The Fuller Memorandum

new pair of boots: no matter how he scrubbed and polished he couldn’t get the stench of death out of his old ones.

Grigori frowns, and raises his bow, sighting on the buttress to the right of the chapel, where he is sure the sentry will appear in a few seconds. His view is partially obstructed by the gravestone, so he tries to move his left foot sideways a few centimeters.

His boot refuses to shift.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the chapel wall, Benjamin slaps his pager into silence then tries to lift his right foot again, freeing it from the root or wire or whatever he’s caught on. His left knee nearly buckles. Something has caught on his right ankle. Cursing silently, he glances down.

Grigori’s nostrils widen as he smells rottenness, mold, and mildew. He shifts his stance slightly as the ground softens beneath his right foot. There’s a faint vibration underfoot. Do they have earthquakes in England? It was once like this in the mountains near Botlikh—but the vibration is getting stronger. He glances aside, and sees the ground rippling.

Oddly, none of the bells are sounding—not in this chapel, nor in any of the others.

Benjamin sees something moving in the loose soil underfoot. Adrenal glands squirt, and his pulse spikes: he unslings his gun and turns it, slamming it butt-first on the white and crawling thing below, thinking snake—

A second hand, less fully skeletonized than the first, pushes through the soil and grabs the shotgun’s dangling tactical sling.

Grigori’s nerves jangle as he sees the ripples of ground spread silently out around the chapel: he is not superstitious but he belongs to the company of Spetsgruppa “V” assigned to KGB support operations, and this is a fucking graveyard at fucking midnight. He lowers the crossbow, raising his left hand to the matrioshka charm dangling at his throat just as the earth beneath him heaves and a bony claw punches up through the grass beneath him and reaches for his neck.

THE OCCULUS TRUCK ROARS ALONG THE M3 MOTORWAY, DRIVING south in darkness.

Major Barnes has a mobile phone glued to his ear. He’s nodding unconsciously. Then he turns, looking at Angleton and Mo in the back of the cab. “Dr. Angleton, Dr. O’Brien, we have a fix.”

Mo sits up instantly. “Yes?”

“That was Jameson at headquarters—DVLA have coughed up the registration details on Iris Carpenter’s car. Highways Agency say it came this way earlier this evening and turned off onto the A322 at junction three. The ANPR cameras on that stretch are down, but looking at this map—what does Brookwood cemetery suggest to you?”

“Brookwood.” Angleton raises an eyebrow. “Yes. Continue.”

“I’m waiting for—” The major’s phone rings again. “Excuse me.” He flicks it open. “Yes?” He nods vigorously. “Yes, yes . . . I concur. Yes. I want you to get onto the Surrey Police control center and ask if the ASU can provide top cover. Get them to send a car with a downlink receiver round to the main entrance on Cemetery Pales, we don’t have a police downlink—no, no, but if the armed response unit is on duty get them up there. Yes, I’m authorizing that.” Barnes blinks at Angleton, who inclines his head. “I’m in the OCCULUS with Howe’s brick; get the rest of third platoon moving immediately, I think we’re going to need all the support we can get. Is there any SCORPION SCARE coverage—all right, that was too much to hope for. We should be at the gates in another fifteen minutes. Get the police to block all the roads in and out—The Gardens, Avenue de Cagny, yes, and the rest—tell them it’s a terrorism incident.”

When he finally hangs up he looks tired. “Did you catch that?” he asks.

Mo stares at him. “It’s a cemetery. Yes?”

“Brookwood is not just a cemetery,” Angleton informs her: “It’s the London necropolis, the largest graveyard in Western Europe. Eight thousand acres and more than a quarter of a million graves.”

The penny drops. Her eyes widen. “They’re planning a summoning. You’re thinking it’s death magic?”

“What does it sound like to you? Lots of space, no neighbors within earshot, lots of raw fuel for a necromancer to work with, raw head and bloody bones.” Angleton looks at Barnes. “Have you tried to call the cemetery site office?”

“Gordon tried that already. Got a bloody answering machine.”

“Ten to one there’s nobody at the gatehouse. Or if there is, he’s one of them.”

“And we’ve got eight thousand acres to cover, and no CCTV, never mind SCORPION STARE.” Barnes’s expression is sour. “No surveillance, no look-to-kill—the ASU had better deliver or they’ll hand us our heads on a plate.”

“What would your preferred option be?” Angleton asks softly, his voice almost lost beneath the road noise.

“If we had time—” Barnes grimaces. “I’m sorry, Mo. I can’t afford to throw lives away needlessly by going after Bob before we’re ready.”

“But we’re not just going in after Bob,” she says tartly. “We’re going in to prevent the Black Brotherhood doing whatever it is they’re planning. Angleton: the Ford paper was a decoy, granted—but what can they do anyway? What kind of summoning are we looking at?”

“They can try to summon up the Eater of Souls.” His smile is ghastly. “They won’t get him. What they get in his place—could be anything—” His smile fades, replaced by a look of perplexity. “That’s funny.”

“Funny?” Mo leans forward. “What’s funny?”

Angleton raises his right hand and rubs it against his chest. “I feel odd.”

“Oh come on, you can’t pull that—” Mo stops. “Angleton?”

His eyes are closed, as if asleep. “They’re calling,” he whispers. “The dead are calling ...”

“Dr. O’Brien—” Major Barnes stares at Angleton. “Code Red!” he calls, yelling at the back of the truck. “Code Red!”

Angleton leans against his seat belt, unmoving.

THE HUMAN SACRIFICE IS OVER IN SECONDS: IRIS IS THE KIND of priestess who believes in running a tight ship, and the tiny body stops thrashing mercifully fast. She lowers the bloody knife to the altar below the foot of the bed and what happens next is concealed from me.

I lie back and screw my eyes shut, but blocking out the sight of what they’re doing doesn’t make things better: I can feel blind things moving in the darkness, all around, scraping and scrabbling at the porous walls of the world. They’re trying to get in. I invited them, and many of them have found bodies, but those that haven’t—there are myriads of them. What have I done? I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything except horror and disgust and a sense of nauseous unease at my own body. I’m lying on a bed, surrounded by corpses, at the exact end of a ley line that connected the capital with its dead underbelly, the citadel of silence in the English countryside. And they’re trying to do something awful, using me as a vessel, but it failed. Just like my attempt to use the energy of my own death to summon the eaters in the night—

“By the blood of the newborn be you bound to this flesh, this body, and this will!” Iris’s voice is a dissonant screech like nails on a blackboard, compelling and revolting, impossible to ignore. I open my eyes. She stands beside the bed, holding the silver goblet before my chin. It’s full to brimming with dark fluid, thick and warm and amazingly wonderful to smell and I finally twig, That’s not wine. I try to turn my head away, but two of her followers grasp me with gloved hands and push me up, straining against the ropes and brutally stretching my sore arm. “I command you and name you, Eater of Souls and master of Erdeni Dzu! I name you again, heir of Burdokovskii’s flesh! And I bind you to service in the name of the Black Pharaoh, N’yar lath- Hotep!”

Then they pry my jaws open and stick a funnel in my mouth and start pouring while some bastard grips my nostrils shut, giving me a choice between drowning and swallowing.