A thought strikes me. “By the way, if I’m not in my office you mustn’t try to gain entry without me. I keep hazardous materials there. Stuff that might scramble your mind if you get too close.” Actually it’s all in a secure document safe full of catatonia-inducing memos, protected by wards that will set fire to the contents if anyone meddles with them, causing the badly maintained sprinklers to go off, but there’s no need to tell him that. “Also, if you need to gain access to Mr. Angleton’s room—down J Corridor and along, it’s at the bottom of the stairwell next to the chained-up fire exit—fetch me. Same warning applies, except he used nukes while I make do with hand grenades.”
It’s not until I’m back on the fire escape, trudging upstairs to my meeting with the SA and other members of the Mahogany Row Oversight board, that I realize the kid’s got my old job.
*
Mahogany Row refers both to the furnishings on the executive floor of our original HQ building2 and to the folks who use those offices: senior management, Auditors, external assets, Deeply Scary Sorcerers, and other questionable types. I’m technically one of them these days, although I’m fucked if I know why. The main qualifications seem to be exhibiting an aptitude for ritual magic or executive leadership, and not dying on the job. At least that’s how the organization got started, back when it was the Invisible College and nobody really knew how this stuff worked. The Laundry as it now exists sprang up during a wartime emergency and was subsequently repurposed to provide backup for the Deeply Scary Sorcerers. Anyway, I have never felt at ease in the thick-pile carpeted corridors and offices full of antique furniture and paintings from the Government Art Collection. It feels like a very exclusive gentlemen’s club, and I’m the kind of oik who would be blackballed if he wasn’t useful to have around.
I make it to Room 406 on the spot of nine. Dr. Armstrong is already sitting at the front, calmly sipping tea from a fine china cup. There’s a big TV screen and DVD player on a stand in one corner, presumably so we can all have a good laugh at me making a fool of myself. As I hunt for a seat that doesn’t make me feel uneasily exposed the door opens again. This time it’s Persephone’s turn to do a double take, which doesn’t give me any kind of happy fun feeling. Persephone Hazard likes to dress like a mafia heiress from Marseilles, living la dolce vita with a Beretta in her handbag—which just goes to show that appearances are deceptive: she’s the most powerful witch in London. (Also, I happen to know that she carries an FN Five-seveN with an AAC sound suppressor and a 20-round magazine full of microengraved banishment rounds. Berettas are for amateurs.) She nods in my direction, then engages Dr. Armstrong directly. “Did you see the news this morning?”
The SA smiles his saintly smile—the one he rolls out just before he brains you with a sledgehammer—and says, “I must confess I never turn on the television before the sun’s over the yardarm.”
“It wasn’t me!” I protest, before I realize that given a twenty-four-hour news cycle it might very well have been me.
But I’m in luck. “No, it wasn’t,”’Seph agrees. “Your performance on Newsnight would have been a vast improvement over this morning’s headlines.” Her fine nostrils flare. “What is the world coming to?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Dr. Armstrong says placidly. “Help yourself to tea and biscuits, dear. We may be some time.”
I force myself to sit down. ’Seph is really rattled, but it’s not my fault. She’s one of our heavy hitters, a deniable external asset who generally tackles the kind of assignment that on old reruns of Mission: Impossible is tagged with “the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions.”
*
“I thought this was the postmortem for the media outreach event,” I say as the door opens again and Vik Choudhury slides in. “That’s what’s down in my calendar.”
’Seph rolls her eyes as Dr. Armstrong shakes his head, more in sorrow than in anger. “Oh dear, no! I’m afraid we’ve been pre-empted by events.”
That does not sound good. “Was it something I did?”
“Your drop went just fine,” Vikram assures me. To ’Seph, and the other attendees: “Mhari delivered her payload to the edit suite and Bob successfully bugged the underside of the studio’s number two visitor chair. And now we’ve got six SPIN DIAMOND grids transmitting from the newsroom, thanks to your masterful distraction.”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t just substitute the contract cleaners—”
“It’s a newsroom, Bob,” Persephone sniffs. “They weren’t born yesterday. Security vetting the cleaners goes with the territory.”
“Well. I hope it was worth it. That kind of op usually ends in tears, in my experience—too much chance of blowback—”
“Too late to worry about spilt milk, Mr. Howard.” Dr. Armstrong stares at the ceiling, steepling his fingertips. “This meeting is starting late,” he adds, “so we are not yet on the official record. But can I request a change of subject?”
Gulp. Even ’Seph has the decency to look bashful. “Sure,” I say.
The door opens again, this time to admit a stranger. “Bob, this is Chris Womack from Administration and Policy.” She’s a tall woman, midfifties at a guess, a no-nonsense senior civil service type. I stand, and we shake hands. “Chris, Bob is Dr. Angleton’s replacement. You can trust him implicitly, subject to keyword clearance.” Which tells me in turn that the Senior Auditor trusts her implicitly.
“I saw you on Newsnight last night,” she says, smiling guardedly, which makes me feel so much better.
“What can I say?” I shrug. “Opportunities to make a fool of myself in front of such a large audience only come along once in a lifetime.”
“Bob enjoys playing the departmental jester,” says Persephone. She smiles. “Don’t worry, Bob, you get to do this again.” Ouch.
“Absolutely.” Ms. Womack’s smile widens. “You did quite well,” she adds, “for a first-timer. Let me know if you ever feel the urge to go into public relations full-time.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Shortly after a squadron of pigs are observed taking off from Heathrow Airport.
The door opens again and this time my brain freezes as eyes meet across a crowded conference room. The late arrival also freezes as the SA smoothly takes over: “Chris, this is Dr. O’Brien, Dominique, this is Chris Womack, our Chief Counsel. Mo is the newest member of the Audit Committee—” My wife raises an eyebrow at me and I nod, then pull the seat beside me back from the table to make room for her. My pulse is running too fast. Mhari was right, I realize. But there’s too much to say, it’s forming a pileup behind my tongue, and anyway Dr. Armstrong is still speaking. “—time to call this meeting to order now we’re all here—”