“Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone here?”
Silence.
“If you’re looking for money, you’ve been sadly misinformed.”
No response.
Batty’s heart was pounding and he suddenly realized he was starting to hyperventilate. Calming himself, he slowed his breathing and concentrated, trying to get a reading on the room, knowing he wouldn’t get much without being able to feel it beneath his fingers.
Several moments passed before it came. Then, quite abruptly, a small part of the room’s history skittered through his mind-vague but unmistakable feelings of fear and anger and pain-and he knew he wasn’t the first person to occupy this chair.
And not all of its occupants had left here alive.
Callahan was suddenly very tired.
On the ride back to the Barbosa Tours building, she couldn’t stop thinking about de Souza’s warning and the dream or hallucination or neural breakdown she’d suffered in that alleyway.
She couldn’t stop seeing the little girl-seeing herself-look up at her with those amber-tinted eyes.
There’s no saving us now.
There’s no saving any of us.
All Callahan wanted was to get back to the hotel and crawl into bed and hopefully sleep the afternoon away. Her mind and body were screaming for it.
Unfortunately, the moment she stepped off the bus and signaled for a cab, her cell phone rang.
Section.
“The asset has been procured,” the disembodied voice said. “You’ll find him at the safe house on Ribeiro de Lima.”
“Was it really necessary to bring him here? This could have been handled over the-”
“NQN, Agent Callahan. The directive came from the top.”
NQN.
No Questions Needed.
In other words, shut the hell up and do as you’re told.
Callahan sighed. “Has he been briefed?”
“We’re leaving that to you.”
Of course.
Section was sometimes so callous and devoid of emotion it infuriated Callahan. It was too often all business, the powers-that-be failing to see the value in nurturing a relationship rather than simply pulling the trigger and worrying about the consequences later. That she was expected to do the debriefing only meant that they had run a basic smash and grab and it would be up to her to stabilize the asset and secure his cooperation.
Not surprising, but still an annoyance.
There were sixteen known elements to the United States intelligence community, including the CIA, the NSA and the FBI. Section was the seventeenth, a no-nonsense off-the-books ops unit that had been formed by the previous administration in direct response to the 9/11 attacks, and given more autonomy than all of the other elements combined.
Section’s mission, however, was not restricted to hunting down terrorists. Its mandate included crisis management, facilitation and sometimes even instigation. And considering the coldhearted way it handled its assets, Callahan figured it was a miracle she’d been given a choice about joining, back when she was a potential recruit.
What would her recruiter have done if she’d said no?
But maybe her psychological profile had made it obvious that she’d jump at the opportunity. She was, after all, the perfect candidate. Single. No blood relatives. No emotional ties whatsoever. She doubted she would have been approached otherwise. Still, she was surprised Section didn’t simply snatch her from campus, throw her into an iso tank and sweat her until she agreed to . . .
Callahan stopped herself.
Why was she dredging up all this nonsense? Shoving her thoughts aside, she signaled again and waited as a cab pulled up in front of her.
No point in wallowing in the weeds.
She had work to do.
Batty had been sitting there close to an hour, his arms and legs going numb, when he heard a sound: a door opening and closing somewhere above him. It was so faint that he wondered for a moment if he had imagined it, but then his gut told him that he was no longer alone here-wherever here was.
A moment later, he heard footsteps on stairs, then a door directly across from him flew open, letting in a waft of slightly cooler air.
“Jesus Christ,” someone said.
Not the tourist, but a woman. And she didn’t sound pleased.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”
“Definitely not this.”
Then he heard her footsteps and felt her moving around behind him. He stiffened slightly as she grabbed hold of the blindfold and pulled it free.
Harsh fluorescent light assaulted his eyes and he squinted against it, catching glimpses of a small nondescript basement with a cement floor and walls and a workbench full of tools.
The woman came around in front of him now, and he did his best to focus on her. She wasn’t as beautiful as Rebecca or the elusive redhead, but the package she presented had been put together quite well and he had no doubt she’d broken a few hearts in her time.
And balls.
She wasn’t particularly large or muscular, but there was a definite solidity to her body and a fierceness of expression that led him to believe she could kick his ass without really trying.
Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
“I want to apologize for the way you’ve been treated, Professor. The people I work for sometimes mistake brutality for efficiency.”
“The people you work for?”
She pulled a wallet from her back pocket and flipped it open, showing him an ID card with what looked like an official seal. “Agent Bernadette Callahan. State Department.”
Batty gaped at it. It looked real enough, but he had his doubts. What on earth would the U.S. government want with him?
“Since when does the State Department go around kidnapping people?”
“You’d be surprised,” she told him.
Judging by the energy in this room, maybe he wouldn’t be. He glanced at the floor, saw a drain at the center, and wondered how much blood had been washed down it.
“This apology,” he said, flexing his wrists behind him. “Does it include untying me?”
Agent Callahan didn’t move. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I can trust you not to do anything stupid.”
“Too late for that,” Batty said. “You’d need a score card to keep track.”
“Which is why I hesitate. I’ve read your file. I know you sometimes like to swing first and ask questions later-and I’m assuming that’s how you got all those bruises on your face.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“So, you see, if you were to try anything, I’m afraid I’d have to hurt you.” She smiled. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But trussing me up like a hog is perfectly okay.”
“That wasn’t my call. If you give me your word you’ll be nice, I’ll let you loose and we can do this thing like two civilized human beings.”
“We’re off to a wonderful start,” he said. “What exactly is this thing?”
“Do I have your word?”
He shrugged. “Do I have a choice?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She crossed to the workbench and came back with a small pair of wire cutters. Crouching in front of him, she cut his legs loose, then moved around behind him again and cut through the plastic tie at his wrists.
Batty slipped them free, looking up at her as he rubbed them. “Now what?”
“Now we go upstairs and have a drink.”
“I think I like that plan.”
“A nonalcoholic drink, Professor. I want you sober as a nun for this conversation.”
“You must not know too many nuns.”
17
She gave him orange juice.
It came from a refrigerator in what looked like a neatly furnished studio apartment. The only thing unusual about the place was that it had no windows to speak of.