Phantom Prospect - Alex Archer [69]
Her eyes went past the lightbulb and she stopped.
Was it possible to conceal something in a light fixture? She peered closer. The lightbulb screwed into a socket that was embedded in the stone ceiling. But as Annja tried to peer past the brightness of the light, she thought she could see something there. A small grill wrapped around the base of the socket.
It was a speaker. Definitely. She stopped looking at it and smiled. All right, she thought, I know where the sound comes from. But how are they watching me?
Would it make sense to house both the intercom system and the video camera in the same socket fixture? Maybe, but the real problem would be the light. It would make it hard to see much of anything happening in the cell.
Ideally, they’d have the camera positioned elsewhere. That way they could take advantage of the light source to get a good feed and picture of Annja.
But where would they put it?
And what if it was infrared or thermal? It wouldn’t matter if Annja shut the light off. They would still be able to see what she was doing.
She went to the door and ran her fingers all over the surface and the jamb. She figured it would make the most sense to house it somewhere near there. They’d have a clear shot into the room and be able to see her from all angles.
Annja missed it the first time, but on the second round, her fingers felt a small nub that jutted out of the stonework. She went back and saw that it looked like a small half dome of acrylic.
So they had a pinhole with a fish-eye lens to see the entire room clearly.
Wonderful.
“What are you doing?”
Annja looked up at the lightbulb. “Excuse me?”
“You seem to be expressing a lot of interest in how your cell has been constructed. Take it from us, you can’t get out of there until we want you out.”
“I’m not thinking about escaping.”
“Oh?”
Annja shook her head. “But I don’t like being kept under surveillance. It annoys me. So I was looking to see where you’ve got the intercom system.”
“And you found it?”
“In the lightbulb socket. Made the most sense, I suppose.”
“Good girl.”
“And the pinhole over the door.”
“Ah, you found that, too, eh? Brilliant.”
Annja frowned. “Is it really necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what it is that you want from me.”
There was a pause. “You’ll know when we tell you and not a moment before, Annja.”
She frowned. They knew her name, as well. She wasn’t all that surprised, but it was one more thing that annoyed her. She didn’t like the other side knowing everything about her and her not knowing a damned thing.
“Time to eat again, Annja. Enjoy it.”
She turned as the shutter went up and the tray and a fresh bottle of water came through the opening.
The shutter closed again. She had underestimated them. They knew that being a prisoner she’d try to make her escape during mealtimes. And they’d kept her distracted while this one was delivered.
Annja looked at the plate of beef stew and French bread. There was a chocolate-chip cookie for dessert.
And the water.
Annja devoured her dinner. She was ravenous and realized that her body might be overcompensating for the stress and pressure of being held captive. She knew that there were a lot of different physiological reactions that could occur when a person was taken prisoner. Her system always seemed to demand food.
But Annja wouldn’t let herself get duped again.
She finished the stew and the last piece of bread, using it to mop of the bits of gravy and small pieces of beef and carrots that had been left on the plate. She chewed slowly, relishing the last bite of the meal, which, she had to admit, was pretty damned good for prison food.
The chocolate-chip cookie had obviously been made recently and it was soft, her favorite. Annja frowned. Hello Stockholm Syndrome, she thought. I’ve been here less than a day and I’m already starting to find myself grateful to them for cooking me such nice meals.
It wasn’t the exact definition of Stockholm Syndrome,