The Delirium Brief

by Charles Stross

  Ms. Womack stands up. “Thank you, Mike.” (Mike? I boggle at the familiarity.) “Well, folks, this is what we’ve been afraid would happen all along: an intrusion on such a large scale that local assets were unable to contain it, resulting in widespread loss of civilian life, exposure of the agency to public scrutiny, and extreme pressure on the government to be seen to be doing something about the crisis.” She actually smiles, a slightly embarrassed expression, and it’s at this point that I know for a fact that we’re screwed. Mo takes my hand under the table and squeezes it; I squeeze right back. At least we’re in this together.

  Chris continues: “It’s been glaringly obvious that this day would come, sooner or later—hopefully later—for the past half century, so we have a backgrounder on the likely course of events to hand, regularly updated, and a fallback plan to execute. Here it is, if you’d all care to sign for it.” She slides a clipboard onto the table. It’s one of those briefings you have to sign in at. As the clipboard circulates, she continues: “In the immediate future, there’ll be a lot of media interest and a whiff of scandal and prurient curiosity over a hitherto-secret security agency coming to light. Expect digging and doxxing of any identifiable faces associated with the organization. I’m afraid that means Mr. Howard is particularly exposed, although that masterful display on Newsnight might just convince the uglier elements of the press that he’s not worth bothering with. But the personal attention should—we hope—die down within another week or so, at least until the Defense Select Committee starts holding hearings.”

  A murmur runs around the table. Then the clipboard gets to me. I sign with numb fingers then slide it in front of Mo.

  “That’s not the real problem I’m here to talk about today. The big short-term issue is what the government is going to do with us—about the Laundry, I mean. Historically we were founded under the Royal Prerogative, as was the rest of the Civil Service or Crown Service, as variously defined. CRAG (2010), the Constitutional Reform and Governance Act, put most of the Civil Service on a sound constitutional footing and defined their obligations to uphold the law, and more importantly, laid out the exceptional circumstances under which civil servants might be licensed to take extrajudicial actions—for example the armed forces and our sister agencies, MI5, SIS, and GCHQ. As a rather peculiar unadmitted Crown entity, the Laundry exists in something of a gray area.

  “The historic lack of oversight has given us a degree of autonomy unavailable to our sister agencies, but all that’s about to come to an abrupt end. At a minimum, we can expect the Committee to recommend that we be brought under the oversight of the Joint Intelligence Committee with defined limitations like the other security services. We can also expect primary legislation to regulate computational thaumaturgy and related fields and bring in criminal penalties for misuse. The Consumer Protection Regulations that superseded the Fraudulent Mediums Act and the Witchcraft Act (1735) in 2008 don’t really cover us, I’m afraid. But if the Cabinet is paying attention—and unfortunately we know for a fact that the Cabinet is paying attention—we’re about to become a political football.”

  The clipboard makes its way back to Ms. Womack and she briefly checks that we’ve all signed the form. Then she opens up her briefcase and pulls out a stack of document wallets. “One copy each, please. Read and return to this room no later than five o’clock this afternoon; you’ll need to sign them back in. They’re warded, eyes-only.” Which is to say that really bad things will happen to any eyeballs that belong to people who haven’t signed on that clipboard and who even glance at the table of contents.

  “What exactly is this?” Persephone asks, tapping her secure document wallet suspiciously.

  “It’s a legal analysis of our organizational position, going forward.” Chris frowns at her. “In it you’ll find our worst-case analyses of how the government can fuck us over. The bad news is, one likely outcome of the current situation—if they try to cram us into the existing CRAG framework—is that our core mission becomes irrecoverably compromised. But the good news is, we have a contingency plan. It’s called PLAN TITANIC. And you’ll find a synopsis at the end of this file.”

  “What’s the elevator pitch?”’Seph pushes.

  Chris counters with another question. “What’s the most important part of the organization, from an operational standpoint?”

  “It would be—” Persephone’s eyes widen. “Mahogany Row?”

  Mo sits up. “You’re talking about a lifeboat, aren’t you,” she says. Chris is silent, but her face speaks for her.

  ’Seph fans herself with the TOP SECRET file. “You’re talking about abandoning the sinking ship…”

  * * *

  Elsewhere:

  It’s a busy morning at the general aviation terminal at Stansted Airport, and another Falcon 7X executive jet arriving from Denver draws no unusual attention. Neither does the small convoy of vehicles waiting for it on the apron. There’s a stretched black BMW limo with darkened windows for the VIPs, a pair of black BMW SUVs with equally blacked-out rear windows for security, and a car in airport service livery for the immigration and customs concierge service that the jet’s owner is paying for.

  The immigration officer is waiting alongside as the air stairs drop. She spends less than a minute scanning passports. The visitor holds a diplomatic visa and you don’t want to keep people like that waiting; they generally have friends in high places who will make your boss yell at you if you hold them up. Her counterpart from Customs is equally efficient: entry forms are collected, “Are you carrying anything illegal? Any drugs, endangered species, or plant material?” is asked, and the all-clear is given immediately. The officers are long gone by the time the Reverend Raymond Schiller sets foot on English soil again for the first time in nearly two years, and leads his staff in offering up a pro forma prayer of thanksgiving.

  Outwardly, Schiller is the very image of a successful televangelist. He’s tall but trim, early sixties but spry, his silver hair immaculately coiffed. He wears a conservatively cut charcoal suit and a navy blue tie, a small lapel-pin cross the only obvious adornment. His smile is kindly; his blue eyes twinkle so brightly that it is almost impossible to imagine the damned soul screaming behind them.

  As Schiller slides into the backseat of the limousine and straps himself in, his personal assistant Anneka takes her position opposite. A prim ice-blonde in a gray skirt-suit and white silk blouse, she sits with her knees clamped as tightly as her lips. She could pass for a lawyer or a corporate marketing director on the way up, but in the curious parlance of Schiller’s sect she is a handmaid, chosen by God to be Schiller’s helpmeet and cell phone carrier. Schiller has certain requirements that his handmaids must meet, and Anneka is a paragon. The personal protection officers and other staff—accountant, paralegal, personal chef, and poison taster—take their seats in the SUVs behind. Schiller watches as the jet’s other passenger, a representative of the government agency he subcontracts for, nods affably, then walks away towards the embassy car that’s waiting for him. Finally, satisfied that all is well, Anneka locks the heavy armored door and secures the briefcase.

  There’s a brief crackle of static from the intercom, then the driver says, “We’re ready to move when you are, sir.”

  Anneka glances at Schiller: he nods minutely, and she touches the intercom button. “Proceed in convoy as planned. Please notify us when we are fifteen minutes out from the apartment, or in event of unforeseen delays.” As the heavy bulletproof limousine begins to move she pushes a switch beside the intercom button, disconnecting the microphone. A faint, jaw-tensing buzz of white noise begins to leak from the windows all around, and Schiller relaxes infinitesimally.

  “Sweep please.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  She raises her briefcase and opens it. Its contents would be of considerable interest to the Customs officer, if performing his official duties was not actively discouraged when admitting a certain class of visitor. It’s not just the Glock 17 clipped
inside the lid—civilian possession of which carries a mandatory five-year prison sentence in the UK—but the MilSpec electronics in the lower half. Anneka plugs the case into the cigarette lighter socket, then conducts a thorough and exhaustive scan of the limousine’s interior for wireless surveillance devices as the convoy queues up at the exit gate from the General Aviation area. This takes some time, and they are on the approach road to the M11 motorway by the time she unplugs the case, closes it, and ducks her head at Schiller. “We are alone, Father.”

  Schiller smiles almost wryly. “We are never alone, Daughter.” It’s his little joke and she delivers an appreciative smile on cue. “Are there any new messages?”

  Anneka’s BlackBerry chimes and she raises it to eye level. “No high-priority messages in the past hour,” she recites. The bizjet carries a satellite picocell to keep its passengers in touch over the ocean, but even Schiller’s wealth can’t insulate him from the leasing company’s tiresome requirement to shut down all passenger electronics during final approach and landing. “The Secretary of State sends his very general best wishes, of course, but nothing confidential. There’s an update from Alison: she’s working to confirm that all designated attendees will be present at your briefings tomorrow. Bernadette McGuigan would like to bring you up to speed on the current state of targeted operations at your earliest convenience. And there is a personal greeting from Mr. Michaels’s secretary.” She pauses momentarily, pupils dilating slightly. “Requesting the pleasure of your company at a garden party on Saturday, RSVP. At an address somewhere in Buckinghamshire.” She lowers the smartphone, looks quizzical. “Father?”

  Schiller nods thoughtfully. “Let the Prime Minister know I’d be delighted to attend. Reschedule any conflicting engagements.”

  Anneka nods dutifully and begins to thumb-type rapidly. She doesn’t notice Schiller’s smile sharpen slightly, sliding briefly into a predatory mask. Jeremy Michaels is a very astute player: he does not issue social invitations to just anyone. If he has realized what is going on and decided to acquiesce to Schiller’s plan, then that is very good indeed, and the acquisition Schiller has come to the UK to facilitate will run much more smoothly. Takeovers are always easier if the people at the top of the target establishment are willing collaborators.

  Some invasions barely warrant the name.

  TWO

  THE COMSTOCK OFFICE IS CLOSING

  Now hear this:

  It has become glaringly obvious—Chris Womack’s briefing backgrounder went into great detail on the subject—that the legal and political ramifications of the Laundry being outed are drastic, open-ended, and worrying.

  Q-Division SOE—our official name—has come to the attention of the Cabinet Office. And the CO promptly had a fit of the vapors when they discovered an inexplicably overlooked branch of the Civil Service, unregulated under CRAG (2010), acting in the gray area reserved for the military and security services (but without their constitutional enabling framework and oversight).

  It would have been bad enough if said organization consisted of four pensioners in a Nissen hut, playing cards and reminiscing about the Malayan Emergency. As it is, we have over nine thousand employees, £1.2 billion of Crown Estate properties, a small but terrifyingly proficient special forces detachment associated with the Special Reconnaissance Regiment (the successor to the SAS), and a remit to conduct covert operations all over the world. We don’t cost quite as much to run as GCHQ—if only because we don’t launch our own spy satellites—but there are any number of things about the Laundry that are deeply unpalatable to anyone from a government service background, starting with our lack of accountability and going on from there.

  Governments are machines for producing and implementing legal frameworks. We don’t have one, and the Civil Service’s reaction to this is much like Superman’s reaction upon discovering that the lump under his mattress is an entire paving slab of kryptonite …

  … and this is before you throw panicking senior politicians and their backstabbing rivals and murky international alliances into the mix.

  That the nation needs an occult defense agency is obvious to everyone who’s seen the smoldering wreckage in Yorkshire (although to be perfectly honest this excludes a considerable number of Home Counties MPs, who don’t really believe the UK extends north of Watford Gap). That the Laundry is doing a good job in this role is much less obvious, in light of the aforementioned smoldering wreckage. That the Prime Minister has been personally embarrassed by our failure to prevent an attack by a psychotic alfär general has already been made crystal clear to us. And because this is now a political problem, the usual political syllogism applies:

  (a) is a problem: Something Must Be Done,

  (b) is Something,

  Therefore (b) Must Be Done.

  The only questions remaining are, who gets to decide what Solution (b) is, and how are we going to implement—or survive—it?

  * * *

  Schiller’s cortege drives around the M25 to an anonymous office park on the outskirts of Harrow, where GP Security Systems have a suite. While he and his immediate retinue—handmaids, bodyguards, drivers—enter the building, other staff off-load his team’s luggage and peel off in different directions: some towards the apartment he is renting in London, and others to a different site in rural Buckinghamshire.

  This is of little concern to Schiller. He moves at the heart of a soft machine, its limbs and heads and bodies smoothly coordinating around him to ensure that his needs are anticipated and taken care of. Polite, respectful receptionists and smiling senior managers await him in the glass-fronted lobby of the office. He is ushered straight into an elevator that has been held for him, whisked to the boardroom suite on the sixth floor, offered refreshments and paid respects as Anneka conducts her routine sweep for bugging devices and then attaches a noise generator to the window glass to block laser microphones.

  Finally Anneka tips him the wink and Schiller takes his seat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces. “May I have your attention?” Half a dozen senior managers and executives turn their heads. “I believe a brief prayer of thanksgiving is in order, then we’ll begin. Thank you, oh Father, for the gift of life, the continued mysteries of creation, for guarding our thoughts against evil and our bodies against sin, for granting us the boon of thy grace and redemption. Thank you, oh Father, for showing us the way ahead, for giving us the book, and the key, and the word of thy law. Thy will be done, and thy kingdom on Earth be ours to build in the future as it was in aeons past beneath alien skies, amen.”

  All heads are bowed, lips moving in prayer, for all those present are true believers and security-cleared initiates of at least the Middle Temple mysteries. (Employment Law forbids discrimination on the basis of faith, but GP Security Systems is a wholly-owned subsidiary of GP Services; unbelievers tend not to stick around, let alone achieve seniority.) Schiller finishes, then sits in silent contemplation for a minute before clearing his throat. “Miss McGuigan.” He looks across the table. “How far along are you with the arrangements for Operation Hospitality?”

  Bernadette McGuigan, who is skinny and intense with milky skin and coppery hair, lays a proprietary hand on the plain cross embossed in the leather cover of her day planner. “It’s coming along, Father. I’ve requested quotes from three private venues that can match your schedule and preferred location. Two of them are also-rans, but I’ve been sure to let them all know it’s an open tender. On the personnel side, I’ve got Martin vetting local catering firms and I’m taking charge of security myself. They’ve all signed the NDAs, and the usual sources confirm that there’s no chatter about the draft plan. I propose to use only our in-house resources—I’m going to outsource a handful of low-level nonsec jobs to subcontractors in order to free up our own people.” She gives Anneka a brief side-eye: “It’s been impressed upon me that Temple rules apply.”

  Schiller nods, satisfied. “Only the Elect are called to serve as Soldiers of Light,” he murmurs. Heads n
od. “Good,” he adds briskly. “What do you foresee as scheduling choke points at this time?”

  Bernadette stands. “I’ve got it all charted out,” she announces, picking up a laptop remote controller. “Projector, please…”

  For the next half hour the meeting is devoted to critiquing McGuigan’s project timeline. Her work is sound, and although Schiller requests some minor changes (as much to leave his mark on it as anything else), the review doesn’t take long; the main benefit is that by the time she finishes explaining everything, everyone at the table is intimately familiar with Operation Hospitality, its goals and deliverables.

  “Thank you.” Schiller twinkles at her as she returns to her seat. “Next agenda item: I believe this is yours, Mr. Taylor.” All eyes turn towards a bullet-headed man in early middle age, whose tailored suit doesn’t do much to conceal his background as a bouncer. “What is the state of our threat surface in this country?”

  Garry Taylor’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Dangerously exposed, boss. Not enough communicants to cover all bases, no way to hasten expansion beyond the obvious—” He coughs and covers his mouth apologetically. “—sorry, but without special dispensation we’re limited to working with what we’ve got, and even with your blessed additions we’re stretched thin on the ground. Against which, there is the enemy’s situational awareness to reckon with. I’ve been running searches on the names our friends in the OPA3 gave us, and I have some bad news. Hazard and her pet thug are inaccessible but at least they keep to a low profile; their known associate Howard is now a public figure, he’s even getting TV exposure as a spokesman for the target. If he identifies you in public that would be a, well, that would be an unacceptable risk of exposure. So I’ve detailed a subcontractor to identify his handles—family, friends, vices, anything they can get through the usual—and shadow him. If you want us to put them in the hospital for a few weeks—”