“I’m still working on it.” Mhari makes a moue of concentration. “Turns out we’re looking for theatrical special-effects cosmetics. I know where to buy it, but getting it right is another matter: we might need to hire a professional makeup artist.” She scribbles a couple of Post-it notes: green for the DONE column, pink for the TO-DO list. “Anyway, that brings us to about the end of our current review. To sum up: we can move fast and heal fast, we’re inflammable in daylight, and we can’t see ourselves in mirrors (but we’re still there and we show up on video). We still need to eat and we can eat garlic, crosses and holy water don’t repel us, we have amazing powers of persuasion but we can’t use them on each other, and, uh, human blood is amazing. Other species, not so much.” Her eyes are wide as she looks down the meeting table, then makes contact with Oscar. “So, boss. Where do we go with this now?”

5.

HOT ZONE

IT’S ABOUT THREE IN THE MORNING AND WE’RE BOTH DEEPLY asleep when the red telephone rings.

It’s not a flashy electronic device with a scrambler; quite the opposite: it’s a 1950s GPO-issue telephone. Which is to say it’s made out of bakelite on a pressed steel base, has a rotary dial, and the ringer is a fucking church bell loud enough to wake the dead. It is connected via a Victorian-era twisted pair line to an electromechanical Strowger exchange in the Dansey House basement, all clicking relays and buzzing motors, guaranteed immune to EMP and other civilization-ending disasters.*

The reason we have this archaic monstrosity in the house is that if someone in Ops needs to declare a Code Blue emergency, the only way to stop it from ringing is to hit it very hard with a sledgehammer. Even popping a nuke over London might not be enough to stop it ringing. Both Mo and I are on The List, under different headings; she’s Agent CANDID, and I’m, well, among my other duties—we’re big on matrix management here—I’m there as personal assistant and understudy to Angleton, the Eater of Souls.

Anyway: the phone rings. At the first bell, I awaken with a shudder but am confused and wonder if it’s one of those curious auditory hallucinations sent to torment the somnolent by disturbing a good night’s sleep with phantom dispatches from the Home Delivery Network. But with the second ring (it’s the traditional British ring-ring, not the long-drawn-out American riiiiing) I’m halfway out of bed before I realize what’s happening, and by the third ring I’m at the bottom of the stairs, swearing and fumbling for the receiver as Mo clatters around behind me, bare-arse naked and clutching her violin case.

“Howard speaking,” I say, forcing the words through a sleep-congested larynx.