“I know.” I clear my throat. Fuck, this is not turning out to be a good day. “How bad is it?”
Dr. Armstrong folds himself onto the sofa opposite. “The picture at ground level is that the organization is under attack from the top down, by our own government,” he says bluntly. “SOE is officially being dissolved, effective immediately, and all personnel are being laid off. There is no provision for continuity of staff, although Crown assets and property are being secured and a successor agency is due to spin up next Monday—no word on who will direct or staff it, of course, but that’s how these things happen.”
Well, that might go some way towards explaining why nobody showed up to bail me out of pokey. (Although now I feel a bit like the prisoner of war being held in a Japanese military prison camp at Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, complaining that his breakfast is late.) “Schiller?” I ask.
The SA raises a finger. “Most probably, but we need to rule out other possibilities first. I will note at this point that the original warrant for your arrest, Bob, implies inside knowledge that would only be available to the operation that tried to snatch you. Also, there is a spurious and preposterous Immigration Service Leave to Remain warrant out for Ms. Hazard, and I believe Johnny is wanted on firearms charges”—Johnny whistles tunelessly between his teeth—“and a number of other Mahogany Row key operatives are the subject of criminal proceedings by the police. This has obviously been in train for a little while now. They’re very well prepared, whoever they are.”
“Mo—”
“Is safe for the time being.” Dr. Armstrong raises another finger. “They’re not so well prepared that they exhibit any special knowledge of the role the Audit Commission plays within the agency, otherwise”—he spreads his arms—“I would have been their very first target.” His smile, this time round, is vulpine and frightening. “So that’s their first misplay. And their second is that there is no sign of special provisions for the PHANGs, the residents of St. Hilda’s, and any number of personnel with unusual and exacting requirements.” His smile disappears. “That is both a weakness on the adversary’s part, and a huge problem for us.”
“No provisions for PHANGs?” My mind is spinning. “They’re firing everyone, PHANGs included? But what about”—I stare at him—“Alex?”
“Exactly. Bob, Johnny, Persephone: welcome to Continuity Operations. The oath I administered binds you much as your previous oath of office did—only the name of the organization has changed. And, ahem, its source of authority, which reverts back to the previous Royal Prerogative. Our first task is to secure our resources and establish our threat perimeter, and as you so perspicaciously observed, this means someone needs to retrieve Alex and the All-Highest before a use for them occurs to the adversary. Persephone, I need you for another job—low risk but delicate—up north. So it’s down to you two likely lads to break into a prisoner of war camp and ensure the two most valuable prisoners aren’t used against us.”
“But … Schiller?” I will freely confess that my brain is stuck like an old-time vinyl record with a bad scratch. “If he’s back, does that mean he successfully awakened the, the…”
“The Sleeper isn’t your problem, Bob,” Persephone assures me, only slightly patronizing.
“Anyway, if ’e’d succeeded in waking it fully, d’you think we’d be sitting ’ere?” Johnny adds rhetorically. “No, it’s just Ray with some extra mojo walking about. Worse case, the Sleeper’s in ’is driving seat, but it’s still sized for a bloke, and he’s no less human than you are these days, mate.”
“Thank you very much.” I manage not to snarl, but he’s right about one thing: if it is the Sleeper, it’s way above our pay grade—and if it isn’t, there’s no need to worry about it. Something as big as the Sleeper wouldn’t be pissing around declaring bureaucratic war on a Civil Service department. “Okay, agenda item number one: how to get to our two assets. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Sure do. Duchess…?”
Persephone stares at me thoughtfully. “Yes, I think it could work.” She snaps her fingers. “The mask—it’ll do, but I need to make some adjustments.” Then she nods thoughtfully. “And while I’m doing that, you need to go clothes shopping with Johnny.”
*
I barely have time to finish a mug of tea and set a password on my shiny new hacked-about CyanogenMod phone when Johnny whisks me out the door for a brisk afternoon out, clothes shopping GI Joe style. Anonymity (and immunity from speed cameras) is ensured because Johnny’s idea is getting about town is a matte-black Kawasaki Ninja ZX-14. I am not used to wearing a mirror-visored crash helmet—or riding pillion, for that matter, especially on an insanely souped-up sports bike that’s not designed for passengers—so after the second time I nearly fall off he sticks within hailing distance of the speed limit. It’s a bit like taking a Lamborghini to the corner shop, and by the time we get to our destination I’ve almost stopped shaking with fear.
“’Op off, Bob, we’re there,” he tells me via Bluetooth as he drops the kickstand, and I stumble away from the terror machine, take a deep breath, and look around the industrial estate in northeast London we seem to have crash-landed in.
“Where’s here?” I ask.
“Army surplus.” And with that he shoves open the door to the nearest warehouse-like building and takes his helmet off as he goes inside.
Now, at risk of being accused of sexist stereotyping, I’d like to note that a lot of retail psychology (and sales) depends on the fact that men and women shop (or are trained to shop) in different ways. Broadly: women forage while men hunt. This is especially true of clothing, where I’ve noticed Mo can spend all afternoon searching for exactly the right pair of shoes and end up with a jacket, two bras, a skirt, and an umbrella—while I begin to sweat bullets and edge close to a panic attack if I can’t find exactly the correct size of plain black tee shirt in Marks and Spencer within thirty seconds of entering the front door.