The next time Janus took Nate from his cell was several hours later.
They went back down the long corridor, passed the toilet without stopping, and out a door into a large, open courtyard.
The area was rimmed by a high stone wall spackled with decades-if not centuries-of dirt. The ground was also covered with stone, big square slabs with more than the occasional weed growing up between the cracks. What was beyond the walls was impossible to see. The only things visible were scattered clouds across a dusky sky.
At the far end of the courtyard was an old wooden table surrounded by several empty chairs. On the table were burning candles and two settings of plates and silverware. At intervals along the courtyard wall beyond the table were eight unsmiling men, dressed in fatigues, and armed with automatic rifles.
“Go,” Janus ordered, pointing with his chin toward the table. “Take seat near right end.”
Nate tried to imagine what could possibly be going on here, but he hadn’t a clue. It was just all too strange.
He took his assigned place and looked at Janus, wondering what he was supposed to do now.
Janus smiled, moved around the table, and took a chair on the opposite side that had no place setting.
They sat silently as the sky continued to darken. The whole time Janus stared blankly at Nate.
It was just over thirty minutes when a door somewhere behind Nate opened. This was soon followed by the clack, clack, clack of someone striding across the courtyard. Nate resisted the urge to turn and look. The new arrival finally came into view as he moved around to the chair at the end of the table and sat. Not surprisingly, it was the bald man.
“Good evening, Mr. Quinn,” he said. “How is everything? I trust you’ve been treated well?”
Nate looked at him but said nothing.
“Still the silent routine, I see.” He looked past Nate. “Janus, I think we’re ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
Janus rose from his chair and headed off to the right.
“You can call me Mr. Harris,” the bald man said, smiling. “It is my pleasure to have someone of your status at my table this evening. I assume you’re hungry. The chef has prepared baked swordfish. One of my favorites.”
A door opened.
“Ah, excellent.”
Several footsteps approached the table, and soldiers in the same fatigues and the men with the guns set plates in front of Nate and Harris.
In addition to the fish, there were grilled vegetables and fresh fruit. Nate tried to keep his face blank, but inside he was salivating at the sight. He hadn’t eaten since before things went wrong in Monterrey.
Another soldier placed a glass of water beside Nate’s silverware.
Harris picked up his fork. “Bon appetit.” He speared a piece of his fish and put it in his mouth. As he chewed, he looked back at Nate. “Don’t you like fish?”
Nate raised his bound hands.
“Of course,” Harris said. “Janus!”
Janus appeared at Nate’s side, and freed Nate’s hands again.
Nate wanted nothing more than to shove everything into his mouth, but he took his time, acting only semi-interested in what had been served.
“It’s become my habit to have a meal with each of our guests on his first evening here,” Harris said. “One of my little joys, I guess you’d say.” He took another bite. “Last night you arrived a bit too late, but you’re here now. That’s what counts.”
Each of us? Nate thought.
Harris cut away another piece of the swordfish. “This is delicious, isn’t it?”
The one-sided dialogue continued throughout the meal, with Harris commenting on everything from the food to the weather to the stars that now sparkled above them.
When they finally finished, he said, “I want you to know how much I admire your career. A man with your reputation is rare indeed. You are a true artist, you know that?” He smiled. “But all things come to an end.” He pushed back from the table and stood up. “Well, I wish I could stay, but our last guest arrives tomorrow, and I need to oversee the preparations. Have a good night, Mr. Quinn.”
The cell Janus took him to was not the same one he’d spent the day in. His new living quarters were located down a hallway housing several rooms. Each had a heavy door that was locked in place by a levered handle. The handle controlled a double metal-rod system attached to the outside of the door. In the locked position, the rods fit snuggly into slots in the ceiling and on the floor, literally barring the door from opening.
The room itself was a bit larger than his last, and came complete with a mattress on the floor and a rudimentary toilet in the corner. The stone walls were worn and blackened with age, and while there were still no windows, there was a rectangular vent low on the door that allowed fresh air to drift in.
The only light came from a dull bulb screwed into a socket crudely attached in an upper corner. The wire wasn’t visible, so Nate assumed a hole must have been drilled through the rock.
He lay down on his mattress and stared at the ceiling. So far, he’d been captured, knocked around, transported somewhere, bound to a chair where he was dunked in water, and then treated to a gourmet meal. Even odder, perhaps, was that even though he’d been asked a few questions here and there, there had really been no interrogation.
It just didn’t add up.
“Hey.”
Nate sat up. The voice had been a distant whisper, or maybe not even a voice at all. Perhaps it had just been the groan of the building.
“Hey, new guy.”
No groan could put words together like that.
Nate crawled over to the door and leaned down to the vent. “Who’s there?”
“Who are you?” the voice asked.
Before Nate could respond, another voice whispered, “Shut up. You know they can hear everything we say.”
“So what?” the first voice said. “New guy, who are you?”
Nate hesitated for a moment, then whispered, “Quinn.”
“Holy shit. The cleaner?”
He paused again. “Uh-huh. Who are you?”
“Lanier. Remember me? We’ve worked together before.”
Lanier?
It took a second before the name clicked. An ops guy, good at logistics, wasn’t he? They had worked together once or twice, but Nate knew the man was thinking of the original Quinn, not him.
“Sure,” he said. “I know who you are. Who’s the other guy?”
“Berkeley, another ops guy like me, and scared shitless.”
“I’m not scared,” Berkeley whispered, his voice a bit more distant than Lanier’s. “I just think we need to be smart.”
Berkeley’s name was also familiar. “Either of you know what’s going on?” Nate asked.
“No clue,” Lanier said. “I’d just finished this gig in Panama and the next thing I know, I wake up here. That was a week ago.”
“A week?” Nate said, surprised.
“Berkeley’s been here even longer. A week and a half.”
“Almost two,” Berkeley said, obviously not wanting to be short-changed.
“And they haven’t told either of you why?”
“Other than the first day we each got here, the only guy we’ve seen is that big son of a bitch Janus,” Lanier said.
“And the first day?”
“Same thing that happened to you tonight, I’m guessing. Dinner with Mr. Baldy.”
“He said his name was Harris,” Nate said.
“That’s consistent, anyway.”
“So you’ve been in your cells since then?”
“They haven’t even let us take a shower.”
“Anyone question you?”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“Kind of freaky, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t just kind of freaky, it was all kinds of freaky.
“Did Harris tell you anything?” Lanier asked.
Nate repeated what he thought were the key points from Harris’s monologue, and added, “He did say another guest was coming tomorrow.”
“That’ll make five.”