ask you to remember is the cop's first and hardest lesson: distance. You must not feel outrage, not even with the most appalling accusations; you must not leap to action, even when immediate intervention seems to be absolutely essential. You have to bear in mind at all times that in the vast majority of these cases, these children are seen by their community as they are in any community: they are the future. If you reach out to touch their kids, they will strike back, and the kids and everyone else will get in the way.
Excerpt from the transcription of a lecture by Dr. Anne Waverly to the FBI Cult Response Team, April 27, 1994
They bent over her drawing pad for about half an hour before the flight attendants began to drag the carts up the aisles again. The smell of sausages and artificial maple flavoring floated through the cabin, and people began to stir. Benjamin woke, and then Dulcie, and Ana's brief idyll was over.
They were hours yet from London, their two kids bored and fractious with the need for exercise. Books and games and drawings and stories dragged on, until finally came the faint change of their angle of flight, heralding their descent into Heathrow only two hours late.
The great plane tipped, giving them a view of a vast expanse of red brick, black slate, gray tarmac, and a dollop of river, and then they straightened out and came in for a landing. They taxied, and they taxied some more; they came to a halt and they waited, half the passengers standing back to belly in the aisles for long minutes while the gangway was run out and first class was offloaded. Finally the jerk of motion as the aisles began to clear, and soon they were saying thank-you to the flight attendants and back on solid ground.
A lot of solid ground, carpeted and glassed-in and stuffy with the fumes of jet engines. After a hundred yards of skipping in joy, Dulcie began to lag; at two hundred yards Jason was carrying her, and Ana hefting Benjamin. She remembered Heathrow as endless, and it was.
The long, looping rows awaiting the immigration desks were next, and then the luggage hall, and both small children were limp now, stunned with exhaustion and strangeness. Ana and Jason were in a similar condition, although Dov and the others had slept and claimed to be refreshed beneath their ill temper.
Luggage piled on the trolley carts, steered through customs' gauntlet, where they all made it through undetained, around a bend and into an enormous echoing hall filled with electronic announcements and colorful motion, and there were two strangers greeting Dov, shaking hands, introducing themselves as Richard and Vicky, and taking over the baggage carts. A parking lot, windy and vast, a large van, child seats for Dulcie, Benjamin, and the other small child. Ana buckled in, checked to make sure she hadn't lost Jason, and gave herself over to the massive tiredness that crept into her very bones.
She slept across a large chunk of southern England.
Ana woke when the small bus descended from the freeway—motorway, it was called here. As cookies were called biscuits and tea was not just a beverage you drank but a meal you ate at six o'clock, and the steering wheel was on the right and roads had roundabouts instead of stop signs, a country where ordinary people did not have cheap guns in their bedside tables and the ordinary policeman was armed only with a stick, a radio, and an intimate knowledge of the patch he patrolled. There would be an equivalent to Glen here, who (if Glen was very persistent) might come to know of her presence, but Glen was a very long way off, and Ana was on her own.
But only for as long as it took her to read the signs here. (As Ana rubbed the back of her neck and shifted on the hard seat, she realized that she had clarified the decision in her mind, on the plane or while she slept.) She would finish her job, even on this strange ground, so that her report to Glen on the Change movement would be as complete as she could possibly make it. Two or three weeks ought to do it; after that she would seize Jason and Dulcie by the hands and remove them from the clutches of Change, even if it meant blowing her cover for good and throwing the Change community to the media, whose appetite for paranoid scenarios involving children was voracious. She would try very hard to take her two charges away quietly, but if she was forced to cling to the figurative gates of the American embassy under the glare of the television lights, so be it.
Then home in time for summer, with potentials and possibilities she wouldn't let herself think about.
Meanwhile, the countryside out her window was proving very compelling, lush, and vibrant with the fast growth of late spring. She had been to this country in the summer twice and once for a memorable week in December, but now she saw why the poets gushed and the painters invented new shades of green: May was incredibly beautiful, field and hedgerow and country lane bursting with the full, exuberant rush of life held in during the long, cold winter. Lambs actually did gambol, she saw in amusement as they drove past a field of bouncing white quadrupeds. A long-legged foal inquiring among the nettles at the base of a fence skittered away at their passing, his ridiculous stump of a tail flapping wildly. A neatly tended orchard of thickly flowering trees filled the low curve of a creekside hollow, giving the impression of a white cloud come to earth. They passed a small, perfect stone cottage set back from the road behind a low picket fence, its garden a riot of wildly mixed color. There were even two black kittens playing on the brick walkway leading to the rose-bowered front door, for heaven's sake. Ana raised her face to the soft air blowing in the window and felt like laughing aloud at the sheer glory of the place.
The first sign of wrongness Ana would have missed completely had she not been seated directly behind the driver. A police car was parked in a lay-by at the side of the lane. Ana might have dismissed it—a local patrol choosing a pleasant spot to have their tea break—but for Richard's vigorous two-fingered gesture at the official vehicle that punctuated his slowing, putting on the turn signal, and turning off through a set of electronically controlled gates and into a worn track so overgrown, it was more tunnel than drive. No one said anything, but Ana was quite certain that in England two fingers jabbed into the air was not a sign of 'V is for victory.'
They bumped along the track for ten minutes or so, waking up the little kids, but Ana had no ears for Dulcie's cries of protest, because near the beginning of the drive, off in the undergrowth near the gates, she had seen a man dressed in camouflage clothing; in his hands he held something very much like the bulky shape of a shotgun. She opened her mouth, and shut it, but when she looked up she saw Richard's eyes on her in the rearview mirror. She turned to soothe Dulcie with a story about the lambs and kittens she had seen, furry, warm things to counteract the sudden cold tendrils that had begun to unfurl along the pit of her stomach.
The van emerged from the undergrowth and lurched through a section of slightly better road with fencing on both sides before entering a graveled farmyard where the spring weeds were winning. The buildings showed signs of recent labor, new windows and paint renewed in the last two or three years. All of these seemed to be outbuildings, and indeed the van did not stop there but continued around and past some more fences until it pulled up at the towering backside of what looked like a large country home belonging to a slightly down-at-the-heels family.
Ana thought the building was probably early Victorian, a blunt, purposeful edifice built of a harsh red brick that a century and a half had not dimmed. The kitchen door was standing open and three or four dogs and a large number of cats were scattered about, looking vaguely expectant.
Dulcie made for the cats as soon as she was freed from the van. Jason stood gaping up at the vast and uninspiring redbrick wall that loomed above them, punctuated by four rows of windows and surmounted by a gathered stand of half a dozen chimneys. Ana waited until the driver was by himself at the back of the van, pulling out luggage, and then she approached him.
'Richard, was that man in the woods a policeman?' she asked.
'Better not've been. If he was, there'll be hell to pay. We keep them out—we know our rights, they know our boundaries. Doesn't stop 'em from sitting at the back entrance, writing down plate numbers and playing silly buggers.'
'Oh. But I thought… He did have a gun, didn't he?'
'Keeps the rabbits down,' he said dismissively, and then over Ana's shoulder he shouted, 'Where do you want this lot?'
'In the dining room,' a woman's voice answered. 'We can sort them out from there.'
The bags were whisked inside, followed by the people (Dulcie protesting when a cat was plucked from her arms). They passed through the long kitchen, immediately comforting in its familiarity and the post-lunch clutter, although to Ana's eyes the corners could have used a good scrub. She wished they could have stayed there for a while, been handed a stack of dirty plates for what she remembered the English called the washing up, but they were ushered straight through, past three kitchen workers who stopped to watch their passage. One of them was a tall, straight, blonde girl with a peaceful face and oversized rubber gloves on her hands. She openly watched Jason
