Jake was camping outside the White Building, cheerfully offering burnt sausages to glassy-eyed Secs from a makeshift barbecue, when they dragged him unceremoniously from his breakfast. He protested admirably, though a meeting with the Dragon Herself was the very thing he had been holding out for.

When they shoved him through the door, he tried, but failed, not to be impressed by the large white office. The minimal decor, the enormous oak table with no sign of any technology, although he knew whizzy touchscreen devices and tiny robots would be hidden from sight, waiting to be called into service. Even the stagnant river looked pretty through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall.

The throne-like chair.

The woman sitting upon the chair, blonde hair pulled into an excruciatingly tight ponytail. She watched him enter with cold scientific interest. Beside her, a young brunette who must have been Dudgeon's right hand woman, the famous mastermind behind her current political success. He felt a glimmer of recognition but could not pin it down.

The Professor spoke.

'Mister Holland.' Harsh. Not really a greeting, or a question. His very name appeared to make the woman physically ill. She nodded at the improbably large men who had practically carried him up the stairs, and they silently withdrew into the corners of the room behind the nervous man, out of sight. He swallowed.

'Miss ah, forgive me: Professor Dudgeon.' said Jake. 'Very ah, pleased to finally make your acquaintance, I'm sure.' He leaned over the desk, offering his hand.

Dudgeon barely suppressed a snarl, but shook once, then gestured towards a hard wooden chair opposite her. Jake sat down carefully, and clutched his battered leather briefcase to his chest, as if afraid she would try to take it from him.

'Pleased indeed? Hear that Natalie? The gentleman is "pleased" he says.' Dudgeon laughed, looking him up and down. 'Well I must say,' she went on, 'you are much shorter than your clumsy prose had led me to believe.' Jake was stunned. Had she said "Natalie"? The woman had looked familiar but she looked so different, so grown up.

'I - ah, forgive me, Professor,' he said, 'to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? And with such delicate powers of persuasion too.' He rubbed his shoulder, wincing slightly. Dudgeon smiled sweetly. When she spoke, her tone was level and dangerous.

'Let us forego the pleasantries shall we Holland?'

Jake shifted uncomfortably in his uncomfortable chair. Dudgeon must have taken great pains to choose her furniture, she obviously liked to make people squirm.

'Please, call me Jake,' he said.

'I think not,' Dudgeon snapped. 'We will get straight to business, if you don't mind.'

'Um - okay. Please, continue?' Jake said, trying not to sound overwhelmed. Business, then. No doubt she was a little upset by his exposé on the Company's expenses. It worked though, he thought, admiring the sterile purity of the white room. Now he could find out what she was really up to.

Dudgeon drew herself up and regarded him sternly. 'You have somehow - for the life of me I know not how - managed to throw together some words that on the surface seem remotely plausible, although naturally, given your profession, highly scandalous.' Dudgeon paused. Presumably, Jake thought, to allow her words to fall with appropriate gravit-arse upon his pathetic, overweight shoulders. He forced himself to stay motionless, hold her gaze, and say nothing. 'You are aware, are you not,' she continued, 'of the great lengths I have gone to to protect the people of this country from the quasi-medical mumbo-jumbo that for too long has polluted our populace with placebos and false promises?'

'W-W-Well you do like to put on a show, yes,' He said, and cursed himself for the stammer. He must be strong, he'd done nothing untoward. Not yet, anyway. Not really.

'But my work in the medical profession, is it not to your satisfaction?'

'Certainly, certainly! Most impressive, everybody knows I-I-I- ah.' His throat was dry and he realised he was holding the briefcase before him like a shield.

'So what I am most keen to know is,' Dudgeon ploughed on, ignoring Jake's discomfort, 'what on earth did you think you would gain by writing such fantastic nonsense about me?'

'Ah, well you see, the thing is, I-I-I- ' He frowned. He fumbled in his pocket for the bottle of little white pills and swallowed two of them, forcing them down his dry throat. He daren't ask for water. A little control came back, he felt the muscles in his throat relax and his hands gradually stop shaking. The woman was giving him a look that could melt concrete, no wonder he had been warned against writing the story. Natalie had her head buried in her tablet, an almost paper-thin, touch-screen affair. Jake had heard of them, but not seen one in the flesh, so to speak. Dudgeon Pharmaceuticals: Operating at the Forefront of Science, he thought. Natalie chewed on her stylus and refused to catch his eye.

'What is it man? spit it out!'

'Well, one must not believe that one is-is- ah...' Jake paused again. Swallowed. Lowered the briefcase. He felt ridiculous. Damn this woman and her terrifying intimidation tactics. Why was he so scared? She wouldn't go so far as to harm him, not with her benevolent public image to protect. She wouldn't dare. Would she? He watched her expression change as his words sank in. He forced his cowardly features into a condescending smile. Of course not. She couldn't have people believing she thought herself invincible, after all. '...that one is above the law?'

'I most certainly do not think any such thi-'

'Come now professor,' Jake interrupted, proud he sounded a little more confident, even though the sweat was dripping down his back. 'We both know the evidence is there for a child to find, unless you want me to believe you spend ten million a year on the campaign?' He settled back into the chair, which creaked alarmingly. Dudgeon's face was a picture. A grotesque, Boschian picture of loathing. Good. That little patronising flourish when he said 'campaign' had really pissed her off.

He opened his briefcase and pulled out his own netbook. His pride and joy, his livelihood. Dudgeon winced and rolled her eyes when the little machine whirred into life and said 'Good morning, Dave', in tones of lazy machine psychosis. Jake had got some of the control back at last. He wiped his sweating palms on the trouser legs of his cheap brown suit and donned a pair of thick spectacles before continuing, 'I can't wait to hear the Actual gen-you-wine "truth", but please bear in mind that anything, and everything, you tell me will appear in tomorrow's edition.'

Dudgeon's knuckles had whitened where she was gripping the arms of her chair. Jake's heart pumped furiously, but he held her dreadful gaze with a fixed, terrified smile. At least it didn't look like she was going to have him killed. Not yet, anyway. He rubbed his injured shoulder thoughtfully. After a few long seconds, Dudgeon spoke through clenched teeth.

'I'm counting on it.'