Prince Mishaal heard the footsteps approaching as if they were underwater. The sound seemed distant and soggy. He lay on his cot and listened, hoping they belonged to his friend, his benefactor, his savior. He thought it might be the middle of the night, since it had been quiet for as long as he could remember, or perhaps it was early morning, the light just beginning to brighten . . .
He heard the footsteps getting louder, and he stopped thinking to listen. It felt as if his body’s cells were calling out for drugs, as if they were crawling toward the door, but he knew he was lying motionless on the bed. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t vomit. The idea of moving made him sick.
The lock turned. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid it wouldn’t be true. He heard the door creak and smelled . . . almonds. He could taste almond paste on his tongue. He thought it would gag him.
The man’s robes swept. His feet shuffled. The lock clicked shut again. The prince could hear the stranger breathing. He could feel his own breath. Something touched his neck. It was cool and damp. The man was swabbing a spot on his neck. Mishaal could hardly breathe.
“What did you have with you in Paris?” the man whispered.
Mishaal’s brain flashed, searching for the right answer. He felt sick. “Pride,” he offered.
The man was silent.
“Indulgence,” the prince said hurriedly, before the opportunity got away. “Appe . . . appe, appetites. I had appetites. Sins.” What did this cleric want to hear?
The prince heard the chink of a needle being removed from a metal box. His body shivered in anticipation.
“What did you have with you when you were apprehended?” the man whispered. The prince could feel his breath.
“Cocaine,” he said, shutting his eyes tighter, and listened. He heard a plunger being drawn back. “Dilaudid.” He heard liquid being sucked into a needle. He stopped breathing, waiting. “Captagon,” he said. “Synthetic amphetamines. One thousand pills. In an overnight bag. For my personal use.”
“The briefcase,” the man said. “What was in the briefcase?”
“Nothing,” he said automatically, feeling his brain recoil.
“Nothing,” he said again, as he felt the man drawing away, like a shadow retreating from the light.
“Nothing,” he said through his tears. “Believe me, it was nothing. It was for my father. It was a favor. It was . . .” He felt relief pulling away, and fear flooding in, flooding every cell in his body.
“It was electronic,” he whimpered, “a detonator. It controls a weapon. Please! I don’t know any more. I don’t know anything.”
“That’s what I thought,” the man whispered, as he plunged in the needle.