As it happens, he isn’t kept waiting long. The door at the far end of the room opens and Jeremy Michaels struts in, followed by the Cabinet Secretary, Adrian Redmayne, whose expression suggests he has not yet recovered from drinking one too many G&Ts the night before. Michaels is as complacently self-assured in private as in public—when he’s oozing false sincerity for the TV cameras—and Schiller forces himself to smile warmly.
The Prime Minister might be a pompous and self-satisfied upper-class twit who married an heiress and counts the Queen as a second cousin, but he’s amazingly good at persuading people to do what he wants (like make him leader of a political party, then appoint him to head the government). If Schiller can get him on board with his project everything will flow smoothly; if not, it will be tediously necessary to install a new PM. He still needs to meet with Nigel Irving, the Secretary of State for Defense. He also needs to get the Home Secretary on board, but she’s not stupid and if she wants to be the next resident of Number Ten she’ll play ball. Today’s priority is the Cabinet Office, and this is Schiller’s opportunity to take Mr. Redmayne in hand. The highest-ranking civil servant in the land has been attending Sunday services at a church affiliated with Schiller’s mission for the past three years, but Schiller believes in adding personal contact to the denomination connection. The only real problem he can foresee is that these upper-class Brits think of religion as an embarrassing weakness, and Irving in particular is a notorious libertine. So he can’t count on the Come-to-Jesus glad-handing that works at home to soften up these people. He’s going to have to approach the topic sideways, with a smirk and a wink.
“Ah, Dr. Schiller!” The PM is friendly, if not effusive. “So good of you to visit, and at short notice too.” Redmayne clears his throat and sidles in for a handshake, mustn’t be left out in the cold, then briefly glances sidelong at his boss before looking back at Schiller. Schiller’s smile broadens as he squeezes the man’s hand reassuringly. The PM clears his throat. “Adrian tells me you have an interesting angle on the recent unpleasantness up north and that I should give it due consideration.” Michaels is looking at Redmayne with an avuncular expression. It’s as if the head boy is indulging his pet snitch, just for once, but the story had better be a good one or tears will be shed behind the bike shed before sundown. Doubtless the PM has got his civil service supremo nailed, and has a good idea how much Schiller has paid for this half-hour slot—cash for access comes under the eleventh commandment: thou shalt not get caught—but none of that matters as long as Schiller uses his time effectively.
“Thank you for making time for me in your busy schedule.” Schiller, who stood for their entrance, waves towards the seats and waits for the PM to get comfortable. “Very regrettable, I’m afraid, the business in Leeds. But this is what you must expect if you trust an old-fashioned organization untouched by modern management principles to deal effectively with the—I’m sorry, I have to say this—forces of darkness. Without oversight, mistakes are inevitable, and the public at large cannot be expected to understand the difference between a rogue agency failing disastrously and a responsibly managed, effective arm of government”—the PM is turning an entertaining shade of puce, so Schiller hurries it along—“but you’re going to change all that,” he completes, and pauses to take a sip from Anneka’s water glass.
“I was under the impression that you had a concrete proposal.” He’s still polite, but there is a barely restrained impatience to Michaels’s tone.
“I do.” Schiller drops the smile. “As you will have become aware, the US government has its own agencies for containing the sort of threat you confronted so recently. And as Mr. Redmayne has doubtless told you, much of my business is concerned with providing private sector support to the Operational Phenomenology Agency—the name is deliberately anodyne—in combating similar demonic incursions. Which is why you haven’t seen one in the United States. We have a twenty-three-year track record of activity in this sector, with a fully security-cleared organization that can offer a full range of supporting security functions ranging from base and perimeter patrols to large-scale exorcisms and witchcraft interdiction. More importantly, we’re used to working with the big boys—the OPA alone has a larger budget than your GCHQ, MI5, and SIS combined—and we’re used to working as a junior contractor on outsourced agency projects managed by federal and enterprise-level service entities such as Halliburton, Carlyle Group, and Serco, and security specialists like Xe and G4S.”
He pauses to take another sip of water. He has the PM’s undivided attention; behind Michaels’s shoulder, the Cabinet Secretary is giving Schiller the indulgent smile of a waiter expecting a fat tip from a happy customer.
“Do go on,” purrs the Prime Minister.
“I don’t presume to tell you how to handle the current situation,” Schiller says carefully. “Nor is it my place to make any suggestion over how your security agencies should be managed. But I can’t help noting that SOE is entirely self-governed, operating almost completely outside the normal Civil Service guidelines. They are in effect a rogue agency with a strong institutional culture of keeping everything in-house and using no external support organizations. This is both a strength and a weakness; groupthink can lead to failure to respond to new threats in a timely manner, as happened in Leeds. Anyway, you know now that alternatives exist, and as the largest private-sector specialist contractor employed by the US government, my company stands ready to deliver the full portfolio of services you will need if you decide to make a clean break with the past…”
*
The drive from Chequers back to London’s Docklands takes over an hour and a half. Schiller spends the time cocooned in the twilit back of the stretch limo, protected by a soundproofed privacy screen and blacked-out windows. The first meeting with the Prime Minister went adequately well, he decides: the man is pompous and vain, but he understands all too clearly the need to dissociate himself from failure. He’ll take the bait, with a little nudging from Redmayne, who is already hooked. By the time Michaels realizes the price it’ll be too late for second thoughts. Or any thoughts at all, come to think of it. “A good day’s work,” he says contentedly.
“Yes, Father.”
Anneka sits beside Schiller, outwardly composed, knees close together and head bowed. He can feel her mind, the bright and fervent clarity of her belief in the Mission, her joyful acceptance of the inner doctrine that will bring about the arrival of the New Lord, her dissatisfaction … dissatisfaction?