THIRTY-NINE
THE VAN WAS THE SAME one they used to transport me from the police station to the storage unit they wanted to really interrogate me in. Old, well-used, nondescript—the kind you see a million of every day but never consciously register. It was designed to be a refrigerated truck—probably for being able to handle deliveries of foodstuffs in the harsh desert heat. In the present modified form, it just meant it sealed well, leaving it pretty much sound proof.
As I got in, Sultan bin Sultan, captain of the National Guard still sat waiting on me. I had a good discussion with him on the way from the hospital. He was willing to help me on the shoe-string plan I’d concocted. I didn’t let on to the fact that if he hadn’t been able to assist, I’d probably be trying to smuggle myself acr
