The Fuller Memorandum

“Here’s what I want you to do . . .”

CLASSIFIED: TEAPOT BARON TYBURN

FROM: Fuller, Laundry

TO: 17F, Naval Intelligence Division

Dear Ian,

Hope all’s well (and my best regards to your mother, long may she keep her nose out of operational matters).

You enquired about Teapot.

Subsequent to the death of Burdokovskii in 1921, Q Division determined that the preta referenced in the Sternberg Fragment had returned to the six paths, and if it could be recalled and bound into a suitable host it might be compelled to the service of the state. Given the magnitude of the powers possessed by this particular entity, this was considered a desirable objective; however, its reincarnation required that we provide the hungry ghost with a new host. Obviously, this presented them with a headache; so some bright spark finally came up with the idea of asking the Home Office. A request was accordingly submitted in 1923.

Due to the 1924 election and subsequent upheavals and crises, the request was not actually considered at ministerial level until 1928, in which year the Prime Minister and Home Secretary agreed, not without considerable argument, to sanction the use of the ritual as an alternative method of capital punishment on one occasion only. I am not at liberty to disclose the identity of the murderer in question—he has in any case paid the ultimate price— but after his hanging was announced, he was relocated to a secret location. No less a surgeon than Mr. Gillies, working under an oath of strict secrecy, was employed to remodel the features of the sacrificial vessel lest any former acquaintance recognize him. Then the Hungry Ghost Ritual was performed, in a ceremony so harrowing that I would not relish being called upon to perform it again.

I shall not burden you with the tiresome sequence of obstacles that fate threw before us after we summoned the Teapot. Teaching it to speak, and to walk, and to make use of a human body once more was tedious in the extreme; for example we had to straitjacket and gag it for the first six months, lest it eat its fingers and lips. For almost a year it seemed likely that we had made a horrible mistake, and had merely driven a condemned murderer into the arms of insanity. However, in early 1930 Teapot began to communicate, and then to retrieve portions of the deceased memories—speaking in Russian as well as English, a language with which the vessel was unfamiliar. Shortly thereafter, it began also to evince a marked skill in the more esoteric areas of mathematics, and to show signs of the monstrous, cold intellect that so disturbed Baron Von Ungern Sternberg.

When the Teapot committee received permission to reincarnate the preta it was immediately realized that we would need to bind it to our service. Ungern Sternberg was able to placate it with a steady supply of victims, but His Majesty’s Government in time of peace was not so well placed. (If we had received the go-ahead to deal with the Socialists, things would have been different; but it’s no use crying over spilt milk.) Consequently, from 1928 to 1930 we worked tirelessly on a new model geas or binding— one that can restrain not only a human soul, but an eater of same. I shall spare you the grisly details, but in April 1930 we performed the binding rite for the first time, and Teapot was demonstrated to be under our full authority. It did not submit willingly, and I regret to inform you that the death of Dr. Somerfeld in that year—attributed to an apoplectic fit in his obituary in the Times—was only one part of the heavy price we paid.

Having bound the Angra Mainyu it was now necessary to indoctrinate it and train it to pass for a true Englishman. To this end, we obtained a place for it as Maths tutor at Sherborne, where it was enrolled in Lyon House as a master. Every public school in England is crawling with masters who are not entirely right in the head as a result of their experiences on the Front, and it was our consensus opinion that Teapot’s more minor eccentricities would not attract excessive notice, while the major ones (such as the regrettable tendency to eat souls) could be kept under control by our geas.

I retired from the Teapot committee with my official retirement from service in 1933. I did not encounter Teapot again until 1940 and my reactivation in this highly irregular role.

Today, Teapot is almost unrecognizable. When we set out to turn the monster into an Englishman we succeeded too well. He is urbane, witty, possessed of a wicked but well-concealed sense of humor, and utterly lacking in the conscienceless brutality of the hungry ghost that possessed Ensign Evgenie Burdokovskii in Ulan Bator all those years ago. Sherborne did its usual job—that of turning savages into servants of empire—and did it to our carefully constructed house master just as thoroughly as to any Hottentot from the home counties.

I am afraid that our initial objective—to chain a hungry ghost to the service of the state—has only been a qualified success: qualified because we succeeded too well. Teapot sincerely believes in playing the game, in honor and service and all the other ideals we cynically dismiss at our peril. Unfortunately this renders him less than useful for the task in hand. We have (I hesitate to say this) reformed a demon in our own image, or rather, in the image we were trained to revere. We would be fools to undo this work now: this preta knows us too well. We captured it once, but next time we might not be so lucky.

Despite being useless to us as an Eater of Souls, Teapot is not without worth. I have drafted it into this new organization, where I believe we can put it to good use while maintaining a discreet watch. We can always use a hungry ghost, possessed of a disturbing brilliance in the dark arts, hidden within the urbane skin of an Englishman. It understands what makes us tick, shares—thanks to years of compulsion and indoctrination—our goals, and it has an eerie judgement of character, too—I believe it may be of significant use to the Doublecross committee in rooting out enemy spies. But if you’re thinking of using it as a weapon, I would advise you to think again: I’m not sure the geas, or Teapot’s indoctrination, would hold together if it is allowed to unleash its full power. Teapot is the sort of gun you fire only once—then it explodes in your hand.

Signed: J. F. C. Fuller

I’M NOT GOING TO EXPLAIN HOW I GOT HERE FROM THERE: JUST take it as given that it is now ten o’clock in the morning, I am still in the office (but called Mo half an hour ago to see she’s okay), I haven’t shaved or slept, and there’s a BLOODY BARON meeting in five minutes. I’ve got Amarok running on my desktop (playing “Drowning in Berlin” on endless repeat, because I need a pounding beat to keep me awake) and I’ve plowed through the CODICIL BLACK SKULL file that Angleton left me, and then on into a bunch of tedious legwork for this morning’s session. I’m suffering from severe cognitive dissonance; every so often you think you’ve got a handle on this job, on the paper clip audits and interminable bureaucracy and committee meetings, and then something insane crawls out of the woodwork and gibbers at you, something crazy enough to give James Bond nightmares that just happen to be true.

I close the CBS file and I’m just sticking it back in my secure document safe when Iris pops her head round the door. “Bob? Are you ready to do battle with BLOODY BARON yet?”

I groan quietly. “I think I need a coffee, but yeah, I’ll be along just as soon as I’ve locked this . . .” I poke at the keypad and it tweedles happily. Not that an electronic lock is the only security we rely on; anyone who tries to crack this particular safe is going to wake up in hospital with a hangover the size of a whale.

“White, no sugar, right?”

“You’re a star. I’ll be right with you.” Did I remember to say good management cures the King’s Evil and makes coffee, too? Because if not, it’s all true.

Ten minutes later I’m sitting in Room 206 again, with a mug of passable paint stripper in front of me and a printout of the minutes. It’s a very cut-down rump session today. Franz is absent, Iris is tapping her fingers and Shona is looking as if she’d like to be away with the fairies while Choudhury drones on: “No observed deviations from traffic intercept patterns established over the past week, and no notified agent movements yesterday—”

What the hell, I’m bored. I clear my throat.

Choudhury glances at me, irritated: “What is it, Howard?”

“These non-existent agent movements wouldn’t happen to include Panin, would they? Because I’m sure if Panin so much as farted in F-flat minor our boys would be up his arse with a gas spectrograph, wouldn’t they?”

I am pleased to see that both Shona and Iris are paying attention: Shona’s nostrils flare unconsciously and