The corridor ran about fifty feet before turning right. As he waited, he heard footsteps rapping on the linoleum floor. He sprinted forward as quietly as possible, then flattened himself against the corner.
Almost immediately a guard came around; Coldmoon tripped him while bringing his knife into position, and the man fell onto it, Coldmoon slashing upward and cutting his throat. With a gurgle, the man fell to the floor. Coldmoon paused to look around the corner. Empty.
Crouching, he rapidly searched the guard, pocketing a magnetic key card and a Beretta 9mm pistol. He pulled off the soaked hat and shirt he was wearing, took the guard’s shirt, belt, and waist pouch, and put them on. Hiding the body as best he could, he moved fast along the second corridor, then took another branching corridor that he figured headed toward the interior of the building, where the tower block was. He passed a couple of workers, but he kept his head down and they were busy with their own business and didn’t take notice.
The corridor ended in a locked door with a porthole window. He looked through and made out a large open space, with what looked like cells on either wall. He could hear muffled sounds: voices, cries, yelling, sobbing—classic prison sounds.
When he held the guard’s magnetic key to the plate, the door clicked and the lock went green.
He pushed it open, the sounds louder now. Reaching an initial row of cell doors with barred windows, he stopped to peer in. Each cell held three or four people—to him, they looked Central American—men and women, all wearing hospital gowns. And those same green shoes. They were filthy and neglected, their beds consisting of plywood boards without mattresses. When he looked in, they shrank from him in fear.
“Lo siento de verdad,” he said, getting blank stares of terror in return. “Soy un amigo.”
No reaction: just silent, frightened faces.
Coldmoon backed away from them and turned, heading toward the exit at the far end of the hall. There was nothing he could do for them now, he thought as he hastened away. He had to keep his mind on the main focus; this horror, however reprehensible, would have to wait.
But then he paused at the barred window of the last cell. There were three men inside, wearing loose hospital gowns and the same green footwear.
“Hola, amigos.”
They stared at him suspiciously.
“I’m a friend,” he continued in Spanish. “I’m here to help you.” He removed his FBI badge and showed it to them.
The men looked at each other. Finally, one approached the door. “Yes?”
“Are any of you gentlemen from San Miguel Acatán?”
A suspicious silence.
“I’m a friend of the Ixquiac family.”
This produced a huge reaction. “Ixquiac?” All three rose and crowded around the window.
Coldmoon placed his finger to his lips. “Quiet. Very quiet now.”
They nodded.
“I need information,” Coldmoon went on. “What is going on here? What are they doing to you?”
They all began speaking at once and Coldmoon pointed to the closest person. “You speak. How did you get here?”
The man told of the journey from Guatemala across the border into Mexico, meeting with the coyote, the journey to the U.S. border and across—then getting suddenly herded into trucks at gunpoint and driven to this godforsaken place. It was basically the same story Coldmoon had already heard from the coyote’s lips.
“What are they doing to you here?” he asked the man.
“I don’t know. Experiments.”
“What kind of experiments?”
The man shook his head. “They took our clothes and gave us these. At first, we lived in a dormitory. Then they took us and moved us into these cells. Everyone was given a number.”
“When was this?”
“Five weeks ago. Maybe six. That was the time of the first experiment.”
“The first?”
“Yes. Every ninety minutes during that experiment, they would come to take someone new. Someone from the last cell. When the last cell was empty, everyone moved up a row.”
“You’re in the last cell now.”
“Yes.”
“Where were they taken?”
“I don’t know.”
“And when did they come back?”
“They never came back.”
“You don’t know what happened next?”
“Once, we saw bodies wheeled by. Mutilated bodies. And there were rumors. Rumors of torture. Of a drug that makes you crazy.”
“How long did this experiment go on?”
“Off and on for two weeks.”
“And after that?”
“Nothing. Except now, they have just begun another experiment.”
“A second?”
“Yes.”
“How many more have they taken?”
“Only one so far.”
“From this cell?”
“Yes.”
“When are they going to take the next one?” Coldmoon asked.
“Any moment. They are already late.”
Shit. “Who’s it going to be?”
The man paused, then pointed to one of the other two. “Luís. They go according to the numbers.”
Coldmoon stared at the man named Luís. He was tall and thin, about fifty, with dark eyes and—like the others—a haunted look. He was shorter than Coldmoon, but not by much.
“I’m coming in,” said Coldmoon. “Move back, please.”
Coldmoon took out the magnetic key and held it to the plate in the door. With a click the light went green. He ducked inside, then turned to face the men.
“I’m here to help you get free. But you need to do exactly as I say.”
The men looked at each other for a moment. Then, in unison, they nodded.
62
THE SOLDIERS WHEELED Pendergast out of the lab, the general following. They passed through another door that led into a dimly lit observation room. It was empty except for a carpeted ramp up to a row of chairs facing the long window, which gave an expansive view of the laboratory.
“Park him right in front,” said the general. He sat down next to Pendergast. “Ms. Alves-Vettoretto, sit over there, if you please. We’ll be comfortable here. As you can see, our view is unobstructed, and we’ll be able to hear what’s happening over the intercom system.”
Pendergast watched as the orderlies wheeled the struggling Gladstone into the center of the room and placed her over a large drain in the tiled floor.
He said, “General, I promise you one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“You will not live to see the sun rise.”
The general fluttered his hand as if waving away a mosquito. “No need for clichés. As Ayn Rand said, ‘Throughout the centuries there were men who took first steps down new roads armed with nothing but their own vision.’ As an FBI agent you are a mere cog in the status quo, a participant in the feckless bureaucracy known as the United States government, designed to impede such men as Rand spoke of.”
“Which would be you, of course.”
The general smiled. “I have a few preparations to attend to, so I will leave you here, Mr. Pendergast, as a witness. And of course Ms. Alves-Vettoretto will remain: she has been asking to observe this for some time.”