Minotaur

9

The Russian ended the call and pocketed the cell phone.

The look in Chapel’s eyes must have been one of pure rage, because Favorov patted his head and said, “Come now, Mr. Chapel, you should be happy about this. You’re going to live. You’re going to sleep in your own bed tonight. As soon as I am on my yacht you’ll be permitted to go free.” He glanced at his watch. “It should be here in less than three hours—I already sent word to the marina, and my crew are always standing by. So this little ordeal won’t even last very long.”

Except for the ordeal Chapel would have to live with for the rest of his life: knowing he’d let an enemy of the United States just walk away, when if he’d been just a little smarter he could have caught the bastard.

Favorov looked to his servants. “My very foolish wife says he has a fake arm. He lost it in Afghanistan, like so many other careless people. Get his shirt off so I can see it. You’re not hiding any other secrets from me, are you, Mr. Chapel? No secret spy devices in your underwear? I have no desire to strip-search you.”

One of the servants tore Chapel’s shirt off, revealing his prosthetic arm. It looked exactly like his real one, right up to the shoulder. The only difference was that it ended in a set of clamps covered in unpainted silicone where it clung to his torso.

“They do such nice work these days. Back in the eighties, back in Russia, I saw so many soldiers come home with hooks for hands,” Favorov ruminated, “peg legs. Like a bunch of pirates.” He smiled. “It was a very dangerous place, Afghanistan.”

Chapel gritted his teeth. “Still is,” he said.

Favorov nodded, and a faraway look passed briefly across his face. Then he snarled at his servants. “I pay you to keep me and my family safe. Is there a reason you haven’t tied his hands yet?”

They snapped to it, tearing up Chapel’s shirt and twisting the strips of cloth into a stout rope. They rolled him over and pulled his hands behind his back. Neither of them seemed to want to touch Chapel’s artificial arm but they did what they were told. Chapel was still too weak to fight back, so he didn’t try.

“Gag him as well. I don’t want him confusing you two, as easy as it would be,” Favorov said. “Good-bye, Mr. Chapel. I don’t think I’ll see you again. The servants can make sure you get home safely once I’m gone.”

He left the room then. Chapel curled up on his side on the billiards table, putting his weight on his artificial arm. With no blood vessels inside it, it couldn’t fall asleep or start to spasm.

Stephen and Michael, the servants, watched him carefully. They never came very close to him. Chapel could feel himself getting stronger by the minute, as he got over the stunning effects of having a bottle smashed against his head. But bound and gagged, there wasn’t much he could do.

He could lie here, and wait for it to be over. That was the obvious choice. The safe choice, the reasonable choice. But one thing kept bothering him. Something Director Hollingshead had said.

For now we’re going to have to play it as it lies, he’d said. Those had been his orders. A golf reference. Chapel didn’t play golf much—his preferred physical activity was swimming—but he knew what that one meant. When you hit a golf ball it landed where it was going to land, and you had to make your next move based on the terrain you were given.

Hollingshead was a master of implication. He very rarely gave direct orders—those could get him in trouble later. Instead he tended to suggest things one might do. And he’d had to make sure Favorov thought he was giving in. Acceding to the Russian’s demands. Saying anything else might have resulted in Chapel’s immediate death. But at the same time, he’d managed to send Chapel a perfectly clear message.

He hadn’t told Chapel to stand down. He hadn’t ordered Chapel to behave like a good little prisoner. He’d told him to play it as it lay. In other words, to use his own initiative. To achieve whatever was possible, as Chapel judged it.

Which meant this wasn’t over. Not if Chapel could get just a little bit of luck.