The Apocalypse Codex

room. “Is that in proper working order? The new job really does require containment rather than just a sweep for bugs.”

Persephone stares at him for a moment, then turns and walks towards the grid. Lockhart hurries to catch up with her—she’s a tall woman, and she moves fast. “This is a class six grid,” she explains over her shoulder. “Kimpel-Ziff deflectors and four different safety interlocks. The control module”—she points at the first equipment rack, which is full of shiny server blades—“is three-way redundant and has two separate power supplies, two UPSs, and two different generators. Just in case. It also has a secondary containment grid around the outside, just in case. Which is to say that it is as secure as anything your organization could provide. So the answer to your question is yes, it’s in proper working order.” She stares at Lockhart, nostrils flaring. “Will that do?”

“Yes.” He nods. “If you don’t mind firing it up? This briefing will take some time.”

SUMMONING GRIDS—PENTACLES WITH ATTITUDE—HAVE A number of uses. Unsurprisingly, summoning spirits from the vasty deeps of Hilbert space is one of them. They can also be used, by the foolhardy or terminally reckless, to open gateways to other spaces (most of which are utterly inhospitable to humanlike life). Finally, they can be used to create a firewall, like a science fictional force-field only buggier and prone to hacking attacks by extra-dimensional script kiddies with pseudopods. Which is why nobody with any sense uses them casually.

The ward that Persephone programs into the management console of her grid isn’t aimed at summoning squamous horrors or opening a doorway to hell: it’s just there to provide thirty minutes of uninterrupted high-quality privacy, protected utterly from bugs, listeners, and remote viewing exploits. It takes her a minute to set the script up and hit return on the keyboard; then she steps into the middle of the grid and beckons Lockhart forward.

They stand in silence at the center of the silver schematic diagram, ignoring each other, watching opposite ends of the room. Then, suddenly, the room isn’t there anymore. Neither is the ceiling. The only light is the LED lantern that Persephone places carefully on the floor at the center of the disk they are standing on, an eight-meter circle of reality in the middle of a universe of absolute night.

“We can talk now,” she says tonelessly. “Twenty-nine minutes until the field decays. Sorry about the lack of soft furnishings.”

“That’s all right.” Lockhart’s shoulders slump. “I’d like to apologize for springing this on you. I had no choice.”

“Not clever. You could have blown everything, turning up on my doorstep like that! I’m being watched; they’ll be watching you too now, you know.”

“Yes. I know.”

She stares at him. By lantern-light the bags under his eyes are dark, his cheeks gaunt. “You’d better explain.”

“A situation has come up. You’re the best asset match for it, precisely because of the arm’s length arrangement. Dealing with this situation is probably more important than preserving your cover—”

“Really? There are at least two foreign intelligence services and three crime syndicates looking for me under a variety of former identities. You’re not at risk of being shot by the Oaxaca Cartel if—”

“Nevertheless.”

“This had better be good.”

“It’s a unique situation. We believe a situation has arisen that the organization itself, as a branch of the civil service, is incapable of dealing with at an institutional level: our hands are tied. Your Mr. McTavish may have some insights to contribute.”

“Now wait a minute!” Persephone struggles visibly for self-control. “Are you accusing Johnny of malfeasance, or—”

“No, absolutely not. But you are familiar with his upbringing, yes?”

“What, his father’s church?”

“Yes, that.”

“You’re kidding. Tell me you’re kidding?”

“No.” Lockhart takes a deep breath. “They’re out there, Ms. Hazard. As you well know. And unfortunately something has come up that—well, I suspect he may have some valuable insights to contribute. However, we, as an organization, aren’t allowed to investigate.”

“That’s idiotic!”

“Is it? It’s in the very nature of this particular threat. Eldritch horrors from beyond spacetime? Not a problem, that’s our job. Al-Qaida terrorists trying to blow up the London Eye? Again, not a problem: that’s the Met’s Counter-Terrorism Branch and/or the Security Service. Foreign intelligence services playing footsie? Again, that’s SIS or us, depending. But these are all external threats.”

“So it’s an internal threat?”

“I sincerely hope not.” Lockhart shakes his head. “But there’s a line all of the security services are required not to cross: the cabinet, the actual executive arm of government, is off-limits to us. That rule is there for a very good reason…but enough of that. Tell me.” Lockhart leans close: “When was the last time you went to church?”

JOHNNY MCTAVISH IS IN BED WHEN HIS PHONE RINGS. UNCHARACTERISTICALLY, he is asleep, but one eye opens immediately. It’s Persephone’s ringtone, which means business. Johnny blinks, trying to orient himself. The bed in question is half-familiar, the furniture around it less so. Then the phone trills again. His view is obstructed by a shapely back, spray of honey-blonde hair across the pillow, curve of buttocks resting against his upper thighs—oh, it’s Amanda—she mumbles something sleepily and thrusts her buttocks against him as he elbows his torso upright and reaches past her to the bedside unit.

“’Lo,” he says to the phone.

“Afternoon, Johnny.” The Duchess sounds amused. “Got company?”

She knows he has a special ringtone for her; the laconic greeting gave him away. “Of course.” Amanda is still half-asleep. Hardly surprising—they didn’t get to bed until 6 a.m. The poor thing must be worn-out. He feels himself begin to stiffen against her ass-crack.

“Do you have any plans for this evening?” asks Persephone.

Johnny yawns deliberately to force carbon dioxide out of his blood-stream, levering himself to a higher state of awareness. “Nothing definite,” he says. “Got something in mind?” His three days and nights with Amanda are drawing to an end: in another few hours her banker hubby will be back home from the Arabian Gulf, and it’ll be time for Johnny to disappear.

“Yes, there’s a little evening event I want to attend, and I think you should come along. How about Zero and I swing round to pick you up from home at seven? Smart casual will do.”

“All right.” He swallows her name; Amanda is showing enough signs of awareness that tact is the better part of valor. “Seven sharp. Bye.” He puts the phone down.

“Who was that?” Amanda murmurs, catching his arm as it crosses her chest.

“Work,” he says.

“Work.” She sounds doubtful, but guides his hand down until his fingers lightly stroke one of her nipples. “Your boss expects you to work evenings?”

“Oh yes.” He feels her aureoles pucker beneath his fingertips. She sighs and leans against him. First-class booty, the best that oil money can buy. He strokes her flank regretfully, already half-certain that this will be the last time. “My boss is evil,” he whispers in her ear. “And I’m going to have to go to work soon.”

“But not just yet.” She tenses as his hand slides between her legs. “Please?”

“Not just yet,” he agrees.

THERE IS A GARAGE ATTACHED TO PERSEPHONE’S HOUSE, OCCUPYING most of what was once a garden. It’s a very large garage, by Central London standards. Right now it’s semi-occupied by two vehicles—a diesel Land Rover and a squat, brutally powerful Bentley coupe. The third resident, a Rolls-Royce Phantom, is cautiously nosing its way out into the street. The chauffeur and occasional butler, Oakley shades and hipster goatee packaged in a black suit, is clearly trying too hard to look like a gangster in a Tarantino movie.

In the back, Persephone has the windows dimmed to near-opacity as she skim-reads reports on her