“My wife doesn’t bother.” Is that a palpable hit? “But I’ve met them before, yes.”
Lockhart keeps a stony face throughout, but at this latter bit of banter he begins to show signs of irritation with me. “Bob, if you’d care to sit down, perhaps we could order some food?”
We sit down. I pointedly pay no attention to McTavish pointedly taking no slight at my pointed rejection of his mistress’s pointed—and unsubtle—attempt to beguile me. I’m somewhat disappointed. Do they think we’re amateurs or something?
“That was a very interesting service you sent us to last night,” Hazard tells Lockhart. She’s working on the English understatement thing, but her hands, expressive and mobile, give it away: she’s spinning exclamation marks in semaphore. “Absolutely fascinating.”
“Yes it was, wasn’t it?” Lockhart deadpans. He glances at McTavish. “You took a different angle, I assume?”
McTavish nods. “Penthouse and pavement.” His expression is oddly stony.
“Good—” Lockhart stops as the door opens. It’s one of the Wong Kei’s crack assault waiters, pad in hand. They’re famously rude; it’s all part of the service.
“You ready to order?” he barks.
“Certainly.” Lockhart is clearly a regular here. “I’ll start with the hot and sour soup…”
Two or three minutes later:
“Where was I?” Lockhart asks.
“You were grilling us about last night, as I recall,” says McTavish.
Hazard nods, eyes narrowing.
Lockhart glances at me briefly. It’s barely a flicker, but enough to warn me: The game’s afoot.
“Did you notice anything unusual about the, ah, performers?”
“What? Apart from the way they programmed the event to build the audience’s emotional investment in the key payload, then love-bombed them from fifty thousand feet with the warm floaty joy of Jesus?” Hazard props her chin on the back of her hand and pouts, sulky rather than sultry. “You should send Bob. He doesn’t like glamours. Do you, Bob?”
“Hey, it’s not you—it’s just that the last time someone put one on me I ended up buying an iPhone!” My protest falls on deaf ears.
“It’s not the glamour that interests me,” Lockhart says deliberately, “but the person it’s attached to.”
“You’re asking about Raymond Schiller, of the Golden Promise Ministries,” McTavish says lazily. “More like the Golden Fleece Ministries if you ask me, Duchess.”
“Mm, that tends to go with the territory.” Hazard is noncommittal.
“You didn’t see the average take in the collecting buckets at the back. Lot of people going short on luxuries this month, if you ask me.”
“The O2 Arena doesn’t rent for peanuts.”
“Unless it’s a charity loss-leader and they make up their margin on the food and entertainment franchises.” McTavish is a lot sharper than he looks. “Or someone with a glamour as good as Ray Schiller gets to the management committee.”
“Does he, ah, preach the prosperity gospel?” asks Lockhart.
“After a fashion.” McTavish’s lips are lemon-bitingly narrowed. “There are doctrinal shout-outs, dog-whistles the unchurched aren’t expected to notice. The prosperity gospel is in there, of course—it’s a Midwestern mega-church, after all. That’s what their appeal is all about. But there’s other stuff, too. It put me in mind of the church of my fathers, and not in a good way.”
“You didn’t say that last night.” Hazard sits up. The door opens as a pair of waiters appear, bearing trays laden with soup and starters. She continues after they leave, addressing Lockhart: “It was a very non-specific love-bombing, but it was a very public evening. I thought it was a recruiting drive for foot soldiers rather than a second-level indoctrination aimed at officers. Very skillful, though.”
“I’d use a different word for it,” McTavish says darkly.
“Yes?” Lockhart focusses on him.
“You’ll have read my file.” McTavish winks and picks up a prawn toast. “Let’s not disrespect the food, eh?”
As I dive into my chicken and sweetcorn soup I’m trying to place Hazard’s accent. It’s not remotely American, but not British, either; there’s a hint of something central European, but it’s been thoroughly scrubbed—all but erased—by very expensive speech training.
“Ray is an interesting character,” Lockhart explains over the starters. “We don’t know much about him. US citizen, of course; he came out of Texas, but his background is rather vaguer than we’re happy about. There’s a worrying lack of detail, especially about what he did before he found Jesus in his mid-twenties and joined the Golden Promise Ministries, back when it was a converted shack in the Colorado mountains.”
“Aye, well.” McTavish is busy with his ribs—I can’t tell whether he’s genuinely hungry or using them as a smoke screen—but Hazard is suddenly abruptly intent on Lockhart, her gray eyes as tightly focused as a battleship’s range-finder. “You think…”
Lockhart clears his throat. “Please don’t say what you’re about to say. I’m implying nothing, Persephone. There’s no evidence and there are no witnesses—none we’ve been able to locate. I may be barking up the wrong tree. Nevertheless, we are concerned.”
“I am not sure I see why,” she says slowly. “As long as he simply takes the marks for their marks, what’s the problem?”
Johnny McTavish has gone very still and very distant, gaze fixed and unblinking in a sniper’s thousand-yard stare. A cold chill runs up and down my spine. I’m the only person at this table who hasn’t been fully briefed on whatever is being spoken of here, and I feel horribly exposed, because I’ve read enough of the BASHFUL INCENDIARY dossier to know what Persephone is capable of, and Johnny is her lieutenant—and I suspect the subject of the other dossier, the JOHNNY PRINCE one I saw on Lockhart’s desk—which means he shouldn’t be underestimated either.
“Did you stay for the laying on of hands?” Lockhart asks after a moment.
“Yes.” Her eyes narrow. “And the speaking in tongues, and the reeling and writhing. Thank you very much.”
Johnny is pointedly silent and dour.
“Did they say anything interesting?” Lockhart leans forward.
“Hard to tell.” She frowns. “Glossolalia is always hard to follow, even with my—assets. The music and chanting and clapping and cheering from the back, they make it really hard to hear. But if I had to guess, I think—I might be wrong—it was all coming through in High Enochian. And one lady in particular—she was facing in my direction as the Holy Spirit took her—she was calling, He is coming, he is coming, over and over. And it was definitely in that tongue.”
Johnny looks up and nods. “The faith of my fathers, for sure,” he says quietly. “I could feel the siren song in my blood.”
“Well that tears it.” Lockhart looks at me sourly.
“What?” I say, surprised.
“Gerry, would you mind explaining, preferably in words of one syllable, just why this particular hedge-wizard occultist turned preacher-man is suddenly a person of interest to Her Majesty’s Government?” Hazard stares at Lockhart, openly challenging.
Johnny looks uncomfortable. “Duchess—”
Lockhart shakes his head. “That’s the wrong question.”
“What’s the right one, then?”
“The right question,” he pauses for a final mouthful of soup, “is why Her Majesty’s Government has suddenly become of interest to Raymond Schiller. And in particular, why our prime minister is hosting a prayer breakfast for the pastor the day after tomorrow.” He puts his spoon down and fixes Hazard with a chilly stare. “There are aspects of Pastor Schiller’s mission that were not on display at the arena. Call it the uncut, X-rated version of yesterday’s PG performance. As you can imagine, we find his faith disturbing.”
McTavish fixes me with a lazy smile. “Are you a man of faith, Mr. Howard?”
“In a manner of speaking.” I use my napkin
to wipe my lips while I work out how much I can say without Lockhart putting me on latrine duty afterwards. “I’m fully aware of the One True Religion. I know where I stand with respect to it.” I stare right back at him. “And I know what to do with worshipers when I find them.”
His smile widens. “We must get together and compare notes some time.”
Hazard cuts across us: “If you gentlemen have quite finished? I believe we still have a main course to eat.” She smiles indulgently. “You can continue plotting deicide later. I, for one, am looking forward to the Hoisin duck…”
Jesus, that woman’s got a strong stomach, I think as the waiters come to clear away our starters and Lockhart looks at me and gives a stiff, very quick nod.
Little do I suspect what’s in store for dessert.
5. BASHFUL INCENDIARY
I KEEP MY GOB SHUT UNTIL WE GET BACK TO LOCKHART’S OFFICE. He shuts the door and flips the security lamp switch—to warn passers-by not to enter—then turns to me. “Sit down, Mr. Howard. I must congratulate you on not giving away the entire kitchen sink, along with the silver teaspoons…”
I sit on the edge of the hard visitor’s chair. I will confess to a slight degree of tension. There will be an exam: no shit, Sherlock. The real question is, who is examining whom?
“Do Operational Oversight know about this?” I ask bluntly.
Lockhart’s response is characteristically terse. “They aren’t cleared to supervise Externalities. We answer directly to Mahogany Row. The Auditors keep an eye on us, in case you were wondering about accountability.”
Great. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any dicier, it turns out we’re going behind the backs of the folks normally charged with keeping us on the straight and narrow, because the Big Bad themselves are giving us the hairy eyeball. “So, let me see if I’ve got things right…You’ve got wind of a televangelist who is in too tight with the Prime Minister. He’s got, at a minimum, some rudimentary talent; at worst, he may be a cultist. The PM is completely and utterly off-limits, so we’re going to set up a surveillance op that bypasses Operational Oversight specifically so we can violate our organization’s equivalent of the prime directive. Right?”
“Not exactly.” The caterpillar is unamused. “We are going to obey the letter of the law, Mr. Howard, and don’t you forget—”
“I’m so glad to hear that—” I begin before I realize he’s got more to say: “I’m sorry?”
“What did I tell you about using your ears?” I bite my tongue and give him the nod he’s waiting for. “When you’re not filling the external assets’ ears with your own opinions…anyway. As I was saying, we are bound to obey the law. The Laundry does not snoop on the PM or his associates. Caesar’s wife and all that. Nor does the Laundry employ external contractors.”
Then what was lunch about? I manage not to ask; instead I nod, trying to fake a thoughtful expression.
“It is possible that from time to time outside interlopers who, I emphasize, do not work for the Laundry, and who feature nowhere in our org chart, might take an interest in people associated with Number Ten. Wild cards, loose cannons.” Lockhart aims for the arch expression of a Sir Humphrey Appleby: on his round face it looks as authentic as a six pound note. “In which case we would of course be required to investigate them: strictly to ensure that the PM’s security was not violated, you understand.”
“Outside interlopers like BASHFUL INCENDIARY and her pet thug?” I stare at him in ill-concealed disbelief.
“You appear to be slightly perturbed.” Lockhart walks behind his desk and sits, stiffly. “Would you care to explain why, Mr. Howard?”
You gave me the dossier—I flap my mouth: noises come out. Get a grip, Bob. “Where shall I start?”
“At the beginning.” Lockhart laces his fingers together. “Tell me about BASHFUL INCENDIARY, then explain why you are uneasy.”
“Huh. Okay, then. We have a woman with no history before the age of eight. She first appears on the scene in Bosnia during the war, already aged eight, via a refugee camp. Doesn’t speak and is believed to be mute. After four months in the camp a couple of teenage thugs try to rape her. The UN peacekeepers notice the aftermath of the incident but write it off as a freak accident; by the time someone asks what sucked the soul out of two gangbangers, she isn’t there anymore. To this day, it’s an open question—precocious talent or a protective agency? There are isolated reports over the next two years. Living with a family of Roma in Albania, caught begging in Trieste, shoplifting in Milan. She slips through the net every time. Then, a year later, the trail firms up. She is formally adopted by Alberto and Marianne di Fonseca, whose lawyers convince the magistrate that despite the lack of paperwork it’s in the kid’s best interest for her to have a stable, loving, and fairly well-off family.”
I take a deep breath. “The di Fonsecas are persons of interest: a professor of theoretical mathematics and a former fortune teller with a reputation as a witch. He’s titled—duke of a historic statelet that hasn’t existed since the eighteenth century. There’s old money and influence there, not to mention his membership in a politically influential but very secretive masonic lodge—”
Lockhart makes a cutting gesture: “Fast-forward, if you please.”
“Okay. Our ten-year-old girl is enrolled in an expensive Liceo Scientifico where her academic performance goes from subpar in the first year to meteoritic in the second and subsequent. By fifteen she was taking her, ah, diploma di scuola superiore—ready to enter university four years early. Wednesday Addams, the Italian remix: a quiet, reserved pupil, doesn’t make many friends, spends holidays at home with her adoptive parents. Pay no attention to the word among the local lads about town that she’s a, a succubus; probably she’s just very good at creeping out teenage boys who hit on her.
“She’s staying with the di Fonsecas in their holiday villa—but not at home on the evening of July 19, 2002, when they are murdered. The murderers are gunmen reported variously to be members of the Palermo Mafia, the Brigado Rosso, or the Red Skull Cult, depending on who you ask. The girl, aged sixteen, is the sole survivor. Her claim to have been out on the town at the time is accepted by the local magistrates. She inherits roughly two million euros and the contents of the di Fonsecas’ library, changes her legal name, and moves out.”
I draw a deep breath. “Fast-forward two years—I’ll back up in a minute—and two badly decomposed bodies are dredged from a lake in Tuscany. DNA evidence places them at the scene of the massacre. The remains show signs of paranormal intervention.” That’s Laundry-speak for they were chewed on by extradimensional horrors.
“Inconclusive.” Lockhart frowns. “What next?”
How to summarize…? Oh, that’s easy. “She embarks on a five-year reign of terror. Instead of going to university, from September 2002 through to November 2007 BASHFUL INCENDIARY ran the most successful private occult intelligence service in history. The Hazard Network. An eighteen-year-old genius with a private income, the looks of a model, and a knack for identifying and hiring raw talent. She is, as it turns out, a very talented ritual practitioner”—one who risks their own cerebral cortex by working magic, raw, by force of will—“with a speciality in sex magic and, if that isn’t sickening enough, she’s a damn fine paralogician and a skilled programmer.” Ritual magic is rare enough; combining it with a talent for our kind of business is distinctly unusual.
“Let’s see: White Hat work. We know the Sultan of Brunei hired the Hazard Agency to track down a deep-cover Al-Qaida cell attempting to infiltrate the army intelligence service and the Sultan’s own personal bodyguard. A Swiss bank retained her services as a Tiger Team to test security on their new deposit facility—verdict: it needed serious improvements. That sort of thing.
“As for her Black Hat work, there’s nothing anyone can prove well enough to stand up in court—but a certain stench of brimstone attaches.” I begin checking off crimes and outrages on my fingers. “Suspected removal of occult artifacts
and jewelry from sunken Roman merchant vessels in the Adriatic. Suspected involvement in smuggling of Egyptian antiquities. Suspected theft of previously stolen old masters from a rich collector’s hoard in Vienna, subsequent resale and blackmail—sexual as well as handling stolen goods—of their previous custodian. And an investment portfolio that bottomed out at 1.2 million euros in 2002 and peaked at just over one hundred million”—I do the Doctor Evil little-pinkie gesture at this point—“before the bottom fell out of the market in 2008.”
Lockhart nods. “Since that time?”
“In 2008 she retires to London. Waits six months, then dumps the thick end of twenty million pounds of her personal wealth into the property market—right after the initial crash—and another hundred thousand pounds in political donations that make her very difficult to dislodge. By this time she’s only got five or ten million left in the bank—she’s paid off her team—but she plays her hand expertly. She’s an EU citizen thanks to the di Fonsecas, a twenty-four-year-old millionairess who invites herself to the right parties and makes friends with the right Bright Young Things. Any crimes she did commit are swept under the rug, and she’s kept her nose clean for the past seven years. In fact, she’s done a terrifyingly professional job of turning herself into a pillar of the establishment. There’s absolutely nothing on her record after 2008 except for the financial and social work. To all intents and purposes it looks as if she dropped out of the whole occult world completely.”
“Yes, that’s always the way it works.” Lockhart nods.
“So why isn’t she one of us?” I ask bluntly. “She’d be a major asset…”
“You have no need to know.” The caterpillar stretches in a thin line: curls over and plays dead. “That decision was taken above your pay grade—or mine. However”—Lockhart places a hand on top of the BASHFUL INCENDIARY file—“you will doubtless have realized by now that if she was in here she would be required to work under the same constraints as you or I, which would severely reduce her value to us. And I am led to believe that, within certain parameters, her loyalty is absolute.”
The Apocalypse Codex lf-4 Page 7
