“Good evening, my friend. Has everything gone well?” “Everything has gone excellently, entirely according to plan—but of course you already know that.” “Any pain?” “No more than necessary.” “Good, and the retreat?” “No problems there either. How have things been going with . . . “The Player? It’s a little too early to say yet. I’ll keep you informed.” ♦ ♦ ♦ They came in the middle of the night. Four Guantánamo gorillas, and just like last time they dragged him off the bunk and cuffed his hands behind his back. This time he couldn’t summon up the energy to put up a fight. He was Nick Orton, Thomas Andersen, Charles Herman, and so many other names that he could hardly even remember them. Imaginary characters that he had made real, at least for as long as he needed them. So why not Vincent Sinclair? The hood was pulled on while they were still in his cell, but the guards seemed to notice how apathetic he was and didn’t bother to tie his legs.
