At the very least, it would be an interesting evening.
64
With Sands leading, and another behind him, Black was escorted through a wide cathedral-style hall, the sun bright and streaming through an arched glass ceiling. Doors on either side. Walls white and smooth, adorned with dazzling oil paintings. The floor a subtle ivory marble. Furniture gleamed. Exquisite, delicate.
“That’s made from real tortoise shell,” explained Sands, pointing to an intricate cabinet – “French. Mr Falconer loves his French furniture.”
They made their way through and into a curving corridor, like a tunnel of glass. The view was of desert. More doors, until reaching a short flight of stairs, leading to a single solid wooden door with ornate hinges.
“You ought to supply a map,” remarked Black.
“One gets used to it,” replied Sands. “This is your room. Or should I say rooms.” He opened the door – a large bedroom, bright, airy, spacious, one side entirely glass. “The next room’s a comfortable living room with a television, plus you have en suite and your own sauna. Enjoy your stay, Mr Lincoln. I’ll be here at 6pm.” Sands left. The door clicked behind him. Black noted the man who had accompanied them remained outside. Mr Falconer liked his security.
Black turned to the glass wall, considering the view, the expanse of desert sand. He was in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by his enemies. Unarmed. Without any real plan.
He would probably die in this God-forsaken place. He’d make damn sure he didn’t die alone.
There was a soft knock at his bedroom door at 4pm. Black answered. It was one of the men he’d travelled with in the Range Rover. He was carrying what appeared to be a suit and shirt, wrapped in polythene, draped over his forearm, and a pair of shoes.
“Sorry for intruding,” he said. “Mr Falconer likes his guests to be well dressed for dinner. He thinks you might appreciate a change of clothes. No disrespect intended.”
“None taken. I hope they fit.”
“Mr Falconer is rarely wrong about such things.”
“I’m sure.”
“Mr Sands will be here at 6pm to escort you to the dining room.”
“Thank you.”
Black took the garments. He noticed the guard was still sitting at the opposite wall outside. Black nodded. The guard merely looked back, at him and through him. Black closed the door. He’d showered, watched some mindless crap on television. It hadn’t escaped him he was a prisoner. Probably wise, from Falconer’s point of view. If his game really was child trafficking, the less people snooped around, the better.
The curtains were electric, able to be drawn by the push of a button. Black preferred them open, less claustrophobic. He doubted anyone was looking in through the massive window forming one side of his bedroom. The sun was setting, giving the room a subtle orange cast. The landscape was flat desert, punctuated with dots of cactus and prickly scrub. He changed, regarding himself in a full-length mirror. Black had been given a dinner suit, white evening shirt, black bow tie, black shoes. A perfect fit. The last time he’d worn an outfit like this, he had killed several men.
He sat on a heavy leather chair in the living room section of his suite. There was nothing to do but wait. He picked up a magazine, idly flicking through some pages. The National Geographic. He tossed it to one side.
Black knew all about fear. He’d experienced it in its many manifestations. It wasn’t that he was impervious to it. He merely had a knack of dealing with it differently from the norm. Or so he imagined. He had seen men collapse and cry in the heat of battle. He wasn’t critical of such a reaction. He knew he was different. Perhaps it was in him. Perhaps he had been trained to think a certain way. But he possessed a state of mind that allowed him to step outside himself, and watch as a dispassionate observer. That way he could act, and react objectively, without judgement being clouded.
He did so now. He watched himself, and laughed grimly. How the fuck do you get out of this one, Captain Black?
He had no answer. Actually, he did. There was probably no way out. He would die, in this beautiful house, under a desert sky.
But death would be welcome. Black looked at himself again in the mirror, and acknowledged a sad and bitter fact.
He had nothing to live for.
His reverie was interrupted. Another soft, respectful knock. It was 6pm.
Time for dinner with Mr Falconer.
65
Black was taken to another section of the ranch, to the dining room. The décor changed as he passed through corridors, rooms, as did the style of furniture. The man called Norman Sands escorted him, referring to him as Mr Lincoln, which Black found somewhat surreal, if not grimly humorous. He was followed by two men, who said nothing.
The dining room had a distinctly Japanese feel. In one corner stood a human-sized samurai statue, dressed in full regalia. Black sat at one end of a long marble dining table. There were four places set. Sands sat on one side, to his right. The two men each moved discreetly to the corners of the room behind Black.
“Mr Falconer will be with us any second. There’s to be another guest, though I haven’t been told who it is. He likes his secrets.”
“So it seems.”
Black’s nerves tingled. He was about to confront his enemy. There was cutlery on the table. Suddenly he had access to a knife. It would do little good. He’d be shot in a millisecond.
French doors to Black’s left shoulder suddenly opened. A man entered, followed by two others, who stationed themselves in the two opposite corners of the room. The man sat at the other end of the table. He was dressed formally, like Black. Dinner suit, bow tie.
“Good evening, Mr Lincoln,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr Falconer.”
Black appraised him. A man maybe mid-sixties. Tanned, very fit looking. Full head of glossy, dark
