The Fuller Memorandum l-4

by Charles Stross

  “What have you done, Bob?” Jo grabs my left elbow. “First a civilian FATACC, now this. What are you into?”

  I blink stupidly at the destruction. “My secure document safe, is it . . . ?”

  She shakes her head. “We won’t know until we go inside. It’s still active.” I feel a thin prickling on the back of my neck. Demonic intruders have been at work, summoned to retrieve something. Angleton was right, I realize.

  “What did you have in your safe?”

  “I’m not sure you’re cleared—”

  Boris clears his throat. “Is cleared, Bob. I will clear her. What was in safe? What attracted attention of burglars in night?”

  I squint through the hole in the door. “I had documents relating to several codeword projects in there,” I say. “The stacks can probably reconstruct my withdrawal record, and once it’s safe to go in there we can work out what is missing.”

  “Bob, you went to the archives in person yesterday.” Jo tightens her grip on my elbow, painfully tight. “What did you withdraw most recently? Tell us!”

  Truth and consequences time. “I asked for a copy of the Fuller Memorandum,” I tell her, which is entirely true and correct: “I was following up something Angleton told me to do a while ago.” Which is also entirely correct, and the most misleading thing I’ve said in front of witnesses all year.

  “Fuller Memo—” I see a flicker of recognition on Boris’s face. “Tell me, when you go home last night, is Fuller Memorandum in safe?”

  I nod. I don’t trust my tongue at this point because, as the man who used to be president said, it all depends on what you mean by the word “is.”

  Jo stares at Boris. “What classification level are we talking about?” she asks.

  Boris doesn’t answer at once. He’s staring at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be a tiny pile of ash right now. “Does Angleton say you are to the memorandum read?” he asks.

  “Yup. Took me a while to track it down,” I extemporize. “So I left it in the safe overnight; I was going to look at it today.” All of which is truthful enough that I will happily repeat it in front of an Audit Panel, knowing that if I tell a lie in front of them the blood will boil in my veins and I won’t die—

  Boris looks at Jo and nods, minutely. “Am thanking you for calling me. This is mess.”

  “What was in the memo that’s so red-hot?” I ask, pushing my luck, because somewhere in all the fuss of expediting Angleton’s little scheme—taking the forgery he’d prepared and inserting it into the archives, then withdrawing it and planting the bait in my office safe—I hadn’t gotten round to asking him just what the original was about.

  “Memorandum is control binding scripture for asset called Eater of Souls,” Boris says, and strangely he refuses to meet my eyes. “Codeword is TEAPOT. Consequences of loss—unspeakable.”

  “Oh, shit.” I swear with feeling, because I’m not totally stupid: I worked out who Teapot was some time ago. I didn’t realize the Fuller Memorandum was his control document, though. The control document is the source code and activation signature for the geas that binds the entity called Teapot—the thing that over an eighty-year span became Angleton. It doesn’t even matter that our safe-breakers have stolen a ringer—at least, I assume Angleton gave me a ringer—the fact that they knew what to look for in the first place is really bad news.

  “You’d better come with me,” says Jo, and I suddenly notice that she’s shifted her grip to my forearm and she’s got fingers like handcuffs. “Form R60 time, Bob. And this time it’s not just a FATACC enquiry. As soon as my people have gone over the incident scene with a fine-toothed comb this will be going before the Auditors. I’m sorry.”

  I DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT £200, AND DO NOT BUY Piccadilly Circus. I don’t go to jail, either—not yet—but by the middle of the morning a thirty-year stretch in Wormwood Scrubs would come as a blessed relief.

  “Committee of enquiry will come to order.”

  I’ve been here before, and I didn’t like it the first time. The panel has requisitioned a small conference room, furnished in nineties government brutalist-lite: Aeron chairs and bleached pine table, health and safety posters on one wall, security notices on the other. The tribunal sits at the far end of the table, like a pin-striped hanging judge and his assistants. And they’ve rolled out that fucking carpet again, the one with the gold thread design woven into it, and the Enochian inscription, and the live summoning grid powerful enough to twist tendons and snap bones.

  There is no peanut gallery at this trial. Jo is waiting outside with a couple of blue-suiters and the other designated witnesses, but the Auditors want no inconvenient onlookers who might have to be bound to silence or memory-wiped, should I accidentally disclose material above their level of classification.

  “Please state your name and job title.” There’s a recorder on the desk, as usual: its light is glowing red.

  “Bob Howard. Senior Specialist Officer grade 3. Personal assistant to Tea—er, DSS Angleton.”

  That causes a minor stir. One of the Auditors—female, blonde, lateforties—turns sideways and says something to the others that I ought to be able to hear, but can’t. The other two nod. She turns back and addresses me directly. “Mr. Howard. You are aware of the terms of this investigation. You are aware of the geas it is conducted under. You have our special dispensation to respond to any question, the first time it is posed—and only the first time—by warning us if in your judgment the reply would require you to disclose codeword-classified information. Please state your understanding of this variance, in your own words.”

  I clear my throat. “If you ask me about sensitive projects I’m allowed to stonewall—once. If you ask me again, I have to tell you, period. Uh, I assume that’s because you’d prefer to keep the enquiry from accidentally covering so many highly classified subjects that nobody is allowed to read its findings . . . ?”

  She smiles drily. “Something like that.” It feels like the Angel of Death has just perched on my shoulder, paused from sharpening its blade, and quietly squawked: Who’s a pretty Polly? Then the sense of immanent ridiculous demise passes. Ha ha, I slay myself . . .

  The Chief Auditor nods, then looks at the legal pad before him. “Yesterday you visited the library front desk. What was your objective?”

  Lie back and think of England—and nothing else. “Angleton gave me a reading list,” I said. “He told me to bring back a particular document.” Pause. “Oh, and Mo wanted me to pick up a copy of a report she’d asked for, but it wasn’t in yet.”

  There is no prickling of high tension current in my legs to warn me that my partial truth is unacceptable.

  “Who is ‘Mo’?” asks Auditor #3.

  “Dr. Dominique O’Brien. Epistemological Warfare Specialist grade 4.”

  Auditor #3 leans forward hungrily. “Why did this person ask you to collect a document on their behalf?” he demands.

  I blink, nonplussed. “Because I told her I was going to the library, and she was busy. She’s my wife.”

  Auditor #3 looks baffled for a few seconds, his bloodhound trail evaporating in a haze of aniseed fumes. “You’re married?”

  “Yes.” This would be hilarious if I wasn’t scared silly by the sleeping horror I am standing on that will sense any attempt at deception and—

  “Oh.” He makes a note on his pad and subsides.

  The blonde Auditor gives him a very old-fashioned look, then turns to me: “Are you cleared for the content of her work?” she asks.

  Huh? “I have no idea,” I say sincerely. “We only discuss projects we’re working on after comparing codeword access and if necessary asking for clearance.” Then the glyph on the goddamn rug forces me to add, “But this time it doesn’t matter, the document hadn’t arrived anyway.”

  She scribbles something on her own notepad. “Did Dr. O’Brien tell you anything about this particular note?” she asks.

  I blink. “I have no idea. She simply gave me the f
ile reference number—no codeword.”

  More notes, more significant looks. The senior Auditor stares at me over the gold half-moon rims of his spectacles. “Mr. Howard. Please indicate if you are familiar with any of these individuals. Matthias Hoechst, Jessica Morgenstern, George Dower, Nikolai Panin—” He nods at my hand signal. “Describe what you know about Nikolai Panin.”

  “I had a pint with him in the Frog and Tourettes the day before yesterday.”

  The effect is astonishing: the Auditors jerk to attention like a row of frogs with cattle prods up their backsides. I meet their appalled gaze with a sense of sublime lightness. They want the truth? Okay, they can fucking have the truth.

  “I reported it as a contact to the BLOODY BARON committee at the first opportunity, and it was agreed to keep it quiet for the time being. Panin seems to have wanted to pass on a warning about Teapot. He was concerned that it was missing, and that as its last custodians we ought to ensure it was found before the wrong persons got their hands on it and, uh, ‘made tea.’” I smile blandly. “Angleton authorized me to read the WHITE BARON files and I have inferred the identity of Teapot.”

  The Chief Auditor shakes his head. “Bloody hell,” he grumbles, then, to me: “Do you know where Angleton is?”

  I open my mouth—then pause. Now I can feel the electric flare of the geas tickling the fine hairs on my legs.

  The blonde Auditor narrows her eyes. “Speak,” she commands.

  I can’t not speak, but I still have some control. “I don’t believe Angleton has assigned it a codeword yet,” I hear myself saying, “but his disappearance is connected with an ongoing investigation and I don’t think he wants me to tell anyone about it . . .”

  My legs feel as if they’re immersed in cold fire up to the knees. I gasp for breath, just as the Chief Auditor hastily holds up his hand: “Stay of execution! The subject has invoked the security variance.” He peers at me. “Can you confirm that you are cognizant of Angleton’s whereabouts?”

  I nod, jerkily. The chilly, searing fingers recede down my calves.

  “In your judgment, is Angleton working in the best interests of this institution?”

  I nod like a parcel shelf ornament.

  “Also in your judgment, would it impair his work on behalf of this institution if we continue to explore this line of enquiry?”

  I think for a moment. Then I nod, emphatically.

  “Very well.” Light glints on his spectacles as he looks at me for a few seconds. “On your recommendation, we will not enquire further—unless you have something you would like to tell us?”

  Careful, Bob! This is an Audit board you’re up against. They’re at their most dangerous when they’re being reasonable, and they can turn all the fires of hell—imaginary or otherwise—on you if you don’t cooperate.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m confused,” I finally say. “I thought this was an enquiry about the break-in and theft from my office safe, but you’ve been asking questions about Angleton and Mo instead. What’s going on?”

  Wrong question: Auditor #3 smiles sharkishly and the blonde Auditor shakes her head. “It is not in the remit of this committee to answer questions,” says the Chief Auditor, a trifle archly. “Now, back to the matter in hand. I have some questions about office supplies. When did you last order stationery fasteners from office stores, and how many and what type did you request . . . ?”

  WHILE I’M BEING HAULED OVER THE COALS, MO RISES AT HER usual hour, makes coffee, eats a cereal bar, reads my text message. It’s along the lines of HELD UP AT WORK IN COMMITTEE. She frowns, worried but not unduly alarmed. (My texts range from verbose and eloquent—when I’m bored—to monosyllabic, when the entire cesspit is about to be ingested by a jet engine. This intermediate level is indicative of stress, but not of mortal danger.)

  She leaves the dregs of the coffee in the pot, and the cereal bar wrapper on top of the other waste in the kitchen bin. She goes upstairs, dresses, collects violin and coat, and leaves.

  Sometimes Mo works in the New Annexe; and sometimes she doesn’t. There’s an office in the Royal College of Music where her name is one of three listed on the door. There’s a course in philosophy of mathematics at King’s College where she sometimes lectures—and forwards reports on her pupils to Human Resources. And she’s a regular visitor at the Village, across the fens and up the coast by boat, where the Laundry keeps certain assets that don’t belong in a crowded city. Today, she sets out by tube, heading for the city center. She is on her way to ask Mr. Dower whether he did in fact mail his report. And she is in for a surprise.

  Watch the red-haired woman in a black suit, violin case in hand, walking up the pavement towards the shuttered shopfront with the blue-and-white police incident tape stretched across the doorway. Traffic cones with more tape stand to either side of the shop front, fluttering in the light breeze. She pauses, nonplussed, then looks around. There is a police officer standing discreetly by, hands clasped behind his back. She glances back at the taped-off doorway. There is no dark stain on the lintel—the SOC officers and the cleanup crew did their job well—but the ward she wears under her blouse buzzes a warning. Her expression hardens, and she walks towards the constable, reaching into her handbag to produce an identity card.

  “What happened here, officer?” she asks quietly, holding the card where he can’t help but see it.

  He doesn’t stand a chance. “Who, uh, oh dear . . .” He shakes his head. “Ma’am. Murder scene. You can’t go, I mean, you shouldn’t . . .”

  “Who’s in charge here?” she enquires. “Where can I find them?”

  “That’d be DI Wolfe, from MIT 4. He’s set up shop round the back—that way, that alley there—who should I say—”

  “In the name of national security, I command and require you to forget me,” she says, slipping the card away and turning towards the alley that runs around to the back of the row of four shops. The constable’s eyes close momentarily; by the time he opens them again, the woman with the violin case is gone.

  Ten minutes later, the back door to George Dower’s shop clicks open. Two figures step inside: a uniformed detective sergeant and the woman. Both of them wear disposable polythene slippers over their shoes; she still holds her violin case. “Don’t touch anything—tell me what you want to look at,” he says, pulling on a pair of disposable gloves. “What exactly are you after?”

  “First of all, what state is his PC in?”

  “It wasn’t stolen, so we bagged it.” The sergeant sounds sure of himself. “If you’re wanting to scrape the hard drive, we can have an image of it available in an hour or so.”

  Mo cools slightly. If the killer left the PC behind, then there’s almost certainly nothing left on it but random garbage, an entropic mess that not even CESG will be able to unerase. “Any memory sticks? Small stuff? CD-Rs?”

  “We bagged them, too.” The sergeant picks his way into Dower’s workshop, which still reeks of rosin and varnish. A row of disemboweled instruments hang from a rail overhead, like corpses in the dissectionist’s cold parlor. Those tools that are not in their places on the pegboard that covers one wall are laid out on the bench in parallel rows, neatly sorted by size. The metal parts gleam like surgical steel, polished and unnaturally bright.

  “Any papers?”

  The sergeant pauses beside a rolltop desk, itself an antique, Victorian or Edwardian. “Yes,” he says reluctantly. “They’re scheduled for pickup tomorrow so we can continue working on the contact list. Receipts, suppliers’ brochures, estimates, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m looking for an appraisal of a customer’s instrument,” she tells him. “It will be dated yesterday or the day before, and it relates to a violin. It may be in an unmarked envelope, like this one.” She produces an envelope from her bag.

  “Like that—” The officer’s eyes widen and his back straightens. “Would you happen to have any information about the killer?” he asks. “Because if so—”

  Mo
shakes her head. “I do not know who the killer is.” The sergeant stares at her, seeking eye contact. “The victim was commissioned to prepare a report for my department. He was due to post it on the evening when the incident occurred. It has not been delivered.”

  “What was he meant to report on?”

  Mo makes eye contact at last, and the detective sergeant recoils slightly from whatever he sees in her expression. “You have no need to know. If it appears that there is a connection between the report and the killing, my department will notify Inspector Wolfe immediately. Similarly, if the identity of the killer comes to our attention.” She doesn’t add, in such a way that we can disclose it without violating security protocol: that much is always understood to be a minor chord in the uneasy duet of spook and cop. “The report, however, is a classified document and should be treated as such.” And she raises her warrant card again.

  The detective sergeant is clearly torn between the urgent desire to get her into an interview room and the equally urgent desire to get her the hell out of this shop, and away from what was until a few minutes ago a straightforward—if rather unusual—murder investigation; but being on the receiving end of a Laundry warrant card is an oh-shit moment. It begins with the phrase Her Britannic Majesty’s government commands and compels you to provide the bearer of this pass with all aid and assistance , written atop a design of such subtle and mind-numbing power that it makes the reader’s breath catch in his throat as suddenly as if trapped by a hangman’s noose. He can no more ignore it—and no more ignore her instructions—than he can ignore a gun pointed at his head.

  “What do you want?” he finally asks.

  “I want the contents of that report.” She lowers her card. “I suspect the killer doesn’t want me to have it. So if you find it, call me.” She produces a business card and he takes it. Then her roving gaze settles on the desk. “Oh, and one other thing. Are there any paper clips or staples in there? Because if so, I want them all.”