Her cell was perhaps four by two meters, under a staircase, she assumed, as the ceiling sloped sharply. The room was windowless, light coming from a low-wattage bulb that was never extinguished. No furniture, just a thin mattress lying on a plank floor. She’d tried to learn what she could during the limited times she’d been removed. It appeared she was inside a house, the distance from here to the torture room only a few steps and in between them a bathroom that she’d visited twice.
But where was she?
Two days ago she had been in Antwerp.
She bent forward, hands on her knees. Her legs were limp, her heart pounding, and she shuddered.
Twice she’d been strapped to the board, the towel slapped across her face. She’d thought herself capable of withstanding anything, but the sensation of drowning, while her arms and feet were restrained, her head lower than her legs, was proving too much. She’d read once that mental violence needed no punches.
She believed it.
She doubted she could take another session.
Near the end of the first one, she’d involved Malone, which seemed like a smart play. In the few hours between leaving Pau Wen’s residence and her capture, she easily could have handed the artifact off.
And they’d apparently believed her.
Cotton was all she had.
And she could not give these people what they wanted. Would they kill her? Not likely, at least until they made contact in Copenhagen.
After that?
She didn’t want to think about the possibilities.
She was proud that she hadn’t begged, whined, or compromised herself.
But she had compromised Cotton.
Then again, he’d told her many times that, if she ever needed anything, she shouldn’t hesitate. This situation seemed to qualify.
Over the past two days she’d played mental games, remembering dates in history, forcing her thoughts away. She’d multiplied numbers to the tens of thousands.
But thoughts of Malone had also kept her grounded.
He was tall and handsome, with burnished-blond hair and lively green eyes. Once she’d thought him cold, emotionless, but over the past year she’d learned that this was not the case. They’d been through a lot together.
She trusted him.
Her breathing settled. Her heart slowed.
Nerves calmed.
She stood upright and rubbed her sore wrists.
Pushing forty years old and in another mess. But usually it beat the heck out of anything else she could imagine doing. Actually, her project to reconstruct a 14th-century French castle, using only tools and materials available 700 years ago, was progressing. Her on-site superintendent had reported a few weeks ago that they were at the 10% point in construction. She’d intended to devote herself more to that endeavor, but a call from China had changed that.
