 George Taylor felt pain that was beyond imagination. The stench was strong, and the chilling dampness was everywhere. He almost welcomed death. But an innate force within told him to hold on. He had to give them time; he had to get the documents to Steffon. With a controlled effort, he moved his right arm and looked at the illuminated dial of his wristwatch—eleven o’clock. The last time he looked, it had been nine or nine-thirty. He only had enough painkillers to maintain consciousness for another five hours. He found himself thinking of his home: warm, dry, and secure. His life there seemed an eternity ago. Why had he agreed to help Steffon? Another surge of pain killed all thought; he was back to the reality of the present. George shivered from the cold. He was half sitting and partially reclining on a canvas cot, propped up against the cold brick-and-mortar wall within the eight by-eight-foot room, which now housed him. His six-foot 180-pound body was not what this particular space had been designed for—not really a room, more of a closet that had been concealed and shut off from a much larger room within an unoccupied storage building. The building was located in one of the oldest parts of Moscow facing a parade-staging area near Red Square. Situated on the Ultsa Petrovski, it was no more than a minute’s walk from the Budapest Hotel. The area became a tourist favorite during the day, but at this hour, it belonged to the forgotten horde of homeless men and aging prostitutes. George had been briefed about the hidden room as an emergency extraction point, accessed from behind a row of garbage dumpsters in the back alley. It was one of two possible pickup locations. This site, unfortunately, had the distinction of being described as the last-resort pickup. The room consisted of four walls, without windows, and was completely void of any interior lighting. Several bricks in the wall facing the alley were actually not bricks at all. They were glass blocks that allowed George to peer out into the alley. This one-way viewing porthole was also the only source of light entering the room. The design of this hidden room had been clever, but did nothing to improve the accommodations of the occupant. George wasn’t alone in the room. As it turned out, a somewhat large and menacing cat was inside when he arrived. The cat refused to vacate; and George, in his present physical condition, decided to conserve his energy and let the cat stay. The cat settled in one corner of the room, squatting, ever ready to pounce while maintaining its piercing stare. George imagined the cat had questions for him. Who are you? What would bring you to this poor excuse of a cat box? And when are you getting out of here so I can have my space back? George grinned at the idea of explaining to a cat why and how he found himself in this hole.
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