Gates Of Hades

Chapter Fifteen

Grand Turk

That afternoon

On the few occasions he had visited there, Jason had been impressed with just how unattractive a tropical setting could be made. Grand Turk was a center for off-shore banking, corporations and individuals who were willing to pay handsomely to remain below the radar of any number of tax-collecting authorities and the lawyers who served this very specialized clientele. One-story office buildings, mostly concrete block, crowded one another for space along one side of Front Street. Any number of colors, apparently based on the availability of paint at the time of construction rather than aesthetics, had been used. Across the street, a beach, framed by tired palm trees, had probably once been a spectacular crescent. Today, litter and garbage of every description covered the golden sand and floated in the turquoise surf as though a giant party had just ended.

The business of Grand Turk was business. Scenic vistas belonged elsewhere.

Jason sat in the backseat of an ancient Ford between two burly officers who reeked of sweat and stale tobacco smoke. The prison occupied two blocks of the town's less desirable real estate, ten-foot-high stone walls topped with broken glass that sparkled in the sun with a cheerfulness that seemed out of place.

Upon arrival, he was taken to a small, airless room where the smell of lye soap was strong enough to make his eyes water but not sufficient to conceal the odor of old urine, feces, and despair. He was stripped and searched by two other officers and fingerprinted with a kit J. Edgar Hoover would have discarded as antiquated. His clothes, minus belt and shoelaces, were returned to him. The size of the eyes of the guard examining the contents of the money belt told Jason what was in the man's mind.

"Barclays has a receipt for issuing every dime of that," Jason said. "I'd hate to have to make a claim for any that was missing."

The glance exchanged between the two guards did little to reassure Jason.

"And I believe I'm entitled to a phone call."

The two looked at him as though he were speaking in tongues.

"A phone call," Jason repeated, holding a fist next to his ear to simulate the device.

One of the men grinned. "Mon, dis ain' some hotel on de beach."

The other nodded. "Yeah, we ain' got room service, neither."

The first twisted Jason's arms behind him with more force than was necessary and shoved him forward. "An' you don' gets a choice of view wid de room."

A short walk down a hallway brought them to an enclosed square, each side lined with six cells. The man behind Jason gave him another push that sent him stumbling, into darkness and crashing into the far wall.

"You does git a private room, though!"

Both found this extremely funny. A barred door clanged shut, and the two men were laughing as the sound of their footsteps faded.

Jason guessed the room was about six by six. A single bunk with a soiled cotton-tick mattress occupied one entire wall. Opposite from the entrance, a barred slit of a window was next to the ceiling. Below that, a seatless commode and a stained basin with a single handle added to the austerity of the room. A cursory inspection showed the walls to be island limestone, a porous material that was likely to seep water in a driving rain but hard enough to resist any efforts to escape.

A colony of mold was prospering on one wall.

Jason examined the barred door closely. Although the lock was of the old type that required a key, the lock plate was firm and, as far as he could tell, well maintained.

He stretched out on the bunk for lack of a better place. If they didn't know already, Eco's minions would soon be aware he was confined, locked up with no chance of escaping whatever they had in mind for him. The memory of Paco's headless body was enough to guarantee he would not accidentally doze off.