There was a window. There were ceiling air ducts. But she was in the middle of nowhere and it's not like she had anywhere she could run. How did they do this in the vids? Oh, yeah. A friend would have already placed a weapon in some concealed location and the hero would find it, assemble it, and come out firing. That's what was wrong with this whole situation. No friends.
She flushed, rearranged her clothing, washed her hands, and walked back out to her friendly escorts.
They walked her outside to a convoy, of sorts. There were two black limousines and four escort vehicles. She saw two girls about her size and hair color get into the back of each of the limos. Petra, by contrast, was kept close to the building, under the eaves, until she was at the back of a bakery van. She climbed in. None of her guards came with her. There were two men in the back of the van, but they were in civilian clothes. "What am 1, bread?" she asked.
"We understand your need to feel that you're in control of the situation through humor," said one of the men.
"What, a psychiatrist? This is worse than torture. What happened to the Geneva convention?"
The psychiatrist smiled. "You're going home, Petra."
"To God? Or Armenia?"
"At this moment, neither. The situation is still ... flexible."
"I'd say it's flexible, if I'm going home to a place where I've never been before."
"Loyalties have not yet been sorted out. The branch of government that kidnapped you and the other children was acting without the knowledge of the army or the elected government-"
"Or so they say," said Petra.
"You understand my situation perfectly."
"So who are you loyal to?"
"Russia."
"Isn't that what they'll all say?"
"Not the ones who turned our foreign policy and military strategy over to a homicidal maniac child."
"Are those three equal accusations?" asked Petra. "Because I'm guilty of being a child. And homicide, too, in some people's opinion."
"Killing buggers was not homicide."
"I suppose it was insecticide." The psychiatrist looked baffled. Apparently he didn't know Common well enough to understand a wordplay that nine-year-olds thought was endlessly funny in Battle School.
The van began to move.
"Where are we going, since it's not home?"
"We're going into hiding to keep you out of the hands of this monster child until the breadth of this conspiracy can be discovered and the conspirators arrested."
"Or vice versa," said Petra.
The psychiatrist looked baffled again. But then he understood. "I suppose that's possible. But then, I'm not an important man. How would they know to look for me?"
"You're important enough that you have soldiers who obey you."
"They're not obeying me. We're all obeying someone else."
"And who is that?"
"If, through some misfortune, you were retaken by Achilles and his sponsors, you won't be able to answer that question."
"Besides, you'd all be dead before they could get to me, so your names wouldn't matter anyway, right?"
He looked at her searchingly. "You seem cynical about this. We are risking our lives to save you."
"You're risking my life, too."
He nodded slowly. "Do you want to return to your prison?"
"I just want you to be aware that being kidnapped a second time isn't exactly the same thing as being set free. You're so sure that you're smart enough and your people are loyal enough to bring this off. But if you're wrong, I could get killed. So yes, you're taking risks-but so am 1, and nobody asked me."
"I ask you now."
"Let me out of the van right here," said Petra. "I'll take my chances alone."
"No," said the psychiatrist.
"I see. So I am still a prisoner."
"You are in protective custody."
"But I am a certified strategic and tactical genius," said Petra, "and you're not. So why are you in charge of me?"
He had no answer.
"I'll tell you why," said Petra. "Because this is not about saving the little children who were stolen away by the evil wicked child. This is about saving Mother Russia a lot of embarrassment. So it isn't enough for me to be safe. You have to return me to Armenia under just the right circumstances, with just the right spin, that the faction of the Russian government that you serve will be exonerated of all guilt."
"We are not guilty."
"My point is not that you're lying about that, but that you regard that as a much higher priority than saving me. Because I assure you, riding along in this van, I fully expect to be retaken by Achilles and his ... what did you call them? Sponsors."
"And why do you suppose that this will happen?"
"Does it matter why?"
"You're the genius," said the psychiatrist. "Apparently you have already seen some flaw in our plan."
"The flaw is obvious. Far too many people know about it. The decoy limousines, and soldiers, the escorts. You're sure that not one of those people is a plant? Because if any of them is reporting to Achilles' sponsors, then they already know which vehicle really has me in it, and where it's going."
"They don't know where it's going."
"They do if the driver is the one who was planted by the other side."
"The driver doesn't know where we're going."
"He's just going around in circles?"
"He knows the first rendezvous point, that's all."
Petra shook her head. "I knew you were stupid, because you became a talktherapy shrink, which is like being a minister of a religion in which you get to be God."
The psychiatrist turned red. Petra liked that. He was stupid, and he didn't like hearing it, but he definitely needed to hear it because he clearly had built his whole life around the idea that he was smart, and now that he was playing with live ammunition, thinking he was smart was going to get him killed.
"I suppose you're right, that the driver does know where we're going first, even if he doesn't know where we plan to go from the first rendezvous." The psychiatrist shrugged elaborately. "But that can't be helped. You have to trust someone."
"And you decided to trust this driver because ... ?"
The psychiatrist looked away.
Petra looked at the other man. "You're talkative."
"I am think," said the man in halting Common, "you make Battle School teachers crazy with talk."
"Ah," said Petra. "You're the brains of the outfit."
The man looked puzzled, but also offended-he wasn't sure how he had been insulted, since he probably didn't know the word outfit, but he knew an insult had been intended.
"Petra Arkanian," said the psychiatrist, "since you're right that I don't know the driver all that well, tell me what I should have done. You have a better plan than trusting him?"
"Of course," said Petra. "You tell him the rendezvous point, plan with him very carefully how he'll drive there."
"I did that," said the psychiatrist.
"I know," said Petra. "Then, at the last minute, just as you're loading me into the van, you take the wheel and make him ride in one of the limousines. And then you drive to a different place entirely. Or better yet, you take me to the nearest town and turn me loose and let me take care of myself."
Again, the psychiatrist looked away. Petra was amused at how transparent his body language was. You'd think a shrink would know how to conceal his own tells.
"These people who kidnapped you," said the psychiatrist, "they are a tiny minority, even within the intelligence organizations they work for. They can't be everywhere."
Petra shook her head. "You're a Russian, you were taught Russian history, and you actually believe that the intelligence service can't be everywhere and hear everything? What, did you spend your entire childhood watching American vids?"
The psychiatrist had had enough. Putting on his finest medical airs, he delivered his ultimate put-down. "And you're a child who never learned decent respect. You may be brilliant in your native abilities, but that doesn't mean you understand a political situation you know nothing about."