what Thursday was about,” she says, staring at what’s left in her wineglass.
“I keep running into people who expect me to know.” I go in search of another bottle to open. “It’s not something I can ignore.”
“How much of CLUB ZERO are you familiar with?”
“I’m not.” I get the waiter’s friend out and go to work on a pinot noir.
“Oh.” She pauses. “I’m sorry, but—are you sure you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?” I ask irritably as I scrape away the plastic seal on the bottle. “Are we in known unknowns territory, or unknown unknowns?”
“They’re known okay.” She shakes her head. “Fucking cultists.”
“Cul—” I do a double take. “That’s CLUB ZERO?”
She nods. “None other.”
Cultists. They’re like cockroaches. We humans are incredibly fine-tuned by evolution for the task of spotting coincidences and causal connections. It’s a very useful talent that dates back to the bad old days on the savannah (when noticing that there were lion prints by the watering hole and then cousin Ugg went missing, and today there are more lion prints and nobody had gone missing yet, was the kind of thing that could save your skin). But once we developed advanced lion countermeasures like stone axes and language, it turned into our secret curse. Because, you see, when we spot coincidences we assume there’s an intentional actor behind them—and that’s how we create religions. Nature does weird stuff, so it must be governed by supernature. There’s lightning in the clouds: Zeus must be throwing his thunderbolts again. Everyone’s dying of plague except those weird folks with the strange god who wash every day: it must be evil sorcery. And so on.
Being predisposed to religion has its uses, but it’s a real Achilles’ heel if your civilization is under threat by vastly powerful alien horrors. We have a rich repertoire of primate behavior which includes the urge to suck up to the big bad alpha male, and a tendency to assume that any intelligence smarter or nastier than we are is the top of the pack hierarchy. Finally, we’ve got any number of dark religions out there. The followers of Kali or Mictecacihuatl or the various other faces of the lady of death. Certain splinter sects of millennialist Christianity who believe that the Revelation of St. John is black propaganda and that Satan will triumph. Strange heresies, by-blows of the Albigensians who trace their heritage back to secret cells who worshiped Ahriman in the palace basements of the Persian Empire. Other groups who are less familiar: syncretistic heresies spawned by bizarre collisions between seekers of hidden knowledge and followers of Tibetan demon princes. And, of course, bat-winged squid gods, although I find it hard to believe that anyone takes that seriously these days.
None of their specific beliefs matter. What matters is that if a cell or coven or parish or whatever get their hands on a genuine summoning ritual, the things at the other end of the occult courtesy phone aren’t fussy about what they’re called as long as the message is “chow time.”
I take a deep breath. “What variety of cult was it this time?”
“The rich American expat kind.” She takes a deep breath.
“American? But didn’t the Black Chamber—”
“They didn’t lift a finger.” Her voice rises. “Instead, the Dustbin got a reluctant tip-off from the FBI that a bunch of nutty Jeezmoids from the every-sperm-is-sacred crowd were planning on making a big splash at the UN Population Fund summit in Den Haag last week. It’s not terrorism in America this decade if they shoot doctors or firebomb family planning clinics, you know?”
I let her simmer for a minute while I pull the cork on the wine bottle and pour the last of the first bottle into her glass. “How did it get punted our way?”
“Chatter and crosstalk.” She drains her glass and shoves it towards me. “These aren’t your regular god-botherers, they’ve got form.” (A history of criminal activity, in other words.) “The Dustbin and the Donut are both keeping tabs on them. They tipped off the Dutch AIVD, which is good, but then they forgot to include us in the loop, which was anything but good. What finally pulled us in was when the AIVD Watch Team who were keeping an eye on the hundred kilograms of sodium chlorate and the primer cords they’d stockpiled noticed the church supplies catalog and the white goats. The Free Church of the Universal Kingdom—”
“The Free Church of the what?”
Mo takes a big mouthful of wine. “The Free Church of the Universal Kingdom. Officially they’re pre-millennial dispensationalists with a couple of extra twists, subtype: utterly barking and conflicted; oh hell. According to their party line Jesus was just there to set a good example, and we all have the ability to save ourselves. Who will be saved is predestined from the beginning of time, it’s their job to bring the Church militant to everybody on the planet by fire and the sword, and, er, it gets complicated real fast, in ever diminishing epicycles of crazy. I swear, the doctrinal differences between some of these schismatic churches are fractal . . . Anyway, the key insight you need to bear in mind is, they’re anti-birth control. Very anti-birth control, with overtones of accelerating the Second Coming by bringing more souls to Earth until Jesus can’t ignore their suffering anymore—is this ringing any bells yet?”
“You’re telling me they’re CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN groupies?”
Mo nods vigorously. “They’re mesmerized. What they believe doesn’t make sense in terms of traditional Christian theology, never mind real-world logic. That’s because the outer church is just a cover for something even weirder. The members we were monitoring were laboring under a really horrid glamour, level four or higher—I’m not sure.”
I shudder. I knew someone with a level three glamour about her once. Men would die for a chance to bed her if she crooked her little finger at them—often literally. The theological equivalent . . . I don’t want to think about it. “So. Amsterdam, then . . . ?” I prompt her.
“Four of them were already there. Another three flew in the week before; that’s why the full-dress incident watch was started. AIVD thought it was preparation for an abortion clinic bombing campaign at first. But then the pastor bought a couple of white goats and the penny dropped and they threw it at Franz and his friends, who asked us to chip in.”
“Goats—”
“Goats, sacrificial, summoning, for the purpose of. The Watch Team were so busy keeping an eye on the explosives stockpile that nobody noticed the metalworking tools and the crucifixes, or the fact that they’d rented a deconsecrated Lutheran chapel three months earlier and invited their bishop over for a flying visit. It was only last Tuesday that they put two and two together and realized what was really going on. That’s when they called me in.”