Bogota

Here are the opening lines to a new novel I am working on.

Barton opened his eyes. It took some moments to figure out where he was. Daylight was filtering through the the thin orange coloured curtains. He looked at his watch; it was just after ten. 
It took a moment to figure out it was in the morning.

It took a few moments more to recall he was in Bogota. 
He swung his legs out of the bed and sat there trying to recall the reason for being in that South American city. 
It was a long and confused story.

That stunned feeling that had invaded him over the previous days, pulling him into a black abyss, had faded, replaced by one of space, distance, detachment. It was if he had arrived in a kind of limbo, perhaps awaiting judgement. He briefly wondered what the others were doing: Pat, Michael, John Francis.... He wondered whether or not he was some kind of rat for having abandoned ship, if that's what it could be called.