The use of their correct names eliminated any hope Henry might have had of bluffing their way out of the situation with bewildered indignation.
“Whatever,” he said, taking his wife’s arm and ushering her out of the elevator with as much dignity as he could muster as the doors slid shut behind them.
“I don’t suppose you’re hard of hearing, are you, Sergeant?” his wife asked their captor.
“Excuse me, mum? Oh, you mean this?” Moustache tapped the device he was wearing in his ear. “No, this is a direct hookup with the folks at the front desk. Mr. Bascom has one, too. He’s watching on a closed-circuit camera, and when he spots a familiar face, he tells the clerk and they get relayed down here to us.”
“Bascom?” Henry frowned. “You mean Tullie Bascom? I thought he retired.”
“That’s right, sir,” the sergeant confirmed. “Seems you two aren’t the only old war-horses being reactivated for this skirmish.”
“I see,” Henry said. “Well, tell him we said hello, if you get the chance.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” Moustache said, flashing a quick smile. “Now, if you’ll both join the others, it shouldn’t be long now.”
As he spoke, he gestured toward a cluster of chairs and sofas which had been set up in the service corridor. There was an unusual assortment of individuals sprawled across the furnishings, ranging in appearance from businessmen to young married couples to little old ladies and obvious blue-collar workers. While Henry did not recognize any of them, the studied casualness of their postures and the uniform flat, noncommittal looks that were directed at himself and his wife marked them all as being cut from the same bolt of cloth. These were grifters and con artists who, like the Wellings, had been caught in the security net. While the setting was pleasant enough considering the situation, and there was no indication of rough treatment among the captives, Henry could not escape the momentary illusion of a prisoner-of-war compound, possibly due to the black-uniformed armed guards spaced pointedly along the wall.