Stratton could only look at the girl blankly. He was well and truly busted. But there was something curious about the way she was presenting her findings. She seemed to be acting independently, for one thing. Another oddity was that there was no locked door between them, as if the fact that he was not a threat was a given. He thought about revealing his cover story about being an independent security surveyor. But his instincts warned him to keep that to himself for the moment. It was his get-out-of-jail card and he wasn’t ready to get out yet. Perhaps there was mileage to be gained from her thinking that he was a US-government-sponsored implant, which technically he was. That put them on the same side, as long as she was who she said she was. ‘What now?’ he asked.
She went to her laptop, closed it and put it in a small briefcase which she zipped up. ‘Do you know why they sabotaged the ferry?’
He did not but neither did he want to admit that he knew it had been sabotaged - not yet, at any rate. She was probably guessing anyway.
The young woman seemed to read his mind. ‘You weren’t the only undercover prisoner on the ferry.They either knew about you or about him.’ She stared at him, waiting for something back. He just looked at her. ‘Christ, you’re some kind of asshole. I’m sticking my neck out here and you’re giving me nothing.’
It did indeed appear that she had gone over the top to help him. By admitting she knew there was a fed on board and the reason for the sabotage she was also coming clean about her true affiliations. It was doubtful that she was one of the bad guys looking for a confession because she wouldn’t need any more than she already had on him. ‘What do you want from me?’ Stratton asked.
‘Something that tells me I haven’t risked making myself vulnerable for nothing.’
They locked stares. She could sense he was no longer suspicious of her and, although she had initially been concerned over giving away too much about herself, it did calm her fears. She had not wanted to give him anything at first but her conscience would not allow her to ignore the danger he was in. He was clearly a US government employee and had almost died trying to do his job. It was a miracle he had survived. But he was still in serious danger and she could not turn her back on that. On the flip side, she could not do much to help him, either. It was all down to what kind of a man he was.
‘Does anyone else know?’ Stratton asked.
She shook her head. ‘You want my advice, whatever panic button you have that gets you out of here, I’d push it now.’
It was sound advice, but he was not ready to act on it quite yet. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done,’ he said sincerely. ‘Trust me, I do . . . I’m going to stay.’
His appreciation seemed genuine and that was good enough for her. He had come clean. She had never expected him to tell her which department he worked for or the details of his task although it was obvious enough. Everyone but the CIA wanted the facility closed down. His intention to stay on track with his task, considering what had happened to him and the dangers that remained, revealed a quality that impressed her. She could sense that she was in the company of no ordinary man.
There was a hiss from the next room that alerted them to someone arriving.
The girl quickly closed Stratton’s cage door, picked up her bag and walked to the entrance. ‘We probably won’t meet again,’ she said, reaching for the door.‘Good luck.’
‘You too,’ he said.
She paused for a second before opening the door and Stratton thought he saw her expression soften. She closed the door behind her.
He could hear her talking with a man for a few seconds then there was another loud hiss and a clunk. A moment later the frosted-glass door opened and a portly Indian man wearing the classic uniform of a doctor - a white coat and a stethoscope poking out of his breast pocket - walked in. He looked over his glasses at Stratton.‘Ah. Lazarus rises.And if you’re not a Christian I don’t mean to offend. How are you feeling?’ he said cheerily, his Indian accent only barely perceptible behind some North American overtone whose identity Stratton could not begin to guess.
‘Fine,’ Stratton replied.
The doctor looked across the room at the false window and made a beeline for it. ‘My name’s Doctor Mani. I expect you’re thirsty,’ he said as he toggled the switch on the side of the frame until the New York skyline returned. The bird immediately attempted to land on the ledge. ‘There. Can’t stand the feeling I’m under the water all the time. I understand they’re considering providing something like this for the inmates’ cells. Or is it the galley? Yes, I think it’s the galley. A bit of atmosphere during mealtimes.They come in practically any landscape. I think they even have one of Mars, though God only knows who would want to feel they were on another planet. As if this place wasn’t enough,’ he added as he adjusted the brightness and then stood back to admire it. ‘Now then, soon as we have a drink I’ll run a series of tests, see how you’re coming along, and then let’s see if we can get you back into the mainstream as soon as possible.’
Stratton remained seated on the edge of the bed, wondering what this man had done to deserve his job.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
Stratton looked up at the doctor. He was still feeling unwell and was content to make it appear he was worse than he was.
‘Can you hear me? Can you talk?’ Dr Mani asked, putting on a professional smile.
‘I can hear you OK.’
‘Good . . . Now,’ the doctor said, reaching for a small plastic container, ‘first thing I need is a urine sample. Can you manage that for me?’ he asked, handing the container to Stratton.
Stratton took it and forced a smile.
‘I’ll leave you alone for a moment,’ the doctor said, leaving the room.
Stratton held the container and sighed. He decided now that he was in Styx he had officially begun his mission. He thought if he looked at it that way he could put behind him all the mishaps so far and start afresh. He was not surprised that this perception had not made him feel the slightest bit better.
Christine walked along a broad central corridor, the rock walls and ceiling dripping water onto a suspended shroud, intended to protect pedestrians, and on the outer edges of the metal walkway. A couple of prisoners wearing face masks and canisters on their backs were spraying the mildew and weeds that gathered in the crevices. A guard stood idly by. ‘Mornin’, ma’am,’ he said as she passed, eyeing her bottom. The prisoners paused to do the same.
Christine ignored them and headed along the corridor, the sound of her footsteps mingling with the noises of running water moving along channels beneath her feet and hissing air ducts above. An indistinct voice came over a loudspeaker further down the tunnel, followed by what sounded like a gong. The prison provided a kind of talking clock accompanied by various sounds but as far as she could tell it was grossly inaccurate. Like so many aspects of the prison, the seeds of good intention were visible but the execution was abysmal.
She headed up a spiral staircase inside a vertical rock tunnel that opened into a spacious cavern. It was constructed of a combination of steel girders, concrete and rock. One wall had a line of large round portholes, the six-inch-thick glass yellow with reflections from outside lights that illuminated any creatures that passed by. There was a single large white airlock door in the cavern that was more ornate than the others, suggesting it was an ‘exclusive’ entrance. She pushed a button on the side of the door and looked at a camera in front of her.