of looking through some papers. She waited patiently while he pretended to read the name for the first time. “Zachary Hightower. The American.”
Zoya imagined Salerno had thought of nothing else other than Zack Hightower since the day before, when her contact reached out to Salerno with the bribe offer.
Just as nonchalantly, he asked, “What is your interest in the prisoner?”
“I have no interest in him. I’ve been sent on an errand. Doing my job. As are you, Colonel Salerno.”
The older man regarded the comment, seemed to think it over, as if there were a chance he wouldn’t hand over the man. In truth, she knew full well that he was just beginning the process of jockeying for more money.
Zoya had been down this road a time or two.
She said, “The prisoner. How is he?”
“You have concerns about his health?”
“Only in that I would like him to be able to walk under his own power, and talk when necessary.”
The colonel smiled. “It’s not a health spa I’m running.”
Zoya said nothing.
“I am told he is fine. He’s only been here a number of days. Give him a month, maybe, and he’ll be . . . different.” The man smiled.
Zoya opened her purse and put the thick folder on the metal desk. “I’ll take him as is. Now, as far as a holding and handling fee for Mr. Hightower, I am certain you will be pleased with this generous offer.”
Salerno did not touch it at first. Instead he winked at her. “I don’t accept rubles.”
“Then it’s good I brought euros. Fifty thousand.”
He made a face as if he had been insulted by her offer. “One hundred,” he countered.
Without hesitation, Zoya said, “Forty-five thousand.”
“What?”
“Forty thousand. I’m on a mission for someone else, I don’t care if you say yes or no.”
“Wait. Wait! Okay! Make it fifty again, and I agree.”
The woman shook her head. “Forty. I leave with him now and you get the money. I leave without him and you don’t.” The two of them stared at each other for a time, and then Salerno looked away, down at the folder, and he opened it.
Counting the money, he found exactly forty thousand euros. “How did you know—”
The woman interrupted. “I need to get him on a plane to Moscow by noon. May I have him delivered to exit processing? I can bring my car directly to the tunnel if you will ask your security officer to allow my entrance.”
Salerno raised an eyebrow. “You know our system, and you know the layout of our facility. Interesting. Obviously, you’ve been here before.”
“And I’ll probably be here again, Colonel. Until that time, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
She shook his hand; again there was no warmth, but Salerno was, at least, pleased with himself for scoring the big payday for some American, one whose own nation hadn’t even asked about him.
* * *
• • •
Forty-five minutes later Zoya stood at the open back door of her Toyota Camry looking down a long, dark tunnel. A few guards stood around; Salerno hadn’t left his office but he’d had one of his people bring her vehicle down from the parking garage while two more escorted her through the warren of hallways and staircases to make her way here.
She’d waited only a few minutes when she heard a heavy metal door clang, and then the rattling of chains, somewhere deep in the tunnel. Soon she saw Zack, shuffling along, with a pair of guards flanking him. He wore a light blue jumpsuit and his blond hair was disheveled but, Zoya noticed, he moved along at a strong pace.
As he got closer she noticed that his eyes were downcast, his face had no discernible expression, and, as near as she could tell, he hadn’t even looked up to see her.
At the Toyota his shackles were removed, he was shoved closer to her, and still he stared down to the ground.
Zoya snapped her fingers in the man’s face; he looked up at her and displayed no recognition.
“Hey!” she said. “Can you speak?”
After several seconds he said, “You won’t get me to talk, either.”
Only now did Zoya realize what was going on. She wore a blond wig, makeup that made her eyes look larger and her face appear older than it was.
He didn’t recognize her.
She slapped him hard across the face, stunning him, and he didn’t speak again.
One of the guards said something about the prisoner being “loco,” and Zoya led him to the front passenger seat.
* * *
• •