Keen Young Thing subsides in a mound of disappointed pinstriped tailoring. To his right, Lord Swiveleyes bloats up slightly, then starts to drone on again. He goes straight back into interrogation mode. “How do you account for your department’s unaccountable lack of follow-up, Mr. Howard, in light of the discovery of Specimen B?”
I’m running low on fucks given, so help me. If he’d just bothered to read the after-action report he’d know all this—“Hindsight is wonderful, and in the wake of this month’s events we now have a context for understanding the discovery of Specimen B which was absent at the time of discovery. The Morningstar Empire ceased exploring the ghost roads when their own world descended into a thaumaturgically enhanced world war, approximately a thousand years ago. The Host, our intruders, survived and entered a period of suspended animation for the intervening centuries in an attempt to outwait the aftermath. It is currently believed that Specimen B was a forward reconnaissance asset—a spy or special forces operative—who was stranded in dark ages Ireland when the balloon went up. Isolated and cut off, they were unable to pass for human and so resorted to theft to keep body and soul together, until a local war band or tribal leader hunted them down and executed them. I emphasize that this is merely speculation: after a thousand years there’s no way to be sure, and the Host’s records are fragmentary.”
I pause for a moment and catch my breath. “The existence of H. alfarensis was noted by our Operational Oversight group and assigned a low threat probability because no incursion had been noted more recently than the Norman invasion. Nevertheless, contingency plans that had been drafted purely speculatively—I will note that PLAN RED RABBIT was a methodological training exercise, not a real war plan—were reviewed and kept up to date accordingly.”
“But why didn’t you—”
And so on and so forth, all bloody afternoon.
The clusterfuck in Yorkshire was a Never-Happens event, like an airliner crashing or a surgeon amputating the wrong leg: something that supposedly can’t happen unless institutional procedures fail or aren’t followed. This enquiry should be about determining which of these cases apply and producing findings so that we can draw up new guidelines that ensure it never happens again.
But this particular mess went above and beyond the call of duty, rising from the dizzy heights of fuck-uppery—an air transport operator dropping a loaded 747—to the moon-shot-level insanity of losing over twelve thousand lives and several tens of billions of pounds’ worth of property damage to an invasion by hitherto-mythological beings. It’s the worst disaster on British soil since the Second World War. And in case that isn’t bad enough, there’s a general election coming up on May 18 next year and we’re already featuring prominently in the campaign ramp-up by all parties.
In such a febrile atmosphere, they’re not going to settle for a bloodless enquiry finding along the lines of mistakes-were-made (here’s a checklist, try not to do it again); nothing short of a public gibbeting will slake the bloodlust. I just hope it’s not my neck in the noose when it happens.
*
Saturday evening: the Prime Minister’s garden party.
There is a sixteenth-century mansion near Ellesborough, in the middle of a country estate surrounded by woods at the foot of Coombe Hill. The house has a long and prestigious history: it contains a large collection of memorabilia associated with Oliver Cromwell, and once guarded a royal prisoner. Remodeled in the early twentieth century to restore the original Tudor paneling and windows, it was subsequently donated to the nation to serve as the Prime Minister’s rural weekend retreat.
This weekend the PM is in residence, throwing a garden party for selected members of the great and the good. Security is tight. As Raymond Schiller’s BMW crunches to a stop at the end of the graveled drive, close protection officers from the Metropolitan Police wave it to one side, then politely inspect both its occupants and the underside of the vehicle. Schiller puts up with the formalities in good humor, rolling down his window to allow the officers to identify himself and Anneka. Checklists are updated. “Good morning, sir,” says the sergeant, finally moving to hold the door for him. “You’re expected: please go right on inside.”
Chequers Court is small and unimpressive by the standards Schiller is used to. The billionaire donors and tycoons he rubs shoulders with generally took the antique stone piles of the English aristocracy as a starting point for their fantasy palaces, rather than the destination. Consequently, the reception laid out in the Hawtrey Room feels curiously like stepping into cramped middle-class 1950s suburbia. It’s a surprisingly small room with drab carpet, chintzy overstuffed armchairs, and occasional tables that might have been sourced from a Martha Stewart franchise shop. The oak-paneled walls lend an oppressive, tight feeling to a room that isn’t very open in the first place. But the furniture and oak paneling are four hundred years old, and these aren’t Martha Stewart reproductions: this is the real deal. Schiller takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he’s not being shuffled off into the parlor frequented by the PM’s chauffeur and security detail when they’re on call.
Well-dressed domestic staff approach and offer Schiller his choice of tea, coffee, or a very acceptable Merlot; for Anneka he requests a glass of mineral water. They are politely steered towards a pair of wingback chairs close to a cold stone fireplace. “The PM will be along in a few minutes,” murmurs the butler. “His last meeting has overrun. If there is anything I can do to make you comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Schiller smiles. “I’ll be fine,” he says, resisting a naughty impulse to test the outer limits of the butler’s willingness to serve. (Schiller’s little master is hungry, for there have been no opportunities to feed since they flew out of New York.) He relaxes in the chair, sips his glass of wine, nibbles canapés from an eighteenth-century porcelain plate, and considers his next move. Anneka stands with one hand on the back of his chair, his vigilant shadow alert for threats. Her water glass sits on the table, ignored.