He sat on the bed and waited, for how long he didn’t know. The hum of the fluorescent lights slowly became annoying, then deafening.
Footsteps: boots on the metal floor, marching with purpose. A man stopped in front of the glass divider and stared for a moment. Desmond recognized him instantly: the scar-faced man from his memories. His hair was longer now. The blond locks hung across his face, partially obscuring the scars. The mottled, burned flesh stretched up from his chest, across his neck, chin and cheeks, and stopped at his forehead. He wore a scruffy sandy-blond beard that grew in uneven patches. It did little to hide the healed wounds, which must have once been excruciating. He looked almost inhuman.
Desmond rose and moved slowly over to the glass wall.
“Why?” His captor’s question was laced with malice and, to Desmond’s surprise, hurt. The man seemed enraged but also vulnerable somehow.
“Who are you?” Desmond asked.
The man sneered and spoke with a thick Australian accent. “Drop the charade, Desmond. I don’t believe the whole amnesia bit.”
“Look, I have absolutely no idea who you are. I woke up in a hotel room in Berlin a few days ago with no memories. I didn’t even know who I was.”
“We’ll see about that.” The man brought a handheld radio to his face and said, “Proceed.”
Inside the cell, a soft hissing began. Desmond looked around, searching for the source: the slot in the wall, where he had assumed food was passed. He was unconscious within seconds.
Awareness came in slow, fuzzy waves. Desmond’s head felt heavy. He heard distorted voices, like people conversing quietly at the top of a well, with him deep inside.
The light overhead was blinding. He was strapped to a chair similar to a dentist’s chair, his legs fully extended, his head strapped back. An IV was connected inside his elbow. A machine beeped somewhere beyond his vision.
“What have you done with Rendition?” It was the blond, scar-faced man.
“He’s conscious,” another man’s voice said.
“Dose him again!”
“You’re giving him too much. You’ve got to let it wear off.”
“Do it.”
When Desmond awoke once more, he was back on the narrow mattress in the metal and glass cell. His mind was sluggish, still drug-addled.
Just beyond the glass, the blond man sat on a folding metal chair next to a small table, studying a tablet, his legs crossed. He set the device aside when Desmond stirred. His demeanor had changed: the hatred in his eyes was gone, replaced by a more serene, contemplative gaze.
Desmond sat up. “You believe me now?” he asked.
“Yes.” The man stood and walked to the glass.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Conner McClain. Does that mean anything to you?”
Desmond shook his head.
Conner turned his back to the glass. “Right now, events are taking place that will forever alter the course of human history. Behind the scenes, behind the headlines, a war is raging. Very soon, it will explode around the world.”
Headlines, Desmond thought. “The outbreak in Kenya.”
“Yes.”
“You’re responsible. You started it.”
“No, Desmond. We started it.”
The words hit Desmond like a Mack truck. He searched his feelings, wondering if it was true.
“We’re running out of time,” Conner said. “I need your help. I need you to tell me everything that happened to you. I need you to help me stop what’s going to happen to all of us.”
“Let me out.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“Consider my position, Desmond. I don’t know what happened to you.”
“What do you think happened to me?”
“I see two possibilities. The first is that one of our enemies got to you. And they’re using you to try to stop us.”
“One of our enemies?”
“Yes. Until a few days ago, you and I were partners.”
“Partners in what?”
“The greatest scientific endeavor in history.”
“The Looking Glass.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why?”
“Because of the second possible reason you might have lost your memories.”
“Which is?”
“That you did this to yourself—that you betrayed us and our cause. That’s actually the more frightening scenario. Either way, I’m not sure whose side you’re on, Desmond. But if you recover your memories, you’ll know the truth of what we’re facing. You’ll know that we’re humanity’s only hope—that the Looking Glass is our only hope.”
“There are three pieces,” Desmond said. “Rook, Rendition, and Rapture.”
“You remember?”
“No. The journalist told me.” Desmond’s mind flashed to the man, the fear on his face when he’d said, They have my fiancée. “What happened to him?”
Conner averted his eyes.
“I asked you a question.”
“We sent him on an all-expenses paid trip to Disneyland, Desmond. What do you think happened to him?”
“What do you want from me?”
“Rendition.”
“What is it?”
“Your life’s work. Your piece of the Looking Glass.”
Sitting on the narrow bed, Desmond tried to remember anything about Rendition. Nothing came to him. The word evoked no memories—only a feeling: it must be protected. Instinctively, Desmond knew that if Conner gained possession of Rendition, an unimaginable catastrophe would occur, a loss of life on a scale never seen before.
He looked up. “What about the other components of the Looking Glass?”
“Rook is my project. It’s almost complete.”
“And Rapture?”
“Is safely secured by our partner. Listen, Des. It’s imperative that you remember what you’ve done with Rendition. Lives are at stake; the very future of the human race.”
The two men stared at one another, each trying to read the other.
The hatch to the corridor opened, and a man and woman marched in. They set a laptop and a flat-screen monitor on the table where Conner had been sitting. They turned the screen to face Desmond’s cell.
“What’s this?”