“Of course not. But if you got me half an hour’s lead over Pierrepoint…”
They rolled out into a corridor. Olga had no problem identifying the interview room. Two cops armed with short-barreled shotguns stood guard outside it. They came to attention as Commander Jackson approached. Olga glanced down at the briefing papers. NAME: RITA DOUGLAS. AGE: 26. RACE: MIXED HINDUSTANI. HEIGHT: 5′4″.
Oh dear, she thought dismally. The age and ethnicity added another decimal place to the probability they’d placed on her identity. If the speculation about the Americans having worked out how to activate world-walking in recessive carriers was true, then it was hard to see who else this woman could be. She barely had time to read another line when the door opened. She closed the folder hastily as Jack lined her wheelchair up with the door frame and pushed her through.
“Good morning, Inspector, Miss Douglas. I’m sorry to interrupt your little chat, but you’re both coming with me.”
“And who are—oh.” Alice Morgan half rose, then abruptly came to attention as she saw the Commander behind Olga’s wheelchair. “Sir.”
“Who—” The prisoner looked confused. “What’s going on?”
Olga looked at the prisoner. There was a family resemblance, if you were looking for it. She steeled herself. “I’m from the Department of Para-historical Research, Security Directorate. Commander?”
Jackson knew his role. “National security,” he said stiffly, nodding apologetically at Inspector Morgan. “Miss Thorold here is taking over the investigation. You will accompany her and the prisoner.”
The prisoner flinched visibly: Inspector Morgan was also clearly startled. “What, right now? But we’ve got another six days—”
“You’ve got until the Party Secretariat gets a judge to rubber-stamp an Emergency Decree that will doubtless be a massive case of bureaucratic overreach, then rushes it round here with a goon squad for backup.” The commander gestured at Olga. “Miss Thorold is from the DPR. She’ll keep the Secretariat off our back. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Olga stared at the prisoner. She was pretty, in the gamine mode that was popular in the United States. Skin that could pass for a deep tan, shoulder-length black hair, eyes like a frightened rabbit’s. “You showed up at a very bad time,” Olga told the woman. She flinched as Olga continued: “I’m here to get you to a place of safety. Then I will have a message for you to take to your handlers. Are you going to cooperate?” The prisoner nodded, visibly subdued. “Okay, hood her and cuff her, then bring her along. To the car, Jack, there’s no time to lose…”
IRONGATE, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020
Rita felt trapped in a bad dream. This can’t be happening felt like it should be a cliché, not a queasy churning in her stomach as men in unfamiliar uniforms pinioned her hands behind her back and dropped a sack over her head, then frog-marched her out of the room. She was hungry, tired, and frightened by this turn of events. All she could do was cling to what the woman called Thorold had said: a message for you to take to your handlers. She shuffled, trying to keep her feet under her as they hauled her into an elevator. As long as the message isn’t my dead body, she thought.
The cop, Inspector Morgan, had been reasonable, but that’s what you’d expect of an interrogator. The art of successful interrogation was all about getting the suspect’s trust. She’d been spared violence and torture only because they weren’t effective means of extracting useful information; they were tools for intimidation, for making someone (often not the victim) do what you wanted. They aren’t going to torture me because it would serve no purpose, Rita told herself uncertainly as the elevator descended. These people are professionals. But repeating it didn’t help. For all she knew, this was another little motivational scenario: an attempt to convince her to cooperate by handing her a believable lie.
The elevator juddered to a stop. She felt fresh air on her face, heard voices: “Whatever you do, don’t take the cuffs or hood off until I tell you to. We don’t know if she’s got a tattoo somewhere…” They marched her out to a vehicle, shoved her onto a padded bench seat, then someone climbed in next to her. The engine rattled, and the stink of gasoline made her nose itch. They drove for minutes that felt like hours, before coming to a halt somewhere where the air stank of burning diesel: there was a distant roaring. An airport? she wondered dizzily. They lifted her up a short flight of steps and onto another seat. Someone sat down next to her. “We’re going for a short flight,” Miss Thorold confided in her right ear, confirming her suspicions. “I hope you don’t get airsick.” Then someone clamped a pair of ear defenders over her hood, muffling everything.
There was more vibration, then a gathering banshee scream and a vibration that set her teeth on edge. It seemed to go on forever, until Rita felt her stomach drop away as they rose straight up. Must be a chopper—
Someone removed the ear defenders and hood: Rita blinked at the dazzling daylight. Without the mufflers the noise was deafening, far louder than Rita would have expected of a helicopter. She was sitting directly behind the pilots, Miss Thorold to her right. Someone in the seat behind her clamped a headset to her ears: she tried to look round, but the cuffs prevented her from turning. The chopper lurched and began to accelerate forward. As it did so the noise level dropped, as if some sort of boost motor had shut down. “What—” She cleared her throat. “Where are you taking me?” The entire front of the aircraft was a glass bubble. The view would have been mesmerizing if she hadn’t felt as if she was about to throw up.
The Thorold woman adjusted her mike, then reached up and flipped a switch. “I don’t think anyone can overhear us. Ms. Douglas, you are in deep shit, and not just because you’re an illegal. Luckily for you, I’m going to throw you a life preserver. I’m even going to ask Jack to take the cuffs off, assuming you won’t try to jump out the door at ten thousand feet?” Rita shook her head. Miss Thorold leaned over the chair back and said something on another channel; a few seconds later the guard in the seat behind her unlocked her handcuffs. “First, I want you to answer a couple of questions for me.” Miss Thorold pulled out a bunch of printed papers. “You told the inspector that you were recruited by the DHS after world-walkers tried to abduct you. I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”
Rita massaged her wrists and stared. “Wuh?” She swallowed. “I thought you’d know.”
Thorold looked tense. “Pretend I don’t. We’ve got nearly an hour before this flying scrapheap gets where it’s going. You’ve got plenty of time to tell me everything.”