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“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“No.”
Sam chuckled. “There’s no crime in admitting it.”
“Just do what you’re going to do. Get it over with.”
“What exactly do you think we’re going to do to you?” asked Sam.
“Torture me?”
“If that’s your first guess, you must keep some nasty company.”
“Then why did you take me?”
“I’d hoped you’d be willing to answer some questions for us.”
“You’re American,” Yaotl said.
“How could you tell? My winning smile?”
“Your accent.”
“And I’m guessing you’re Mexican.”
No response.
“And based on the gun you were carrying and how you and your partners moved, you’re either current or former military.”
Now Yaotl’s eyes narrowed. “You’re CIA.”
“Me? No. I have a friend who is, though.”
This was true. During his time at DARPA Sam had undergone covert operative training at the CIA’s Camp Perry facility, the hope being that by seeing how field operatives work DARPA’s engineers could better supply their needs. Going through the program at the same time was a CIA case officer named Rube Haywood. He and Sam had become friends and remained close ever since.
“And that friend has friends,” Sam added. “In places like Turkey and Bulgaria and Romania . . . I think they call it ‘rendition.’ You’ve heard of rendition, I’m sure. Grim-faced guys in black jump-suits shove you aboard a plane, you disappear somewhere for a few weeks, then come back with an aversion to electricity and power drills.”
The rendition part was, of course, a bluff, but Sam’s presentation had the desired effect: Yaotl’s eyes were gaping, his lower lip trembling.
Abruptly, Sam stood up. “So, how about some food. Is bread okay?”
Yaotl nodded.
SAM FED HIM a half loaf of chapati bread and a liter of mineral water from a sports bottle, then asked, “About that friend of mine . . . should I call him or will you answer a few questions?”
“I’ll answer.”
Sam took him through the basics: his full name; the names of his partners, including Hawk Nose; who they worked for; had they come to Zanzibar looking for him and Remi; what were they supposed to accomplish; the name of their mother ship. . . Most of the questions Yaotl could answer only partially. He was simply a civilian contractor, he claimed, a former member of Mexico’s Special Forces Airmobile Group, or GAFE. He’d been recruited four days earlier by a man named Itzli Rivera, aka Hawk Nose, also a former member of GAFE, to come to Zanzibar and “find some people.” He’d been given no further background, nor had Rivera explained why Sam and Remi had been targeted. Nor was he sure whether Rivera was working for himself or someone else.
“But you saw him on the phone several times, correct?” Sam asked. “Did it sound like he was reporting in?”
“It’s possible. I only overheard parts.”
Sam questioned him for another ten minutes, at the end of which Yaotl asked, “What will you do with me?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“But you said you wouldn’t—Hey, wait!”
