A key sounded in the lock. The double doors swung open, and in walked a moderately overweight, suave-looking man, fifty or so, who stood there as calmly as if he were assessing a pair of ballroom dancers. His right hand was wrapped around a walking stick capped with the tennis-ball-sized head of a lion, either bronze or, more likely given the opulence of Red Cliff, gold. His other hand comfortably grasped a tumbler of whiskey. Kazimi, who had lived his life in relative self-denial, disliked the man at once. He had a broad and flat nose and the coal-dark eyes of a predator. The impressive cane was more than decoration. The new arrival walked with a modest limp, favoring his right leg. Kazimi’s thought of overpowering him lasted only until two beefy men—one white, one black—materialized behind the man, filling the doorway.

“Thank you Harris,” the fat cat said. “You did well, as usual.”

“Dr. Kazimi,” Harris said, “may I present to you the master of this house, Mr. Douglas Bacon.”

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

The only entitlement guaranteed should be the fruits of one’s own labor.

—LANCASTER R, HILL, A Secret Worth Keeping, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1937, P.199

“Pleased to meet you, doctor,” Bacon said, gracefully maneuvering his tumbler of whiskey to the hand holding the cane so he could offer his free hand to Kazimi. Eyeing Bacon’s hand with contempt, Kazimi kept his arms tightly folded across his chest. It was a small display of defiance, but at this moment even the smallest victories mattered. “Very well,” Bacon said, returning the tumbler to his right hand and indulging in a sip. “As you wish.”

“I wish to leave here now!” Kazimi snapped.

“That, I am afraid, is not possible. We need your help.”

“Exactly who are ‘we,’ Mr. Bacon?” Kazimi asked.

“Please, call me Doug. And all answers in good time, doctor. All in good time.”

No one disagrees with or even questions him, Kazimi thought. Ever. Keep the pressure on. Someone is going to crack. If not Bacon, one of the others I will be asked to deal with in Red Cliff. Someone is going to show me the way out of here.

“What do you want with me? What is this all about?” Kazimi’s demands came out without nearly the force he had intended. Most likely, the drugs in his system still lingered. “Who are you?”

“I am not your enemy, Dr. Kazimi,” Bacon said with the hint of a Southern accent. “That is the first thing you need to know. Or would you prefer I call you Dr. Farooq, the name you abandoned when you left Stanford and went to work for the FBI?”

“Whatever you want from me, you’re not going to get it.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Where are my clothes?”

Kazimi tugged at his silk pajamas as though they were burning his skin.