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no surprise, but the other visitor—“Jo?” I say, standing: “Long time no see!”
    “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 Dilbert cartoons, the cubicle-farm-sized novelty dart-board with a picture of the Prime Minister’s face over the bull’s-eye: “Uh, I wasn’t expecting you.”
    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 ask , or order , but bind . My tongue feels swollen, as if I’m having an allergic reaction. I manage to nod.
    “State your name, rank, and date of birth.”
    I feel my lips move and hear a voice reciting. Iris is watching me closely, her expression hard to read. It’s okay: I feel comfortably numb. I want to tell her, but my voice isn’t having anything to do with my mind right now.
    “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 click .
    She nods sympathetically: “Yes, I suppose you would be.” She closes the