The Fuller Memorandum

by Charles Stross

  Iris winces. (I’m wincing inside: if you had our heating bills last winter, you’d be wincing too.) “Enough of the macro picture, if you don’t mind. What’s the micro?”

  “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.

  “Let me be straightforward: all the signs suggest that the Thirteenth Directorate are suddenly playing very dangerous games on our turf. If the cultists who CLUB ZERO shut down turn out to be a front for the Thirteenth Directorate, then we have to assume that CLUB ZERO is connected with BLOODY BARON—and that turns it from a low-key adversarial tactical analysis into a much higher priority for us. They’re not usually reckless, and they’re not pushing the old ideological agend
a anymore—they wouldn’t be acting this openly for short-term advantage—so we need to find out what they’re doing and put a stop to it, before anyone else gets hurt. Yes, Bob? What is it?”

  I put my hand down. “This might sound stupid,” I hear myself saying, “but has anyone thought about, you know, asking them?”

  I’M NOT BIG ON HISTORY.

  When I was at school, I dropped the topic as soon as I could, right after I took my GCSEs. It seemed like it was all about one damn king after another, or one war after another, or a bunch of social history stuff about what it was like to live as an eighteenth-century weaver whose son had run off with a spinster called Jenny, or a sixteenth-century religious bigot with a weird name and a witch-burning fetish. Tedious shite, in other words, of zero relevance to modern life—especially if you were planning on studying and working in a field that was more or less invented out of whole cloth in 1933.

  The trouble is, you can ignore history—but history won’t necessarily ignore you.

  History, it turns out, is all around us. Service House—where I used to have my cubicle—is where the Laundry moved in 1953. Before that, it used to belong to the Foreign Office. Before that, we worked out of an attic above a Chinese laundry in Soho, hence the name. Before that . . .

  There was no Laundry, officially.

  The Laundry was a wartime work of expedience, magicked into existence by a five-line memo headlined ACTION THIS DAY and signed Winston Churchill. It was directed at a variety of people, including a retired major general and sometime MI6 informer, whose dubious status was probably the deciding factor in keeping his ass out of an internment camp along with the rest of the Nazi-sympathizing Directorate of the British Union of Fascists—that, and his shadowy connections to occultists and mathematicians, his undoubted genius as a tactician and theorist of the arts of war, and the nuanced reports of his political officer, who figured his patriotism had a higher operator precedence than his politics. That man was F: Major-General J. F. C. “Boney” Fuller. He’s been in his grave for nearly half a century, and would doubtless be spinning in it fast enough to qualify for carbon credits as an environmentally friendly power source if he could see us today in all our multi-ethnic anti-discriminatory splendor.

  But who cares?

  That is, indeed, the big-ticket question.

  Before the Laundry, things were a bit confused. You can do magic by hand, without computers, but magic performed by ritual without finite state automata in the loop—calculating machines, in other words—tends to be haphazard, unreliable, uncontrollable, prone to undesirable side effects, and difficult to repeat. It also tends to fuck with causality, the logical sequence of events, in a most alarming way.

  We’ve unintentionally rewritten our history over the centuries, would-be sorcerers unwinding chaos and pinning down events with the dead hand of consistency—always tending towards a more stable ground state because chaos is unstable; entropy is magic’s great enemy. When the ancients wrote of gods and demons, they might well have been recording their real-life experiences—or they may have drunk too much mushroom tea: we have no way of knowing.

  Let’s just say that you can’t always trust the historical record and move swiftly on.

  On the other hand, unreliability never stopped anyone from using a given technology—just look at Microsoft if you don’t believe me.

  During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the scholars of night systematized and studied the occult with all the zeal Victorian taxonomists could bring to bear. There was a lot of rubbish written; Helena Blavatsky, bless her little cotton socks, muddied the waters in an immensely useful way, as did Annie Besant, and Krishnamurti, and a host of others.

  And then there were those who came too damned close to the truth: if H. P. Lovecraft hadn’t died of intestinal cancer in 1937 something would have had to have been done about him, if you’ll pardon my subjunctive. (And it would have been messy, very messy—if old HPL was around today he’d be the kind of blogging and email junkie who’s in everybody’s RSS feed like some kind of giant mutant gossip squid.)

  Then there were those who were sitting on top of the truth, if they’d had but the wits to see it—Dennis Wheatley, for example, worked down the hall in Deception Planning at SOE and regularly did lunch with a couple of staff officers who worked with Alan Turing—the man himself, not the anonymous code-named genius currently doing whatever it is they do in the secure wing at the Funny Farm. Luckily Wheatley wouldn’t have known a real paranormal excursion if it bit him on the arse. (In fact, looking back to the dusty manila files, I’m not entirely sure that Dennis Wheatley’s publisher wasn’t on the Deception Planning payroll after the war, if you follow my drift.)

  But I digress.

  It was to our great advantage during the cold war that the commies were always terrible at dealing with the supernatural.

  For starters, having an ideology that explicitly denies the existence of an invisible sky daddy is a bit of a handicap when it comes to assimilating the idea of nightmarish immortal aliens from elsewhere in the multiverse, given that the NIAs in question have historically been identified as gods (subtype: elder). For seconds, blame Trofim Lysenko for corrupting their science faculty’s ability to cope with new findings that contradicted received political doctrine. For thirds, blame the Politburo, which, in the 1950s, looked at the embryonic IT industry, thought “tools of capitalist profit-mongers,” and denounced computer science as un-Communist.

  Proximate results: they got into orbit using hand calculators, but completely dropped the ball on anything that required complexity theory, automated theorem proving, or sacrificial goats.

  But that was then, and this is now, and we’re not dealing with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, we’re dickering with the Russian Federation. (When we’re not trying to save ourselves from the end of the world, that is.)

  The Russians are no longer dragged backwards by the invisible hand of Lenin. Their populace have taken with gusto to god-bothering and hacking, their official government ideology is “hail to the chief,” and Moscow is the number one place on the planet to go if you want to rent a botnet.

  There’s a pragmatic and pugnacious attitude to their overseas operations these days. Their ruling network, the siloviki, aren’t playing the Great Game for ideological reasons anymore, even though they came up through the KGB prior to the years of chaos: they’re out to make Russia great again, and grab a tidy bank balance in the process, and they’re playing hardball because they’re pissed off at the way they were shoved off the board during the 1990s—consigned to the dustbin of history, asset-stripped by oligarchs and bamboozled by foreign bankers.

  And so, to the present. The whole of Western Europe—and a bunch of far-flung outposts beyond—are currently crawling with KGB foot soldiers. No longer the stolid gray-suited trustees of Soviet-era spy mythology, they come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but they have two things in common: snow on their boots and blood in their eyes. And if they’re looking for something connected with our founder, and deploying supernatural weapons on our territory—

  We need to know why.

  6.

  RED ORCHESTRA

  LET US TEMPORARILY LOOK ASIDE FROM YR. HMBL. CRSPNDNT’S work diary to contemplate a very different matter: a vignette of street life in central London. I am not, myself, a witness: so this is, to some extent, a work of imaginative reconstruction.

  Visualize the scene: a side street not far from Piccadilly Circus in London, an outrageously busy shopping district crammed on both sides with fashion chains and department stores. Even the alleys are lined with bistros and boutiques, tidied up to appeal to the passing trade. Pedestrians throng the pavements and overflow into the street, but vehicle traffic is light—thanks to the congestion charge—and slow—thanks to the speed bumps.

  Here comes a red-haired woman, smartly dressed in a black skirt, houndstooth-check jacket, medium heels. She’s holding a violin case in one hand, her face set i
n an expression of patient irritation beneath her makeup: a musician heading to a recital, perhaps. She looks slightly uncomfortable, out-of-sorts as she weaves between a pair of braying office workers, yummy mummies pushing baby buggies the size of lunar rovers, a skate punk in dreads, and a beggar woman in hijab. She cuts across the pavement on Glasshouse Street, crosses the road between an overheating BMW X5 and a black cab, and turns into Shaftesbury.

  Somewhere in the teeming alleys behind Charing Cross Road there is a narrow-fronted music shop, its window display empty but for a rack of yellowing scores and a collection of lightly tarnished brass instruments. The woman pauses in front of the glass, apparently examining the sheet music. In fact, she’s using the window as a mirror, checking the street behind her before she places one hand on the doorknob and pushes. Her close-trimmed nails are smoothly sheathed in enamel the color of overripe grapes: there are calluses on the tips of her fingers.

  A bell jingles somewhere out of sight as she enters the shop.

  “Good afternoon?”

  One side of the shop is occupied by a counter, glass bound in old oak, running back towards a bead-curtained alcove at the rear of the premises. A cadaverous and prematurely aged fellow with watery eyes, dressed as conservatively as an undertaker, shuffles between the hanging strings of beads and blinks at her disapprovingly.

  “Mr. Dower? George Dower?” The woman smiles at him tightly, her lips pursed to conceal her teeth.

  “I have that honor, yes.” He looks at her as if he wishes she’d go away. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “As a matter of fact”—the woman slides a hand into her black leather handbag and produces a wallet, which falls open to display a card—“I do. Cassie May, from Sotheby’s. I called yesterday?” The card glistens with a strange iridescent sheen in the dim artificial light.