“What exactly is our objective?” I ask.
“We’re going to stake out Schiller, find out what he’s up to, and stop him,” says the SA, at which point I almost jump up and hug him. He raises a warning finger: “But before we stop him, we need to find out what he’s trying to accomplish, how powerful he is, and how far his influence extends. We thought we’d blocked his attempt to influence the government two years ago but we were wrong; this time we can’t afford to make any mistakes. So it’s vitally important that we don’t tip him off…”
*
Johnny and I skulk out of the rear service entrance of the apartment block wearing dark glasses and hoodies, like rock stars in rehab sneaking past the paparazzi—at least that’s the flattering version of it. A waiting police car whisks us off in the direction of Chelsea, to a row of unnaturally quiet town houses where the defensive wards are clustered so thick they make the hairs on my arms stand up. “You’ll like the Duchess’s pad, guv,” he tells me, “she does enjoy ’er bit of posh.”
(Behind us, Mo and the SA wait for the surveillance team’s first shift to move in, then leave via the front door. None of the building’s other residents have any idea who they are, so subterfuge is pointless. But the two of us are known to Schiller and his associates, so discretion is mandatory.)
Johnny shows me to the front door, which he opens—he has a key. I try to ignore the potentially lethal summoning grid under the welcome mat, but he notices my discomfort and smirks: “Duchess says you can’t be too careful in this end of the big smoke. Just last month, the chairman of Barings what lives round the corner got ’isself and ’is lady wife burgled by your proverbial blokes in balaclavas; they cleaned out half a mil in jewelry. Now, if ’e’d had security like this”—a quick jerk of the head prompts me to glance at a small framed print hanging across the lobby from the door—“been another story, right?”
I glare at the framed print hanging on the wall opposite the front door. The insensate nodule of existential emptiness trapped in it stares back at me with ravening intent for an instant before it recognizes what I am and hastily finds something else to hunger for. “Entrapment is illegal,” I remind Johnny as I study the ward binding the demon. (It’s pretty solid, but if there’s a house fire…)
“If you’d ever ’ad a man come through the door with a gun, me old cock—”
“Been there, done that.” (Although I feel pretty safe here; only an utter idiot would try and burgle the home of London’s most powerful witch.)
Persephone Hazard’s front door opens into a small vestibule, which could easily be mistaken for a porch if not for the presence of the aforementioned trapped demon and a number of other fascinatingly lethal surprises. An archway leads through into a narrow hall, and off to one side I see that centerpiece of the classic Georgian town house, a morning room.
Johnny goes straight in, calling, “Duchess? Oh, hi Zero. It’s me and Bob. Gang’s all here.”
Zero, the butler, ushers us both into the morning room. It’s decorated in coordinated Laura Ashley prints and antique furniture. If not for the tasteful indirect LED lighting and the electrical outlets I could picture a mid-Victorian MP’s wife and her brood of daughters sitting around, drinking tea and receiving visitors. (Well, minus Johnny, me, or Zero the butler, who looks more like a bouncer at the kind of night club you don’t get into unless you have a Twitter following and a bank balance in seven digits.) “She’s upstairs, in the lab,” Zero tells us. “I’ll just let her know you’re here. Would you prefer tea or coffee?” No “sir,” I notice: he’s not that kind of butler.
Coffee is procured while we wait: Jamaican Blue Mountain. A few minutes later Persephone emerges. This morning she’s dressed down, wearing jeans and an old army sweater with shoulder and elbow patches: her lab gear, going by the burn marks. She looks my way and smiles, not unpleasantly. “Bob, because of the circumstances—Schiller and his movable circus being in town—the SA asked if I could put you and Johnny up in the spare rooms. If you’ve got luggage in a lock-up somewhere, give Zero the tickets and he’ll collect it while you’re in the office.”
“Wait,” I say, then stop. I had some vague idea about actually staying in my own spare bedroom, if Mo and I can clean it out: that’s warded too. But then my brain catches up. “Are your wards certified by Facilities?” I ask doubtfully.
“Who do you think chaired the working group that drafted the common criteria for safe houses?” Her smile takes some of the sting out of the put-down. “Anyway, you shouldn’t go home just yet. If someone’s hunting you, you don’t want to lead them to Dr. O’Brien.”
She’s right, dammit, but she didn’t answer my question. “Are you sure this is safe?”
“Mr. Howard.” Her expression is that of a particularly long-suffering primary school teacher towards a very slow learner. “You know what you are. You know what I am. And you’ve seen Johnny in action. If you’re worried about civilian casualties in event of a rumble, I own the properties to either side. And?” She points to a discreet plastic clamshell on the wall by the doorway: “That’s a panic button. I have the Diplomatic Protection Group on speed-dial; we’re less than a hundred yards from embassy row. You’ll be more exposed entering and leaving the New Annex for meetings, but while you’re under my roof you’re very welcome to ask Zero for a ride.” Persephone likes her cars. She has a Bentley Mulsanne turbo and her name is on the waiting list for a Tesla as soon as they begin selling them over here.
I swallow. “I don’t want to be too much trouble, but—”
“Nonsense.” There’s that smile again: fey, slightly manic. “This house was a hotel for a few years before I moved in and renovated it, did you know that? It’ll do us good to open up a couple of the guest rooms. And anyway, it’s a much better location than your place—you live too far out in the sticks for what’s coming.”
“What’s—” Uh-oh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re on the public radar and your hands are completely clean—you weren’t even in the country when things went to pieces up north. So you’re one of the public faces of the organization, like it or not, Mr. Howard. Which means when you’re not working on your own projects or helping out Dr. Armstrong in his executive role, you can expect to be summoned to testify in front of the Commons Select Committee on Intelligence. Who I gather will begin holding closed hearings this afternoon. You’re on the list for later this week and you need to begin getting your ducks in a row right now.”
*