They stepped through. They had been high on a jumble of rocks, and Alison tried to brace for a fall; instead they came out on someone’s shrouded sofa like clowns out of a car. There were broad, coarse faces on all sides, low voices murmuring greetings. She saw big square fingers reach out to touch one another—shoulder, arm, face. They were all tense, all tired-looking. She was dumped into an armchair, braced for flight before she saw that escape would have to wait: the window was shuttered, the door closed, and the apartment was packed full of the stoic physicality of its occupants. The least of them could have ripped her in half.

The woman who had taken her loomed, her face unreadable because it was designed for a different language of expression, one with few loan words from human.

“You will not be harmed.” A voice deep as a man’s, deeper. “You were searching for us. We must not be found. When we are done here, you will be left. Try to leave us and we will have to kill you.”

Alison glowered at her. “Who are you? What are you even doing?” she demanded.

A tall Pakistani woman came in from the next room, swathed in a towel, her hair up. Her make-up was incongruously immaculate, as though she’d repainted her face the moment she got out of the shower. Alison goggled at her.

“Kay Amal Khan,” she choked out.

“Oh, hello, love,” the fugitive scientist said awkwardly. “Who’re you then?”

“MI-bloody-five,” Alison snapped. “What in God’s name is going on?”

“You’ve kidnapped the government?” Khan demanded. “What are you people doing? They’ll be looking for her.”

One of them grunted, something like a laugh. “Already they are looking for you. More than anyone looks for her.”

“But she was looking for us,” the woman standing over Alison added. “She had a resonant connection. The Ice recognized her and gave her access. She would have found us for your ‘government’ first. So, she is here, with us. Until we can move you from this place to where you need to be.”

“Which is where?” said Khan. “Look, love, you said come, and I came. But this is getting out of fucking hand!”

“Tonight,” the woman promised. “We get out tonight.” She glared at the others and added something in her muttering language, which Alison interpreted as, “You clowns get ready to move out.”

Alison watched them. They weren’t feverishly making bombs or taking photographs of secret documents. Most of them were just sitting about on the plushly carpeted floor. But she had the sense of intense preparation nonetheless, a mindfulness, a mental discipline as obvious as if they were stepping through the graceful poses of tai chi.