"No idea," Angleton says cheerfully, "but whatever we're looking at, it's been set up by a cell of the Black Brethren. If we're lucky it'll prove to be a safe house with just a couple of residents. If not . . . remember the Scouts' motto?"

"Be prepared," Barnes echoes, wearing an expression of pained martyrdom. "Dib dib dib and all that. I hope this isn't going to go pear-shaped . . ."

"The good news is, I've raised a SCORPION STARE control order. So once we know what we're looking at, you should have no trouble containing the outbreak."

"How wonderful," Barnes says sourly. "Are you anticipating mass civilian casualties?"

"Hopefully not." Angleton pauses. "What I'm hoping for is low-hanging fruit. Ah, with you in a moment—"

Another police car pulls up, lights flickering; as Major Barnes glances out of the truck's side window, he sees the rear door open and Angleton unfolding himself. He looks back at the HAZMAT-wearers behind him. "Showtime coming up. Sitrep, Jim?"

Warrant Officer Howe puts his carbine down and glances back at the seven other members of his half-size troop: "We're ready, sir." His unspoken question—ready for what?—hangs in the air, but he's been working with Barnes for long enough that he doesn't need to say it aloud.

"Angleton's coming up," says the major. "So look sharp."

The door opens and Angleton steps inside the truck. He smiles, cadaverous. "Ah, gentlemen. I wish I could say it was good to see you again; we really need to stop meeting like this." That gets a chuckle from Sergeant Spice. Angleton walks forward towards Major Barnes's area, his head bowed to avoid the overhead equipment racks. "We're very close," he says quietly. "I can smell it."

Barnes knows better than to roll his eyes. Dealing with the spooks often involves playing nursemaid—to a particularly paranoid witchfindergeneral, in this case. "If you could just tell the driver where to go, sir?"

"Certainly." Angleton squeezes past the back of Barnes's chair, and slides into the front passenger seat.

The driver glances at him sidelong. "Sir?"

"Kill the blues, then pull out. I want you to drive up the high street slowly. I'll tell you when to pull over."

The truck lurches heavily off the curb, bouncing on its suspension as the driver pulls it through a U-turn—just missing being T-boned by an oblivious minivan driver, her mobile glued to her ear. It rumbles back towards the Richmond Road intersection.

Angleton's nostrils flare. "Keep going." He peers through the windscreen, searching. The driver tries to ignore his hands—he's fiddling with something small that seems to bend the light around it. "Slow down, it's just ahead. On our right. There—no, keep going. That was it. That building . . . it's in the library." He swears under his breath, words of painful power that make the driver wince.

"You want us to raid a public library?" Major Barnes is incredulous. "What are we looking for, an overdue book?"