“If not the Nazg?l or their master, then the Sleeper.” He inclines his head. “Schiller’s kept such a low profile for the past couple of years—why move in now? I think the answer’s obvious. Everything points to it.” He swallows. “If the beings directing the Black Chamber these days deem that the situation has settled in their favor, then, well, we’re a logical follow-on target. They are moving into some sort of endgame, taking over all OCCINT operations in North America as a prelude to consolidating power over the entire government, and our current crisis is the perfect opportunity to expand into Europe. And that’s the best case. Because otherwise, the Sleeper is coming for us.”
“Yes.” They sit in silent contemplation for a minute. Schiller’s Church harbors an inner circle that worships the Sleeper in the Pyramid, and indeed Persephone was instrumental in preventing him from awakening his alien Lord a few years ago. The Laundry believed that Schiller had died, but now he is back, with unknown but presumably greater capabilities … “Do we have a plan for that? For what to do if the Sleeper came through when he returned and has taken over the OPA?”
“Not really: we’d be screwed,” the SA says flatly. “But I don’t think the situation is necessarily that bad yet. Schiller may be a puppet, the Sleeper may be stirring; but if the Sleeper were fully awake and present then its effects would be visible from orbit. As that doesn’t appear to be the case we might as well focus on what we know how to fight: inadvisable political initiatives and all-too-human cultists. Which is a very good thing, because there’s no force on Earth I know of that can stop the Sleeper except another Elder God.”
Persephone’s expression is stony as she raises her glass, drains it in one swig, and refills without offering her companion any. She’s so badly rattled that she forgets to suppress the consequential burp. She has met Schiller, heard him preach his variant theology, seen the consequences. “You remember my report about the, the clinic? I still have bad dreams about that.” Even though her earliest memories were forged during the Balkan War and she has survived many traumatic incidents, the combined spinal injuries/forced maternity ward for Schiller’s victims in the clinic in his mountain compound was a standout. “About not being able to do anything for them. Or worse, about waking up there myself, paralyzed like one of those caterpillars that parasitic wasps lay their eggs in.” She gazes into an inner distance. “Speaking entirely hypothetically, assuming he isn’t in fact the living vessel of an ancient evil, would anyone at Head Office be terribly upset if a grand piano fell on him? Because I am so very tempted.”
“A grand piano.” Dr. Armstrong smiles faintly, and slowly swirls his glass. “I wish.” He raises it to his lips. “I disapprove of wet work on principle, but I believe I could find a way to make an exception in his case, if appropriate circumstances emerged.”
They sit in tense silence for nearly a minute, both lost in thought, before Persephone speaks again: “So let’s go back to basics. It seems to me that our proximate objective is to establish what we are dealing with. Identity, intention, and execution: who is the enemy, what they want, and what their capabilities are.”
The SA nods wordlessly.
She looks at him sharply. “This lack of input isn’t like you, Michael.”
He carefully removes his gold-rimmed spectacles, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a deep breath. “You’re absolutely correct.” The kerchief in his suit pocket is a lens cloth, and he busies himself cleaning his glasses for a few seconds. “I’ve been a little overwrought lately. On the back foot.”
She waits.
“Ever since that terrible night when we lost Judith, and so many others”—he wheezes unhappily and replaces his spectacles—“we’ve been thrown into a succession of crises while woefully understaffed. One damn thing after another, all of them Never-Happen events, culminating in last month’s disaster in Leeds. I’m sorry to say I’ve been reacting without thinking. And that’s always a mistake.” The SA visibly pulls himself together. Persephone watches, fascinated and appalled.
Finally he regains his composure. “If I don’t give you any explicit instructions, I won’t have to lie about them or otherwise mislead a Commons Enquiry. So. What were you about to say?”
Persephone retrieves the champagne bottle and fills up his glass. Then she begins checking off points on her fingertips. “Item: Adversary, returned from the dead, presumed either a stalking horse for the Black Chamber or a genuine independent player—which could be worse—shows up with a gilt-edged ticket to visit the PM at home. Other capabilities unknown but presumably he won’t be any less of a nuisance than he was a couple of years ago, not with CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN in train. Item: The agency’s profile is so deep in the ordure that we need a periscope to see daylight right now. So we’re vulnerable to power plays and short on friends in the administration. So I have to ask: is there a domestic political threat you’re not telling me about?”
The SA raises an eyebrow.
She takes a deep breath. “Let me rephrase. Did you see Bob’s performance the other night?”
“On television?” Dr. Armstrong nods. “Do go on, please.”
“According to Bob, Paxo was heavily warded and knew far too much about us.”
“The Cabinet Office has a bottomless drawer full of high-level wards,” Dr. Armstrong remarks, deceptively casually. “Ever since the Mandate tried to brainwash the Chief Whip, all ministers, senior civil servants, and spads are supposed to carry one at all times.”
“You should watermark them.” Persephone is carefully non-judgmental. “So we know who to look at next time one goes missing, along with the classified briefing papers. Or to check that the ward in question is one of our own and not, for example, one supplied by a rival organization.”
“Duly noted. Please do continue…”
“So: the Intelligence Select Committee will be starting its closed-door hearings on Q-Division SOE next week. And the cabinet reshuffle is continuing incrementally. There are rumors—” She swallows. “—that a ministerial portfolio will be created with authority for the supernatural, in view of the significant threat to national security exposed by recent events. Not to mention the recent outbreaks of superheroes, rains of frogs, beer casks full of blood, and other tabloid end-of-the-world headlines.”
The SA nods reluctantly.
Persephone closes her eyes, then opens them again. “Get me a guest list for that garden party,” she says abruptly.
“A guest list—are you planning to send someone? You don’t mean to go yourself…?”
“No, that would never do. Someone might create a scene, you know. But we do need to know who else is attending. That’ll tell us which direction to keep a weather eye on.” She shrugs minutely. “Could black-bag Schiller’s base while he’s there too, but that’s another caper entirely.”
“What do you suspect?” The SA leans forward, holding his glass by the stem. “Tell me, Persephone.”
“Never attribute hostile action to the enemy when even your own side want you dead.” She frowns furiously. “You’ve been Civil Service almost all your career, and consequently insulated from what’s going on in the private sector. You’re looking for threats from the Black Chamber and the Sleeper. But that’s not the only problem we’ve got right now. I go to the same gallery openings as those people, and I know how they do business. I need that guest list because it will tell me at a glance whether we’re in the sights for privatization and outsourcing.”