White recognized the man from the photos Hammond had shown him. Roy Oxley.
Oxley was of medium height, with muscular arms and shoulders, and short dark hair peppered with gray around the temples. He looked exactly like what he was: an ex-soldier. He was wearing a pair of jeans and an untucked white dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up. And brown cowboy boots. A bulge was visible on the right side of his shirt at belt level.
“You don’t talk much, do you, Clayton?” Oxley looked straight at him and smiled. Then he walked to a small table where dozens of tasting glasses were set up. He grabbed a glass and walked to one of the barrels. He tilted the glass, opened the spigot, and poured a small quantity of wine into the glass. Oxley made a gesture to White that he wouldn’t be long. White watched him swirl the wine for a few seconds. Oxley tasted it and seemed disappointed.
“It’s not perfect just yet, but at least it’s not water, right?” Oxley said, walking back toward White.
Oxley placed the glass on White’s parched lips and slowly poured the wine into White’s mouth. The wine stung his gums and burned his lips, but he swallowed.
“More?” Oxley asked.
White had a feeling he had to say yes, so he nodded. Oxley looked pleased and repeated the process. Once the tasting glass was empty, Oxley returned it to the table and picked up a wooden chair on his way back. He sat in front of White and stared at him.
“I have to admit that this doesn’t happen often, but I’m perplexed, Clayton,” Oxley said. “I really am.”
White was confused, too, but he didn’t think it was the right time to mention it.
“I’m trying to decide if I should trust you or not,” Oxley said.
White kept his mouth shut. What the hell was he talking about?
“Are you a man of honor, Clayton?”
“I like to think so,” White replied.
Oxley nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “Can I assume you were briefed about my military career?”
White’s instinct was to lie and deny, and to try to slow things down as much as possible to buy Hammond some time to mount a rescue operation. He wondered if Hammond’s asset in Cape Town had received White’s message. He remembered putting the NSA cell phone back in his pocket while the call was still dialing. Hopefully there had been some traffic cameras that had caught the action. With a bit of luck, the NSA could locate the phone and hack the video feeds to see who had taken him and which direction they’d driven.
White shook his head. Who am I kidding? Hammond had warned him this was an off-the-book operation. He had no support. He hadn’t even told Veronica where he was going, for God’s sake. In his haste to avenge his father’s death and the attempt on Veronica’s life, he had gone against not only his training but also his common sense.
And here I am, he thought, tied to a fucking chair.
Oxley clicked his fingers repeatedly in front of White’s face. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah,” White said. “I heard you. I know.”
“Tell me what they said about me,” Oxley said. “And be honest.”
“SAS turned MI6 agent,” White said, not seeing the point in lying.
“What else, Clayton? Tell me what else they told you.”
“That’s it,” White said. “That’s all I know.”
Oxley’s eyes darkened, and then he abruptly clapped his hands together, creating a surprisingly powerful bang that reverberated inside the tasting room and would have made White jump two feet high if he hadn’t been fastened to his chair. Even the four men seated at the high table and out of earshot turned toward them.
“Fuck you, Clayton White. Fuck you,” Oxley said, rage tightening the skin of his face. “I was just starting to trust you.”
Oxley got up from his chair and started to pace back and forth in front of White. White’s heartbeat picked up, and a fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his brow. He was utterly powerless. He was in control of absolutely nothing.
A real damn shame, he thought, his throat drying up again. His thoughts returned to Veronica, regretting having waited so long to propose.
Enough with the regrets! Veronica yelled at him. Get a grip, Clay! Come back to me.
White gave his head a good shake. He wasn’t powerless. The game wasn’t over yet. The man in front of him had killed his father and had wanted to murder his fiancée. This wasn’t something White could let go. If he gave up now, what assurance did he have that Oxley wouldn’t give it another shot?