The Fuller Memorandum

THE NEXT MORNING WE OVERSLEEP, BY MUTUAL CONSENT, then slouch about the kitchen for a scandalously prolonged breakfast. Mo looks at me, sleepy-eyed with satisfaction, over a bare plate. “I needed that.” A guilty glance across at the empty egg carton by the frying pan on the hob: “My waistline disagrees, but my stomach says ‘fuck it.’”

“Enjoy it while you can.” I’ve got plans for the weekend that include blowing a week’s salary on stuff we might not need: brown rice, lentils, canned beans, camping gas cylinders. I can make room for it in our abbreviated joke of a cellar if I toss the rusting bicycle and a bunch of other crap that’s taking up space . . . “I was thinking about going into the office this afternoon.”

“But you’re signed off sick,” Mo points out.

“Yeah, that’s the trouble.” I refill my coffee mug from the cafetiere.

“After what Andy said, I figure I ought to at least poke around Angleton’s office. See if I can spot something that everyone else has missed, before the trail goes cold. And there are some files I want to pull so I’ve got something to read over the weekend.”

“You are not bringing work home.” She crosses her arms, abruptly mulish.

“The thought never crossed my mind.” I play the innocent expression card and she raises me one sullen glare. I fold. “I’m sorry, but there’s also some reading matter I want to pick up.”

“You’re not bringing work home! We’re not certified, anyway.”

“Yes we are—as of yesterday, this is a level two secure site,” I point out. “I’m not bringing anything secret home, just archive stuff from the stacks. It’s tagged ‘confidential’ but it’s so old it’s nearly ready to claim its pension. Strictly historical interest only.”

“Um.” She raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Angleton”—I swallow—“when he sent me to Cosford he forgot to give me the backgrounder first. But he gave me a reading list.”

“Oh fucking hell.” She looks annoyed, which is a good sign. But then her eyes track sideways and I realize I’m not off the hook yet. “What’s that?”

“That?” I ask brightly, suppressing the impulse to squawk oh shit. “It appears to be a cardboard box.”

“A cardboard box with a picture of an iPhone on it,” she says slowly.

“It’s empty,” I hurry to reassure her.

“Right.” She picks up her coffee and takes a mouthful. “Would I be right in thinking it’s empty because it used to contain an iPhone? Which is now, oh, I dunno, in your pocket?”

“Um. Yes.”

“Oh, Bob. Don’t you know any better?”

“It was at least a class four glamour,” I say defensively, resisting the urge to hunch my shoulders and hiss preciousss. “And I needed a new phone anyway.”

She sighs. “Why, Bob? Has your old phone started to smell or something?”

“I left my PDA in Hangar Six at Cosford,” I point out. “It’s slightly scorched around the edges and I don’t have room for half my contacts on my mobile.”

“So you bought an iPhone, rather than bugging Iris to sign off on a replacement PDA.”

“If you must put it that way . . . yes.”

Mo rolls her eyes. “Bob loses saving throw vs. shiny with a penalty of ?5. Bob takes 2d8 damage to the credit card—just how much did it cost? Will you take it back if I guilt-trip you hard enough? Do pigs fly?”

“I was considering it,” I admit. “But then Brains came round and installed something.”

“Brains installed—”

“He’s working on a port of OFCUT to the iPhone platform at work. I think he thought mine was an official phone . . . I’ve got to take it into the office and get it scrubbed before I even think about trading it in, or the Auditors will string us both up by the giblets.” I shudder faintly, but Mo is visibly distracted.

“Hang on. They’ve ported OFCUT to the iPhone? What does it look like?”

“I’ll show you . . .”

Fifteen minutes later I am on my way to the office, sans shiny. Mo is still sitting at the kitchen table with a cold mug of coffee, in thrall to the JesusPhone’s reality distortion field, prodding at the jelly-bean icons with an expression of hapless fascination on her face. I’ve got a horrible feeling that the only way I’m going to earn forgiveness is to buy her one for her birthday. Such is life, in a geek household.

ACTUALLY, I HAVE A MOTIVE FOR GOING IN TO WORK THAT I don’t feel like telling Mo about.

So as soon as I’ve stopped in my office and filled out a requisition for the file numbers Angleton scribbled on that scrap of paper for me—we can’t get at the stacks directly right now, they’re fifty meters down under the building site that is Service House, but there’s a twice-daily collection and delivery run—I head down the corridor and across the walkway and up the stairs to the Security Office.

“Is Harry in?” I ask the guy in the blue suit behind the counter. He’s reading the afternoon Metro and looking bored.

“Harry? Who wants to know?” He sits up.

I pull my warrant card. “Bob Howard, on active. I want to talk to Harry—or failing that, whoever the issuing officer is—about personal defense options.”

“Personal def—” He peers at my warrant card: then his eyes uncross and he undergoes a sudden attitude adjustment. “Oh, you’re one of them. Right. You wait here, sir, we’ll get you sorted out.”

Contrary to popular fiction, there is no such thing as a “license to kill.” Nor do secret agents routinely carry firearms for self-defense. Me, I don’t even like guns—I mean, they’re great fun if all you want to do is make holes in paper targets at a firing range, but for their real design purpose, saving your ass in a life-or-death emergency, no: that’s not on my list of fun things. I’ve been trained not to shoot my own foot off (and I’ve been practicing regularly, ever since the business on Saint Martin), but I feel a lot safer when I’m not carrying a gun.

However, two days ago my primary defensive ward got smoked in a civilian FATACC, yesterday I got doorstepped by a killer zombie from Dzerzhinsky Square, and I now have a dull ache in the life insurance policy telling me that it’s time to tool up. Which in my case means, basically, dropping in on Harry, which means—

“Bob, my son! And how’s it going with you? Girlfriend glassed your head up?”

Harry the Horse is our departmental armorer. He looks like an extra from The Long Good Friday: belt-straining paunch that’s constantly trying to escape, thinning white hair, and a piratical black eye-patch. Last time I saw him he was explaining the finer details of the care and feeding of a Glock 17 (which we’ve standardized on, damn it, because of an ill-thought requirement for ammunition and parts commonality with the Sweeney); I responded by showing him how to take down a medusa (something which I have unfortunately too much experience at).

I recover from the back-slapping and straighten up: “It’s going well, Harry. Well, kinda-sorta. My ward got smoked a couple of days ago and I’m on heightened alert—there’s been an incident—”

“—As I can see from your head, my son, so you’re thinking you need to armor up. Come right this way, let’s see what we can kit you out with.” He yanks the inner door open and pulls me into his little shop of—

You know that scene in The Matrix? When Neo says: “We need guns,” and the white backdrop turns into a cross between Heathrow Airport and the back room at a rifle range? Harry’s temporary office in the New Annexe Third Floor Extension Security Area is a bit like that, only cramped and lit by a bare sixty-watt incandescent bulb supervised by a small and very sleepy spider.

Harry pulls something that looks like an M16 on steroids off the wall and picks up a drum magazine the size of a small car tire. “Can I interest you in an Atchisson AA-12 assault shotgun? Burst-selectable for single shot or full auto? Takes a twenty-round drum full of twelve-gauge magnum rounds, and I’ve got a special load-out just for taking down paranormal manifestations—alternate FRAG-12 fin-stabilized grenades, white phosphorus rounds, and solid silver triple-ought buck, each ball micro-engraved with the Litany of Khar-Nesh—right up your street, my son.”