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The Fuller Memorandum (A Laundry Files Novel)
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About The Fuller Memorandum
Product Description Computational demonologist Bob Howard is taking a much-needed break from the field to catch up on his filing in the Laundry archives when a top secret dossier known as the Fuller Memorandum vanishes—along with his boss, who the agency’s executives believe stole the file. Determined to discover exactly what the memorandum contained (and perhaps clear his boss), Bob runs afoul of Russian agents, ancient demons, and the apostles if a hideous faith who have plans to raise a very unpleasant undead entity known as the Eater of Souls. Now Bob must use all of his skills to learn the secret of the Fuller Memorandum in order to save the world—and avoid becoming an item on the Eater of Souls’s dinner menu… Review “Great entertainment—fast, smart, and frequently funny.... Combines a Le Carré -style espionage thriller with Lovecraftian horror to great effect." – The Guardian (UK) “A terrific pull-no-punches paranormal espionage thriller as the action starts from the onset…Bond and Bourne never face the adversaries Howard confronts. ” – Alternative Worlds “Urban fantasy done just the way I like it…full of twists, turns, and surprises.” – Graeme’s Fantasy Book Review About the Author Charles Stross, born in 1964, is a full-time science fiction writer and resident of Edinburgh, Scotland. He is the author of seven Hugo-nominated novels, including Accelerando, Neptune’s Brood, Saturn’s Children and The Laundry Files series, and winner of three Hugo Awards for best novella. Stross has had his work translated into more than twelve languages. He has worked as a pharmacist, software developer, and tech-industry journalist. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Bob Howard, accidental hero, return in the fourth of Charles Stross's novel about the activities of that most secret of British secret agencies—The Laundry. Prologue Losing My Religion There can be only one true religion. Are you feeling lucky, believer? Like the majority of ordinary British citizens, I used to be a good old–fashioned atheist, secure in my conviction that folks who believed—in angels and demons, supernatural manifestations and demiurges, snake-fondling and babbling in tongues and the world being only a few thousand years old—were all superstitious idiots. It was a conviction encouraged by every crazy news item from the Middle East, every ludicrous White House prayer breakfast on the TV. But then I was recruited by the Laundry, and learned better. I wish I could go back to the comforting certainties of atheism; it's so much less unpleasant than the One True Religion. The truth won't make your Baby Jesus cry because, sad to say, there ain't no such Son of God. Moses may have taken two tablets before breakfast, but there was nobody home to listen to the prayers of the victims of the Shoah. The guardians of the Ka'abah have got the world's best tourism racket running, the Dalai Lama isn't anybody's reincarnation, Zeus is out to lunch, and you really don't want me to start on the neo-pagans. However, there is a God out there—vast and ancient and infinitely powerful—and I know the name of this God. I know the path you have to walk down to be one with this God. I know his secret rituals and the correct form of prayer and his portents and signs. I have studied the ancient writings of his prophets and followers in person, not simply relying on the classified digests in the CODICIL BLACK SKULL files and the background briefings for CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN. I'm a believer. And like I said, I wish I was still an atheist. Believing I was born into a harsh, uncaring cosmos—in which my existence was a random roll of the dice and I was destined to die and rot and then be gone forever—was infinitely more comforting than the truth. Because the truth is that my God is coming back. When he arrives I'll be waiting for him with a shotgun. And I'm keeping the last shell for myself. A couple of years ago, Angleton sugges
