Mo leans against the doorpost for a moment, overcome by a dizzying sense of disorientation and alienation. This can’t be happening. It takes an effort of will to pull herself together. The beehive, minutes after the queen has died. Something in her handbag is buzzing; it takes her a moment to realize that it’s her phone. She opens her bag, stares at the screen for a moment, then answers it, heart in mouth: it’s a regular voice call from the SA.
“Dominique.” Dr. Armstrong’s voice is a lifeline.
“Yes?” She realizes she’s clutching her phone in a death grip. “What’s happening? Did you hear—”
“Yes, I already know. PLAN TITANIC is in effect. Your phone”—his voice sharpens—“do you have OFCUT or any other agency assets installed?”
“Um, yes, I think so—”
“Don’t activate it. I want you to…” He pauses for a moment, before continuing: “Where are you? Are you back at the New Annex?”
“Yes, I’m at your office—did you know—”
“I cleaned it out this morning. Let’s see … you have received instructions about winding up your tasking. I suggest you comply with them. However, first you should check your in-tray. You’ll find an interoffice envelope from me with some additional instructions. After you leave the building, meet me at the safe house in Docklands. Observe evasion protocol. Can you do that? Oh, and don’t try and get in touch with Bob.”
“Bob? What, has something happened?”
“I’ll explain this evening.” A note of urgency creeps into the SA’s voice. “Don’t try and call me back at this number. Check the instructions in your office. We’ll talk soon.”
And with that, he hangs up.
Mo, still shocky from the dismissal meeting, stumbles along the corridor to her own office door. The stenciled lettering on the name plate is so fresh that the paint is still nearly tacky. She strokes her finger across the ward on the door, then opens it. As the newest of the Auditors Mo has no people reporting to her, yet. Not having to tell anyone else that they’re out of a job is a small mercy, and she sits at her desk with her eyes closed for a few minutes, practicing her deep breathing, before she even bothers to check her in-tray.
There is a thick envelope—almost a parcel—addressed and sealed with a spidery silver sigil, a ward drawn in the SA’s own hand. Mo opens it and tips the contents onto her desk, then stares at them. There is the expected letter, of course, handwritten for security. The writing appears, shimmering, a few millimeters above the paper when she touches it, existing in a dimension inaccessible to anyone who lacks the SA’s permission to read it. There’s a cheap plastic card wallet as well, and a box that looks to contain a cheap smartphone. Mo opens the card wallet and sees her own frozen face staring out of it, next to a familiar coat of arms, beneath a new and distinctly disturbing motto: CONTINUITY OPERATIONS. “So that’s how it’s going to be,” she mutters. She opens the phone box next, unsurprised to see that clever fingers have gotten there before her. It’s an Android device rather than her familiar iPhone, and there’s a Post-it note on the screen that says USE ME. She snorts quietly, amused, and fidgets for a moment until she’s found the power button. An unfamiliar logo lights up the screen, then is replaced by the Laundry’s coat of arms: someone has been busy installing custom ROMs. Mo sets it aside as it starts up, then turns to the SA’s letter and reads, the text scrolling across the paper and fading into the air as she assimilates it.
Nothing in the letter is terribly unexpected. This is her new phone, encrypted and patched and provisioned with OFCUT; a list of GOD GAME INDIGO contacts are already in memory. She’s to secure it with a strong password and enter key contact addresses by hand, and must not pair it with her old phone or connect it to any agency desktop or use it for any agency business before she leaves the office for the last time. Her old phone may be a personal item but it’s compromised, and the next time she activates OFCUT it will be scrubbed clean and reset. (She swears horribly at this point. Her old phone is also her contact number for her mother and sister, not to mention her husband.) The warrant card … again: it is not to be used until she has left the office for the last time. Indeed, it won’t work at all until she has been sworn into the chain of command of Continuity Operations.
Badge, phone, secret agent decoder ring … Mo slides them into her handbag, then reads the last paragraph of the SA’s letter:
Continuity Operations is most secret. You should presume that CO is under active attack at all times and conduct yourself accordingly: Moscow Rules apply. Uncleared former co-workers from Q-Division might conceivably be compromised by adversarial factions, and following the dissolution of SOE’s binding oath your Audit override cannot be guaranteed to work. You may assume CO clearance and membership for everyone assigned to GOD GAME INDIGO or PLAN TITANIC clearances prior to the organization’s dissolution, but not all PLAN TITANIC personnel are privy to the existence of GOD GAME INDIGO.
Destroy this letter after you finish with it. After leaving work, you may go home and collect essentials for an absence of at least one week. Do not overpack or give any indication to an observer that you are not planning to return. Expenses will be covered for subsistence, accommodation, and replacement clothing. Once you are ready, identify and shed your tail (if any), then proceed to the designated safe house for GOD GAME INDIGO.
Meeting tonight at 10 p.m., or when the gang’s all there.
Good luck.
*
I leave the taxi driver slumped behind the wheel of his vehicle in a side street, then merge with the lunchtime crowds at the east end of King’s Road. It’s a routine matter to check for a tail—doubling in and out of a department store, around a block, down into the lobby of a Tube station, then up and out of the other exit. Doubtless I’m leaving a fat footprint all over the CCTV records, but they won’t start checking them until well after the taxi driver wakes up and I’ll be long gone by then.