The Washington skies were cloudy and dark, with little hint of sunshine. Everything looked grey and miserable. Even so, I marvelled at the sight of a city with people filling its streets; no one smiled, however, and no one looked remotely happy. It might just have been down to the lousy weather, but I had not failed to notice that the clothes they all wore were dark and threadbare.

‘You notice something?’ Randall muttered. ‘I hardly see any other cars.’

‘Me neither,’ said Chloe, glancing out of the window.

There were indeed few, if any, other motorized vehicles. Most people seemed to travel on foot, although I saw one or two hardy souls pedalling past on rickety bicycles. Most of the shop windows were as empty as Casey had described them, and I saw little in the way of advertising. At one point we skirted a park denuded of trees, their low, black stumps stretching across the unweeded grass. I had already noticed the many trails of dark smoke rising from roofs and into the sky, and realized with a shock that people here burned wood for heat.

This, then, was the Authority.

At one point we passed several army trucks parked by the side of the road, along with a couple of limousines that looked more or less identical to our own. Men wearing suits with a similar cut to those worn by the Patriot agents were kneeling in a row in the slushy snow, their hands on top of their heads, while uniformed soldiers stood watch over them. A body lay sprawled face-up in a gutter, a dark stain across the white of its shirt.

We drove on out into the suburbs, which were hardly more joyful than the city; eventually we pulled up before a set of broad iron gates that swung open at our approach. Louie guided the limousine down a long driveway that terminated before a building that might have been a private mansion, or might equally have been an embassy. The second limousine, carrying Mayer, drove on around the other side of the building and out of sight.

After that, Louie ushered us through a marble-clad entrance flanked by stone angels, then guided us into a room that was clearly someone’s private office. A mahogany desk stood before a set of French windows, while wood crackled and popped in a fireplace. Louie left us alone, and we stood waiting for a few minutes until a second door opened.

Mort Bramnik stepped through, accompanied by the same man who had argued with Kip Mayer just after we had crossed over to the Authority.

‘Senator,’ said Bramnik, clasping one of the man’s hands in both of his own. ‘Thank you. I’ll take it from here.’

The Senator nodded to us, then left.

‘Now will you please tell us what the goddam hell is going on?’ Winifred demanded.