(While Raymond respects those who follow the teachings of the Lord and his various prophets and apostles, he is a pragmatist and understands that he cannot afford to scorn the willing aid of powerful men who are less scrupulous about the state of their souls. And so his staff are under orders to ensure the purity of the cocaine and the STD-free status of the sex workers no less than the quality of the champagne and caviar.)
Finally, certain other preparations demand Schiller’s personal attention and the participation of his permanent staff, handmaids, and deacons—all fully inducted members of the Inner Temple. In London, if you have enough money you can obtain the services of almost any imaginable consultant; Schiller’s virtuous servants require additional coaching and training, a task that is outsourced to a former high-class madam. With the correct costumes and accessories they will be able to pass, and they are all of one mind in their determination to perform the necessary but somewhat distasteful actions to the best of their abilities: for they know their souls are safe in the Lord’s hands, and it is their duty to spread the Lord’s seed far and wide, and harvest new souls for the Inner Temple.
*
Two women sit beside a table in a wooden hut, drinking tea and trying to work out where it all went wrong.
“It’s been, what, six years? Six and a half?”
“You get used to it eventually. I’ll confess the lack of visitors is troubling—you get bitter after a while, thinking you’ve been forgotten. But it’s also peaceful, and eventually you get used to it.” She chuckles, slightly sadly. “In the Middle Ages they used to warehouse the surplus women—at least the better class of women, along with the hard-to-control ones—in nunneries. I’m not under a vow of poverty or chastity or anything like that, and I’m certainly not allowed to pray—but? There’s plenty of time for meditation and cloud watching. And it’s peaceful.”
“Peaceful.” An edge of scorn creeps into Persephone’s voice. “And I suppose you prefer it like that.”
“Does it make any difference? We’re all doomed, either way. Would you like a top-up?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Persephone waits and watches while the woman she’s come to visit performs the ritual of refilling the teacups. (She was present when the tea was brewed and the milk carton unsealed; her trust is not unconditional.) Her—host is not precisely the right word; disgraced former coworker might be closer—moves with slow deliberation. There’s no need for haste in her condition, in this place. She’s got all the time in the world. Detained Indefinitely at Her Majesty’s Pleasure is the technical term for her situation, a life sentence pursuant to a criminal trial and verdict handed down by the Black Assizes. Peering at the backs of her hands, Persephone spies the telltale signs of aging. The loosening of the skin, tendons and veins rising into view as subcutaneous fat recedes. Her grip is firm, though, the stream of tea pouring steadily into the cups. “There,” she says, and lowers the pot triumphantly. “All yours.”
“Thank you.” Persephone lifts her teacup and takes a sip. It’s very British tea, made with milk rather than lemon juice and served in a porcelain cup instead of a glass. She has made an effort to accustom herself to it, but the mouthfeel is still subtly wrong to her. “On the matter of our doom I believe the jury is still out, but the situation is changing at present, and not necessarily for the better.”
“This is bad news, isn’t it? Is it anything to do with whatever happened to the binding oath last week?” The woman watches her guardedly.
Persephone puts her cup down. “When you’re contemplating and cloud watching, do you ever pay attention to the contrails, Iris?”
Iris Carpenter, former Field Ops manager turned traitor, looks surprised, then shakes her head. “Why would I? A turkey with clipped wings shouldn’t stare at eagles, the silly thing would only get ideas above its station—”
“No.” Persephone cuts her off with a wave of her hand. “Not what I mean. Would you notice if the contrails stopped?”
“What?” Iris’s eyes widen. “Why on earth are you talking about contrails?” Her teacup rattles on its saucer as she pushes back from the table.
“There was an incident a couple of weeks ago. A black swan. I thought you might have noticed the lack of overflights. That’s all.”
“An incident.” Wide-eyed but in no way innocent, Iris stares back at her. She’s out of touch, but surely not that out of touch—inmates here are permitted some access to outside news, albeit only via a heavily censored camp newsletter. “Another 9/11? No, you wouldn’t bother to come here just to tell me that, would you. It must be the oath. Do you really think I…” She trails off as her facial muscles slacken in fear. “No, I didn’t, you can’t think—”
“I don’t, you can relax.” Persephone smiles, even though there’s no cause for reassurance. “There was a major incursion and it shut down air travel over the whole of Western Europe, but everything’s under control, we got on top of it and the intrusion is fully contained.” Across the table Iris is just short of hyperventilating with anxiety. “It came from an unanticipated source, nothing to do with your people, and you’re in the clear. Sit down.”
At the crack of her voice Iris drops back into the chair she’s half-risen from. “What?”
“Your coreligionists were not involved. Unfortunately,” Persephone continues, “there were complications.”
“Complications.” With a visible effort Iris collects herself and folds her hands in her lap.
“We’re right out in the open. Mass casualties and total organizational exposure. You may be amused to know that your former office dogsbody Howard had to front for the agency on Newsnight last week. Hearings in Parliament, select committee hearings, public enquiries, that sort of goings-on. They were talking about legislative supervision, an enabling act, appointing a minister. And then the thing that now runs the Black Chamber got to them. Hence the—disturbance—you noticed.”
“You are joking.” It comes out as a horrified whisper.
Persephone can’t help herself: she giggles at Iris’s expression. “Oh you! You should see yourself. Anyone would think I’d announced the return of the Black Phar—”
“Don’t take his name in vain!” Iris stands suddenly and marches over to the door, then stops with one hand on the latch. She takes a deep breath, then another. “Don’t jerk me around,” she says, her voice huskily overcontrolled. “You don’t need to yank my choke chain, Ms. Hazard. You know what I am and you’ve got me where you want me, here for the past six years: fine, isn’t that enough for you? There’s no need to gloat!”