they leave him to it. The key turns.
Hypatia glides into his cabin and approaches him in the bunk. They are on their honeymoon cruise. Her eyes are alight with lust; her lips tremble with love. "Wake up, Mr. Linehan," she murmurs, then repeats, sharply.
Linehan opens his eyes. His captors are looking down at him. This time, they are both carrying revolvers.
Slug addresses him.
"Get up, Mr. Linehan. Photo call."
"How do you know my name?"
"We are an organisation. We have sources. And you will help us get more re-sources." How did his English improve so fast?
They motion him into the next room. Linehan obeys. They have him sit on one of the camp beds. Slug picks up a newspaper and a camera from the table. He hands the paper to Linehan.
"Hold this in front of your chest. Don't smile. Look exhausted, if you can."
"I am exhausted."
Linehan notices the SAR China Morning Post's lead headline: CEO's Bromide Run Over. The picture is of a poodle.
Slug takes several photos of Linehan.
"Can I keep the paper? I'd like something to read."
"Can. You won't find your name in it. Or ours."
"Would you mind telling me who you are, and what you want?"
Slug and Mantis exchange glances. Mantis answers.
"We belong to the New China Maoist Revolutionary Front. We want the British government to pay us one million British sterling for the safe return of its vanished citizen, Sean Linehan."
"Or we kill you," Slug adds. They both laugh. Linehan does not join in.
"So these photos are to prove I'm still alive?" Slug nods.
"Look, I'm not a political man, but I'm willing to learn. Can you tell me what the New China Maoist Revolutionary Front stands for?"
Again, Mantis answers.
"The government of our China is no longer revolutionary. It must become revolutionary again, like it was in the time of Chairman Mao Zedong. Simple."
"But why are you here in Hong Kong, instead of mainland China?"
Slug gives a bitter laugh.
"The government of our China is using Hong Kong as a laboratory for experiments in so-called democracy. That is very bad, but it makes it very much easier for us to continue the struggle here. And to raise funds. Especially with your help."
Slug laughs again, this time without bitterness.
"Can you tell me more about your aims?"
They do so, interminably, it seems to Linehan. He would like to think of Hypatia, or listen to the sounds coming from outside his prison-house, but he knows he must listen carefully and memorise what he can so that he can regurgitate it to deceive them into thinking that he is coming round to their view of things. In fact, he acknowledges they do have a point when they denounce the obscene inequalities in society in both Hong Kong and China itself. He has seen them for himself.
The indoctrination session ends. His captors have Linehan fetch the jerry-bucket from his cell and empty it in the toilet. He asks if he can wash, without the handcuffs, and they let him, keeping him in the line of fire of Mantis's revolver while he does so. Then they boil up more instant noodles and tea for him. As ordered, he takes these into his cell. When Mantis comes to collect the empties, he throws the SAR China Morning Post onto the mattress. As soon as Linehan hears the key turn in the lock, he lays out the paper as best he can with the handcuffs back on his wrists, and scans every page.
The absence of any mention of his abduction he takes as a good omen: a sign that negotiations are under way and a news blackout has been imposed. He cannot imagine the British government abandoning its long-standing policy of refusing to pay ransoms to "terrorists", but then he has heard of cases where British hostages were released. He does not rate the chances, either, of Hong Kong's Mayor Hines or the Chinese government paying a ransom to free foreign hostages, though they might take other action. Whether he would survive such action himself seems to him far from certain. He comes to the sports pages, and is greeted by the smiling face of his boss, the late Franz Splatta, reported as gracing Hong Kong tomorrow with his august presence at the opening of Asia's finest sports venue.
Linehan decides it is evening. Even if it is dawn or early afternoon, he will choose for himself what hour of the day it is, to give time some structure and keep him rooted. He gets down to some physical exercises. Press-ups are hard as hell with handcuffs on, so he concentrates on sit-ups and stretching. He takes consolation from the idea that when he gets out of this, he is going to be leaner and meaner. Then he remembers his pledge to become good. He ponders the conundrum of release or escape. Hypatia only comes to him once he is asleep, and his dreams are disturbing.
Mantis and Slug do not reply to Linehan's greetings when they bring in the next offering of noodles and tea. A bad sign: have negotiations stalled? He has to give them a helping hand, information that will boost their bargaining power.
"Please look at this," he says, pointing to the sports page of the newspaper, at which he has left it open. Slug glances in its direction. The picture of Splatta is prominent.
"I work for that man!"
"We know who you work for."
"But don't you realise how much money he has in his hands? The World Football Association has more loose cash than most of its member states. And far fewer scruples."
"We have analysed the capitalist-sporting complex."
Linehan notes no emotion in the voice, but when his captors leave, the door slams hard before the key turns.
Linehan's plan A is still to make himself feel human enough to his captors so that negotiating his release will seem a better option to them than killing him, but now he turns his attention to Plan B: escape. However he tries it, it will need an intense physical effort, so he gets back to his exercise regime, whose mindlessness allows him to think. Every way he imagines escaping hinges on being able to overpower his captors or seize a weapon that he has never learned to use.
Linehan is engrossed in his sit-ups when Mantis comes in, alone. Mantis snorts and signals with his gun for Linehan to go into the other room. Linehan is glad to see that Mantis still wears his cotton balaclava. He gets to his feet and obeys. In the main room, Slug, also masked, uncuffs him and hands him what must be the day's edition of the SCMP. They go through the photo routine again.
The lead story is Splatta opening the stadium named in his honour. He is pictured inside the transparent pyramid, bestowing smiles and words of wisdom on the dignitaries arrayed in front of him. Not a word of criticism or doubt appears in the report. Lim has done it! Even without Linehan at his shoulder, he has pulled it off! Linehan feels only a tinge of envy amid the enormous wave of gratitude that washes over him. At the bottom of the page is an archive photo of Splatta, looking even younger than the WFA's technicians make him look now. Linehan caresses the picture.
"This man is like a father to me!"
Even Slug and Mantis must have, or have had, fathers.
Slug snatches the newspaper from him.
"Well, you better say goodbye to Daddy. Try telepathy. Your time is running out!"
"Better you start praying," Mantis adds, as Slug puts the handcuffs back on.
Back in his cell Linehan desperately sets about planning instead. He decides he must distract Slug, then attack Mantis and grab his weapon, and use it on both of them if necessary. Only if there is no alternative. However much he loathes them now, he does not want to take their lives merely to satisfy his thirst for revenge. Unless he has to. He imagines them saying something similar over his dead body.
The first problem is how to distract them. If only Hypatia were here; she would grab their attention automatically. He spends hours devising ever more impractical schemes.
Linehan is deep in thought when the door opens. Three people stand in the doorway, all of them armed with semi-automatic weapons which point into Linehan's face. At least they are masked.
The one whose shape he recognizes as that of Mantis speaks first.
"Said those prayers?"
"No. I don't think you want to kill me." Famous last words.
"Famous last words," says the one Linehan has not seen before, whom he immediately dubs Parrot.
"No-one wants you back," says Slug.
"I don't believe it!"
"Three governments, three categorical refusals even to negotiate."
If he rushes them, at least he'll go down in a hail of bullets, not this slow torture. Linehan hesitates a second, then opts for slow torture.
"Even your Daddy won't speak to us."
"What?"
"We've been trying to speak to Splatta all day. Nobody will even put us through to him. Maybe nobody loves Daddy's pet."
Linehan is incredulous. Has he really fooled people with a simple holographic projection? He'd assumed that people just went along with the illusion because it was show business. Well, the proverbial cat has more lives than he has. This is the moment to hoist it out of the bag.
"Splatta doesn't take your calls because he can't. He's been dead for the last two years. What I brought to Hong Kong was a hologram."
There is a moment of silence before all three of his captors begin to laugh. Parrot moves his hand to his face as though to pull off his mask.
"Wait! I'm serious! You need to speak to someone called Robin Norris, in Geneva. He's the money man. He knows me." All too well.
Linehan recites a number. "That's his personal mobile number. He'll answer that."
Parrot's hand moves from his face to his trouser pocked. He pulls out a ThaiPad, has Linehan repeat the number, keys it into his phone's memory and motions to the