The man sneered and spoke with a thick Australian accent. “Drop the charade, Desmond. I don’t believe the whole amnesia bit.”

“Look, I have absolutely no idea who you are. I woke up in a hotel room in Berlin a few days ago with no memories. I didn’t even know who I was.”

“We’ll see about that.” The man brought a handheld radio to his face and said, “Proceed.”

Inside the cell, a soft hissing began. Desmond looked around, searching for the source: the slot in the wall, where he had assumed food was passed. He was unconscious within seconds.

Awareness came in slow, fuzzy waves. Desmond’s head felt heavy. He heard distorted voices, like people conversing quietly at the top of a well, with him deep inside.

The light overhead was blinding. He was strapped to a chair similar to a dentist’s chair, his legs fully extended, his head strapped back. An IV was connected inside his elbow. A machine beeped somewhere beyond his vision.

“What have you done with Rendition?” It was the blond, scar-faced man.

“He’s conscious,” another man’s voice said.

“Dose him again!”

“You’re giving him too much. You’ve got to let it wear off.”

“Do it.”

When Desmond awoke once more, he was back on the narrow mattress in the metal and glass cell. His mind was sluggish, still drug-addled.

Just beyond the glass, the blond man sat on a folding metal chair next to a small table, studying a tablet, his legs crossed. He set the device aside when Desmond stirred. His demeanor had changed: the hatred in his eyes was gone, replaced by a more serene, contemplative gaze.

Desmond sat up. “You believe me now?” he asked.

“Yes.” The man stood and walked to the glass.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Conner McClain. Does that mean anything to you?”

Desmond shook his head.

Conner turned his back to the glass. “Right now, events are taking place that will forever alter the course of human history. Behind the scenes, behind the headlines, a war is raging. Very soon, it will explode around the world.”

Headlines, Desmond thought. “The outbreak in Kenya.”

“Yes.”

“You’re responsible. You started it.”

“No, Desmond. We started it.”

The words hit Desmond like a Mack truck. He searched his feelings, wondering if it was true.

“We’re running out of time,” Conner said. “I need your help. I need you to tell me everything that happened to you. I need you to help me stop what’s going to happen to all of us.”

“Let me out.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Consider my position, Desmond. I don’t know what happened to you.”

“What do you think happened to me?”

“I see two possibilities. The first is that one of our enemies got to you. And they’re using you to try to stop us.”

“One of our enemies?”