The Rhesus Chart (31 page)

Andy has a whole bunch of clearances for keyword access to confidential files.
I
have a whole bunch of clearances for etcetera. We’re not going to search secret sources at this point—the flaming hoops we’d have to jump through would leave us seriously scorched. As it is, our confidential clearances overlap but are disjoint sets, so we go to the Security Coordination desk and ask the blue-suiter on duty to generate lists specific to each of us and a shared list we can split down the middle. We both have blanket permission for archive searches on anything over a century old, and for newer stuff that’s classified but has passed its expiration date. (This being the Laundry we don’t publish our declassified archives for the general public, but employees
can
get access more or less at will once it has expired.) Most of this material is available from our computerized document retrieval system these days, so it’s a lot like doing a university library literature search, except grubbier and more esoteric.

Search keyword: vampire.

Searching.

19,260 results. Listing page 1 of 771 . . .

Did you know that if you search for “vampire” in books on amazon.com you will get approximately 33,770 results?

We don’t have quite that many documents on the topic—a lot of our search hits are duplicates—but it looks as if, for a long period (from about 1792 through 1969),
every single vampire novel
published in the United Kingdom was read and synopsized by our Occult Entities Monitoring Desk, or the Zoological Enquiry Bureau, or the Linnean Anomalies Committee. (It got renamed every couple of decades, like clockwork.) I am absolutely gobsmacked to discover this. I already knew that we had far more information about unicorns on file than seems strictly necessary to anyone without EQUESTRIAN RED SIRLOIN clearance, but vampires? You can’t even write it off as the work of a single demented fan; not when it ran for 177 years. (Well, 153 years. We have synopses going back to 1792, but the first folios didn’t get compiled until 1816.)

But wait, there’s more! There is a once-classified (Top Secret, fifty-year rule) file on one Abraham Stoker of London (d. April 20th, 1912). It’s quite thick and appears to contain a bunch of PV interview records with his friends and family, for pre–First World War values of positive vetting. (Full of comments along the lines of, “Jolly good chap, eminently clubbable for an Irishman.”) I checked with HR, and there’s no record that we ever employed him.

There’s a report of an investigation, circa 1899, into the book
Dracula
, which appears to have investigated the possibility that it was based on fact (and drew a blank). A much more urgent investigation into
The Lair of the White Worm
followed in 1912, but Mr. Stoker was indisposed to answer questions in person, and the investigator hinted darkly that “excited delirium due to an unspeakable ailment” had more to do with the phantasmagoric (not to say misogynistic) visions in that book than any supernatural experience.

There are all sorts of other things, investigations into silent movies and TV serials (I pulled the file on “Quatermass” for shits and giggles—strictly speaking not germane to the project in hand, but I’d hit burn-out by that point and badly needed some relief reading that wasn’t the eleventh Harry Dresden novel). As I implied earlier, the frequency of reports tailed off after the late 1950s, until there were only a couple a year coming in. And then everything stopped dead, as if guillotined, on April 5, 1969.

April 5th. You know what that means to me? That means the budget for the project expired at the end of financial year 1968 and was not renewed. (Yes, British government budgets—and the tax year—start on April 6th. Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t
your
tax years start and stop on a random date in April?)

I finally save the spreadsheet I’ve been using to keep track of this shit, mutter “bingo” quietly, and email Pete and Andy, inviting them to an impromptu team-building exercise in the Turk’s Head round the corner. Trebles all round: I’ve found what I’m looking for.

 • • • 

MEANWHILE, IN ANOTHER OFFICE, A MEETING IS TAKING PLACE.
And I haven’t been invited to it, or even informed of it. Even though I’m the subject.

Mahogany Row in the New Annex lacks the plush nineteenth-century gentleman’s club ambiance of the original, but it’s still a step up from our regular offices (both figuratively and literally: it’s on the top floor). It has thicker carpets and nicer bathrooms. There are no cubicles, and some of the offices have outer vestibules for the executive PAs. However, the New Annex was built in the 1970s, so it lacks a whole bunch of modern conveniences we grunts take for granted. Who’d spec out a desk with a blotter and a rotary-dial telephone but no power and network points for laptops, or even electric typewriters?

Nevertheless. Sometimes it’s a good idea to have an office that is discreetly shielded—no outside windows, no electrical appliances except the carefully checked overhead lights, and Faraday shielding hidden behind the Laura Ashley wallpaper. And it’s in one of these offices that a conclave of old monsters are having an informal chat.

“Are we secure?” asks Lockhart.

“Yes.” Angleton laces his fingers together and looks at the third man present, who nods mildly. This worthy is the Senior Auditor, and the mere idea that he might be taking an interest in my affairs—well, it’s a good thing I have no idea about this meeting, or I’d be hiding under Spooky’s litter tray and gibbering instead of dragging Pete and Andy off for a wee celebratory bevvy down the pub. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss. Neither the Auditor nor Lockhart bother to ask just how Angleton knows they are secure: some capabilities are simply trusted to exist.

“What’s the latest news, then?” asks the Senior Auditor. With his silver hair, gray suit, and half-moon reading glasses he could pass for a distinguished partner in a law or accountancy firm. But even the likes of Angleton and Lockhart are slightly on edge in his presence.

“Hmm.” Lockhart glances sidelong at Angleton.

“Well.” Angleton grins—an expression strangely at home on his sallow face, but rarely seen by the likes of me. “I had to give the lad a nudge, Gerry. But I think he’s probably working along the right lines now.” The grin vanishes abruptly. “He appeared to be distracted.”

“Hmm.” Lockhart glances down at the day planner in his lap. “Well, that’s not surprising. Unfortunately Agent CANDID may be becoming a stability issue, and he’d be the first to know. That business out east: shocking.”

The Senior Auditor nods. “But there is clearly a matter of priorities for us to discuss here,” he says smoothly. “We have benefited from two excellent assets meshing frictionlessly for too long. Or at least, providing each other with mutual support.”

“But the current enquiry . . .” Lockhart’s mustache twitches.

“It was inevitable, I’m afraid. As with all such phenomena, the closer the great alignment comes, the more frequently we’ll have to deal with outbreaks like this. Especially when inside meddling is implicated. Sooner or later one of our night-crawling friends was bound to make a power play: or perhaps it’s just another of their interminable duels. It’s just unfortunate for us that the nexus in question involves Agent CANDID’s partner’s former lover: the threat surface is wider than usual . . .” The Senior Auditor trails off into a thoughtful silence. “Agent CANDID, in combination with her instrument, is a major offensive asset. We can’t permit trivial insults to jeopardize her efficiency.”

Angleton’s expression is stony, but he holds his counsel.

“That may be true,” Lockhart ventures, “but what about Agent HOWARD? He’s on the tier below, but coming along nicely. In the long term”—he glances sidelong at Angleton—“he may be an even more important asset.”

“I am aware of that,” says the Senior Auditor. A slight stiffening of his spine and a glint of light from his glasses causes Lockhart to purse his lips. “Now tell me about Ms. Murphy. And Mr. Menendez.”

Lockhart flicks through a few pages. “Oscar Menendez: nothing special. He’s your usual managerial overachiever, very bright,
organizationally
highly competent, and about as untrustworthy as—well, I wouldn’t have chosen to bring him in, let’s put it that way. He might be useful if he manages to avoid making any fatal errors of judgment in the short term, but for the time being I’d be inclined to put him in a padded box and throw away the key. He doesn’t really understand that we’re not playing by the rules he’s used to.”

“And Ms. Murphy?”

Lockhart’s mustache thins. “She’s much more interesting, if you ask me. We originally recruited her straight out of university, in more innocent days—the ‘if someone sees something’ dragnet was still practical back then. She was badly mishandled by her original managerial oversight people, let go, given a discharge placement in the bank,
then
turned out not to be a waste of space after all.”

“And now she’s back, as a vampire. And she actually kept her coven alive and survived as such for nearly six weeks. That’s quite an achievement.” The Auditor nods to himself.

“What
is
the life expectancy of a vampire in this day and age, anyway?” asks Lockhart.

“Ninety-six hours,” Angleton says drily. “It’s been shortening progressively ever since the 1960s. Although most of the initial die-off is down to the sane ones working out their likely fate and killing themselves to avoid it. If they survive longer than a year—vanishingly rare, these days—there’s no obvious upper limit.”

“Except for the ceilings imposed by epidemiology.”

“And fratricidal predation, yes.” Angleton meets the Senior Auditor’s gaze with his own unblinking expression. “Bob knows it is his duty to keep Ms. Murphy alive, for the sake of the organization. He’s a clever boy and he’ll work out the angles for himself. The risks, I believe, are that Ms. Murphy will underestimate and try to manipulate him, or that Agent CANDID will prove to be an insurmountable distraction rather than a pillar of strength.”

“Human relationships are so painfully messy.” The Senior Auditor looks away; he carefully removes his glasses and starts to polish their lenses with the end of his tie. “But for the greater good . . .”

“If Agent HOWARD expresses concern about Agent CANDID, I believe he will come to me in the first instance,” says Angleton. “So we will have sufficient warning. It would be expedient to have an urgent assignment ready for her, though.”

“A wild goose chase?” asks Lockhart.

“No, that would potentially make things worse, if she can see through it. But . . . don’t over-stress her. The business out east—”

“Vile, I know.” Lockhart looks at the Senior Auditor. “She should really be on sick leave, you know.”

“I am aware of that.” The Senior Auditor replaces his spectacles. “But she is dangerously close to indispensable.”

“We should find a plausible task that is important enough to demand her full attention while being unlikely to generate additional stress in the Howard/O’Brien household. And which takes her away from home while not placing her at such a remove that we can’t call her back in a hurry if we need her.”

“Yes.” The Auditor falls silent for a moment. “She’s cleared for BLUE HADES, isn’t she? The upcoming treaty renewal negotiations . . .”

“That’ll do it. Come to think of it,
they
know
her
, which gives it even more plausibility.” Angleton is nodding now. “It doesn’t do to show them a weak front. It makes perfect sense for us to send her along with the delegation.”

Lockhart interrupts: “But if she’s on a disused gas platform in the North Sea—”

“That’s what helicopters are for.” The Auditor looks at him. “We need to clear the stage for the next act of this little drama, so that the reluctant star can be tempted into the floodlights to deliver his soliloquy.

“See to it.”

 • • • 

THERE IS A BOOTH AT THE BACK OF THE TURK’S HEAD AND I
plant Andy and Pete in it before I go to the bar to retrieve two pints of Adnams, a Diet Coke, and a bowl of olives. Having done my duty as honorary barmaid, I amble around the public rooms, sliding my way between knots of chattering post-work imbibers and idly patrolling past the various other booths and the former smoking room and lounge. The new and thoroughly tested ward I wear on a thong under my tee shirt stays cold and inert, which is good. This one isn’t only sensitive to sympathetic entanglement and glamours, it’s also supposed to pick up most electronic proxies for human malice. Sweeping for bugs in a public space like this is a fool’s errand in the age of the cellphone (all of which, by definition, contain sensitive microphones and radio transmitters), but I can be reasonably certain that nobody in here means to do me harm.

By the time I get back to the booth, Pete is a couple of centimeters down his Diet Coke and Andy is looking at me curiously. “Is this what I think it is?” he asks, tapping his e-cig on the table.

“Could be.” I slide into my seat. “I found the photographic negative of a smoking gun. Trouble is, an absence isn’t proof positive. Even if it’s a highly suggestive absence. How about you?”

“I got nothing.” Andy pauses. “Was it inside?” He glances sidelong at Pete, who is focussing on his glass but clearly paying quiet attention.

I address my next words to Pete. “If you think something’s smelly in the house, you talk about it outside. And vice versa. What Andy is asking is, do we have an internal problem. You may have noticed me walking around earlier. I was checking for listeners. Didn’t find any, by the way.” I look at Andy. “We had a very thorough monitoring program running for a very long time indeed. But it seems to have been de-prioritized in the late sixties, and cut off in ’69.”

“Oh, really?” Andy taps his cigarette again. The blue LED in the tip flickers on briefly: he fumbles with it for a moment, hunting the on/off switch, then gives up and takes a furtive hit, shielding it inside his cupped hand like an old lag. “Who do we know who’s been with the organization since 1969? Or earlier?”

“It’s not Angleton,” I say dismissively. Angleton may be unaging and extremely scary but he’s not a vampire: I’ve seen him in daylight. Besides, I probably know more about the Eater of Souls than anyone else in the Laundry. Certainly enough to rule him out as a suspect.