“Come in,” he managed. His voice, hoarse from disuse and possibly from his having been drugged, sounded foreign.

A key turned in the lock. The double doors swung open on soundless hinges and in walked a stoop-shouldered man with graying hair, neatly parted on the right. He was impeccably dressed in a butler’s uniform, and was wheeling a food cart bearing several trays. The pungent aromas were as familiar to Kazimi as they were pleasing.

“Good evening, sir. My name is Harris. I’m the head butler here. Welcome to Red Cliff.”

“Where is this place? What is it?”

“I have been instructed to tell you that all of the food products and ingredients meet with the dietary restrictions of your religion. I hope you find the preparation to your liking.”

“You’ve been instructed by whom? Who told you to bring me this food?”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir. My orders are to deposit the food cart and then be on my way, and I have maintained my position here at Red Cliff over the years because I always follow orders. Your host will be joining you shortly. Would you like me to set the food out for you, or would you prefer to do it yourself? The utensils you will need are right here.”

Harris pointed to a rolled-up cloth napkin. Kazimi immediately noticed the pointed end of a knife poking out the top. His eyes narrowed as he began thinking of ways he could use the knife to aid in an escape, but he knew the timing was bad. He wanted answers. Who had taken him and why? Who had orchestrated the murders of two FBI agents? First he needed to meet his host. Then he would consider escape.

“Just set the food out,” he ordered disdainfully.

Harris closed the door with his foot.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it locks automatically. If you wish, I’ll stay with you until your host arrives.”

For the next several minutes, Kazimi paced the silk and velvet dungeon while the butler identified, then set out dishes of food on the ebony table—lamb in a turmeric gravy, white potatoes in a rich red sauce, gogji beans with turnip in black pepper gravy, sweet green tea with cardamom—food from the Kashmir region of Pakistan, Kazimi’s home during his early years. Another knock on the door. Harris immediately stopped what he was doing and stood beside Kazimi like a trained dog.

“Come in,” Kazimi called out.