‘Um . . . what’s going on?’ I asked.
‘I have no idea. How do you feel?’
I rubbed my forehead. ‘Like I’ve been sleeping for twenty-four hours.’
‘Me too. I don’t like this feeling.’
‘Me neither.’
‘What do you remember?’ he asked.
I frowned, rolled my eyes upwards as I thought, as though the answer might be written inside my skull. ‘I don’t remember much. It’s all a bit hazy. I remember drinking the liquid, then tying you up . . . but after that it’s vague.’
‘So you don’t remember anything that happened in the cupboard?’
‘No. What happened in the cupboard?’
He gave his head a small, tight shake. ‘Maybe now’s not the time or place. We can talk about it later.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
He didn’t reply; just stared straight ahead like he was suddenly very interested in the floor.
I rubbed my temples again. ‘Do you feel like your thoughts have slowed down?’
‘Yes,’ he said immediately.
‘Do you feel like the things you remember . . . aren’t really real?’
He looked at me. ‘For the most part. Although one memory is still very real to me.’
I didn’t know how long we sat there in silence. Maybe it was five minutes. Maybe it was an hour. We didn’t say anything; all I did was listen to my slow, sluggish thoughts.
Where was the Blade?
Where was Victor?
Where was Amber?
Where were the diamonds?
What had happened?
Slowly my brain began readjusting to this new reality it currently found itself in, i.e. consciousness. My thoughts started speeding up, getting crisper around the edges and more precise. And I could see Cam was feeling the same way, because he stood up. I followed suit, and that was when Agent McKinley came over again.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘We’re feeling well enough for you to tell us what the hell is going on here,’ Cam replied.
McKinley nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He turned and clicked his fingers. Another black-suited man walked over. ‘This is Special Agent Russo, from theFBIArt Crime Team.’
‘I didn’t know theFBIwas interested in art,’ Cam said.
‘We are,’ Russo said. ‘We coordinate theft investigations, operate the National Stolen Art File database, and work closely with international partners to recover stolen masterpieces.’
‘The Picasso,’ I said. I knew exactly where this was going.
‘It was something that came onto our radar, as you can imagine; it’s not every day a Picasso goes missing. So our team, in coordination with South African law enforcement, started digging into Victor and his businesses. And that’s when we found a lot more than just a stolen painting.’
