“Hey, you kraut bastard, face me like a real man!” Masters screamed. “Screw you!”

“Oh, and one more fact that I thought should be brought to your attention,” Reingruber said. “I have learned through my sources that your friend and colleague Brigadier General Patrick McLanahan was killed yesterday in the Sacramento County Jail.”

“What?” Jon Masters cried out, raising his head in shock and crashing against the lid. As he rebounded underwater, he inhaled a great snoutful of water, coughed, and fought for breath. “Patrick is dead? How?…”

“Apparently he angered a fellow inmate who happened to be a member of the biker gang he attacked.”

“You mean the one you attacked!” Masters screamed. “You killed those bikers! And they’ve killed Patrick because of you? Oh God, no!…”

“Most unfortunate,” Reingruber said in mock sympathy. “We are informed he is being cremated the day after tomorrow. If you cooperate, perhaps you may still have time to pay your last respects to your friend.”

“Wait!” Jon cried out. “You haven’t asked me anything! You haven’t told me what you want! Wait!” But Reingruber had already departed.

Jon screamed for help until his throat turned hoarse. He could not straighten his legs, but he pressed up against the lid with his head as hard as he could to force it open. It didn’t budge. If that wasn’t going to work, the important thing was to cope with the cold. He could handle it. Sure, it was cold now, but eventually his body heat would warm the water enough to prevent hypothermia. He swished back and forth like a washing machine, and sure enough, the sting in his legs and arms started to go away. The sonofabitch, Jon thought, he’s not going to beat me! Townsend’s goons might be cold-blooded terrorists, but they weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer.

If he stopped struggling, he found he could breathe slowly and more naturally while keeping his face above water. Perfect. No point in trying to escape; it wasn’t possible. Don’t panic. Relax. He closed his eyes, dreaming, remembering trips to Guam, to Australia, to southern California…

He woke up with a scream, then gurgled as water geysered out of his throat. He tried to take a breath and found his lungs filled with water. He panicked, fought the arms trying to hold him underwater.

“Easy, young man, easy,” said a soothing voice. He opened his eyes. A kind-looking gray-haired man was looking at him. “Don’t panic. I’m a doctor. I’ll help you.” The doctor’s hands pressed on his stomach, and great quantities of water poured from his mouth. He coughed, and found he could breathe again.

“Is he going to be all right, Doctor?” a British voice asked.

“Yes, yes,” the doctor replied. “He wasn’t under very long. The cold water slowed his breathing and heart rate, so there should be no brain damage.”

“We are just in time-you are very lucky, Major,” said the British voice, which then spewed out a stream of invective in German. Jon turned his head. Reingruber was standing at attention, his face impassive. “Get out of here before I throw you in that barrel!” Then the Brit stooped over Jon. “Are you all right, Dr Masters?” he asked, concern etched on his face. Jon’s teeth were chattering too hard for him to respond. “Get those blankets, Doctor, now.” He wrapped Jon in two large blankets, sat him up, and gave him a cup of chicken broth.

“You’re… you’re Townsend, aren’t you?” Jon asked at last, warmer now. The doctor was hovering nearby, and periodically checked his heart rate.

“Yes, Doctor.” Townsend saw the distrust, then the fear, building in Jon’s eyes. Jon looked at him hard, and what he saw in his face was pity and apprehensiveness. “Don’t worry,” Townsend said. “Major Reingruber is gone… for now.”

“Let me go,” Jon pleaded. “I swear I won’t tell anyone about you guys. I’ll pay any ransom you want, anything. Just let me go.”

The doctor spoke up: “Let’s not talk about that now. What you need, young man, is rest.”

“Of course.” Townsend gave Masters a reassuring tap on the shoulder. “We’ll speak later,” he said as he left.

“That was Gregory Townsend, wasn’t it?” Jon asked the doctor. “The international terrorist?”

The doctor scoffed. “Oh, sure. That’s what the various governments and tabloids have labeled him,” he said, “a terrorist, like Carlos the Jackal or something. Nonsense.”

“Really.” Jon narrowed his eyes. “That’s bullshit. This is an act, a ploy to get my confidence. You’re butchers, all of you, like that Reingruber asshole.”

At the mention of Reingruber’s name, the doctor blanched. “Take care, Dr Masters,” he said. “Major Reingruber is a dangerous man, very dangerous. Colonel Townsend keeps him on a very short leash, but he is unpredictable. Be very careful around him.”

“And Townsend is Mother Teresa’s sainted uncle, I suppose?”

“The colonel saved your life, young man,” the doctor said. “He came in just in time and saw what Reingruber had done. You could have drowned.”

“I fell asleep? Hypothermia?”

“Yes. You were in the water for about ninety minutes, and possibly three to four minutes underwater. Thankfully, your heart and breathing rates were already slowed down to next to nothing. Colonel Townsend dragged you out of the water and performed CPR on you until you came to.”

“Oh shit,” Jon exclaimed. The world’s master terrorist and arms smuggler saved his life? This was unreal-crazy-yet it had to be true. He had certainly been moments away from drowning. He looked at the physician, baffled. “And who are you?”

“Dr Richard Faulkner, internal medicine,” the physician said. He extended a hand. “Recently of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute…”

“Boston?” Faulkner nodded. “I’m an MIT grad. Where’d you go to school?”

“Dartmouth Medical School. Before that, Dartmouth College. I…”

“You’re kidding! I went to Dartmouth too! What in the world are you doing here?”

“Gregory… Colonel Townsend… did me an extraordinary favor years ago,” Faulkner said. “My father was in deep with loan sharks to pay off medical bills for my mother. They threatened to kill me, my sister, and my mother if we didn’t pay up. Gregory stepped in and got the loan sharks off my father’s back. In return, I help him whenever I can.”

“But… but Townsend’s a killer, a terrorist…”

“Never,” Faulkner said. “I know what’s said about him, but I promise you it isn’t true. He’s a professional soldier. He wants to do his job. Unfortunately, he has a tendency to get in with the wrong elements-Major Reingruber is an example. Reingruber’s the enemy here. This entire state would be in flames were it not for Gregory.”

“That’s sure as hell not what I heard about the guy.”

“Don’t believe the falsehoods, young man,” Faulkner said. “But you do need to watch out for Reingruber. He’ll be very angry now that Gregory has reproved him in front of you. Gregory will protect you, but you have to trust that this is so and you have to be watchful. Do you understand?” Jon nodded. “Good. Let’s get you out of here and into some warm clothes.”

Still puzzled and uneasy, Jon tried one more plea. “Why don’t you just let me go?” he asked. “It could be set up. We could make it look like I conked you on the head…”

“No way. Major Reingruber would kill me for sure,” Faulkner said. “No. Our best chance is with Gregory, believe me. I trust him with my life. I have reason to. We’d better get out of here before Reingruber catches us alone.”

Faulkner helped Jon out of the back room and into the central part of the building. The place resembled a small warehouse, with rooms like small offices opening off the main area. They glimpsed Reingruber in one of the rooms, cleaning guns. He got to his feet when he saw them, his rage at Masters evident in his eyes, but he did not come out. Faulkner led Jon into a small windowless room equipped with a cot, blankets, a floor lamp, and a couple of chairs. “You’ll be safe here, Jon,” Faulkner said. “The door locks.” From a pocket under his jacket he pulled out a newspaper conspiratorially. “Here,” he said. “Hide this under the blankets. You don’t want Reingruber to know you have it. I’ve got to go.”