The Fuller Memorandum

“Ungern Sternberg died in September 1921, executed by a Bolshevik firing squad after Trotsky’s soldiers captured him.” Choudhury taps his folio again, looking severe: “He was a very bad man, you know! He had a habit of burning paperwork. And he had a man nicknamed Teapot who followed him around and strangled people the Baron was displeased with. I suppose we could all do with that, ha-ha.” He doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care about—Iris’s fish-eyed glare. “But, aha, yes, he was one of those Russian occultists. He converted to Buddhism—Mongolian Buddhism, of a rather bloody sect—but stayed in touch with members of a certain Theosophical splinter group he had fallen in with when he was posted to St. Petersburg. Obviously they didn’t stay there after the revolution, but Ungern Sternberg would have known of his fellows in General Denikin’s staff, and possibly known of F, due to his occult connections. And the, ah, anti-Semitism.”

He looks pained. All intelligence agencies have skeletons in their closets: ours is our first Director of Intelligence, whose fascist sympathies were famous, and only barely outweighed by his patriotism.

“What can that possibly have to do with current affairs?” Shona’s evident bafflement mirrors my own. “What are they looking for?”

“That’s an interesting question,” says Choudhury, looking perturbed. He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “Mr. Howard might be able to tell us—”

“Um. What?”

My confusion must be as obvious as Shona’s, because Iris chips in: “Bob has only just come in on the case —Dr. Angleton didn’t see fit to brief him earlier.”

“Oh my goodness.” Choudhury looks as if he’s swallowed a toad. Live. “But in that case, we really must talk to the doctor—”

“You can’t.” Iris shakes her head, then looks at me again. “Bob, we—the committee—asked Angleton to investigate the link between Ungern Sternberg, F, and the current spike in KGB activity.” She looks back at Choudhury. “Unfortunately, he was last seen on Wednesday evening. He’s now officially AWOL and a search is under way. This happened the same night as Agent CANDID closed out CLUB ZERO. The next morning, CANDID and Mr. Howard were assaulted by a class three manifestation, and I don’t believe it’s any kind of coincidence that Agent Kurchatov was seen visiting the Russian embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens that morning—and left on an early evening flight back to Moscow.

“Let me be straightforward: all the signs suggest that the Thirteenth Directorate are suddenly playing very dangerous games on our turf. If the cultists who CLUB ZERO shut down turn out to be a front for the Thirteenth Directorate, then we have to assume that CLUB ZERO is connected with BLOODY BARON—and that turns it from a low-key adversarial tactical analysis into a much higher priority for us. They’re not usually reckless, and they’re not pushing the old ideological agenda anymore—they wouldn’t be acting this openly for short-term advantage—so we need to find out what they’re doing and put a stop to it, before anyone else gets hurt. Yes, Bob? What is it?”

I put my hand down. “This might sound stupid,” I hear myself saying, “but has anyone thought about, you know, asking them?”

I’M NOT BIG ON HISTORY.

When I was at school, I dropped the topic as soon as I could, right after I took my GCSEs. It seemed like it was all about one damn king after another, or one war after another, or a bunch of social history stuff about what it was like to live as an eighteenth-century weaver whose son had run off with a spinster called Jenny, or a sixteenth-century religious bigot with a weird name and a witch-burning fetish. Tedious shite, in other words, of zero relevance to modern life—especially if you were planning on studying and working in a field that was more or less invented out of whole cloth in 1933.

The trouble is, you can ignore history—but history won’t necessarily ignore you.

History, it turns out, is all around us. Service House—where I used to have my cubicle—is where the Laundry moved in 1953. Before that, it used to belong to the Foreign Office. Before that, we worked out of an attic above a Chinese laundry in Soho, hence the name. Before that . . .

There was no Laundry, officially.

The Laundry was a wartime work of expedience, magicked into existence by a five-line memo headlined ACTION THIS DAY and signed Winston Churchill. It was directed at a variety of people, including a retired major general and sometime MI6 informer, whose dubious status was probably the deciding factor in keeping his ass out of an internment camp along with the rest of the Nazi-sympathizing Directorate of the British Union of Fascists—that, and his shadowy connections to occultists and mathematicians, his undoubted genius as a tactician and theorist of the arts of war, and the nuanced reports of his political officer, who figured his patriotism had a higher operator precedence than his politics. That man was F: Major- General J. F. C. “Boney” Fuller. He’s been in his grave for nearly half a century, and would doubtless be spinning in it fast enough to qualify for carbon credits as an environmentally friendly power source if he could see us today in all our multi-ethnic anti-discriminatory splendor.

But who cares?

That is, indeed, the big-ticket question.

Before the Laundry, things were a bit confused. You can do magic by hand, without computers, but magic performed by ritual without finite state automata in the loop—calculating machines, in other words—tends to be haphazard, unreliable, uncontrollable, prone to undesirable side effects, and difficult to repeat. It also tends to fuck with causality, the logical sequence of events, in a most alarming way.

We’ve unintentionally rewritten our history over the centuries, would-be sorcerers unwinding chaos and pinning down events with the dead hand of consistency—always tending towards a more stable ground state because chaos is unstable; entropy is magic’s great enemy. When the ancients wrote of gods and demons, they might well have been recording their real-life experiences—or they may have drunk too much mushroom tea: we have no way of knowing.

Let’s just say that you can’t always trust the historical record and move swiftly on.

On the other hand, unreliability never stopped anyone from using a given technology—just look at Microsoft if you don’t believe me.

During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the scholars of night systematized and studied the occult with all the zeal Victorian taxonomists could bring to bear. There was a lot of rubbish written; Helena Blavatsky, bless her little cotton socks, muddied the waters in an immensely useful way, as did Annie Besant, and Krishnamurti, and a host of others.

And then there were those who came too damned close to the truth: if H. P. Lovecraft hadn’t died of intestinal cancer in 1937 something would have had to have been done about him, if you’ll pardon my subjunctive. (And it would have been messy, very messy—if old HPL was around today he’d be the kind of blogging and email junkie who’s in everybody’s RSS feed like some kind of giant mutant gossip squid.)

Then there were those who were sitting on top of the truth, if they’d had but the wits to see it—Dennis Wheatley, for example, worked down the hall in Deception Planning at SOE and regularly did lunch with a couple of staff officers who worked with Alan Turing—the man himself, not the anonymous code-named genius currently doing whatever it is they do in the secure wing at the Funny Farm. Luckily Wheatley wouldn’t have known a real paranormal excursion if it bit him on the arse. (In fact, looking back to the dusty manila files, I’m not entirely sure that Dennis Wheatley’s publisher wasn’t on the Deception Planning payroll after the war, if you follow my drift.)

But I digress.

It was to our great advantage during the cold war that the commies were always terrible at dealing with the supernatural.

For starters, having an ideology that explicitly denies the existence of an invisible sky daddy is a bit of a handicap when it comes to assimilating the idea of nightmarish immortal aliens from elsewhere in the multiverse, given that the NIAs in question have historically been identified as gods (subtype: elder). For seconds, blame Trofim Lysenko for corrupting their science faculty’s ability to cope with new findings that contradicted received political doctrine. For thirds, blame the Politburo, which, in the 1950s, looked at the embryonic IT industry, thought “tools of capitalist profit-mongers,” and denounced computer science as un-Communist.