Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

I take as deep a breath as the strapping around my ribs will permit. "Anyway, afterward I got the whole story out of Mo. The bits she was afraid of telling anyone for fear they wouldn't believe her. And that's why I called the Plumbers. See, the Yank field group who rescued her didn't tell us what the hell was going on. The leader was some Arab guy with a German accent, talking about help for the struggle with the Dar-al-Harb once the roots of Yggdrasil are unbound. Only they didn't get him-or she didn't see his body. Boss, do we have anything on German terror groups using Beckenstein-Skinner actor theory to possess their victims? Hell, anything about any German terror groups more recent than the Ahnenerbe using occult techniques?"

Andy looks at me with a stony expression. "Wait here. Do not move." He pushes the DNI button (turning on the red warning light outside the door-WARNING: CLASSIFIED ACTIVITIES: DO NOT INTRUDE) then stands up and hurries out.

I sit there and let my eyes roam around Andy's cubbyhole. The contents are prosaic: one institutional desk (scratched), one swivel chair (used), two armless visitor chairs (ditto), one bookcase, and a classified document safe (basically a steel cabinet with lockable metal doors on it). His PC is five years old and running a password-locked screensaver, and his desk is clear-no papers lying around. In fact, if it wasn't for the classified document safe and the lack of papers it could be a low-level manager's office in any cash-pinched business in corporate Britain.

I'm leaning back in my chair and inspecting the flecks of institutional paint smeared on the frosted glass in the high window when the door opens again. Andy enters, closely followed by Derek and-shock, horrors-Angleton. I'm surrounded! "Here he is," says Andy.

Angleton claims Andy's chair behind the desk-the privilege of the senior inquisitor-and Andy sits down next to me, while Derek stands at parade rest in front of the door, as if to stop me escaping. He's got some kind of box like a small briefcase, which he parks on the floor next to his feet.

"Speak," says Angleton.

"I did as you told me. Mo and I were talking. I kept it to non-classified while we were in public; I convinced her I needed to hear the full story, not just the official version, so we went back to her place. We were jumped in the hallway. Afterward, she told me enough that I thought there was a clear and present danger to her life. Did Andy tell you-"

Angleton snaps his fingers at Derek. Derek, who is not my idea of an obedient flunky, nevertheless obediently passes him the briefcase, which he opens on the desk. It turns out to contain a small mechanical typewriter with a couple of sheets of paper already wound around the roller. He laboriously taps out a sentence, then turns the typewriter toward me: it says SECRET OGRE CARNATE GECKO, and I get an abrupt sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Before you leave this office you will write down everything you remember about last night," he says tersely. "You will not leave this office until you have finished and signed off on the report. One of us will stay with you until the job is done, and countersign that this is a true transcript and that there were no uncleared witnesses. Once you leave this office you will not see this document again. You will not, repeat not, discuss last night's events with anyone other than the participants and the people in this room without first obtaining written permission from one of us. Do you understand?"

"Uh, yeah. You're classifying everything under OGRE CARNATE GECKO and I'm not to discuss it with anyone who isn't cleared. Can I ask why the typewriter? I could email-"

Angleton looks at me witheringly: "Van Eck Radiation." He snaps his fingers. But we're in the Laundry, I protest silently, the whole building is Tempest-shielded. "Start typing, Bob."

I start typing. "Where's the delete key on this-oh."

"You're typing on carbon paper. In triplicate. Once you finish, we burn the carbons. And the typewriter ribbon."

"You could have offered a quill pen: that'd be more secure, wouldn't it?" I peck away at the keyboard in a purposeful manner. After a minute or two Angleton silently rises and ghosts out of the room. I peck on, occasionally swearing as I catch a fingernail under a key or jam a bunch of letters together. Finally I'm done: one page of single-spaced, densely printed text, detailing the events of last night. I sign each copy and present them to Andy, who countersigns, then carefully inserts them into a striped-cover folder and passes it to Derek, who writes out receipts for them and hands a copy to each of us. He leaves without a word.

Andy walks round the desk, stretches, then looks at me. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Huh? What's wrong?"

Andy looks morose. "If I'd known you'd show such a well-developed talent for raking up the mud…"

"Comes of my hacking hobby before I came to the attention of… look. I called the Plumbers because I had reason to be afraid that Mo-Professor O'Brien-was in serious danger. Would you rather I hadn't?"

"No." He sighs. For a moment he looks old. "You did the right thing. It's just that the Plumbing budget is chargeable to departmental accounts. That leaves us open to some rather nasty maneuvering if the usual suspects decide it's an opportunity to extend their little empires. I'm wondering how the hell we're going to spin it past Harriet."

"Why don't you just tell-oh."

"Yes." He nods at me. "You're beginning to catch on. Now run along and get back to work. I'm sure your in-tray is overflowing."

I'M WORKING MY WAY THROUGH THAT OVERCROWDED in-tray late in the afternoon when Harriet stalks in without knocking. (Actually, I'm up to my eyeballs in a clipping from the Santa Cruz County Sentinel. It makes for fascinating reading: TWO DEAD IN MURDER, SUICIDE. Two unidentified males, one believed to be a Saudi Arabian national, found dead in a house out toward Davenport. Police investigating weird occult symbols smeared on the walls in blood. Drugs suspected.) "Ah, Bob," she coos with malevolent solicitude. "Just the person I was looking for!"

Oh shit. "What can I do for you?" I ask.

She leans over my desk. "I understand you called out the Plumbers last night," she says. "I happen to know that you're currently assigned to Angleton as JPS, which is a nonoperational role and therefore doesn't give you release authority for wet-and-dry issues. You are no doubt aware that cleanup funds are allocated on a per-department basis, and require prior authorisation from your head of department, in writing. You didn't obtain authorisation from Bridget, and funnily enough, you didn't approach me for a release either." She smiles with chilly insouciance. "Would you like to explain yourself?"

"I can't," I say.

"I- see. " Harriet looms over me, visibly working on her anger. "You realise that last night you cost our working budget more than seven thousand pounds? That's going to have to be justified, Mr. Howard, and you are going to justify it to the Audit Commission when they come round next month. Let's see"-she flips through what looks for all the world like a commercial invoice-"cleaning up Professor O'Brien's front door, sweeping her apartment for listeners and actors, rehousing Professor O'Brien in a secure apartment, armed escort, medical expenses. What on earth have you been up to?"

"I can't tell you," I say.

"You're going to tell me. That's an order, by the way," she says in conversational tones. "You're going to tell me in writing exactly what happened there last night, and explain why I shouldn't take the expenses out of your pay packet-"

"Harriet."

We both look round. Angleton's door is ajar; I wonder how long he's been standing there.