He smiled. "Funny you should mention that." It wasn't a warm smile.

Some people speak of hearing alarm bells ringing in their head. With me it was a klaxon. My brain told me again to let someone else sort this case out: just go home, apologize to Laura for drawing a blank, and get on with the business of keeping out of things.

But Gamaliel had resumed, and my curiosity was becoming aroused.

"If you're wondering why you've never met a cherub either, I think I have an answer for that, too. At the lower end of the first choir are the thrones. God's chariot. Technically, their job description is the dispensation of His justice. Bumped into any thrones, lately?"

I shook my head.

"I'll tell you why. Because all the jobs they're supposed to do — as well as all the jobs the seraphim and cherubim are supposed to do — are being undertaken by angels and..."

A beat.

"... archangels."

I was starting to see where this was going.

"Your starter for ten, gumshoe. What do seraphim, cherubim and thrones have in common?"

"You're the teacher. You tell me."

"They owe their very existence to God's presence. They can't operate independently of Him."

"But the thrones had a hand in the Ark of the Covenant," I protested. "They were present at the temple of Solomon."

"Expressly at the wish of God. They couldn't pull the kind of stunts we have, coming and going at a whim, holding off-the-record conversations in upper rooms. They're beholden to the Almighty. Whatever state He might be in."

I didn't like the way he'd phrased that.

"The second choir comprises dominations, virtues and powers. Respectively, they oversee existence, maintain the natural world and guard the border of Heaven and earth. I find it helps to think of the first choir as the board of directors and the second as senior management."

"So what are the third choir?" I asked. "Shop stewards?"

"Sort of. As you know, angels are at the bottom of the third choir. Celestially speaking, we're the lowest of the low."

"Don't hold back," I said. "Just say what you think."

"The principalities are middle management, liaising between the chaps in the oak-paneled offices and the union men."

"Archangels, right?"

"Give the man a cigar."

"And angels?"

He grunted. "We're the poor bastards on the assembly line."

"Okay," I said. "Now we've done the metaphor thing, let's get down to the nitty-gritty. How does all of this fit together?"

He'd been pacing the room during the dialogue. Now he sat down opposite me, updrafts of dust rising from the moth-eaten chair.

"Imagine," he said slowly, "the union men taking over the factory."

---

The Chamber of Arrivals was busy, as usual, but the Hall of Deep Serenity was quiet. The lights were off and the doors locked.

Well, up until I'd broken in, they had been.

I went up to the viewing area, squatted by one of the glass-covered openings and peered down into the now dark expanse of the Records Office. It was the midnight side of working hours (yes, there's nine-to-five in Heaven — sorry!) and all law-abiding angels were tucked up in their cells.

Trouble is, not all angels were law-abiding. Not according to Gamaliel, anyway. We'd spoken further before I took my leave of him. I hadn't wanted to believe what he told me, nor was I over keen on communicating it to Laura. But it wasn't just about Gamaliel and Samangelaf and Laura any more. And it sure as hell wasn't just about me.

It was about the truth.

Gamaliel had spoken of things being kept on file even though they'd been axed from authorized texts. I hoped he was right.

I opened the holdall I was carrying and took out the items I'd obtained through less than kosher channels before leaving Nottingham. One of the tools had a sucker pad, around which a small but extremely sharp blade could be passed through 360°. I adjusted the diameter, whacked it on the glass and had access within a few seconds.

Next up, a bit of abseiling gear. A set of lock picks tucked safely in my pocket, a pencil-beam torch clamped between my teeth, I lowered myself into the Records Office.

An open-plan office equal in size to the Chamber of Arrivals, there were annexes to left and right. File rooms, I guessed.

I wasn't wrong.

I took the first annex to the left and worked my way through, using the picks not just to open each filing cabinet, but to lock them again, until I came across what I was looking for. It became apparent, as I progressed, that there was a dual system of filing — alphabetic and numerical, with shitloads of cross-referencing — but none of the cabinets were labeled, so I was unable to second guess how far along the files I needed were.

It took me an hour or more to get to the L's. The file in question was cross-referenced to hundreds of others. Backtracking, I dug out those that seemed the most relevant, then continued working my way forward, accessing other pertinent files. Each time, I made the briefest of notes — just the essentials — then replaced exactly as found, and teased the locking mechanism back in place.

Finally, a good two hours having elapsed (and the abseiling rope still dangling guiltily from a glassless opening), I came to the S's. I pulled Samangelaf's file.
Everything I'd learned had confirmed Gamaliel's suppositions. What I found in Samangelaf's record gave the case a new dimension. I scampered back to the L's, jimmied the cabinet again, yanked a completely different file, speed-read it, and scribbled another set of minimalist notes.

Then I clambered up the rope, packed my felonious paraphernalia in the holdall, made like a hockey player and got the puck out of there.

---

The Gatekeeper never slept. For that I'm grateful.

Walking out of the service lift, I was halfway to the door when he said, "I wouldn't go back to your office if I were you."

"AIBs?" I said.

"You've changed your tune, haven't you?"

"Yeah, well," I said. "Just give me the lowdown, will you?"

"Half a dozen of them," he said. "Mean mothers, like before. I told them you were out and asked if I could take a message. They said they'd wait for you and to mind my own business."

I stowed the holdall, took a seat and made myself comfortable. "You got any bourbon?"

"Shit, no. I cadge yours."

They were still there come morning, imposing silhouettes behind the frosted glass of my office window. I couldn't risk using the switchboard and someone in Heaven recognizing my voice, so I got the Gatekeeper to ring the Records Office and have them page Laura in Archives. When she came on, I snatched the receiver off him.

"Have they cleared out Samangelaf's cell yet?"

"No. I haven't finished sorting out his effects."

"Good," I said. "Meet me there in half an hour."