Inside Man

by Jeff Abbott

  “Why is the soup cold, 47?” Nanny said.

  I ate half of it before I answered because I was afraid it would be taken away. “Because if it was hot I might throw it on the guards.”

  “That’s a very perceptive and revealing answer—my favorite kind.” I thought she might stick a gold star to my face, to adorn my number.

  She let me eat the rest of the soup. “Thank you,” I said when I put down the spoon, since we were playing at a charade of civility. The smock lady cleared the bowl and brought a dish with a sandwich on it. The bread was a French baguette, slices of ham, smeared with mustard and crisp lettuce and onions. I ate half of it, trying not to choke the food down. They all watched me in silence.

  “And why is the sandwich cold, 47?” Nanny asked when I was halfway through eating.

  “You’re not smart enough to operate a toaster?”

  “Take the food away,” she said, and the smock lady did. I didn’t fight it. The guard and the doctor watched in silence. “You won’t get to eat again for a while, so I hope your jokes were worth it.”

  “I don’t know what answer you want me to give. It’s not a question with an obvious answer.” I thought of killing her with the sandwich: shove the ham or bread far up both nostrils, clamp a hand over the mouth, watch Nanny struggle.

  “The correct answer is—because I said so. That is reason enough. Most people have not been in an environment of absolute control since they were infants. It’s an adjustment.”

  She didn’t smile again. “We have many guests who are, and I don’t mean to be unkind, soft. You are not soft, 47. Guests like you sadly, often, do not thrive. It’s a shame. Now. Tonight you rest. Tomorrow you have your surgery. And then you can eat again, and you can—what is it the Americans say—find your place here.”

  “What surgery?” I tried to keep my voice calm. This is bad, I thought. Of all the situations you’ve been in, this is the worst. A chill ran its finger along my bones.

  Then she did smile, an awful cruel mask. “Dreadful, not knowing, isn’t it? We could castrate you. Or blind you. Or cut out your tongue. Maybe we harvest all your organs and so it’s really not a surgery you ever wake up from. I guess that depends on how the day goes.” She leaned back from me. “I confess, and it’s awful, that I sometimes think that would be the best use for some of our guests.”

  If she wanted to scare me, it was working. I was scared. I had not been this scared since my office in London was bombed and Lucy, pregnant with Daniel, was kidnapped before my eyes while the street burned.

  “What surgery?” I asked again. My voice was barely a whisper.

  Nanny got up to leave. She gestured for me to stand. I did, groggily. The guard picked up the table. The smock lady took one chair and the doctor took the other—apparently I was to be left without a chair. So their hands were busy. And I was scared. But I also thought I might not get another chance.

  I thought of Marianne, and the corridor in the hotel, and what had worked in that moment.

  I grabbed the doctor, yanked him toward me, seized a used immunization syringe in his pocket. The guard started to drop the table and I grabbed the doctor around the neck. With my thumb I yanked back the plunger and jabbed the needle into his throat.

  54

  EVERYONE FROZE. EXCEPT Nanny. She smiled and folded her hands serenely in front of her. “But you were off to such a good start. You didn’t even cry. Most of them cry. It’s so tiresome.”

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said.

  “Yes, tell us,” Nanny said.

  I hoped I wouldn’t collapse. “If you don’t do what I say, Doc here gets a giant air bubble in his carotid.” He wriggled against me and I made a little shushing sound.

  The guard leveled a weapon at me—a pistol—and Nanny said, “Let’s be mindful of the doctor’s well-being. Let him go.”

  “We are going back to the delivery bay where you uncrated me,” I said. “And you are going to open the doors and we are getting out of here.”

  “Please,” the doctor said. “Please.”

  “Now. Or he dies,” I said.

  “Well, I abhor cliché, but if he dies, you die,” Nanny said.

  “I think you want me alive,” I said. “I just have a suspicion. You have to report to Kent on me. He wants me alive.”

  “If you love something,” Nanny said, “set it free.” I couldn’t decide if her capitulation was a shade too fast. She put a hand on the chest of the guard. “Let them go. Perhaps a touch of exercise will be good for him.”

  It was not at all reassuring.

  The doctor and I backed past the food tray, the smock lady looked pale and frightened. Back into the hallway. Past the doors. A few were now open and as we backtracked I saw a single person sitting on their bed in each one. Wearing an orange jumpsuit like mine. A number written on their chest. Men and woman, old and young. They looked at me with haunted, gaunt faces, eyes bled of energy, flaring slightly in surprise as a prisoner went by holding a syringe in the doctor’s neck.

  Guests, she’d called them.

  This is a prison.

  I was practically running backward by the time we went down the hallway. I was afraid of breaking the needle, losing my leverage, so I slowed down. We got to the delivery bay, where the crate I’d come in lay open—and yes, marked with customs clearance stamps and labeled BIOLOGICAL PRODUCTS and DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT PROPER PROTOCOLS and THIS SIDE UP MANDATORY, in Spanish, Portuguese, and English, all with the FastFlex logo—and beyond that was a garage door.

  “Open it,” I ordered. The doctor hit a button and the door cranked loudly upward.

  The door opened into bright sunlight. We were atop a hill and before me lay an expanse of…green. Jungle. Dense. Overgrown. And nothing else. Not another sign of habitation or another person. A dirt road cut into the green and promptly vanished into the wall of growth.

  “There is nowhere for you to go. Nowhere,” the doctor said.

  “Where are we?” I whispered.

  “We’re not even on a map,” the doctor said. I yanked him toward the door and then the guards were pouring in, one of them coming in from outside, and one fired right into my back. The impact against my spine felt like a fist.

  Not a bullet. A dart. More drugs. I let go of the doctor, my fingers numb. He yanked the syringe out of his neck.

  “Congratulations. I’m the one doing your surgery tomorrow,” he said as the blackness crowded out the light.

  55

  I WOKE UP on a bed. The drugs still snaked through my blood; my body and brain rebelled against them. At least my spirit did. I wasn’t bound to the bed. The doctor walked in and looked down at me.

  “Good morning, 47.” He didn’t look the worse for wear, but there was a bandage on his neck. “Running blood work on you, since we shared a needle, and if you’ve created a problem for me there will hell to pay.”

  “I’m healthy.”

  “You were. What you will be in the days ahead remains to be seen. You’ll be glad to know the surgery went well.” He cracked a smile.

  I realized I was looking at him with just one eye. The other was bandaged. My hands flew to the bandage over my right eye. There was no pain. Just a numbness.

  No, no, I thought.

  He laughed, he laughed at me, and then he tore the bandage off. I blinked. His smile came into full focus. My eye was fine.

  “The person who shipped you to us doesn’t want you maimed. Yet. That’s the only reason your thumb isn’t on Nanny’s necklace.”

  “What did you do to me?”

  “We implanted a tracking chip in you. We always know where you are. You can’t cut it out. We own you now, 47.”

  “I have a name.”

  “You had a name. Now you have a number and a chip.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Where no one will find you.”

  “So, do you have a name? Or do you have a number?”

  “They call me Mengele. Obviously not my
real name. But symbols carry much weight here.”

  The numbers written on the face. The necklace of bones. A doctor named Mengele, the name designed to unsettle the nerves. All calculated to strip you of identity, to grow the seeds of fear.

  “Mengele and Nanny. Charming. Do the guards have pet names?” I sat up slowly and I could feel the bandage on the back of my neck. That must be where Mengele placed the chip. The infirmary looked like a normal hospital room, larger than usual, five beds, well equipped. All the beds were empty except for a woman in her seventies, pale and fragile, sleeping on the other side of the room. One of her wrists was heavily bound.

  Two of the guards stood in the doorway, watching me. I waved.

  “Nanny will tell you this,” Mengele said, “but perhaps you’ll believe it from me, since we bonded during your escape attempt. You’re not going anywhere. You can fight the system here or you can adapt to it. Those who adapt have a comfortable life. Those who don’t, don’t. It’s common sense, but I am continually amazed at how many people lack common sense.”

  “I’ll take what you said to heart, Doctor,” I said. No way I was playing the game and calling this jerk Mengele.

  “Come with us,” the guard said.

  I stood, unsteadily, and got dressed in the numbered jumpsuit they’d provided me.

  The guards sat me in a wheelchair and steered me out of the infirmary. “I’ll check on you later, 47,” Mengele said. His tone was almost kindly.

  The guards wheeled me out into the hallway. We went through two locked doors the guards opened with electronic passkeys they kept tethered on their belts, and then we right-turned into a large open area.

  And I saw the other prisoners. Men and women both, a range of ages but most of them older than forty, most wearing white jumpsuits, a few in blue or orange, each with their identifying number on it. They sat at tables, talking in small groups, reading books, staring out into space. They all looked at me like the new kid in school coming into the cafeteria. Silence, awkward, fell. There was only the sound of the squeak of the wheelchair.

  And then a man in an orange jumpsuit got up and approached me—younger than the rest, heavy-shouldered, blond, eyes like blue ice—and he kicked my wheelchair over. My guards did nothing to stop him; one laughed. I landed on the cold concrete and the pain in my neck flared like a sudden flame.

  “You tried to escape,” the man said in Hungarian-accented English. “You try, we all suffer. All of us. No food today. Because you tried.”

  “I didn’t know…”

  “Not knowing is no excuse. You don’t try to escape, idiot!” He kicked at me again, missed, hit my shoulder. The one I’d wounded before, foolishly saving Rey Varela. I didn’t feel it through the haze of painkillers.

  “Okay, 32, that’s enough.” The guard produced a baton and pushed the Hungarian back.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the room. “Sorry!” Then I repeated it in Spanish, French, German, Arabic, Japanese, trying to cover my bases. A slight murmur arose from the crowd. Then I looked at the Hungarian. “And sorry to you, too,” I said in his native tongue. The crowd stayed silent and they watched the guards haul me back into the chair. The Hungarian just stared at me.

  Just standard bullying, I thought, but then I looked up and there were four skulls mounted on the wall.

  Human skulls.

  With numbers underneath them: 2, 5, 15, 19. In what otherwise would look like a simple cafeteria. Watching over us all.

  It made me think of the three Varela wives, their portraits on the wall, mournful queens over that house of tragedy and death.

  “Lucky you’re not fresh up there,” the guard said. “’Course, they put the fresh head up on a pole in the yard. Let nature do its work before they put it where everyone has to eat. Then we boil and scrape off the flesh, what’s not taken by the birds; I don’t think they use a kitchen pot for that, but who knows.” He smiled at my involuntary shudder. “We’re not animals here.”

  He wheeled me to Nanny’s office. It could have belonged to any chief executive at a major company. A fine desk, a laptop, fresh tropical flowers on the credenza. A narrow window offered a spectacular view of the endless jungle landscape and the empty sky. The glass was thick. Bulletproof.

  Nanny sat at the desk. Her dark suit was immaculate. She was reading a file, or at least pretending to study it.

  “47! Good morning. I hope your mood has improved. The surgery seems to have gone well.”

  “Better than I hoped,” I said dryly.

  “So. What do you think of your new home?”

  “32 attacked him in the commons,” one of the guards said. “Sort of a group hug from the other guests.”

  Guests. Please, let me wake up from this nightmare. I shook the thought away. That was the start of surrender, and that was what Nanny wanted.

  “Ah. We don’t allow violence here. It’s unseemly, considering the excellence of the guest list. I’m afraid you’ll both have to be punished.”

  “He attacked me. I did nothing.” My voice rose.

  “But he attacked you because of what you’d done,” the guard said. “So you’re responsible as well.”

  “Logic is so flexible here,” I said.

  “Sarcasm is a prison we make for ourselves,” Nanny answered.

  “This is a real prison,” I said.

  Nanny seemed to ponder the word. “It used to be a prison. Now I prefer to think of it as an information farm.”

  “And what, we’re the seeds? Growing ripe until harvest?”

  “Ah. That’s clever. You just seem smarter than your file would indicate. Are you who you say you are?” She smiled again.

  “Sam Cheval—” The guard slammed the baton between my shoulders. Below the bandage, below the incision. I nearly collapsed from the pain.

  “Your number.”

  “47,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “You will not find common criminals here, 47. No. This is the cream of the crop. These are minds worth saving, worth delving into, for their secrets. These are people who both their loved ones and their enemies wish to preserve. For a time, at least. They tell me what they want to know and I make it happen.” She touched the necklace.

  A prison, in the middle of a jungle. With no rules imposed by law or a governmental authority. No outside observers. No rights. No way to communicate with the outside world. A hidden hell.

  “The Varelas’ clients are…this prison. Who runs it?”

  “That’s an excellent question. But not one for which you need an answer. In fact, I’m the one who gets to ask questions. Shall we start?” She got up and poured me a paper cup of water. “I always prefer to give a new guest a chance to start out in a civilized manner. Although I must say, I nearly made an exception of you. You understand now how pointless escape is.” She touched the necklace again. A psychopath with her little own bureaucracy.

  “I see that now.” I was done with defiance, at least to their faces. They could track me. There was nowhere to run. I would have to find my own way out, and the only way to do that was to play along for the moment. Otherwise I’d be constantly drugged, or worse, thumbless, and I thought of the empty gazes of some of the guests in the cafeteria. Was that because they were drugged or because hope had died in their hearts? “I’m sorry for the trouble I caused.”

  “I don’t believe you, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “I’m a survivor, Nanny. I always have been. I get along.”

  “Except with the Varelas.” She laughed, amused at her own joke. “Perhaps you shouldn’t brag on yourself at the moment.”

  I said nothing.

  “I am very good at sifting,” Nanny said. “I am very good at discerning lies from truth. Because I find ways to encourage others to be their best. To share. To not put themselves first anymore. I made my living at it, during a difficult time in my homeland’s history. People lived or died depending on whether or not I believed them.”

  She was so smug.
I fought the anger down. I needed to stay cool.

  “They want to know what you know about their operations. What Cordelia told you, or what you learned on your own. They want to know who sent you to Cordelia, who you work for. They want to know what your plan was once you tore down Galo and Zhanna. Simple.”

  “And when I answer all your questions?”

  “Then apparently Cordelia wants you back. Functioning in all the important ways. That’s why she’s cooperated.”

  She well might, but I didn’t think Kent would let that happen. It wasn’t the Varelas running the show now, he was. I wouldn’t leave here. They would never risk it. This was a permanent exile.

  “Shall we begin?” she asked.

  “My answers are simple. I am Cordelia’s boyfriend. She asked me to come to a family gathering. I used to work in smuggling and I know how to handle myself in a fight. I was never conspiring against Galo and Zhanna or any of the Varelas; I only wanted to protect Cordelia. I was grabbed by the clients—the owners of this prison, I assume—and asked to deliver a message to the Varelas. I did. I didn’t kill Zhanna, someone else did, and now I’m here. So, having done what the very owners of this fine establishment wanted, I find myself punished.”

  “You spied on Kent and Galo and Zhanna.”

  “I was trying to protect Cordelia.”

  “She must be something else in the bedroom, to inspire such effort and loyalty. Is it lined with gold?” Her voice was merry for a moment. “None of that here. Unless you take it by force. Or get taken.”

  I said nothing.

  “Who sent you? Who hired you to attack the Varelas? Clearly you’re for hire, a clever boy like you. Tell me.”

  I was in the position of answering an unanswerable question. In a prison. It wasn’t a good feeling.

  “No one. I met Cordelia, we started dating.”

  “Dating,” she said with a laugh. “Ah, the Varelas are like a telenovela some days. Some men who were following Cordelia ended up dead. I think you had a hand in that.”