The Fuller Memorandum

Harder. How desperate am I to escape? Depends. Because I’m not totally without resources; I’ve still got my head. Yes, but if I start down that road I won’t have it for much longer. I’m an experienced computational demonologist; I can program zombies, plan the perfect Pet Shop Boys album . . . but running code in your head, that’s a one-way ticket to Krantzberg syndrome. It’s like the Queen, and her magical power over Parliament; she can veto any law she likes, but it’s a card she gets to play once. Am I willing to risk a one-way trip to the secure wing at St. Hilda’s?

Hell, yes—if the alternative is to be the center of attention at a cannibal cultist dinner party.

Ah. Lost it again. Roundabouts—I feel really sick. The smell in here isn’t helping; need to concentrate on not throwing up. What procedures do I know that are simple enough to iterate in my head and effective enough to—

We’re slowing. Too soon. Shit.

It’s hard to deal the imaginary tarot cards when you’re being thrown about the boot of a car that’s braking hard, then turning. The road noises under me change to a crunching of gravel, which goes on interminably. Then there’s a long stationary pause. Just as I’m about certain that we’ve arrived, the car starts moving again, bouncing slowly across more gravel. It goes on and on—if this is a stately home or a public estate it’s huge. But after a brief eternity, we turn through a tight circle and then stop. The engine dies, and in the quiet I hear the ping of cooling metal. Then footsteps.

Fresh air blasts across my back as the boot lid swings open. The interior light comes on, showing me gray carpet centimeters from my nose. “Is he—”

“Yes. Get his legs.”

I tense, ready to kick, but they’re too fast for me. They slide something—feels like a belt—around my ankles and I can’t pull them apart. Someone else pulls a canvas bag, smelling faintly of decaying vegetables, over my head. Then too many hands grab me and lift, and drop, with predictable consequences.

When I surface in the sea of pain, I find I’m lying on my left side—a small mercy. I’m not sure what I’m lying on: it feels like a trolley, or possibly a stretcher. It’s cold and smells of disinfectant and it’s rolling over a hard, smooth surface. I can’t see: my arm is a monstrous, distracting wall of ache, I’m still handcuffed, and now they’ve hooded me and pinioned my ankles. So much for making a run for it. They’re obviously taking me somewhere indoors—

Indoors?

Something tells me that, yes, we are indoors now. Maybe it’s the lack of fresh air, or the echoes, or the ground beneath this trolley’s wheels. We must be nearly there. I distract myself, trying to recall the transition table for Cantor’s 2,5 Universal Turing Machine—the one with the five chess pieces and the board. I was always crap at chess, never really got into it deeply enough at school, but I understand UTMs, and if I can hold enough moves in my head before the gray stuff turns to Swiss cheese I might be able to code something up. Damn it, Bob, you’re a magician! Think of something! But it all blurs, when you’re in pain. Like most of my ilk I work best in a nice warm office, with a honking great monitor on my desk and a can of Pringles in front of me. I start swearing, under my breath, in Middle Enochian: cursing is the only thing that language is good for. (That, and ordering the walking dead around.)

We stop, then there’s a scrape of doors opening. I bounce across a threshold—a lift, I think. Then we begin to descend. Shit, a lift. We’re underground. That’s all I need. I’m angry. I’m also terrified, and in pain, and light-headed, and dizzy. My heart’s hammering.

“Are you awake, Mr. Howard?” chirps Jaunty Jonquil, the demon princess of Sloane Square.

“Nnnng,” I say. Fuck you, would be more appropriate, but in my current position I’m feeling kind of insecure.

“Praise Pharaoh!” That’s someone else: a male voice, not Julian. Observe, Orient—okay, you’re tentatively designated Goatfucker #3. “What happened to his arm?”

“Midnight snack, don’t you know,” Julian replies from somewhere near my feet. “Is All-Highest in residence yet?”

“Yes,” says #3. “You are expected.”

“Ooh!” squeals Jonquil. She pokes me in the ribs, harder than necessary: “You’re going to see Mummy now! Isn’t that exciting?”

I realize that a “no” might offend, and keep my yap shut. I’m trying to string together Words of Command for making the undead repeat a behavioral loop—hey, Mummy? Visions of a can-can line of cadavers in windings bounce through my imagination. Fool, they’re going to kill you. Focus! The part of me that’s on-message and plugged-in to this very unpleasant reality game is panicking at the languid detachment that’s stealing over the rest of me. He makes a bid for my lips: “Where . . . are ... ?” I hear myself croak.

The lift grinds to a halt and I feel a cool draft as the doors open.

“Brookwood cemetery. Have you been here before? It’s really marvelous! It’s the biggest necropolis in England, it covers more than eight square kilometers and more than a quarter of a million people are buried here! This is our section—it used to belong to the Ancient and Honourable Order of Wheelwrights, back in the eighteen hundreds—”

“Quiet,” says #3. “You shouldn’t tell him this thing.”

“I don’t see why not,” Jonquil says huffily: “It’s not as if he’s going to escape, is it?”

That’s right, remind me I’m doomed, see if I care. Hey, isn’t Brookwood where the Necropolitan line used to terminate? Oh, that figures. The cultists have built their fucking headquarters right on top of the power source for that ley line they trapped me with. And, let’s face it, it’s a nice neighborhood. There isn’t much of a crime problem here, community policing keeps a low profile, it’s dead quiet—

They wheel me out into what I’m pretty sure is a sublevel. A lift, in a mausoleum? Doesn’t make sense. So this is probably a mortuary building, abandoned and re-purposed. I try to give no sign of the cold shudders that tingle up and down my spine as they roll me along a short passage, then stop.

“Greetings, Master,” says Jonquil, an apprehensive quaver in her voice for the first time: “We have brought the desired one?”

I can feel a fourth presence, chilly and abstracted. I have a curious sense that I am being inspected—

“Good. The All-Highest will see you now.” The voice is as cold as an unmarked grave.

I hear a door open, and they wheel me forward in silence. Abruptly, someone leans close to me and pulls the canvas bag up and away from my head. It’s dark down here, the deep twilight of a cellar illuminated only by LED torches, but it’s not so dark that I can’t see the All-Highest.

And that’s when I realize I’m in much worse trouble than I ever imagined.

MO LISTENS TO HER PHONE IN DISBELIEF . “THEY WHAT ? ” SHE demands.

“They left the paper clip attached to a book in Putney Library,” says Angleton, with icy dignity. “A copy of Beasts, Men and Gods by Ferdinand Ossendowski.”

“Then you’ve lost him.”

“Unless you have any better ideas.”

“Let me get back to you on that.” She snaps her phone closed and glances across the table. An idea is taking hold.

“Who was that?” asks Panin. “If you do not mind ...”

“It was Angleton. The memorandum is still missing. The enemy identified his tracer and neutralized it.”

“You have my sympathies.”

“Hmm. Do you have a car? Because if so, I’d appreciate a lift home. If you don’t mind.”

Ten minutes later, the black BMW with diplomatic plates is slowly winding its way between traffic-calming measures. Mo leans back, holding her violin case, and closes her eyes. It’s a big car, but it feels small, with the