Persephone has the climate control in the Range Rover set to a comfortable shirtsleeves temperature, but by the time she reaches the gate at the far side of the field, her back is slick with chilly fear-sweat. Something about the shape and motion of the dancing shadows brings atavistic night terrors bubbling to the surface of her mind, puts unease in the driving seat of the mammalian brain. It’s intentional: frightened mammals behave stupidly and predictably, providing easy prey for the Shadow Stalkers bound in this place where the walls between the worlds have been deliberately abraded, and the stars shine bright in the upturned indigo vault of the sky at noon.
After what feels like an hour she reaches the gate at the opposite side of the killing field. (Her sense of the passage of time is off, for the field is less than a quarter of a kilometer wide at this point.) The gate at this side is ready for her approach and opens automatically. She revs the engine until the anti-slip kicks in with her eagerness to be out of the zone, then is dazzled by the return to full daylight. She has to brake hard to avoid ramming the outer fence of the camp.
Persephone switches off the engine, reaches for a tissue, and dabs at her forehead. Her hands are shaking slightly. She knew what to expect—Dr. Armstrong provided the credentials and introduced her to the people in Detention Admin for a full safety briefing—but it’s still close to overwhelming. To occupy her hands while she waits for the gatekeeper to take note of her arrival, she pulls out her makeup compact and repairs her face, using the ritual of making herself look calm and collected to invoke and bind her rattled calm. The POW camp on Dartmoor is a Potemkin village, built in the glare of media scrutiny to reassure the public that its inmates are secure, but Camp Sunshine is the real deal. A black site, an undisclosed location, the answer to a snare and a delusion: how do you confine the wizards who walk between the raindrops, that which is dead but dreaming, and those who by force of will alone can chew holes in the warp and weft of reality like moths in the fabric of spacetime?
The wooden hut beside the gate in the fence is almost disturbingly prosaic, like a cheap garden shed from a DIY store. ’Seph’s working on her eyebrows and just beginning to wonder if they’re on their tea break when the door opens and a guard steps out and strolls towards her. He’s unarmed, she sees. If the prisoners here ever cut loose, guns won’t save you. He’s middle-aged, paunchy, with crow’s-feet around his eyes and salt spreading around the edges of his comb-over. He gestures at her window and she lowers it. “Name?” he asks.
“Hazard.”
She waits patiently as he makes a show of checking his clipboard. “Hazard, P.” He makes a note, then walks in front of her car and squints at the number plate, copying it down. Then back to her window. “Do you have any paperwork?” he asks mildly.
“Yes.” She reaches up and unhooks the leather pouch from around the stalk of the rearview mirror, then passes it to him. She feels the contents squirm for a moment as it leaves her hand. “Is it all in order?” she asks.
“Seems to be, yes.” He nods, evidently satisfied, and attaches the pouch to his clipboard. “All right, I’m signing you in. Take the first left and park around the side of the canteen. When you’re ready to leave, I’ll sign you out and you must take the token with you—you can’t leave without it—and return it to Doreen in Head Office, or whoever gave it to you. Do you understand?”
Persephone forces herself to smile. “Absolutely.”
“You want the interview room in Hut Six. She’s waiting for you.” The gatekeeper hesitates for a moment, then adds: “You’ve not asked for my advice but you can have it for free—you shouldn’t believe a word she says. You can’t trust her. She’s poison, pure poison.” He turns his head and spits over his shoulder, then steps back and hauls the chain-link gate open. “Good luck,” he adds.
*
Buckinghamshire in the Home Counties is stuffed full of stately houses, the provincial palaces of the landed gentry and those with seats in the House of Lords. The lush foothills and valleys of the Chilterns have for centuries provided out-of-season accommodation and country estates for the ruling classes within a day or two’s carriage ride of the capital. During the twentieth century many of the family seats ended up in the possession of the National Trust, having fallen prey to spiraling maintenance costs and steep postwar inheritance taxes. Those that remain in private ownership are the properties of the reclusive and extremely wealthy—or are available for hire to those who wish to temporarily enjoy the lifestyle of billionaires and dukes.
Nether Stowe House was built as a fortified family manor by one of the endless aristocratic Nevilles that litter the fifteenth century. Over subsequent centuries it spread wings of red gothic brick and softened into flabby architectural middle age. It is surrounded by its former kitchen gardens, reworked as a carefully curated landscape garden by Capability Brown. The building itself was remodeled in the Georgian era as a family home for an immensely wealthy family of merchants, but families rise and fall, and the House changed hands twice during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, finally coming into the custody of the distant descendants of its original owner … who, feeling the chill wind of the Exchequer’s interest during the 1960s, re-established it as a very exclusive hotel.
One does not reserve a stay in Nether Stowe House in the usual manner, via a hotel booking website or by phoning the front desk. Nor does one check in, receive a key to a room or suite, and hand over a credit card to cover incidental expenses. If you have to ask how much it costs, you can’t afford it and the very discreet management agency will direct your enquiries elsewhere. But if you are acceptable, the entire mansion and all forty full-time staff are in your employ for the duration of your residence, from the butler to the lowliest gardener’s assistant. It’s a serviced apartment for sheikhs and presidents—and especially for those who want to make an impression on the visitors they receive during their stay.
Raymond Schiller has acquired the exclusive use of the facilities at Nether Stowe House for a one-month period with a down payment of two million pounds. It’s cheap at the cost but there will be other ongoing expenses: the executive helicopter service, the catering and drinks bill, the ongoing cost of security clearing the hospitality workers bussed in from nearby Amersham, the security itself—provided by Schiller’s corporation—and sundry others. For the season of entertaining he has planned, it will be necessary to upgrade the house security system, install a picocell and leased line to secure the visitors’ mobile phone traffic, and place discreet cameras in all the public and private rooms. It is also necessary to hire certain other workers, who will arrive and depart discreetly and service those guests who Anneka and his staff deem more likely to respond to sex and drugs than wine and money.