The Apocalypse Codex (30 page)

And he would be able to see the moons, orbiting low and fast, which are blocked from his gaze by the walls.

***Report.***

The words thrust themselves into his mind like knife-sharp icicles rising from the thing that feeds between his legs, as a vast, chilly awareness slams up his spine and usurps his brain’s speech center to give voice to its demands. A bystander would hear nothing, but to Schiller, the still, small voice of his god is louder than thunder.

“I am a damned soul and a miserable sinner…”

***We will be your judge. But not in this time and place.
Report!
***

The force of the demand drives Schiller to his hands, abasing himself before the sarcophagus-shaped altar (which has grown longer and broader, and is now of pale gray stone, embossed with intricate and disturbing knotwork elements that confuse the eye of the watcher).

“Lord! The mission to the leadership of the British government has been an unconditional success! The introduction we seek will be forthcoming within days, and with an endorsement from the Prime Minister, the chair of News Corporation will have no alternative but to see us. Once Mr. Murdoch is one of ours, we will have full access to the largest satellite and news broadcasting organization on Earth to bring our ministry to—”

***There is a disturbance in Sheol. Are you responsible?***

“Lord? I don’t understand…”

***Four of the hosts I placed at your disposal are missing. Three have been destroyed but another is offline. Report.***

Schiller racks his memory, then realizes what his Lord is asking. “Ah, we have a small problem. A cell of spies dispatched by an autonomous arm of the British state has attempted to infiltrate us. We repelled their attack but three of our people were killed in the process. We are now searching for the apostates—”

***Three hosts are destroyed but one is offline. What befell the offline host?***

Schiller is baffled and terrified. A wind blows through his mind, a desiccating ice storm from an arctic valley where it hasn’t rained for a million years, drying up his will and freezing his brain in mid-thought. Then it subsides, as quickly as it blew up: his Lord has satisfied himself that Schiller has no answer to give and is still, at heart, entirely a creature of faith.

***Two active hosts were with your minions when they went to apprehend the British spymaster. One of them is dead. The other is beyond my awareness. Searching…
ah
.*** The expression of surprise is a sharp intake of breath on Schiller’s part; his Lord has no lungs with which to draw air, and has in any case long since exhausted the universe’s capacity for surprises. ***It is in the hands of an enemy. Our worshipers have met this British agent before. Do not attempt to convert him; bring him alive before Us. He will be of great service in the end times ahead.***

Schiller’s body shudders, muscles twitching spasmodically as the most distant echo of his Lord’s unhuman emotions bleeds through his amygdala, triggering a fit. Seconds pass; Schiller lies still for further minutes, recovering, before the inner voice addresses him again.

***What of the Task? Report.***

“As soon as I was informed of the attention we were attracting, I ordered Operation Multitude brought forward. It’s very early, but I felt I couldn’t take the risk of waiting any longer. So we are bringing forward the ministry to the people of Colorado Springs, and have invoked the miracle of Fimbulwinter, as instructed. The airports are closing, the Great Ward is in place, and we have arranged for highway patrol checkpoints on all the roads we can reach. Tomorrow we will perform the Rite of Awakening and the Harrowing of the unbelievers for the first time before a congregation of seven thousand. If it works as expected, we’ll ramp up from there—Colorado Springs today, the whole of the continental United States by this time next month. It will take longer and entail more risks than the original plan, but we can start tomorrow—”

***A hundred million souls must be Saved, Raymond, in order to free my mortal husk from this tomb.***

“Yes, my Lord. Thy will be done.”

***Then shall I bring about Heaven on Earth. And all shall be Saved who will accept my host into their heart.***

“Thank you, Lord!” Schiller prays fervently.

***Bringing you here and protecting you from the forces of darkness that assail me saps my strength in this enfeebled state. Go now, and bring to me the pure of heart that I may take strength from the power of their faith. Go now, and detain the British spy Howard and his employees against my immanent return. Go now, and prepare the Rite of Awakening. Glory to God in the highest!***

“Glory to”—Raymond rocks forward on his feet and finds himself once again in a small oak-paneled basement room—“God in the highest!”

IN THE BASEMENT OF THE NEW ANNEX, DOWN A DUSTY STAIRCASE
with fire doors at the top and along a corridor painted institutional beige and lit by ancient tungsten bulbs (some of which have failed), there is a green metal door. There is no room number or name plate on the door: just a keyhole, an ancient brass handle, and—above the lintel—a security warning lamp, currently switched off. Were it not for the lamp it might be a janitor’s closet or a power distribution board. And despite the lamp, the delicate, almost invisible runes of power traced across the surface of the door ensure that most of the people who pass along the corridor mistake it for such.

Lockhart approaches the door with some trepidation. He pauses on the threshold, and an observer would conclude that he is nerving himself before he knocks, briskly.

The door opens.

“Come in,” says the room’s occupant.

“Thank you.” Lockhart steps inside the office and sits down in the visitor’s swivel chair opposite the strange metal desk with the hulking hood like a microfilm reader. As he does so Angleton locks the door with a strange silver key which he returns to a matchbox-sized wooden case, sliding it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“What’s he done this time?” Angleton asks as he stalks back towards his chair behind the projection turret of the Memex.

Lockhart exhales explosively. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Possibly nothing, yet.”

“Hmm.” Angleton glances at the elderly analog clock above the doorway. “It’s nearly twenty-one hundred hours. Not like you to be burning the midnight oil over nothing, is it? Can I ask why?”

“I’m afraid not.” Lockhart’s mustache twitches, caught somewhere between a smile and a sneer. “But I was hoping you might be able to help me with a question of character.”

“Character.” Angleton doesn’t seem at all put out by Lockhart’s refusal; he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “There’s a word I don’t hear often enough these days. Especially coming from you.”

“Of course not.” Lockhart is dismissive. “It’s a subjective value judgment and those don’t sit comfortably with ticky-boxes and objective performance metrics. It only comes into play when one is off the reservation.”

“And is Bob—” Angleton catches himself. “Of course he is. Ask away, ask anything you want. I can’t promise an accurate answer in the absence of exact details of the situation, but I’ll do my best.”

An observer, familiar with the internal pecking order of the Laundry, might at this point be justifiably taken aback. Here is Gerald Lockhart, SSO8(L), a middling senior officer in the backwater that is External Assets—a department most people (who are aware of it) think spends its time keeping track of loaned laptops—grilling DSS Angleton, a Detached Special Secretary (or, as scuttlebutt would have it, a Deeply Scary Sorcerer), one of the famous old monsters of the Operations Directorate: a man so wrapped in secrecy that his shadow doesn’t have a high enough security clearance to stick to his heels. But a typical observer wouldn’t understand the nature of External Assets. Or, indeed, be aware of Gerald Lockhart’s real job.

“Hypothetically, then. Can you think of any circumstances under which you’d expect our man to break cover in the field and disobey an explicit order? That’s
expect
him to disobey, not merely signal reluctance before complying, or make use of loopholes.”

Angleton’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you vetting him?”

Lockhart shakes his head. “
I’m
not vetting him. It’s just a general enquiry I’ve been told to answer.” His tone of voice is flat.

“Oh.” Angleton stares at him. “Oh
dear
.”

Lockhart shakes his head again. “What are Howard’s weak points?”

“Hmm.” Angleton stares at the ceiling for a few seconds. “The boy’s still hamstrung by a residual sense of fair play, if that’s what you’re asking about. He believes in the rule of law, and in taking responsibility for his actions. He’s personally loyal to his friends and co-workers. His personal life is boringly normal—he’s besotted with his wife, doesn’t use drugs, has no blackmail handles. In fact I don’t think he’s got any
noteworthy
character failings—these are all good characteristics in a junior officer. He’s not a sociopath if that’s what…oh.” Angleton sits up and leans towards Lockhart. “You didn’t give him a clearly illegal order, did you? Put him in a compromising situation or tell him to abandon a colleague or someone he’s personally loyal to—” Lockhart says nothing. “Oh dear.”

“What is he likely to do? In the circumstances you, ah, speculated about.”

Angleton grimaces humorlessly. “He has a history of, shall we say, being on the receiving end of abusive management practices. It has taught him to take a skeptical approach to obviously flawed directives. He’d use his initiative and try to square the circle—do whatever he was told to, while mitigating the consequences. He’d bend before breaking, in other words. He’s loyal to the Crown, but he’s not suicidal or stupid. However, conflicts of loyalty could be a very sticky wicket.”

“Ah.” Lockhart pause briefly. “You mentioned loyalty. Personal, organizational, or general?”

“I’m not sure I follow your distinction.”

“You said he’s unlikely to obey an order to abandon colleagues. What about civilian third parties? Informers and sources? Contractors and stringers? Family members or strangers? Where does he draw the line, in other words?”

Angleton fixes Lockhart with a beady stare. “Bob is too loyal for his own good. The lad’s got a troublesome conscience.”

“I…see.” Lockhart nods slowly. “That’s what I thought. Excellent.” He stands. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see myself out.”

“Just one moment.” Lockhart pauses halfway to the door. “Mr. Lockhart. The boy understands plausible deniability. And so do I. But I hope you’re not confusing deniability with disposability. That would be a mistake.”

“Who for? Howard?”

“No, for you.” Angleton doesn’t smile. “I will be
very
annoyed if you damage my trainee.”

“Dr. Angleton.” Lockhart doesn’t turn; his voice is a monotone. “I have no intention of burning Mr. Howard. If nothing else, he would be extremely difficult to replace right now. But I have been instructed to establish whether he has the moral courage to do the right thing when he believes he’s been cut loose, or whether he’ll run screaming for his mother.”

“Why would he believe—” Angleton pauses. “Are you expecting the OPA to take an interest?”

Lockhart, by way of reply, opens the door and slips out. He doesn’t pause to borrow the key. Angleton stares after him for a moment before silently mouthing an obscenity in a half-forgotten language. Then, his face set in a frown, he turns to his Memex’s keyboard and begins to tap out instructions.

12.

WITH A BIBLE AND A GUN

THERE’S A MOTEL 6 JUST OFF I-25, SOUTH OF DENVER. THE
rental satnav directs me to it, and there are no highway patrol roadblocks; we reach it around eight o’clock. I head for the front desk. “Hi. I’d like to rent a couple of rooms for tonight? Singles.”

“Sure thing.” The middle-aged clerk barely looks up from her laptop screen. “Can I see your ID, please?”

I glance around to ensure we’re alone, then slide my warrant card under her nose.

“Wait, that’s not a—” There’s an almost audible
clunk
as the card gets its claws in behind her eyeballs and her jaw sags.

“Our papers are in order,” I explain to her. “Two single rooms please, for Mrs. Smith and Mr. Jones.”

“That will be—” Her eyeballs slowly unkink.

“Cash.” I shove a pre-counted stack of greenbacks at her. “The banknotes are correct.” She’s still drooling over the warrant card. I wait for her to wake up enough to make the money disappear then pull the card back.

“Let’s see.” She fiddles with her terminal and the room card reader. “You’re in 403 and 404. Have a nice day.”

I hand Persephone the Forbidden Room card and keep Room Not Found for myself. She looks at me oddly. I shake my head and walk towards the door—block 4 is across the car park. “Yes?” I ask once we’re outside.

“Your card. If they’ve got OCCINT assets in the field, that’s going to be a red flag to anyone nearby.”

“True. But they’re trying to keep a low profile.” I look both ways before crossing: “I reckon they’ll go through the regular police first, and I trust you did a good job of muddying the trail with that ward—you stole that pickup truck, yes?”