“Yes.” The SA falls silent.
“Right.” I pause. “So if Schiller’s hosting his big push in the countryside we can be certain he won’t be in his apartment in Docklands. And it’s out of hours, so the facility at Heathrow will be empty or short-staffed. I assume we’re in a position to disrupt cell and phone service to Nether Stowe House, or at least prevent alerts from reaching Schiller’s staff during the black-bag stages of the operation. Anything else?”
“It’s those fucking cock-worms, isn’t it?” says Johnny. “Anything else we should expect?”
“Alas, yes.” Dr. Armstrong looks deeply uncomfortable. “Expect the worst. PHANG-like superparasites or other soul riders, class three or higher. I’ve arranged for backup from a class five or higher for the assault on Target One, but there’s no guarantee the Sleeper won’t be able to match or exceed it.”
The classification of occult parasites is esoteric and terrifying; the SA is referring to a logarithmic scale of power. Feeders in the night and tongue eaters are class one occult parasites; they eat minds retail, not wholesale. PHANGs are at least a class two and sometimes higher; I’m not sure what the Hungry Ghosts are, but the Eater of Souls is at least a class four, maybe a five. I have no desire ever to meet anything higher on the scale but I’m pretty sure the Sleeper, the Black Pharaoh, and their ilk start at a six and go up from there. It’s that Twinkie Singularity problem again.
“Happy joy!” Cassie seems delighted by this. “Can I come on this one too?”
I can feel Mo forcing a poker face, trying not to roll her eyes. “Sure,” I say, “you’re on the roster for Nether Stowe House. Waitressing again.” I manage not to smile at her evident disgust. “But it’s a vital job. We’re relying on you to guide the door-breakers on their way in…”
NINE
INDIGO HUMMINGBIRD
Midafternoon on Saturday finds Raymond Schiller relaxed and calm, back in the Docklands apartment after a lunchtime excursion to Claridge’s for an interview with a journalist from The Daily Telegraph’s financial pages (over lobster bisque followed by veal and wild mushrooms in red wine sauce). The luxury apartment is a convenience, close to hand for events in the city but sufficiently secluded that he can retreat to it for solitary contemplation and prayer, unlike Nether Stowe House where he is always the center of attention. But he can only retreat for so long. Therefore, after a brief nap he showers in the master suite’s bathroom and prepares for the ride back to this evening’s party and communion service.
When he steps out of the bathroom he finds his freshly dry-cleaned tuxedo waiting in the adjacent dressing room. He can sense Anneka and Bernadette beyond the warded bedroom door (there are four other bedrooms, and they have their own rooms) but the handmaids are sensitive to his dignity. To save time, Bernadette booked a visit from a stylist and a cosmetician. Schiller has little patience for such superficialities, but he understands the need for them to make the right impression, and is willing to pay.
As he adjusts his bow tie, Schiller hears the muffled chime of the doorbell. Listening, he hears captive minds buzzing and humming beyond his door, moving to intercept the visitors. He opens himself to his handmaid’s perceptions while he finishes up. Anneka is answering the door, gowned and immaculately coiffed for her greeter’s role at tonight’s event. Her visitors are three men in dark suits, dark glasses, and earpieces from the Personal Protection department. “You’re early,” she tells them tersely. “This way.” She leads them into the lobby. They follow her silently, their faces immobile. One of GP Security’s money-spinners on the side is providing security for VIPs and stars, and over the past week they have all been initiated into the Middle Temple, gifted with the Tongue of God behind their lips and the peace in their souls that they’ll need to see them through the more distasteful stages of the mission ahead.
Schiller gathers the reins of their hosts—the isopod-like parasites that have replaced their tongues and now control their higher functions—and sends them over to wait at the window side of the room.
“Father?” Bernadette asks, uncertainty in her voice: she senses the weight of his attention through her host. (Inner Temple initiates are far more useful than those of the Middle Temple, Schiller reflects, although the process of Elevation is painful and time-consuming.) “You have additional instructions for me?”
“Pack an overnight bag. After the party, you will stay at Nether Stowe House. You can take charge of the morning-after crew.” (Wild humans, uncaptured and uncut: little better than animals.) He feels her apprehension and adds, gently, “I have distasteful business to attend to after the party that would only add to your discomfort. Best that you are elsewhere.”
She nods, relieved. “I’ll pray for you, Father,” she says, and hurries into the bedroom to prepare. Schiller glances at Anneka and nods minutely. Bernadette had a poor—emotionally traumatized—reaction to her host implantation; once Schiller was able to inspect her soul he realized that she harbored weaknesses that were not obvious until too late. Her induction was a mistake, but not an irremediable one—her host will break her to her role eventually. But in the meantime, she is simply unsuited to tasks that require ruthless detachment. Anneka, made of sterner stuff, returns his nod, then accepts the reins of the protection crew and gives them their detailed instructions.
“We will depart for Nether Stowe House shortly. Jack will ride shotgun in the car. Olaf, Barry, you will go to the room at the Hilton. Your task is to book the services of one of the contractors on the list”—she hands over a sheaf of laser-printed papers, ads gleaned from the internet, several already checked off from previous occasions—“get them to show up, verify that they match the description on their publicity material, then bring them here, and prep them for Dr. Schiller’s return. It is anticipated that we will be back no later than 3 a.m. tomorrow, at which time you may go off-shift.”
They incline their heads to Anneka simultaneously, like a string of puppets. Bernadette returns, clutching a slightly incongruous day pack. Schiller smiles. “Ladies. Shall we be on our way?”