He wandered over to the comfortable chairs that were set out opposite the check-in desks, but did not get the chance to sit. A man wearing a linen jacket, a white shirt and dark slacks pushed through the double doors and made his way into the hotel. He saw Milton and diverted across to him.

“Señor Smith,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Milton said.

“Come with me, please.”

The man put a hand on Milton’s elbow and guided him out of the double doors and onto the street. It was already hot, the sudden warmth washing over Milton after the relative cool of the air conditioning.

“Where are we going?” Milton asked.

“We have a short drive,” the man said.

“Where to?”

“Please. No questions.”

A black Escalade that had been parked on the other side of the turning circle pulled out and looped around, stopping next to them. The man opened the rear door and held it for Milton to get in.

Milton paused; not because he was particularly frightened, but because John Smith would have reason to be perturbed by the mystery, and because he needed these men to see him behave as they would expect.

“What is it?” the man said.

“I’d like to know where we’re going.”

“Get in, please.”

“Where are we going?”

“I take you to a meeting,” the man said with an irritated shrug. “You come or you don’t come. Is up to you. But if you don’t come, my boss—he won’t be happy. You understand what I am saying?”

“Where is the meeting?”

“Outside the city. It will take two hours and then we will be there.” He indicated the open door. “You come? Yes or no?”

“All right,” Milton said. “I’ll come.”

He climbed into the back of the Escalade. There were two men in the front—the driver and a passenger—and the man in the white shirt got into the back next to Milton. His jacket fell open as he sat back, and Milton saw the metallic glint of the pistol that he was wearing in a shoulder rig.

“What do I call you?” Milton asked.

“Francisco,” the man said with a gruff finality that was obviously designed to forestall the possibility of small talk. “Now—give me your phone.”

“Sorry?”

“Your telephone, Señor Smith. Give it to me.”

Milton knew there was no point in arguing. He reached into his pocket, took out his phone and handed it to Francisco. The man held down the button until the phone powered down, and then gave it to the man in the front passenger seat, who put it into the glovebox.

“Thank you,” Francisco said.