Proctor revived the secretary with smelling salts, her head snapping back as he put them to her nostrils. She lay on a single bed with fresh linen sheets, the makeshift cell, a damp basement room, formally used by servants. There were no windows, but there was a small wooden table and two chairs, and a table lamp with a white metal shade. She could read the books that were strewn on the table if she desired: a Bible and several tattered novels.
The burqa had been removed and she wore the Western-style clothes she’d been given in the cell back in Karachi. The burqa was literally an extra layer of security. If for any reason the coffin had been checked en route, there had been a good chance that no one would investigate further, the drug he’d administered paralysing the body and feigning death. That and the fact that most Muslim men would rather let something like that go undisturbed, rather than interfere with another family’s business. In France, there was no reason to be stopped, he’d figured.
He walked a few steps to the door, leaving her lying on the bed. “I’ll get you something to eat and drink,” he said. “It won’t be much.” He turned around and saw her nod weakly. “Do you need medical attention?”
“I’ve had enough drugs already,” she said, her voice little more than a murmur. “Can I speak with my family?”
“What do you think?”
She suddenly looked fully revived, her pale-green eyes alert, searching his face.
“Wait,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re being paid for this, but if you help me I’ll give you my word the US government will pay you double. That and a presidential pardon.”
She’s serious, he thought. She’s a resourceful woman. “Are you asking me to help you escape?”
“Yes. That’s it. You’re English. We’ll give you a new identity, everything. Call it a gold-plated witness-protection programme.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Where am I anyhow?” she asked, straightening up.
“Well, you’re not in Pakistan.”
“So you’ll help me?”
“Me? You’re not a person.” He sucked his teeth. “You’re a symbol. You became a symbol by virtue of your own ambition, and you’ll die a symbol by virtue of your own ambition.”
“They’ll find me,” she said, defiantly.
“Well, they’d better hurry up.”
He saw the uncertainty return to her eyes, decided to play on it. “No one will find you. No one would dream of looking for you here. Read your Bible, but remember, there is no such thing as God. Man just made him up to make sense of the senseless. We all die, missus, and then there’s nothing. You’ll just beat a lot of people to it.”