The Sons Of Cleito (The Abductions of Langley Garret Book 1) by Derek Haines

breakfast, lunch or dinner but I did get meals. Shoved through a small flap door at the base of my cell door. It was exactly the same for each of my first three meals, a plastic bottle of water, a plastic bowl of something that was a very poor relative of porridge and an orange, and not a hint of even plastic cutlery. It was following my third meal after arriving that I was escorted from my cell and into an interrogation room containing two metal chairs and a metal table, which had its legs imbedded into the concrete floor. There was a single light above the centre of the table. Hardly that much different from my cell, only slightly larger and with a dark glass panel in one wall. The guard handcuffed my right hand to a steel ring that was welded to the corner of the table and then left me alone naked and secured in the room. My arse stuck to the metal chair no matter how I tried to sit or wriggle, and perspiration dripped from my entire body as I sweltered.
    Perhaps it was an hour, but given my discomfort it could have been less, when a man entered the room from behind me and then sat opposite me. He wore only a white t-shirt and grey trousers and didn't even have a file in his hands. He sat silently and stared at me. I couldn't decide on his nationality, but perhaps from somewhere around The Balkans or maybe Bulgarian. When he finally spoke, his accent threw me off balance. It was almost an Oxford English accent.
    'You're in very serious shit, aren't you Mr Garret?'
    'Yes,' I said and nodded.
    'So when was it precisely that you started supplying sensitive information to terrorists?'
    'What?'
    'Your computer records make very interesting reading?'
    'My computer? It was taken when I was hauled from Neuchâtel. So how…?'
    'We have managed to access all you computer records.'
    'From the island? I don't understand.'
    'Does that matter? Now, maybe you would answer my question. When did all this begin?'
    'I don't know what you're talking about. Really. I've never been in contact with anyone other than just friends and chatting on the Internet.'
    'Oh come on Mr Garret, please. We know about Atlantis and The Sons of Cleito and so do you. You were even so kind, or perhaps stupid enough, to bring us all your notes about it.'
    'I was only trying to figure out for myself what was going on. I've got no idea at all. All I know is….'
    The open handed slap across my face hurt. 'Mr Garret, this is not a kindergarten here and you must know that you are involved in a very serious matter of national security. You have been sending messages containing logistical, technical and intelligence information that is being used to plan and plot a dangerous series of terrorist attacks. There are no nursemaids here, so please consider the fact that it would be much more comfortable for you to talk about these matters of your own volition. It's much more pleasant than the alternatives.'
    'Look, I'll tell you everything I know, but I don't know much about anything. Honestly.'
    Another slap told me he didn't believe me, and that I was really in fucking deep shit.
    'Let's go back a few steps. Tell me about the letter.'
    I told the man everything I could remember about the letter from my mother and that I hadn't seen it since I was in my mid-twenties or so, and my suspicions that Helen had taken it. With the very real threat of being tortured, I told him as much as I possibly could about my notes and how I had tried to figure out for myself what was going on. I pushed any conclusions I had when I wrote the notes a little further by even telling him that I thought my wife could be involved in Zeus and how I thought it maybe a plot to overthrow a government. I was stretching my imagination a lot, and dumping the blame on Helen, but from the video Leda had shown me, Helen had dumped me in the shit already, so returning the favour might be my only means of avoiding having my balls incinerated, or worse.
    I escaped being electrocuted or having my fingernails