Blair got out of bed, furious that his hunger strike had been a waste of time. He moved the bed aside and dropped to his knees. Carefully, he took hold of the one solid piece of plaster he had been able to extricate recently. It was approximately three-by-two. By preserving it, he hoped to cover up whatever damage was being done to the wall.
Now, he noticed the outline of a crawlspace. Unfortunately, it was surrounded by mortar and insulation. Much of it had hardened and was twinned together. He tried using his watch as a tool again. But very little plaster came loose. He worked for almost an hour before pausing to examine his handiwork. He still hadn’t made much headway. And his task remained formidable.
He replaced the piece of plaster in the outer wall and stood, slowly made his way into the bathroom, and took his shower. There was soap but no shampoo. Drying off, he made the mistake of looking in the mirror. His hair was growing long and unruly. For the first time in his life there was significant stubble on his face. He did not find it attractive.
Getting dressed in the same sport shirt and jeans he’d worn since the day he was captured, Blair tried to ignore his body odor. For someone who always prided himself on his hygiene, it hurt not to have the use of something as basic as cologne and deodorant.
With a shrug of resignation, he left his room and headed for the office, located a mere step or two down the hall.
Jeremy Samson’s e-mail was waiting for him on his computer:
I’VE BEEN TRYING TO CALL YOU FOR THE LAST WEEK AND A HALF. DID YOU LOSE YOUR CELL PHONE? OR ARE YOU SIMPLY TRYING TO AVOID ME?
Blair paused. By not sending a reply, Jeremy would surely know something was wrong. So he decided to do nothing.
Within minutes, Yassin entered the office with a landline phone. He unraveled the cord and plugged it in. “Here, use this,” he said, handing him the receiver.
“What for?” Blair asked, professing ignorance.
“What do you think it’s for? Your friend in Israel wants to talk to you. So you will call him. This phone is untraceable and works on a delay. As usual, we’ll be listening.”
Knowing he had no choice, he took hold of the receiver and nodded automatically. Once Yassin left, Blair began to dial the Tel Aviv number, at the same time trying to think of a way to foil the man’s plans.
“Shalom,” Jeremy said.
Shalom to you, too, would have been Blair’s normal rejoinder. Instead, he offered a plain, “Hello,” hoping the subtle difference would be noticed.
“I guess you found a phone that works.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Where are you, by the way?”
“Away,” he said. Then quickly added: “On a business trip.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“The Cyber-tech TV commercial’s been shot and it’s wonderful. I was wondering if I could send you a copy?”
“Please do.”
“To your office?”
Blair paused. “Yes,” he said, “my office is fine.”
“Will you be back soon?”
“I should be.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure,” Blair said unconvincingly. And a new thought came to mind. “Jeremy, I was wondering if you’d heard from Ms. Brandt?” he asked.
“Just the other day.”
“How is she?”
“She’s fine. Why do you ask?”
“Would you let her know that she wasn’t wrong? I believe she’d like to hear that.”
“Uh-uh, boychick. That’s something you’ll have to tell Lisa yourself.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
Jeremy led the conversation back to Cyber-tech. But Blair was hardly concentrating. After his goodbye, he wondered if he’d said enough for his friend to notice.
Almost immediately, Yassin came storming back in. Three of his henchmen were by his side. Without a word, Blair was snatched off his feet. The men bodily carried him out of the room and into the one a few doors down, where he was strapped into the metal chair he’d come to hate.
“I am going to ask you some questions,” Yassin began. “And I want your truthful answers.”
Yeah, Blair told himself. You’ll get the truth, all right.
“Who is Ms. Brandt?” Yassin asked.
Blair knew if he didn’t act natural, he’d be caught. And Lisa along with him. “A friend of mine,” he said, fighting down his panic.
“Who does she work for?”
“I don’t know the name of the firm. She’s a masseuse.”
“Liar!” the man hissed. “I will ask you again. Who does she work for?”
Blair tried to change positions in the chair. The straps were too tight. “I can only repeat what I know,” he said. “She works as a therapeutic masseuse, mainly with athletes.”
The smack came quickly, once across his cheek.
“What is Lisa Brandt’s connection to Jeremy Samson?”
“They are friends,” he said.
“Just friends? Not business associates?”
“That’s correct.”
Yassin’s nostrils flared. Then he smacked him again, harder this time.
Blair tasted blood, and knew his cheek had been cut.
“You are lying. Who does Lisa work for?”
“I already told you.”
Yassin’s hand formed a fist. But before the punch could be thrown, his arm went into spasm.
By the time he recovered, he was furious. “You will tell me the truth,” he warned. And he palmed the same remote switch he’d used before, held it up so there’d be no mistaking what it was.
Blair tried to buy time. “Lisa is a masseuse,” he said quickly. “Jeremy owns a toy company. That’s all I know about them. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Because you are not being truthful,” Yassin said.
“I am.”
“You are not, my friend.”
“No, you listen,” Yassin said, and he pressed the remote.
The pain in Blair’s testicles gradually subsided, but he knew he’d been burned and it would take a long while to heal.
Meanwhile, he wished he could recant his conversation with Jeremy. He cared about Lisa, far more than he’d been able to admit. Putting her at risk was the worst thing he could have done. Getting a message to Jeremy was one thing, not thinking it through clearly, quite another.
“We will talk again,” Yassin said.
The straps holding him bound to the chair were undone. He tried to stand but was too weak to do so.
Yassin’s men carried him to his room, where he was unceremoniously dumped on the bed.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his strength to return. Thinking of Lisa brought back bittersweet memories. And he was reminded of the mistake he had made in not trusting her, in rejecting her offer to help.
Finally, he made his way to the bathroom. He examined his mouth in the mirror and found the cut in his cheek.
It was a small price to pay, he told himself, for not having caved in.
He tried to urinate. A weak stream came out, but most of it was blood.
A small price to pay indeed, he realized.