Mo stalks the lounge like a shadow of judgment, violin raised and ready. There’s a row of books on a shelf above the plasma TV. Management for Dummies, The Power of Positive Thinking, The Book of Dead Names-she pauses. “What the fuck?” she says, very quietly. She’s seen that one before, in the unclassified section of the archives: it’s the Sir Richard Burton translation of Al Azif, the source text referred to by the mad pulp writer of Providence, who renamed it Necronomicon. It’s not of any great significance-it’s mostly the deranged babbling of a schizophrenic poet who’d smoked far too much hashish-but it’s as out of place in a suburban living room as a main battle tank on the high street.

There’s a rumble outside, as of a heavy truck. Mo glances at the window in time to see the blue strobes flickering. A knot of tension leaves her shoulders. She steps into the hallway, towards the front door, and freezes.

Lying on the carpet before her is a runner. The rug is handwoven with an intricate mandala. To an unequipped civilian it might look harmless, but in Mo’s goggles the buzzing, humming tunnel of lies flickering with greenish light is unmistakable. She kneels beside it, inspecting its woolen edge. Very carefully, she lowers her bow across the strings of her instrument. Her fingers slide on the fretboard, leaving a fine sheen of skin oils and blood behind as the strings light up, cutting brilliant blue gashes in the air above the mandala. She plays a phrase that trails down into a wailing groan, then up into an eerie scream. Then she plays it again, louder. The rug smolders. Once more, with emphasis: and there is a bang, as the binding between the woven wool carpet and the place it connected to gives way.

The cloud of acrid smoke from the rug sends Mo into a coughing fit. An unseen smoke detector starts to scream as she stumbles forward and yanks the front door open. “In here!” she calls to the firemen walking up the driveway. As the first of them reaches her she holds out an arm: “I’ve checked the ground floor. There was a welcome mat, but I defused it: I think it’s clear now, but let me check out the stairs.”

“Understood, ma’am.” Howe turns to face his men as Mo starts to check the staircase for surprises. “Wait while the lady checks the staircase. Scary, secure the garage. Len, backyard. Joe, show Dr. Angleton to the living room.”

Ten minutes later, Mo joins Angleton downstairs. He’s sitting in a floral print armchair with a book in his lap, looking for all the world like someone else’s visiting grandfather. He closes it and looks at her mildly. “What have you found?” he asks.

“Nothing good.” She peels her goggles off and perches on the edge of the sofa, then begins to return her instrument to its case. Wiping down the bloody finger-marks on the fretboard with a cloth: “Who lived here?”

“That’s an interesting question. Would you be surprised if I told you these are designated premises?”

Mo’s fingers stop moving. Her eyes grow wide. “No. Really?”

“It’s very interesting: the Plumbers don’t seem to be aware that they’ve signed off Safe House Bravo Delta Two as clean without inspecting it. It’s assigned to one of our managers, by the way: SSO 6(A) Iris Carpenter. She’s lived here for some years.” Angleton’s cheek twitches. “Husband and university-age daughter, a typical happy family. The family that prays together stays together: or preys, perhaps? Bob was reporting to her, and she was on BLOODY BARON. We’ve found our mole.”

“But the back patio-”

Angleton closes his book. It is, of course, the Burton. “Yes,” he says, cramming paragraphs of foreboding into the monosyllable.

“There’s a bedroom upstairs,” Mo says shakily. “The window frame is nailed shut, the door locks from outside, and there’s a foam mattress on the floor with bloodstains on it. There’s a monstrous thaum field, echoes of violent death-recently. And a dirty plate.”

“Is that so?” Angleton carefully removes his spectacles, then extracts a cloth from his suit pocket. He begins to polish the lenses.

Boots thunder on the staircase. A moment later, a fireman bursts into the living room. “Sir!” He’s holding something shiny in his right hand.

“What is it?” Angleton asks irritably, holding his glasses up to the light.

“Give that here.” Mo reaches for it. “It’s Bob’s new phone.” She stands up, holding it close: “Where did you find it?”

“It was under the chest of drawers in the small room. Oh, and there’s a body in the garage-not one of ours.” Warrant Officer Howe looks gloomy: “We only missed them by an hour or so. Judging by the bloodstains and the body-still damp and still warm.”

Mo scuffs her right foot on the floor in frustration. “They’ve been one jump ahead of us all along, because they’ve been sitting in on our investigations, inside our decision loop. That’s where the Dower report went. It’s where that missing memo went. They’ve got Bob-what are we going to do?”

Angleton slides his spectacles back on. “I’d have thought that was obvious,” he says mildly: “We’ve got to find him.”

“How?”

Angleton stands up. “That’s your department. You’ve got his ward, his phone, his laptop, if you’ve got any sense you’ve got an item of recently worn underwear…”

Mo nods jerkily. “He was here. If there’s a trail-” She turns to Howe: “The foam mattress, with the blood. Have you taken a sample?” Howe holds up an evidence bag, its contents black and squishy. “That’ll do.”

“Back to the truck.” Angleton waves them out of the living room, ahead of him. “I hope we’re in time.”

“What do you think they’ll do to him?” Mo’s anxiety is glaringly obvious.

“They’ve got the memorandum.” Angleton shrugs. “I think they’ll try to invoke the Eater of Souls and bind it to Bob’s flesh.”

“They-” Mo glares at him. “Bob said you gave him a fake!” she accuses.

“No, just a photocopy.” Angleton’s ironic smile is ghastly to behold. “The Eater of Souls is already taken: if they try the rite, they won’t get what they think they’re asking for. And I will admit, I didn’t expect them to make it this far. I’m not infallible, girl.”

A minute later, the driver switches on the blue lights and pulls out into the road. Behind the departing truck the house’s front door gapes open, as if ready to welcome the next official visitors. But the victims under the patio will have to wait a little longer.

OKAY, SO I WAS WRONG ABOUT THE A-TEAM AND THE B-TEAM.

And I was wrong about the cultists, and what they believe.

Assuming Iris is telling the truth, there’s an angle to view things from which their actions are, if not justifiable, then at least understandable. Poor little misunderstood mass murderers, with only the best of intentions at heart. And their hearts are pure for the goal they seek is the only one any sane-

Stop it. That’s Stockholm syndrome talking, the tendency of abductees to start seeing things from their kidnappers’ viewpoint. Just stop it.

They’re frog-marching me along a tunnel towards a summoning grid where they plan to turn me into a host for a demonic intrusion from another universe, and my subconscious is trying to see things from their point of view? I’m confused-

It’s a broad tunnel, low-ceilinged. Every five meters or so there stands a cultist, male or female figures in hooded black robes who hold lamps, the better to illuminate the whitewashed brick walls and the niches therein. The niches have occupants; they’ve been standing there for a long time. There’s a soft, dry breeze blowing-I’ve got no idea how they manage the ventilation-and some of the inhabitants are pretty well preserved. The way the skin shrinks across the skull, drawing the shriveled lips back to reveal yellowed fangs and blackened tongues, almost as if they’re screaming. The dead outnumber the living here, all dressed in dusty Victorian or Edwardian finery. If Iris has her way, I’ll be joining them soon-or worse. When I signed the Act there was a binding promise placed on my soul: the Laundry doesn’t like its staff to leave ghosts and revenants behind to face interrogation. No afterlife echoes for me.