“Correct, Bob. We are discussing some of the world’s deadliest magician-assassins; if you meet our in-house monster you should be at pains not to underestimate him, however meek and mild he might seem. They play their vicious games using a range of proxies. The Scrum are proxies. You or I might be proxies, without ever knowing it. You might consider investigating where the suggestion to look for K syndrome clusters using the NHS data warehouse originated—but I expect he’s covered his traces well.

“The key facts are that he works with what he knows, and because he is embedded in the Laundry, what he knows is us. So: let us suppose that our in-house monster became aware that his long-term adversary was beginning a series of experiments intended to eventually give him an army of tractable vampire minions. (My understanding is that such attempts have hitherto always failed, because viable vampires are anything but tractable.) In response, our man inserted Ms. Murphy into the adversary’s experiment, and arranged for you to find her: a stroke of pure genius. One might even speculate that he planned it as a move to steal his rival’s toy-box, the baby PHANGs. But now the adversary can’t help but realize he’s being played—and sooner or later he’ll retaliate. Either by throwing his toys on the floor, or by upsetting the game board.”

“Wait, what—” My head’s spinning.

Angleton turns back to his Memex. “Get out of here, boy, I’ve got a job to do. Call me if you need my help, but not until you’re in over your head.”

I stand up. “Be like that!” I vent. The Eater of Souls doesn’t dignify my tantrum with his attention. I leave.

• • •

IT IS ONLY AS I PUT MY HAND ON MY OFFICE DOOR’S HANDLE that I realize I’ve forgotten something, and I’m too late to cancel the arm movement that pushes down and shoves the door partway open before I complete it.

Someone—presumably Trish—has installed feline conveniences.

There is an object on the floor that resembles an animal carrier at first, except it’s got a plastic swing-door on the front. After a moment I realize it’s a covered litter tray. There are a couple of plastic bowls at the other side of the room, one containing water and the other half-full with dry brown kibble. It looks like breakfast cereal but smells revolting. Or maybe (a horrible thought) the smell’s coming from the litter tray. I head for my desk and see a receipt on my computer keyboard as I sit down—

“WAAAOW!”