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).