Colonel Jaime Valencia stood in the doorway. He was wearing a pair of jogging pants and a sweatshirt; he looked older out of his uniform. Ellie’s eye was drawn to the pistol that rested on a small telephone table to the colonel’s left. He saw that she had seen it, and gave a shrug. “It wasn’t that long ago that my predecessor was murdered,” he said. “A knock at the door after midnight is rarely good news, especially so in a place like this. Agent Flowers—how did you know where I lived?”

She shuffled uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s probably best if I don’t tell you that.”

He regarded her with suspicion. “Not an auspicious start to our conversation.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m afraid I have some other things to tell you that you might not like.”

“Isn’t that intriguing? It’s late, Agent. What is it?”

“Do you mind if I come inside?”

Valencia thought about that, and, for a moment, Ellie wondered if he was going to suggest that she make an appointment tomorrow. But he didn’t; instead, he stepped aside and gestured that she should come through.

“This way,” he said, leading her through the house to a room that was evidently used as an office. He took a stack of papers from a chair and indicated that she should sit. He went around to the other side, wheeled his chair away from the desk, and sat down. “Now, then. What is so important that you need to bother me so late?”

97

The cellar was dark. Milton looked around for any sign that there might be a window or a door, but found nothing. The floor was damp and he could hear the repetitive ticking of a drip as water fell down from the ceiling somewhere to his right. His hands were still secured with the zip ties.

He was in trouble.