Empire Games Series, Book 1(109)
When she could trust herself to speak, Rita lowered her hands. “Tell me about my—about who I’m going to, to meet.”
Miss Thorold’s lips thinned. “Mrs. Burgeson—Miriam Burgeson—is the Party Commissioner in charge of the Ministry of Intertemporal Technological Intelligence. If you think of it as a cross between the National Science Foundation, the CIA, and the Department of Transportation, you won’t be too far off the mark. Like you, she is a world-walker. The Department of Para-historical Research, where I work, is part of MITI.”
Her first name was Miriam. Another piece of circumstantial evidence to back up Thorold’s assertion, Rita realized. Her birth mother had been called Miriam something or other. “She—she sounds important. Is she?”
“You have no idea.” Thorold looked away. “Her husband runs the Ministry of Propaganda and Communications. They both report in the cabinet to the First Man—the equivalent of the President. Except he isn’t—we have a different constitutional separation of powers. The point is, you are about to have fifteen minutes with one of the most important people in the government of this continent. Half of the power couple who lead one of our Party factions, if you like. She’s going to give you a message to take back to your government, along with proof of her identity. And then we’re going to get you out of there before the bad guys arrest you.”
“Fifteen minutes?” Rita’s voice rose.
“Yes. It’s risky enough as it is. Ms. Douglas, Mrs. Burgeson has powerful enemies. Unilaterally opening negotiations with the US government is horribly risky: if it backfires it potentially gives them grounds to charge her with treason and espionage. You they’d see as leverage—a hostage.”
“But I don’t even know her!”
“You know that, I know that, and she knows that. The other side do not. You will have fifteen minutes—then we’ll take you back down to Irongate and send you home, along with instructions to contact us safely in future.” Above their heads, the engine note began to change. The chopper began to slow. They were flying over buildings, three-to six-story blocks. The skyline was unfamiliar to Rita: the southern end of Manhattan in this world boasted no thicket of dense-packed skyscrapers, but an array of neoclassical domes and Gothic cathedrals and something that looked for all the world like a castle.
Well, fuck, Rita thought, staring blankly out through the chopper’s bubble nose at the approaching jagged horizon of triumphal arches, palaces, and huge government buildings that eclipsed even the Capitol in D.C. with their bumptious pomposity. I blew the mission, got captured, blabbed when questioned, and now they’re just going to run me through an interview with the evil queen, pat me on the head, and send me home … She’d thought she was at rock-bottom when the Inspector was giving her the third degree, but this was positively mortifying.
The chopper slowed, circled, and began to descend toward a lawn that separated two marble-fronted wings of a giant palace. “Don’t try to world-walk from here,” Miss Thorold advised her. “This whole area is built up. You’d break your neck or get run over by a yellow cab. We’ll have you home by evening.”
Rita swallowed. “I’ll be good,” she said hoarsely, unsure whether it was a promise or a threat.
*
Everything now seemed to happen very fast, with the inevitability of a march to a firing squad. The blades spooled down as the chopper settled on its skids and doors opened. The snick of a handcuff around her right wrist locked her to Inspector Morgan, who seemed mildly irritated. They walked to the building, then along endless corridors and a wide marble staircase under stained-glass windows. There were flags, flags everywhere: an unfamiliar field of gold stars superimposed on a white circle on a red background. Another corridor, past windows overlooking a broad courtyard and oil paintings of men in wigs, white stockings, and polished steel cuirasses. Then a door, opening as a man’s voice said, “Come in.”
Now they were upstairs, the handcuff was unlocked: Rita found herself in an outer office, desk against one wall, inner office door ajar. “Come on,” said Miss Thorold. “George, this is Ms. Douglas. We’re expected. Please ensure we have privacy.” To Rita: “Can you push my chair for me?”
“I guess so.” Miss Thorold’s bodyguard, Jack, gave her a warning look as he surrendered his place to her.
“We’ll wait here,” said Inspector Morgan.
“Yes, you will.” Miss Thorold pointed: “Rita, that way.” Heart in her mouth, Rita pushed the chair forward into the open doorway.
“You took your time getting here,” said the middle-aged lady behind the desk as she rose to her feet. “Close the—” She stopped and stared. “Olga. Is this who I think it is?”
“Shut the door, Rita,” said Miss Thorold. “Yes, I think so. What’s your birthday, Rita?”
“May eleventh,” she said automatically, as the door latched behind her. She couldn’t look away from the evil queen. She didn’t look particularly evil. She had dark hair, and a middle-aged face that had been pretty once and was now succumbing to gravity’s pull. Her costume—no, that’s what they wore here—was odd to Rita’s eyes, something like a shalwar kameez, but tailored and draped with ruffles at collar and cuffs. “Are you my birth mother?”