“Like shit.” I don’t see any need—or room—to dissemble. “I came in because I’ve got a report to file.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” She raises a penciled-in eyebrow. “I’ve given you my presenteeism lecture, haven’t I?”
Bless her, she has: she’s the first manager I’ve ever had who explained to me in words of one syllable that she’d be really pissed off if she caught me skulking around the office while I’m feeling ill. (This is the Laundry; they don’t fire you for calling in sick, in fact, they
admitsit.)
Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.
is Iris-speak for
“I’ve got to file an R60 and then Operational Oversight are going to be calling the shots. There’ll probably be an enquiry. I may be suspended pending the outcome.” Oddly, it’s a lot easier to say this to Iris than it was to Mo.
Iris watches me for a few seconds. “Oh, you poor thing.” She nods to herself. “Was it bad?”
“It was
,” I say between gritted teeth. “Stupid, stupid. If I’d noticed the entanglement channel between the airframe and the control panel, or warded both artifacts at the same time, it wouldn’t have happened. And if she’d opened the door five seconds sooner, or later, it wouldn’t—shit. If I’d been told what the airframe had been used for I wouldn’t have . . .” I trail off.
“Save it for the Auditors,” Iris says tiredly. She takes her booted feet off the desk, then leans forward. “That phone call I just took was your case officer, Bob. I think you should go and get yourself a nice cup of tea or coffee or whatever pleases you, then go and wait in your office. Business as usual is canceled for the day, and if I catch you doing your time sheet or answering support queries I will personally kick you around the block, okay? Go play games on Facebook or something. I’ll bring your case officer round and sit in with you while you fill out the R60, so you’ve got a witness. If you think she’s giving you grief, let me know and I’ll handle it. Then”—she takes a deep breath—“I’m signing you off sick for two weeks. You don’t have to take it, I mean I can’t
I’M SITTING IN MY OFFICE, SHIVERING OVER A COOLING CUP of coffee and reading
“Not long enough, under the circumstances,” she says with a twitch. Jo is short for Josephine, as in Detective Inspector Josephine Sullivan, formerly of Milton Keynes but working for us in Operational Oversight these days. (That’s my fault; on the other hand, so is her still being alive after the SCORPION STARE business, so I suppose they cancel out.) Looks a bit like Annie Lennox, if she’d taken up a second career as a nightclub bouncer. “How are you keeping?”
“Badly.” I look round at the mounds of paper, the padlocked secure cabinet covered in
Iris gives Jo a sidelong look: “You’ve met?”
“Yes.” Jo gives her one right back. “I won’t let it influence me.”
“You’re here to take my statement?” I ask.
“Yes.” For a moment Jo looks haggard. “Bob, what have you gotten yourself into?”
“I’ll fetch another chair.” Iris catches my eye and shakes her head pointedly as she backs through the door.
“A mess. How long have you been working for Oscar-Oscar?”
Jo sits down on the squeaky chair with no arms, and opens her attaché case. “Two years now,” she says quietly. “Please tell me before we begin, while we’re not under oath, you didn’t do this deliberately?”
I shake my head. “Cross my heart and hope to die, it was an honest fuck-up.”
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m just here to fill out the forms with you and ask you the questions. If a decision is made to pursue an enquiry I will declare a conflict of interest and withdraw. Are you happy with that?”
For a moment I feel a flicker of gratitude amidst the gloom and dread. “Fair enough.”
Iris returns, pushing another rickety office chair through the door. (I approve. Most of my previous managers would have sent a minion to do that for them; actually mucking in and getting stuff done was beneath the dignity of their station. I’m still taking notes on Iris’s style, although right now my career doesn’t exactly look to be on course for promotion.)
“Are you ready to begin?” Jo asks.
I nod.
Jo pulls out a notepad and a voice recorder, then her official warrant card. She holds it up and my eyes are drawn to it, with a swelling, stabbing sensation in my forehead as if a swarm of bees have taken up residence between my ears. “By the power vested in me in the name of the state, by the oath of service you have sworn under penalty of your mortal soul, I bind you to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Not
“Yesterday morning, June fourteenth, you met with Detached Special Secretary Angleton in his office. Describe the meeting.”
It’s funny, I didn’t realize I could remember that much detail. But the geas drags it out of me over the course of an hour and a half, and by the end of it Jo is grimacing and wincing as her hand spiders back and forth across the pages of her report pad, filling it in verbatim—I’m not the only one whose muscles aren’t under my own control while the report field is in force.
Finally she draws breath again. “Is there anything you’d like to add for the record?” she asks, turning over a new page.
My mouth opens again, almost without me willing it: “Yes. I’m very sorry.” My jaw shuts with an audible
Iris sags. I follow suit a moment later, then Jo makes it a threesome. The wards on the cover of her R60 pad and voice recorder are glowing almost as brightly as the haunted instrument panel in Hangar Six. “Whwhat happens now?” I ask. My throat feels gravelly.
Jo glances at Iris, who raises that eyebrow again—the one that can shut down committees or terrify demons to order.
“I take this back to Oscar-Oscar, and have copies created under seal. One goes to Human Resources”—I try not to cringe—“one goes to the Auditors, and one goes to Internal Affairs. Everyone else involved in the incident gets the same treatment. IA put the collected transcripts—and the special coroner’s report on the victim—in front of the Incident Committee, who investigate and determine the cause of the event.”
I lick my lips. “And then?”
Jo shrugs uncomfortably. “If they find that the cause was negligence they throw it back at HR for an administrative reprimand. If they attribute it to malice they may action Internal Affairs to prosecute the case before the Black Assizes, but that requires evidence of actual criminal intent. Oh, and they copy Health and Safety on their findings, so H&S can issue guidelines to prevent a recurrence. Meanwhile the Auditors get a chance to muck in if anything catches their eldritch eye. But that’s basically it.”
She delivers this with her best poker face.
“And in practice . . . ?” Iris nudges.
“Do you really want to . . . ? Well, hmm.” Jo looks at me sidelong. “I’m not going to try to second-guess the Incident Committee, but it sounds to me like a straightforward mistake made by an overworked employee who hadn’t been fully briefed and was in a hurry to get back to his other duties. If it turns out that the victim wasn’t authorized to be in Hangar Six, the employee in question would be off the hook—up to a point. But Jesus, Bob!”