Stone held up a hand. “Hear them out.”

Cantrell pulled a chair over and sat down. “Have you ever wondered why Montez ended your interrogation so suddenly?”

He had, many times. When he’d last seen Montez, he’d been at death’s door. He remembered seeing Montez leave the jungle camp and assumed it would only be for a few hours or the rest of the day. But Montez never came back. During the long months of debriefing, mental therapy, and physical rehabilitation that followed—and the decade and a half since passed—Nathan had never been able to answer that simple question. Why did Montez stop torturing him and abruptly disappear?

“This won’t be easy for you, but what I’m about to say never leaves this room. Ever.”

Nathan said nothing, waiting.

“Although Montez was never able to get your identity or what agency you worked for, he had his suspicions. It didn’t require a leap of logic to conclude you were working for the U.S. government. He made contact with the CIA after your second week of captivity.”

He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Are you telling me the CIA knew I was alive?”

“Yes.”

“And they didn’t mount a rescue?”

“We couldn’t risk sending in more teams in to look for you. Your location wasn’t known. You became Montez’s insurance policy.”

“Insurance policy? For what?”

“We paid him off to stop interrogating you, keep quiet, and let you go. We also agreed not to pursue him. Eight million dollars to a numbered account of his choice. Half paid immediately, the other half when we had you back.”

“He never released me. He left me there to die.”