“They let who into the fucking country?”
It’s late evening and Ms. Hazard has made an emergency exit from a gallery opening in Knightsbridge—a cocktail reception full of investment bankers looking to diversify into a new type of portfolio, WAGs with money to burn, and hopeful artists trying to get a handle on their market—in response to the news about the attack on Mr. Howard. Not only is her weekly evening off duty a washout, she has barely had time to walk in the door (never mind unpinning her hair, removing her display jewelry, or kicking off her aching Jimmy Choo couture heels) before the doorbell rang. Zero the butler admitted the guest directly, which is exceptional and would normally be bad form, but under the circumstances Persephone is more annoyed with the cause of the visit.
“Raymond Schiller,” repeats the Senior Auditor, as Zero assists him with his raincoat. He looks suitably grim. “Or someone who claims to be the Reverend Raymond Schiller, which is not necessarily the same thing, whether or not the biometrics and the documentation matches: he hasn’t been seen in public for more than twenty months, after all.”
“Someone or something,” Persephone snarls in a low tone. Then she collects herself and raises an immaculately threaded eyebrow. “Can I offer you refreshment?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Dr. Armstrong allows Zero to steer him towards the drawing room. Persephone stalks over to the cabinet, removes a bottle and two fluted glasses, and pads after him. (Somehow, without her ever pausing, her shoes have parked themselves neatly by the front door for Zero to deal with.) “It’s a troubling development.”
“Oh, do please go on; I love your understatement.” Zero seats the SA on an antique armchair where he waits patiently while Zero moves another chair into position by his left elbow. The SA looks tired and, for want of a better word, stressed. Persephone hands him a glass, transfers the other to the same hand as the neck of the bottle of Mo?t. She makes a strange gesture with her free hand and the cork vanishes, allowing a perfumed mist of vapor to rise from the bottle. When she pours into her guest’s glass, it doesn’t dare to fizz up and overflow; she fills her own flute and sits down, then raises it in a toast. “To survival.”
“To survival,” echoes Dr. Armstrong, then takes a sip.
Persephone downs a too-big swig of champagne. “Fuck Schiller and all his works.” The vehemence and venom is personal, and the atmosphere in the room chills as she curses the adversary. “What’s he doing here this time?”
“Officially, he’s here on behalf of certain powerful entities in the current US administration. Sponsors in the Department of Defense, high-end Investor Visa, funny handshakes with the ambassador in DC, and someone from the State Department hitched a ride in his Gulfstream. Apparently he’s due to attend a garden party at Checkers this Saturday afternoon. Guest list is very short, starts with the Prime Minister, and includes a couple of other top cabinet briefs.” Armstrong gives the news with the stiff-upper-lip treatment reserved for word of an execution or a terminal prognosis. Persephone is so appalled that Zero tenses, moving to clear his suit jacket from fouling his belt holster, before she blinks and nods at him to stand down.
“Fuck me, the Prime Minister, how? I thought we headed that off at the pass two years ago?”
“Insufficient data.” Armstrong’s voice is flat. “But I’d like to note that Schiller’s operation was always on the approved contractors list and for the past two years has been operating as a direct proxy for the OPA. It turns out that he’s got a current security clearance with the US government, fingers in all the right pies, and a couple of tame congressmen on his string—the K Street mob, the Family, that sort of thing. And there’s worse. There seems to be some kind of shift in the power balance between the hidden players in progress. I got a call this morning using a long-established emergency code from the Comstocks and sent Bob to investigate. Apparently they’re undergoing a hostile takeover, and our contact wanted us to know the inside scoop. Then parties unknown nearly killed Bob. He had a very close call.”
“This—” Persephone pauses. “How is he?”
“He performed acceptably.” The SA waits for her guarded nod before continuing. “I’ve got him stashed in the new safe house with Johnny to babysit for him; Dr. O’Brien is on her way to join them. She’ll take his report and we’ll have something to go on in a couple of hours.”
“Huh.” Persephone crosses her legs and leans forward, rocking slightly, deep in thought. “Was it a hit by Schiller, or an attempt to deny us intelligence?”
“Let’s not get sidetracked by operational minutiae.” He takes another sip. “We’re desperately short of friends in the current cabinet, otherwise I’d look for an off-the-record briefing with a minister who could play our corner convincingly. But the business in Leeds has poisoned the well: very nasty, difficult to get them to see past the immediate fallout to the big picture. I’m very much afraid that Number Ten is actively hostile towards us and will welcome an offer emanating from the other side of the pond without fully understanding the nature of the strings attached, or looking beyond the hand he’s shaking to ascertain whether the owner of the limb it’s attached to is human—”
Persephone sneezes champagne bubbles, hastily banishes it with a gesture before it can spray across her lap. “You cannot be serious!”
Armstrong shrugs. “We have to be realists. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve—our—this government has—reacted inappropriately to a situation they are unfamiliar with. I suppose that’s where Schiller comes in, on the other side. He was here a couple of years ago and laid the groundwork, with his missionary circus: some of the cabinet actually like him.”
Persephone lowers her glass and looks at him thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. “You suspect the Nazg?l sent him for us.”