It would have been bad enough if said organization consisted of four pensioners in a Nissen hut, playing cards and reminiscing about the Malayan Emergency. As it is, we have over nine thousand employees, ￡1.2 billion of Crown Estate properties, a small but terrifyingly proficient special forces detachment associated with the Special Reconnaissance Regiment (the successor to the SAS), and a remit to conduct covert operations all over the world. We don’t cost quite as much to run as GCHQ—if only because we don’t launch our own spy satellites—but there are any number of things about the Laundry that are deeply unpalatable to anyone from a government service background, starting with our lack of accountability and going on from there.
Governments are machines for producing and implementing legal frameworks. We don’t have one, and the Civil Service’s reaction to this is much like Superman’s reaction upon discovering that the lump under his mattress is an entire paving slab of kryptonite …
… and this is before you throw panicking senior politicians and their backstabbing rivals and murky international alliances into the mix.
That the nation needs an occult defense agency is obvious to everyone who’s seen the smoldering wreckage in Yorkshire (although to be perfectly honest this excludes a considerable number of Home Counties MPs, who don’t really believe the UK extends north of Watford Gap). That the Laundry is doing a good job in this role is much less obvious, in light of the aforementioned smoldering wreckage. That the Prime Minister has been personally embarrassed by our failure to prevent an attack by a psychotic alf?r general has already been made crystal clear to us. And because this is now a political problem, the usual political syllogism applies:
(a) is a problem: Something Must Be Done,
(b) is Something,
Therefore (b) Must Be Done.
The only questions remaining are, who gets to decide what Solution (b) is, and how are we going to implement—or survive—it?
*
Schiller’s cortege drives around the M25 to an anonymous office park on the outskirts of Harrow, where GP Security Systems have a suite. While he and his immediate retinue—handmaids, bodyguards, drivers—enter the building, other staff off-load his team’s luggage and peel off in different directions: some towards the apartment he is renting in London, and others to a different site in rural Buckinghamshire.
This is of little concern to Schiller. He moves at the heart of a soft machine, its limbs and heads and bodies smoothly coordinating around him to ensure that his needs are anticipated and taken care of. Polite, respectful receptionists and smiling senior managers await him in the glass-fronted lobby of the office. He is ushered straight into an elevator that has been held for him, whisked to the boardroom suite on the sixth floor, offered refreshments and paid respects as Anneka conducts her routine sweep for bugging devices and then attaches a noise generator to the window glass to block laser microphones.
Finally Anneka tips him the wink and Schiller takes his seat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces. “May I have your attention?” Half a dozen senior managers and executives turn their heads. “I believe a brief prayer of thanksgiving is in order, then we’ll begin. Thank you, oh Father, for the gift of life, the continued mysteries of creation, for guarding our thoughts against evil and our bodies against sin, for granting us the boon of thy grace and redemption. Thank you, oh Father, for showing us the way ahead, for giving us the book, and the key, and the word of thy law. Thy will be done, and thy kingdom on Earth be ours to build in the future as it was in aeons past beneath alien skies, amen.”
All heads are bowed, lips moving in prayer, for all those present are true believers and security-cleared initiates of at least the Middle Temple mysteries. (Employment Law forbids discrimination on the basis of faith, but GP Security Systems is a wholly-owned subsidiary of GP Services; unbelievers tend not to stick around, let alone achieve seniority.) Schiller finishes, then sits in silent contemplation for a minute before clearing his throat. “Miss McGuigan.” He looks across the table. “How far along are you with the arrangements for Operation Hospitality?”
Bernadette McGuigan, who is skinny and intense with milky skin and coppery hair, lays a proprietary hand on the plain cross embossed in the leather cover of her day planner. “It’s coming along, Father. I’ve requested quotes from three private venues that can match your schedule and preferred location. Two of them are also-rans, but I’ve been sure to let them all know it’s an open tender. On the personnel side, I’ve got Martin vetting local catering firms and I’m taking charge of security myself. They’ve all signed the NDAs, and the usual sources confirm that there’s no chatter about the draft plan. I propose to use only our in-house resources—I’m going to outsource a handful of low-level nonsec jobs to subcontractors in order to free up our own people.” She gives Anneka a brief side-eye: “It’s been impressed upon me that Temple rules apply.”
Schiller nods, satisfied. “Only the Elect are called to serve as Soldiers of Light,” he murmurs. Heads nod. “Good,” he adds briskly. “What do you foresee as scheduling choke points at this time?”
Bernadette stands. “I’ve got it all charted out,” she announces, picking up a laptop remote controller. “Projector, please…”
For the next half hour the meeting is devoted to critiquing McGuigan’s project timeline. Her work is sound, and although Schiller requests some minor changes (as much to leave his mark on it as anything else), the review doesn’t take long; the main benefit is that by the time she finishes explaining everything, everyone at the table is intimately familiar with Operation Hospitality, its goals and deliverables.
“Thank you.” Schiller twinkles at her as she returns to her seat. “Next agenda item: I believe this is yours, Mr. Taylor.” All eyes turn towards a bullet-headed man in early middle age, whose tailored suit doesn’t do much to conceal his background as a bouncer. “What is the state of our threat surface in this country?”
Garry Taylor’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Dangerously exposed, boss. Not enough communicants to cover all bases, no way to hasten expansion beyond the obvious—” He coughs and covers his mouth apologetically. “—sorry, but without special dispensation we’re limited to working with what we’ve got, and even with your blessed additions we’re stretched thin on the ground. Against which, there is the enemy’s situational awareness to reckon with. I’ve been running searches on the names our friends in the OPA3 gave us, and I have some bad news. Hazard and her pet thug are inaccessible but at least they keep to a low profile; their known associate Howard is now a public figure, he’s even getting TV exposure as a spokesman for the target. If he identifies you in public that would be a, well, that would be an unacceptable risk of exposure. So I’ve detailed a subcontractor to identify his handles—family, friends, vices, anything they can get through the usual—and shadow him. If you want us to put them in the hospital for a few weeks—”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Schiller says flatly. “Just keep out of sight and log all his contacts. Only exception is if a name on the OPA’s Termination Expedient list comes up. If that happens”—Schiller shrugs—“I wash my hands of them.”