The Apocalypse Codex

department most people (who are aware of it) think spends its time keeping track of loaned laptops—grilling DSS Angleton, a Detached Special Secretary (or, as scuttlebutt would have it, a Deeply Scary Sorcerer), one of the famous old monsters of the Operations Directorate: a man so wrapped in secrecy that his shadow doesn’t have a high enough security clearance to stick to his heels. But a typical observer wouldn’t understand the nature of External Assets. Or, indeed, be aware of Gerald Lockhart’s real job.

“Hypothetically, then. Can you think of any circumstances under which you’d expect our man to break cover in the field and disobey an explicit order? That’s expect him to disobey, not merely signal reluctance before complying, or make use of loopholes.”

Angleton’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you vetting him?”

Lockhart shakes his head. “I’m not vetting him. It’s just a general enquiry I’ve been told to answer.” His tone of voice is flat.

“Oh.” Angleton stares at him. “Oh dear.”

Lockhart shakes his head again. “What are Howard’s weak points?”

“Hmm.” Angleton stares at the ceiling for a few seconds. “The boy’s still hamstrung by a residual sense of fair play, if that’s what you’re asking about. He believes in the rule of law, and in taking responsibility for his actions. He’s personally loyal to his friends and co-workers. His personal life is boringly normal—he’s besotted with his wife, doesn’t use drugs, has no blackmail handles. In fact I don’t think he’s got any noteworthy character failings—these are all good characteristics in a junior officer. He’s not a sociopath if that’s what…oh.” Angleton sits up and leans towards Lockhart. “You didn’t give him a clearly illegal order, did you? Put him in a compromising situation or tell him to abandon a colleague or someone he’s personally loyal to—” Lockhart says nothing. “Oh dear.”

“What is he likely to do? In the circumstances you, ah, speculated about.”

Angleton grimaces humorlessly. “He has a history of, shall we say, being on the receiving end of abusive management practices. It has taught him to take a skeptical approach to obviously flawed directives. He’d use his initiative and try to square the circle—do whatever he was told to, while mitigating the consequences. He’d bend before breaking, in other words. He’s loyal to the Crown, but he’s not suicidal or stupid. However, conflicts of loyalty could be a very sticky wicket.”

“Ah.” Lockhart pause briefly. “You mentioned loyalty. Personal, organizational, or general?”

“I’m not sure I follow your distinction.”

“You said he’s unlikely to obey an order to abandon colleagues. What about civilian third parties? Informers and sources? Contractors and stringers? Family members or strangers? Where does he draw the line, in other words?”

Angleton fixes Lockhart with a beady stare. “Bob is too loyal for his own good. The lad’s got a troublesome conscience.”

“I…see.” Lockhart nods slowly. “That’s what I thought. Excellent.” He stands. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see myself out.”

“Just one moment.” Lockhart pauses halfway to the door. “Mr. Lockhart. The boy understands plausible deniability. And so do I. But I hope you’re not confusing deniability with disposability. That would be a mistake.”

“Who for? Howard?”

“No, for you.” Angleton doesn’t smile. “I will be very annoyed if you damage my trainee.”

“Dr. Angleton.” Lockhart doesn’t turn; his voice is a monotone. “I have no intention of burning Mr. Howard. If nothing else, he would be extremely difficult to replace right now. But I have been instructed to establish whether he has the moral courage to do the right thing when he believes he’s been cut loose, or whether he’ll run screaming for his mother.”

“Why would he believe—” Angleton pauses. “Are you expecting the OPA to take an interest?”

Lockhart, by way of reply, opens the door and slips out. He doesn’t pause to borrow the key. Angleton stares after him for a moment before silently mouthing an obscenity in a half-forgotten language. Then, his face set in a frown, he turns to his Memex’s keyboard and begins to tap out instructions.

12. WITH A BIBLE AND A GUN

THERE’S A MOTEL 6 JUST OFF I-25, SOUTH OF DENVER. THE rental satnav directs me to it, and there are no highway patrol roadblocks; we reach it around eight o’clock. I head for the front desk. “Hi. I’d like to rent a couple of rooms for tonight? Singles.”

“Sure thing.” The middle-aged clerk barely looks up from her laptop screen. “Can I see your ID, please?”

I glance around to ensure we’re alone, then slide my warrant card under her nose.

“Wait, that’s not a—” There’s an almost audible clunk as the card gets its claws in behind her eyeballs and her jaw sags.

“Our papers are in order,” I explain to her. “Two single rooms please, for Mrs. Smith and Mr. Jones.”

“That will be—” Her eyeballs slowly unkink.

“Cash.” I shove a pre-counted stack of greenbacks at her. “The banknotes are correct.” She’s still drooling over the warrant card. I wait for her to wake up enough to make the money disappear then pull the card back.

“Let’s see.” She fiddles with her terminal and the room card reader. “You’re in 403 and 404. Have a nice day.”

I hand Persephone the Forbidden Room card and keep Room Not Found for myself. She looks at me oddly. I shake my head and walk towards the door—block 4 is across the car park. “Yes?” I ask once we’re outside.

“Your card. If they’ve got OCCINT assets in the field, that’s going to be a red flag to anyone nearby.”

“True. But they’re trying to keep a low profile.” I look both ways before crossing: “I reckon they’ll go through the regular police first, and I trust you did a good job of muddying the trail with that ward—you stole that pickup truck, yes?”

“They were going to install an alien mind parasite on me—what would you do?”

“Probably the same.” I swipe the key card. “Let’s go inside.”

The Motel 6 rooms are basic but adequate, with office desks and broadband as well as TVs and en-suite showers. I’ve just had time to dump my stuff and do basic set-up. I’m installing a ward on the desk beside the pizza box when there’s a knock on my door. It’s Persephone.

“Come in.” She stands on the threshold, clutching her handbag and shifting from foot to foot, edgy as a vampire with toothache. She sidles past me and stalks around restlessly as I close and ward the door. She pays particular attention to the window, and in particular the cobwebby diagrams I’ve sketched across the glass with a conductive pen: distraction patterns designed to slide observers’ attention elsewhere. “I’m still working on the room.”

“Oh, right.” She stares at the pizza box. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yup.” I haven’t got it wired up to the handy little USB breakout box yet, but it’s adequately trapped for the time being. I gesture at her bag. “Is that what I think it is?”

“If what you expect is a bible and a gun, it probably is.” She plants the bag on the double bed.

“Let’s get this room secured before we discuss anything else,” I suggest, discreetly palming my JesusPhone. (Thaumic resonance: there’s an app for that.) “In case Schiller’s people have got a Listener out for you.”

“Okay.” She reaches into the neck of her blouse and pulls out a discreet chain with a stainless steel cross attached. Before I can stop her she gives the arms a twist, then stabs the ball of her thumb with the tiny knife blade that pops out of the stem like a demented switchblade. “I always carry a concealed athame. It’s not ideal, but it works…Ouch.” I point my phone’s camera at her and fire up the thaumometer and, sure enough, the cross is now pulsing violently. She mutters something in glassy syllables that slide around the edges of my mind, then retracts the blade and drops the concealed ritual knife back down between her breasts. “Deafness be upon us, and inner