Charles Stross - The Fuller Memorandum

I clear my throat. “If you ask me about sensitive projects I’m allowed to stonewall-once. If you ask me again, I have to tell you, period. Uh, I assume that’s because you’d prefer to keep the enquiry from accidentally covering so many highly classified subjects that nobody is allowed to read its findings…?”

She smiles drily. “Something like that.” It feels like the Angel of Death has just perched on my shoulder, paused from sharpening its blade, and quietly squawked: Who’s a pretty Polly? Then the sense of immanent ridiculous demise passes. Ha ha, I slay myself…

The Chief Auditor nods, then looks at the legal pad before him. “Yesterday you visited the library front desk. What was your objective?”

Lie back and think of England -and nothing else. “Angleton gave me a reading list,” I said. “He told me to bring back a particular document.” Pause. “Oh, and Mo wanted me to pick up a copy of a report she’d asked for, but it wasn’t in yet.”

There is no prickling of high tension current in my legs to warn me that my partial truth is unacceptable.

“Who is ‘Mo’?” asks Auditor #3.

“Dr. Dominique O’Brien. Epistemological Warfare Specialist grade 4.”

Auditor #3 leans forward hungrily. “Why did this person ask you to collect a document on their behalf?” he demands.

I blink, nonplussed. “Because I told her I was going to the library, and she was busy. She’s my wife.”

Auditor #3 looks baffled for a few seconds, his bloodhound trail evaporating in a haze of aniseed fumes. “You’re married?”

“Yes.” This would be hilarious if I wasn’t scared silly by the sleeping horror I am standing on that will sense any attempt at deception and-

“Oh.” He makes a note on his pad and subsides.

The blonde Auditor gives him a very old-fashioned look, then turns to me: “Are you cleared for the content of her work?” she asks.

Huh? “I have no idea,” I say sincerely. “We only discuss projects we’re working on after comparing codeword access and if necessary asking for clearance.” Then the glyph on the goddamn rug forces me to add, “But this time it doesn’t matter, the document hadn’t arrived anyway.”

She scribbles something on her own notepad. “Did Dr. O’Brien tell you anything about this particular note?” she asks.

I blink. “I have no idea. She simply gave me the file reference number-no codeword.”

More notes, more significant looks. The senior Auditor stares at me over the gold half-moon rims of his spectacles. “Mr. Howard. Please indicate if you are familiar with any of these individuals. Matthias Hoechst, Jessica Morgenstern, George Dower, Nikolai Panin-” He nods at my hand signal. “Describe what you know about Nikolai Panin.”

“I had a pint with him in the Frog and Tourettes the day before yesterday.”

The effect is astonishing: the Auditors jerk to attention like a row of frogs with cattle prods up their backsides. I meet their appalled gaze with a sense of sublime lightness. They want the truth? Okay, they can fucking have the truth.

“I reported it as a contact to the BLOODY BARON committee at the first opportunity, and it was agreed to keep it quiet for the time being. Panin seems to have wanted to pass on a warning about Teapot. He was concerned that it was missing, and that as its last custodians we ought to ensure it was found before the wrong persons got their hands on it and, uh, ‘made tea.’” I smile blandly. “Angleton authorized me to read the WHITE BARON files and I have inferred the identity of Teapot.”

The Chief Auditor shakes his head. “Bloody hell,” he grumbles, then, to me: “Do you know where Angleton is?”

I open my mouth-then pause. Now I can feel the electric flare of the geas tickling the fine hairs on my legs.

The blonde Auditor narrows her eyes. “Speak,” she commands.

I can’t not speak, but I still have some control. “I don’t believe Angleton has assigned it a codeword yet,” I hear myself saying, “but his disappearance is connected with an ongoing investigation and I don’t think he wants me to tell anyone about it…”

My legs feel as if they’re immersed in cold fire up to the knees. I gasp for breath, just as the Chief Auditor hastily holds up his hand: “Stay of execution! The subject has invoked the security variance.” He peers at me. “Can you confirm that you are cognizant of Angleton’s whereabouts?”

I nod, jerkily. The chilly, searing fingers recede down my calves.

“In your judgment, is Angleton working in the best interests of this institution?”

I nod like a parcel shelf ornament.

“Also in your judgment, would it impair his work on behalf of this institution if we continue to explore this line of enquiry?”

I think for a moment. Then I nod, emphatically.

“Very well.” Light glints on his spectacles as he looks at me for a few seconds. “On your recommendation, we will not enquire further-unless you have something you would like to tell us?”

Careful, Bob! This is an Audit board you’re up against. They’re at their most dangerous when they’re being reasonable, and they can turn all the fires of hell-imaginary or otherwise-on you if you don’t cooperate.

I take a deep breath. “I’m confused,” I finally say. “I thought this was an enquiry about the break-in and theft from my office safe, but you’ve been asking questions about Angleton and Mo instead. What’s going on?”

Wrong question: Auditor #3 smiles sharkishly and the blonde Auditor shakes her head. “It is not in the remit of this committee to answer questions,” says the Chief Auditor, a trifle archly. “Now, back to the matter in hand. I have some questions about office supplies. When did you last order stationery fasteners from office stores, and how many and what type did you request…?”

WHILE I’M BEING HAULED OVER THE COALS, MO RISES AT HER usual hour, makes coffee, eats a cereal bar, reads my text message. It’s along the lines of HELD UP AT WORK IN COMMITTEE. She frowns, worried but not unduly alarmed. (My texts range from verbose and eloquent-when I’m bored-to monosyllabic, when the entire cesspit is about to be ingested by a jet engine. This intermediate level is indicative of stress, but not of mortal danger.)

She leaves the dregs of the coffee in the pot, and the cereal bar wrapper on top of the other waste in the kitchen bin. She goes upstairs, dresses, collects violin and coat, and leaves.

Sometimes Mo works in the New Annexe; and sometimes she doesn’t. There’s an office in the Royal College of Music where her name is one of three listed on the door. There’s a course in philosophy of mathematics at King’s College where she sometimes lectures-and forwards reports on her pupils to Human Resources. And she’s a regular visitor at the Village, across the fens and up the coast by boat, where the Laundry keeps certain assets that don’t belong in a crowded city. Today, she sets out by tube, heading for the city center. She is on her way to ask Mr. Dower whether he did in fact mail his report. And she is in for a surprise.

Watch the red-haired woman in a black suit, violin case in hand, walking up the pavement towards the shuttered shopfront with the blue-and-white police incident tape stretched across the doorway. Traffic cones with more tape stand to either side of the shop front, fluttering in the light breeze. She pauses, nonplussed, then looks around. There is a police officer standing discreetly by, hands clasped behind his back. She glances back at the taped-off doorway. There is no dark stain on the lintel-the SOC officers and the cleanup crew did their job well-but the ward she wears under her blouse buzzes a warning. Her expression hardens, and she walks towards the constable, reaching into her handbag to produce an identity card.