“They still eat and drink normal food,” I add. “I’ve seen them in the staff canteen, complaining about the mac and cheese just like everyone else. So it seems to be more like the transitive-hemophagic-curse model of vampirism than the blood-drinking-zombie story. The trouble is, we don’t know yet if everyone they feed on develops V syndrome. And we don’t know whether they can live without human blood, or use some acceptable substitute, or whatever. Or how often they need to feed. If it turns out to be optional, well, that’d be like the question of celibacy in the priesthood, wouldn’t it?” Pete nods thoughtfully. Sandy, his wife, is due to pop in about two months’ time. “But if they have to feed or die, and the victims also die, what the hell are we going to do with them?”

“That’s a sharp dilemma.” Pete pauses. “Maybe find donors who are terminally ill . . .” He shakes his head, looking pained.

“Now do you see why putting a PHANG in charge of OPERA CAPE is a bad idea?” I ask. “Someone—I really hope it’s not me—is going to have to make some hard decisions sooner or later. Value judgments that factor in who does the dying and who does the living, and whether the moral calculus makes maintaining vampires worthwhile to the organization.

“But there’s something worse.” I self-censor the obvious next sentence: that Angleton as good as told me that Mhari got shoved onto the committee to expose her. Neither Andy nor Pete need to know that. I continue: “It occurs to me that there is something very smelly about the number of people who have been telling me that vampires don’t exist—here, in an agency devoted to the occult.”

Andy’s eyes widen. “You’re wondering if we’ve been infiltrated.” I can tell he’s rattled: he instinctively reaches for his e-cigarette.