I’m not going to bore you with the protocol for getting into a prisoner of war camp. We progress through a series of circles beneath the eyes of very serious-looking men and women with loaded guns and identity checks, a bag search, then a wall of shipping containers, another checkpoint, then an inner wall of raw concrete motorway crash barriers, hastily erected.
Inside the compound there are rows of shipping containers painted desert beige, suggesting the original intended destination was Afghanistan or Iraq, not the wilds of rural Devon. They’re customized temporary accommodation intended for troops, rather than jail cells, and they’re clumped in small groups surrounded by high fences, although the inmates seem to be relatively free to move around. I see a few of them through the wire mesh, in orange jumpsuits but no manacles or fetters—obviously someone realized that elves and ferrous metals are a bad combination. Anyway, as long as All-Highest orders them to behave themselves their guards won’t have any problems. And if All-Highest has a change of heart, there’s always the Royal Artillery.
At one side of the camp sets a complex of windowless containers, linked by walled and roofed walkways: daylight-proof accommodation for the Host’s magi, and you’d better believe that those guys are wearing ankle tags and don’t go outside without armed guards and restraints.
Finally, at the opposite end of the camp from the entrance is a smaller walled compound: the admin wing. And this is where Johnny and I are directed by the very serious guys with guns who seem to believe that we’re here to question the All-Highest on behalf of the Deputy Director, Service Prosecutions.
The guardhouse is windowless—these folks aren’t getting to see any daylight except for the exercise yard in the middle—but there’s carpet, comfortable seating, and a capsule tea and coffee machine for the staff, and a welcoming party is waiting for me: a brisk fellow in a well-pressed uniform with a captain’s shoulder boards and a scarlet beret. “Captain Marks? I’m Major Oliver, on behalf of the DDSP, and this is Sergeant Smith. I’m here to discuss proceedings with Dr. Schwartz and Ms. Brewer.” And I show him my warrant card.
Captain Marks stares at the card for a moment and I suppress a shudder. It’s the new Continuity Operations card and this is the first time I’ve used it on anyone. For all I know it’s something the SA found in his cornflakes one morning and Marks will—but no. “Ah, excellent! Pleased to meet you.” He sounds genuinely enthusiastic as he offers me a hand to shake. “My office is right this way, we should talk there.” I follow him to a side room that’s just big enough to hold a desk, two chairs, and enough paperwork to account for half a forest. Johnny looms as inconspicuously as he can in a corner by the door. “What do you need from me?”
“I need an interview room, or something that can pass as one, and both prisoners. What I’ve got to say concerns both of them so I can kill two birds with one stone.” Despite Marks’s outward affability he tenses, so I offer him the clear plastic document wallet containing my faked-up authorizations. I’ve no idea how the SA arranged for them, but they back me up and strongly imply (to anyone who can be bothered reading them) that I’m here to offer the All-Highest some sort of deal—what the Americans would call a plea bargain. “As you can imagine, we’re still picking up the pieces and trying to work out how to handle this. The thinking is that All-Highest might be motivated to cooperate if we offer to go lightly on Dr. Schwartz—and vice versa—and maintaining their cooperation in regards to controlling the other detainees is an immediate priority,” and will make your life much easier, I think at him.
Captain Marks twitches and for a moment I think I nudged too hard. It’s much easier for me to reap someone’s soul than it is for me to stun them, much less cozen them into doing what I want—there’s nothing subtle about my necromantic capabilities. Marks gives me a hard stare, but I’ve been stared at harder by much more terrifying people; after a moment he takes my folder and says, mildly, “I’ve got to double-check this with Andover, but I’m pretty sure interview suite three is available. Give me five minutes.”
“Of course,” I say as he disappears.
Johnny gives me the side-eye. “A solid B-minus, sir,” he mutters disapprovingly.
“But he bought it?”
“Yes. Just as long as Head Office slipped the paperwork under the transom at Legal Services…”
I sweat bullets in silence for a few minutes until Captain Marks returns.
“All checked out,” he says briskly, and finally manages a wan smile. “Prisoner Number One is finishing lunch right now but I’ll take you to interview room three and park you there, then send her round with Dr. Schwartz. If you’ll follow me?”
And with that, he leads us into the very heart of the prison, to meet nerd-boy and his faerie queen.
*
Of course it’s not quite as simple as Captain Marks saying, “You check out,” but ten minutes later I find myself sitting at the side of a low table equipped with notepad and recording gear, opposite a two-place sofa. Call it a VIP interrogation room, or a living room with ambitions in the direction of police procedural. Either way it’s not exactly an adversarial you will confess or else: ve haff vays of making you talk setup. The only duff note is Johnny who is standing at ease with his back to the wall next to the door, doing his best to become one with the magnolia emulsion.
“Tea or coffee?” I ask the vampire on the settee; “and what do you take?” I ask his girlfriend.
“Er … do you have any decaf?” he asks hopefully. “Because that’d be a decaf with milk, no sugar—”
“I’ll have his caffeine, and his sugar, twice over!” Cassie takes over seamlessly, and hits me with a smile bright enough to cause eye injuries.