We need to find out what he’s up to and stop it dead, and that means getting the drop on the operation he’s running. It has three obvious centers on British soil: the posh mansion where he’s wining and dining his marks, the corporate headquarters building where presumably the legwork gets done, and the apartment he’s camped out in with his retinue. The obvious thing to do is to hit all three of them simultaneously (and without warning); he can’t be everywhere at once, can he? Schiller himself is far too dangerous to confront face-to-face, so that will be a black-bag job. Given that he vanished in the Sleeper’s Pyramid and then came back, the worst case possibility is that he’s a mindhost for the Sleeper itself, a being that compares with your typical feeder in the night the way … you’ve seen Ghostbusters, haven’t you? We’re in Twinkie Singularity territory here.
So I hole up in a safe house in Hemel Hempstead and get stuck into making some pretty overhead projection charts—Lord Acton said power corrupts, but PowerPoint corrupts absolutely—then draft a Gantt chart and draw lots of dotted lines on it. Finally I think up a code name for the op. INDIGO HUMMINGBIRD seems memorable enough. INDIGO because it’s part of the GOD GAME portfolio, and HUMMINGBIRD because, well, that’s a name for an ill-omened operation that’s memorable enough to be a caution and obscure enough not to be an instant giveaway.
And two days later I take a small risk and call a face-to-face meeting of the designated team leads. The Lamplighters make it happen in public in a hotel conference room at Hinckley, of all places, everyone wearing suits and presenting as boring sales managers having a jaw-jaw about their regional targets.
“Okay, people, here’s the outline plan. INDIGO HUMMINGBIRD will hit three sites in parallel, with different objectives at each. Target One is Nether Stowe House. During Schiller’s next rave we will get people into the area his security folks have locked down and find out what’s going on inside and put a stop to it if it’s possible to do so while avoiding a direct confrontation with the Sleeper’s avatar-in-person. The Target One side of the op is open-ended and requires maximal flexibility; it might be a simple look inside a security ready-room, or … well, who knows? It’s also maximally sensitive: there will be VIPs and celebrities present, and while we want no witnesses who can identify us we can’t strong-arm them either. Because Schiller himself will probably be present, Target One is off-limits to those of us who were involved in the mess in Denver the other year—me, Persephone, and Johnny. Our current agent in place is”—I swallow—“Her very Eldritch Majesty, Cassie Brewer. So far she’s been running solo with a wire back to her off-site support team, notably Alex Schwartz.” I swallow again: the next bit is difficult. “Mo, I don’t think Alex is remotely ready to run HUMMINGBIRD, so I’d like you to take over Target One Control. Alex can stay and provide analysis support—also if you need a PHANG for backup he’s on hand and motivated.”
Mo nods thoughtfully. I’m not sure whether it’s the plan she’s holding judgment over, or me. I move swiftly on.
“Our friends from the Artists’ Rifles are badly shorthanded right now thanks to the business in Leeds, but they’re still talking to us on the down low, and given the size of Target One I’ve asked the SA for a full OCCULUS team. They’re the backup if it turns out there’s something in the basement that wants killing with fire. They’ll be deployed in police drag rather than fire/emergency on this occasion and it’ll be spun as an exercise if anyone asks, and they’re nothing to do with us … but at least they’ll be there. Oh, and you get to ask for any other warm bodies you think Target One requires, once I get through divvying up the rest of the work.”
Now she smiles in my direction, and I’m very glad it’s the notion that the gloves are coming off that merits this particular smile rather than something I’ve done, because if otherwise I’d be clutching my wedding tackle and looking for a window to jump through.
“Target Two is the GP Services office compound out at Heathrow,” I announce. “Schiller almost certainly won’t be there, but it’s got solid security and it’s where we’ll find his backup resources. If we’re going to black-bag his office we need a pretext to get inside without alarming the airport police. I’m going to lead this one, with Johnny riding shotgun. We’re going to look like an HMRC customs inspectorate team serving an Anton Piller order—a court-ordered no-knock search to prevent the destruction of evidence. Our cover story will be that we’re investigating a tip-off about VAT fraud and we’re there to seize IT equipment and accounting records, but there’ll be a second-level cover story: someone in his organization is believed to be using GP Security’s internal post system to smuggle cocaine. This will justify a quiet poke around the rest of his facility. I’ve asked for another OCCULUS team, but if only one is available it’ll be allocated to Target One.”
Mo nods. Johnny, who has been sitting silently but intent throughout the briefing, snorts quietly and leans back.
“Target Two is high-risk,” I add, trying to keep a slight tremor out of my voice, “because there is a risk that it’ll draw the attention of the police.” Which, in this context, does not mean a friendly community constable, it means hordes of guys in body armor with automatic weapons who train daily for shoot-outs with terrorists. Which in turn is why I have assigned myself to it, and just one of the reasons why I’m having trouble sleeping nights in view of how everything went pear-shaped on Dartmoor: it’s more than possible for an operation to be both a technical success and an utter blood-drenched clusterfuck.
“Target Three,” I announce, “is a bit different: it’s Schiller’s luxury apartment in Docklands. Unlike the other two, it’s not public and it doesn’t call for high-end force. We have a monitoring operation two floors above it. We want to get in, take a look around, and get out clean while Schiller is busy at Target One. Ideally they’ll root any electronic devices on the premises and scan any documents. There’s a safe, and we can get the manufacturer’s schematics and see if there’s a maintenance backdoor while we’re at it. Now, the problem with Schiller’s pad is that it’s got security suitable for a visiting head of state—sparrowfart territory, remote-controlled sensors on all the approaches—and some really nasty booby traps on the in-building approaches. Yes, I know booby traps are illegal: nevertheless. This is going to call for social engineering skills rather than the blunt approach or infiltrating a catering company.”
The people in the front row are looking thoughtful, except for the one I’ve picked to lead this particular hit, who just seems sleepily amused. “Persephone, I believe you have a little bit of experience with this sort of thing? Great, because you’re running Target Three and your main job is to figure out how to get Mhari inside.”’Seph looks pleased; Mhari looks startled.