MirrorWorld

I enter the kitchen like I actually own the place. Allenby’s head swivels in my direction, her wild hair swaying as it catches up with the twist of her head. There’s a bruise on her cheek where Katzman kicked her. She tries to conceal her nervousness with a smile, then hides the abysmal job she’s doing by lifting the glass pitcher to her mouth and taking a long drink of the pink liquid.

“Morning,” I say. “Or is it afternoon?”

She pulls the pitcher away, just enough to speak. “Morning, actually. You slept through the night.”

I open a cabinet. There are bowls and glasses inside. I take a glass and hold it out to Allenby. She looks a little surprised and says, “Thank you.”

“It’s for me,” I say, nodding at the pitcher. “Whatever that is you’re drinking, I know it isn’t drugged.”

“Right,” she says, filling the glass and handing it back.

I smell the drink. “Strawberry?”

“And blueberry.”

I take a long drink, quenching my thirst. “It’s good.”

She’s probably unaware that she’s squinting at me. Trying to figure me out. I decide to keep her off-balance. I motion to the small kitchen table. “Have a seat?”

She takes a chair, and I sit across from her. For a full minute, we sip our drinks. When my glass is half empty, a subtle flavor emerges. “Did you put strawberry syrup in this?”

She smiles. “A guilty pleasure.”

“Yours or mine?” I’ve already discovered that I have something of a sweet tooth, and Allenby doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who enjoys American junk food. Tea and tarts maybe, but not liquid-chemical strawberry and corn syrup.

She clears her throat and adjusts her seat. “How about this … I’ll ask you a question. If you give an honest answer, you can ask me a question.”

“If I fail whatever test you’re about to give me—”

“It won’t end well,” she says, being honest, “for either of us, I’m afraid.”

“Have they threatened you?” I ask.

She smiles. It’s honest, too. “I’m afraid I’ll simply be caught in the cross fire. Perhaps used as a shield — again.”

I look around the apartment. I don’t see any cameras or listening devices, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. “Is this a private conversation?”

To my surprise, she nods. “There are ears nearby, behind thick doors. They will hear me if I scream, but if we keep our voices low, no one will hear us. We’re not being actively monitored.”

“Why not?” It seems like a poor security choice.

She clears her throat. “As you might have noticed, as unpredictable as your behavior might be, there are some situations in which we are able to quite accurately predict your behavior.”

“How? Or is that a trade secret?”

She smiles. “It’s your moral compass. Your fearlessness makes you erratic, but it’s your sense of right and wrong that guides you. Having Big Brother in the room with us is not a good way to regain your trust.”

“You never had it.”

“Right.” She motions to the apartment. “You’re welcome to check, if you like.”

Not sensing any trace of a lie, I decide to trust that this talk is private. “And if I decide to not have this conversation? If I decide to leave?”

“Well then, you’ll have to deal with Betty and Sue.”

“Betty … and Sue?”

She raises her fists. Shakes the right. “Betty.” Shakes the left. “And Sue. Now, choose your fate. Have a pleasant chat or be emasculated by a cheeky British tart.”

I smile, open my arms, and bow my head in mock subjugation. “I’m at your mercy.”

“Now then,” she says, “first question?”

“I’ll go first,” I say, then ask my question before she can argue. “How did they find me?”

She ponders this for a moment, perhaps already questioning her commitment to honesty. Then she says, “The … woman has a GPS tracker embedded beneath her skin.”

I nod, believing her, mostly because it’s not an answer she’d give if she were trying to win me over. I open my hands, motioning my readiness.

“How are you feeling?” she asks. “Any dizziness? Headaches? Nausea? Hallucinations?”

“That’s five questions,” I point out.

“Try to hear it with commas instead of question marks.”

I take stock of my body. “I’m a little sore. The hallucinations have faded.”

“So you were hallucinating?”

“That’s two questions,” I say. “My turn.”

She groans and sighs. “Go ahead.”

“Who is Simon?”

She lowers her drink toward the edge of the table. Her face is a frozen mask of shock. The glass slips from her fingers, twirls along the table’s edge, and falls. I lean forward, catch the glass and put it on the tabletop. When I lean back and look Allenby in the eyes, she gives me a one-word answer. “Bollocks.”

17

Allenby, head dipped toward the kitchen table, appears to be in the midst of an argument with herself. She whispers occasionally. Shakes her head. Subtly gestures. It’s like my question, which I think is a fairly simple one, has triggered some kind of mental glitch.

She suddenly takes a deep breath, shakes her hands through her gray Muppet hair, and groans. “Fine. If that’s what it takes. That’s the road we’ll go down first.”

“Are you talking to me now?” I ask.