She had no idea how long it was before her head cleared, but when it did she saw Faust kneeling by the tattooed man. His hand rested gently on the man’s shoulder, and he spoke softly in his ear. The duct tape was off the tattooed man’s mouth and Kaminski could see that the man’s lips were split, and that he was crying. And speaking too, in urgent, terrified English.

“No, no—not weeks! It’s days, a matter of days. Maybe less!”

Faust spread the duct tape over the man’s mouth again and patted him, almost affectionately, on the back. Then he stepped away and shut the closet door. Nacho looked at Faust and smiled.

“Still got the touch, Jefe,” he said.

Faust smiled minutely. “You call if there’s any more activity,” he said. To Kaminski, he added, “We return to the hotel.”

She stood and followed numbly. As they were about to step into the corridor, she touched Faust’s arm and spoke in a whisper. “What will happen to him—the man in the closet?”

“Nacho will see to him,” Faust said. “Now come, we have dinner plans to make.”

It was nearly black in the hospital room when Jack Perez came awake, the .357 in his hand. The only light came from the orange glow of the call buttons on the wall, the green digits on the blood pressure monitor, and the pinkish scatter of streetlight through the shaded window. It was nearly silent, too—only the sounds of his wife’s steady breathing, the quiet whir of air in the vents, and the electric ping of some sort of warning bell reached his ears. About right for two a.m.

But something had woken Perez from his brittle sleep. His father-in-law going out? Someone in the corridor?

Perez wiped a hand across his eyes, rose from the lounge chair and crossed the room without a sound. He leaned against the doorframe with one hand on the knob and the .357 down along his leg. He took a deep breath and opened the door a crack.

Middleton was down the hall, his back to Perez, and he was talking quietly to a man and a woman. The man was lanky and pale, and his jaw was darkened by a three-day beard. His eyes were shadowed and darting. The woman was tall, tanned, and broad-shouldered, and her dark hair was cut short. Perez hadn’t made a sound, but somehow Middleton knew he was there.

“Come meet some old friends, Jack,” he said, without turning around. Perez pocketed the Python and closed the door to his wife’s room behind him.

“This is Jean-Marc Lespasse and Leonora Tesla, former colleagues of mine. Nora, JM, this is my son-in-law, Jack Perez.”