The Fuller Memorandum

professionally embarrassing if anyone walked in on them—and sketch a brief ward over the door. It flickers violet, then fades, plugging into the departmental security parasphere. I hurry towards the stairs.

Room 206 is up a level, with real windows and an actual view of the high street if you open the dusty Venetian blinds. There’s a conference table and a bunch of not-so-comfortable chairs (the better to keep people from falling asleep in meetings), and various extras: an ancient overhead slide projector, a lectern with a broken microphone boom, and a couple of tattered security awareness posters from the 1950s: “Is your co-worker a KGB mole, a nameless horror from beyond spacetime, or a suspected homosexual? If so, dial 4-SECURITY!” (I suspect Pinky has been exercising his curious sense of humor again.)

“Have a chair.” Iris winks at me. I take her up on the invitation as the door opens and three more attendees show up. Shona I recognize from previous encounters in ops working groups—she’s in-your-face Scottish, on the plump side, and has a brusque way of dealing with bureaucratic obstacles that doesn’t exactly encourage me to insert myself in her line of fire. I think she’s something to do with the Eastern Europe desk. “This is Shona MacDonald,” says Iris. “And Vikram Choudhury, and Franz Gustaffson, our liaison from the AIVD—Unit G6.” Franz nods affably enough, and I try to conceal my surprise. It’s an unusual name for the Netherlands, but I happen to know that his father was Danish. The last time I saw him, he was on what I was sure was a one-way trip to a padded cell for the rest of his life after sitting through one PowerPoint slide too many at a certain meeting in Darmstadt. The fine hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

“We’ve met,” I say, guardedly.

“Have we?” Franz looks at me with interest. “That’s interesting! You’ll have to tell me all about it later.”

Oh. So they only managed to save part of him.

“Allow me to introduce Bob, Bob Howard,” Iris tells them, and I nod and force a bland smile to cover up the horror.

“Mr. Howard is an SSO 3 and double-hats as our departmental IT security specialist and also as personal assistant to Dr. Angleton. A decision was taken to add him to this working group.” I notice the descent into passive voice; also some disturbing double takes from around the table, from Shona and Gustaffson. “He also—this is one of those coincidences I was talking about earlier—happens to be married to Agent CANDID.”

At which name Gustaffson drops all pretense at impassivity and stares at me as if I’ve just grown a second head. I nod at him. What the hell? Mo has a codeword all of her own? Presumably for overseas assignments like the Amsterdam job, but still . . .

“Bob. Would you be so good as to summarize your understanding of the background to BLOODY BARON for us?”

Oh Jeez. I clear my throat. “I’ve only had an hour and a half with the case files, so I may be misreading this stuff,” I admit. Shit, stop making excuses. It just makes you look lame. “BLOODY BARON appears to be a monitoring committee tasked with—well. The cold war never entirely ended, did it? There are too many vested interests on all sides who want to keep it simmering. And the upshot is that Russian espionage directed against the West has been rising since 2001. We kind of forgot that you don’t need communism to set up an east/west squabble between the Russian Empire and Western Europe—in fact, communism was a distraction. Hence the current gas wars and economic blackmail.”

Iris winces. (I’m wincing inside: if you had our heating bills last winter, you’d be wincing too.) “Enough of the macro picture, if you don’t mind. What’s the micro?”

“FSB activity in London has been rising steadily since 2001.” I shrug.

“The Litvinenko assassination, that embarrassing business with the wifienabled rock in Moscow in ’05, diplomatic expulsions; the old confrontation is still bubbling under. But BLOODY BARON is new to me, I will admit.”

I glance at the file on the table in front of me. “Anyway, there’s an organization. We don’t know their real designation because nobody who knows anything about them has ever defected and they don’t talk to strangers, but folks call them the Thirteenth Directorate—not to be confused with the original Thirteenth Directorate, which was redesignated the Fifth Directorate back in the 1960s. Nasty folks—they were the ones responsible for wet work, Mokryye Dela.

“The current bearers of the name seem to have been forked off the KGB back in 1991, when the KGB was restructured as the FSB. They’re an independent wing, much like us.”

The Laundry was originally part of SOE, back during the Second World War; we’re the part that kept on going when SOE was officially wound up at the end of hostilities.

“They’re the Russian OCCINTEL agency, handling demonology and occult intelligence operations. Mostly they stay at home, and their activities are presumably focused on domestic security issues. But there’s been a huge upsurge—unprecedented—in overseas activity lately. Thirteenth Directorate staff have been identified visiting public archives, combing libraries, attending auctions of historic memorabilia, and contacting individuals suspected of having contact with the former parent agency back before the end of the real cold war. They’ve been focusing on London, but also visible in Tallinn, Amsterdam, Paris, Gdansk, Ulan Bator . . . the list doesn’t make any obvious sense.”

I swallow. “That’s all I’ve got, but there’s more, isn’t there?”

Everyone’s looking at me, except for Gustaffson, who’s watching Iris. She nods. “That’s the basic picture. Vikram?”

Choudhury looks at me curiously. “Is Mr. Howard replacing Dr. Angleton on this committee?”

I nearly swallow my tongue. Iris looks disconcerted. “Dr. Angleton isn’t currently available,” she tells him, sparing me a warning glance. “There are Human Resources issues. Mr. Howard is deputizing for him.”

Oh Jesus. Wheels within wheels—committee members who haven’t been briefed, Russian secret demonologists, cold war 2.0. What have I got myself into?

“Oh dear.” Choudhury nods, mollified. “Allow me to express my sympathies.” He has a fat conference file in front of him: he taps the contents into line with tiny, fussy movements. His suit is black and shiny, like an EDS consultant’s in the old days.

“Well then. We have been tracking a number of interesting financial aspects of the KGB activity. They appear to be spending money like water—we have requested information on IBAN transactions and credit card activity by the mobile agents we have identified, and while they’re not throwing it away on silly luxury items they have certainly been working on their frequent flier miles. One of them, Agent Kurchatov, managed to fly half a million kilometers in the last nine months alone—we believe he’s a high-bandwidth courier—as an example. And they’ve been bidding in estate auctions. The overall pattern of their activity focuses on memorabilia from the Russian Civil War, specifically papers and personal effects from the heirs of White Russian leaders, but they’ve also been looking into documents and items relating to the Argenteum Astrum, which is on our watch list —BONE SILVER STAR—along with documents relating to Western occultist groups of the pre-war period. Aleister Crowley crops up like a bad penny, naturally, but also Professor Mudd, who tripped an amber alert. Norman Mudd.”

Civil war memorabilia . . . ? A nasty thought strikes me, but Vikram looks as if he’s about to continue. “What’s special about Mudd?” I ask.

Choudhury looks irritated. “He was a mathematics professor and an occultist,” he says, “and he knew F.” The legendary F—the Laundry’s first Director of Intelligence, reporting to Sir Charles Hambro at 64 Baker Street—headquarters of the Special Operations Executive. Whoops. He cocks his head to one side: “If you don’t mind . . . ?”

I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m new to this.” Touchy, isn’t he? “Please continue.”

“Certainly. It looks as if the Thirteenth Directorate are taking an unusual interest in the owners of memorabilia associated with the late Baron Roman Von Ungern Sternberg, conqueror of Mongolia, Buddhist mystic, and White Russian leader. In particular, they seem to be trying to trace an item or items that Agent S76 retrieved from Reval in Estonia on behalf of our old friend F.” Choudhury looks smugly self-satisfied, as if this diversion into what is effectively arcane gibberish to me is supposed to be enlightening. “Any questions?” he asks.

For once I keep my gob shut, waiting to see if anyone else is feeling as out-of-the-loop as I am. I don’t have to wait long. Shona bulls ahead, bless her: “Yeah, you bet I’ve got questions. Who is this Baron Roman Von Stauffenberg or whoever? When was he—did he die recently?”