The Prisoner

by Carlos J. Cortes

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “So do I.” Genia bit her lower lip before squaring her shoulders. She had decided her next step hours before calling Ritter, but having reached the moment of truth, the queasiness in her stomach deepened. Eventually she would have to jump into the void.

  Ritter shrugged. “About the answers you want for Director Marino, tightening security is easy. I’ve already drafted a document I’ll log into the server by 18:00. It will mean installing active and passive devices in the sewage line, rigging cameras and stunners on the pigs, and reworking security routines. I don’t mention anything about rounding up the fugitives, since it’s out of our hands. The DHS has taken full control; you said so in your memo. As for scapegoats, you have the facility’s head of security, his men, the people in my department, and me. Take your pick.”

  “Don’t be facetious.”

  “I’m not. It would make more sense to fire me than anybody else.”

  “Why?”

  “Simple. I can get a job—a better-paid job—in one of a dozen security outfits. And, since I know the score, I would keep my mouth shut. The others, in particular the Washington sugar-cube staff, may not be so knowledgeable and may think, ‘What the hell! I’ll blow the whistle.’”

  “Would they?”

  “I don’t know. People do the stupidest things.”

  Again he ran a hand over his head before staring into her eyes. “Have you made up your mind?”

  She feigned ignorance. “About what?”

  “You’ve been debating for an hour whether to clue me in on whatever you’re planning to do.”

  She decided to take the leap. “Have you considered security inspections without warning?”

  Ritter froze, then, in slow motion, he placed both hands palms down on the table. “Go on.”

  “It would mean a resident computer program that could be activated to test the security readiness of any station.”

  “And … what would that program do?”

  “Shut down the computer.”

  “How long?”

  “Until the exercise ended. The inmates wouldn’t be in any danger. Their life-support system is autonomous.”

  “The idea has merit, but—”

  “I know: Drains and displacement machinery still work.”

  Ritter didn’t move, his eyes fastened on her lips as if daring her to voice her next thought.

  “Unless the main computer ordered the backup system to block instructions to these subsystems.”

  “As a mental exercise, your idea has merit, but it’s impractical. Hypnos supervises the computer network, and they would spot such an instruction in your security exercise program.”

  “Not if the program doesn’t stay in the station’s computer.”

  Ritter leaned forward, a devious spark flashing across his dark irises.

  “That imaginary program—how heavy?”

  “Five hundred kilobytes or smaller.”

  “How long to download?”

  “Under a second.”

  Ritter blinked, once. “Any instruction to release the supports of the center inmates and void the tanks would come from a satellite transponder.”

  Silence.

  “If there was another transponder on the same satellite tuned to the same frequency, it would receive the same signal and download your program to override the instruction, block the deployment and flushing systems, and shut the computers down. Of course, your theory is useless without the transponder codes. …”

  As a teenager, Genia had hidden money in her bra so her brothers wouldn’t steal it from her pockets. Now she fumbled with two buttons on her blouse and reached inside a cup to draw out a folded paper with scores of machine-code lines typed on one side. With deliberation, she slid the paper across the table, keeping a finger over it.

  “You can stand up and walk out that door without this paper.”

  Ritter stared at her fingernail, his face set, before turning his gaze to her unbuttoned blouse.

  “My sister used to hide love letters in her bra.” Then he reached for the paper.

  chapter 31

  15:12

  A continuous sound of crunching gravel shattered Ethel’s concentration. She lowered her book and glanced at a bulky figure wrestling to keep his bicycle within the margins of the narrow path. The man was bent over the handlebars, his face obscured by a bandana drawn almost to his eyes. He needed the exercise, no doubt about that, considering the jiggly lumps his light weight tracksuit strained to contain. Ethel sighed at the view of vast buttocks dwarfing the machine’s tiny seat as he pedaled past. No amount of exercise will get rid of that. The sound decreased as the rider approached the next bend, missing a trash can by inches, to disappear into memory when the bicycle faded from view.

  After cycling around the park twice more, Senator Jerome Palmer finally spotted another bicycle rider sitting on a bench next to a ratty clump of eucalyptus. Palmer was out of breath and his butt hurt. He almost fell after fumbling with the brakes, wildly twisting the front wheel to keep balance. After dismounting with a remarkable lack of grace, he rested his bike next to the other one—an old and muddy machine, brown paint flaking in sections off its steel frame.

  “You look awful.” Palmer eyed the black tights hugging Tyler’s spindly legs—and his deformed left knee. The pants disappeared under a nondescript windbreaker with more than a passing likeness to a deflated parachute.

  “Seen yourself lately?” Tyler reached for a metal bottle clipped to his bicycle frame, flicked it open, and offered it with an outstretched arm.

  The brandy was rotgut, but it warmed Palmer’s belly with a welcome glow.

  Over the next thirty minutes Palmer listened to Tyler’s monologue of recent events, interrupting to ask for clarification or to take his turn at the flask traveling back and forth between them.

  “Now what?” Palmer glanced sideways at an enterprising squirrel diving into a trash can, climbing back an instant later in a flurry of scratches as its tiny claws fought for purchase over the smooth metal.

  “We wait. There’s not much else we can do.”

  “Will he make it?” Palmer asked.

  “As I said—”

  “I know what you said. It’s the unsaid that worries me.”

  “Floyd Carpenter is resilient and knows his stuff. I was afraid he’d buckle under the pressure and try to bring Russo out of torpor prematurely just to get the job done and over with.”

  “But he hasn’t.”

  “Right, and that takes guts. Floyd must have guessed that every minute counts. The DHS goons are turning the city upside down. Yet he’s chosen a slow procedure, to build up Russo’s metabolism before attempting arousal.”

  “Will Russo make it?” Palmer persisted.

  Birds paused in their song as if glutted with sound. Tyler waited until a jogger and his companion, a panting dachshund, were out of earshot around a clump of tall grasses. “My gut feeling is that Floyd will bide his time in an attempt to give Russo a real chance and … yes, he’ll bring Russo around. But as for the state of his mind … I don’t know. He’s been subject to calculated deterioration. Floyd had never seen anyone in such wasted condition—his own words, according to Laurel. Still, had the escape continued according to plan, we would be in the same situation.”

  “Hardly the same.”

  “We would. Everything hinges on Russo’s mental capacity, or lack of it. Without a witness, we’re shafted. At Nyx, Floyd would have had state-of-the-art equipment at his disposal and all the time in the world, but otherwise nothing else has changed. Our success hinges on Russo’s mental state.”

  “How’s Laurel?”

  “She’s fine, and Raul is too. They’re young—perhaps a little older after this experience, but they’re doing fine. My take is she’s making eyes at the doctor, but it could be my imagination.”

  “What about the supervisor?”

  “He’s a wild card. So far he’s holding up.
Out there he doesn’t have a chance until the dust settles, if it ever does. He’s a marked man, and he knows it.”

  “But?”

  “The kids and the doctor know the score. I saw Laurel returning a loaded syrette to Floyd, and he keeps another with him always.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Laurel told me.”

  “Poison?”

  Tyler nodded.

  Palmer shook the flask to gauge how much was left. Suicide involved considerable resolve. He had no truck with those who glibly dismissed it as a coward’s way out.

  “Lukas Hurley is a civil servant,” Tyler said.

  “So am I. What has that got to do with it?”

  “In my experience, people cling to groundless ideals: The mob looks after its pals, the army after its men, and the system—any system—after its kin.”

  “That’s wishful thinking.”

  “Most people thrive on similar fantasies.”

  “And you reckon he may be tempted to trade?” Palmer asked.

  “It will depend on the pressure. Before long, the DHS will make a move; they can’t afford not to. And when they do, they will dangle a carrot in front of Floyd and Lukas. Laurel and Raul are driven by ideals, and Russo doesn’t count. That leaves the hired talent, and Floyd is no fool.”

  “Come home and all is forgotten?”

  “Something like that.”

  Palmer turned to face the warm buttery brightness of the sun. “Will Lukas fall for it?”

  A breeze pushed past Palmer and Tyler down the path, shifting the leaves and making them whisper. Tyler squinted at the sky, as if trying to attach words to the sounds and failing. “I don’t know, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  Palmer nodded. “Time for the second act.”

  Tyler reached into his windbreaker to produce a cell phone—a plump model made obsolete by card-thin devices.

  Palmer dug an oblong tube out of his jacket pocket, removed its lid, and shook it to dislodge a pair of foldable reading glasses.

  “Wait.” Tyler fumbled with his wristwatch—a cheap bright-yellow plastic piece. After pushing several tiny buttons on its side, he nodded.

  Palmer keyed a string of numbers into the cell phone.

  “Louis Hamilton,” a voice answered.

  Palmer followed Tyler’s lips as he mouthed, “Ninety seconds,” then the senator nodded.

  “There’s not much time, so you better listen carefully.” Palmer tried what he thought would pass for a gangster’s voice. Tyler rolled his eyes.

  “Who is this?”

  “You don’t want to know, buster.”

  An audible intake of breath followed and Palmer relaxed a notch. The penny had dropped at the other end of the line. It had been Hamilton’s idea of a code word: When Valerie calls me “buster,” I know she doesn’t want her husband, but her man. I’ll know it’s you. Palmer smiled. That’s what he liked about the Washington Post reporter. He always called things by their name, without resorting to euphemisms.

  “I’m listening.”

  “There’s been a breakout from the Washington sugar cube.”

  “Repeat.”

  “You heard me. Three inmates have escaped with the help of Lukas Hurley, the shift supervisor.” A faint high-pitched noise intruded on the line. The NSA computers scanned all U.S. domestic and international communications, sampling and comparing them with a list of words. Washington sugar cube and the supervisor’s name must have triggered the alarm. He nodded to Tyler, who adjusted his watch.

  “Thirty seconds,” Tyler mouthed.

  “The DHS has launched a covert operation to capture the fugitives while keeping the event under wraps. Wednesday’s terrorist attack on the power station was a diversion perpetrated by the fugitives to fool the security forces and effect their escape. They detonated the charges at a distance to guarantee no damage to the core.”

  Tyler offered both hands, fingers splayed: ten seconds. One bird chirped high up; there was a pause; another chirped lower down.

  “Can you back up your claims?”

  Palmer could almost sense Hamilton’s smile at the other end of the line.

  “That’s your job.” Palmer severed the communication and handed the phone back. Tyler switched it off, opened its back, and removed a wafer-thin battery before pocketing it.

  “What can Hamilton do with that information? Surely he can’t print it.”

  “Of course he can. He may drop a hint here and there, starting with an unconfirmed rumor … You know the score. But that wasn’t the reason for my call. As you predicted, the NSA locked on to the call. Within seconds the DHS will know about it, and they’ll know that Hamilton knows. Someone is bound to get nervous, and nervous folks make mistakes.”

  chapter 32

  16:47

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  Dr. Kyle Hulman breathed on his glasses and rubbed the lenses with a square of crimson chamois before balancing them back on the tip of his nose. He peered uncertainly around the room, as if disappointed by the result.

  “Look Mr. … er, Masek. Your search relates to events dating back, what, twenty-six years? Those records are long gone. Destroyed.”

  “I hope you’re mistaken, Dr. Hulman. By law, birth and death records must be retained permanently.” Nikola drew his knees together and shifted on the hard padding of the chair facing the doctor’s desk—a chair admirably designed to distress visitors.

  “That’s correct, and those records exist at the local health authorities that serve as the registrars of vital statistics. They keep a registry of births and deaths. But if I understand the nature of your inquiry, that’s not what you’re after. You want the medical record of a maternal health patient, and there the law is clear. The attending doctor must keep the records five years past the last date on which service was given.”

  Nikola nodded. “Or until the infant’s twenty-first birthday, whichever is later.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It means, since the subject of this inquiry has just turned twenty-six, you must have checked over the record I’m after only five years ago.” In fact, Dr. Hulman had done much more than that. On Nikola’s instructions, the department of criminal investigation at the DHS had served notice of his visit at exactly eleven-thirty. By then, Dennis had set up a system to monitor all traffic from Dr. Hulman’s office—even that of his personal cell phone, for good measure. Within five minutes the good doctor had contacted the hospital records department to check if there was anything left on someone named Araceli Goldberg. Later, using his private phone, he’d dialed another number. A woman had answered, “Petals; how can I help you?” After ascertaining that the number belonged to a downtown flower business, Dr. Hulman had muttered an excuse and hung up. Nothing out of the ordinary; everybody makes mistakes. But Dennis was thorough. He ran through the telephone company database to discover that the florist’s number had changed hands several times. Twenty-six years ago it belonged to an association of radical lawyers.

  “I deal with hundreds, thousands of records every year.”

  “Maybe, but those would be hospital records. I’m inquiring about a document you must have drafted.”

  Dr. Hulman was middle-aged, in the limbo between fifty and sixty, neither young nor old, hair not dark but not white either: ordinary. Yet there was something shifty about him, an air of mendacity that Nikola found invigorating. His skin was white and spongy, almost translucent from a lifetime away from the sun—and similar to those who had spent time in the tanks, even years after their release.

  “Do you recall destroying these particular records?”

  “How could I? Hospital staff deals with record destruction by shredding, pulping, or burning. You’ll have to ask … Let me check.” Dr. Hulman stabbed his finger at a computer screen, scrolling down a departmental structure tree. “Here it is: Ms. Rosemary Wilder in the archives department. And, no, I don’t recall anythi
ng about the document you’re looking for.”

  After learning that Laurel was adopted, it had been relatively easy to follow the thread to her real mother. Laurel’s father was still a mystery, and Nikola hoped the good Dr. Hulman would be able to shed a glimmer of light on the subject. On his way, he’d checked Bellevue Hospital’s personnel records dating from a few years back to spot a familiar name. He’d known Walter Romero from his time in the DHS. That Romero was now in charge of security at a hospital didn’t speak highly of the man’s intelligence, but Nikola paid him a short social visit before meeting Dr. Hulman. Romero’s gossip had been priceless.

  “You were Araceli Goldberg’s attending physician.”

  “Yes. As I’ve already explained, I was a young man then. She was a trauma casualty. When I was called in, the woman was dying, probably comatose. I delivered her child, probably by cesarean section, and that was the extent of my involvement. She wasn’t my patient.”

  “She was when you delivered the girl.”

  “A girl? If you say so. Still, the record of my intervention was attached to her file.” He checked his watch, although there was a large digital clock on the opposite wall. “How time flies! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must do a round of the wards.”

  Another lie. Dr. Hulman had chosen paper pushing over poking at abused flesh a decade earlier. “Did Araceli name the father? Did she ask you to notify anyone? Did you take notes?” Romero had remarked that Dr. Hulman had the annoying habit of taking copious notes at meetings or when attending patient reviews on small notebooks he always carried with him, to the chagrin of his secretary, who had to transcribe his spidery longhand. whatever doubt he had about Hulman keeping notes of Araceli’s delivery evaporated. As soon as Nikola mentioned notes, Dr. Hulman had darted a nervous glance to a tall safe supporting a pot with an artificial plant.

  “I’ve told you, I don’t remember. For crying out loud! It’s over twenty-five years ago. What do you think I am? A computer?”

  I must be getting old. He’d planned to grow calmer with the years, but his emotions only ran hotter with the extra mileage. In the past, Nikola would stoically endure uncooperative subjects and coax them into surrendering whatever information they may have had. Of late, his capacity had shrunk to a point where he bored of the game with surprising alacrity. He stifled a yawn and ran a tired glance over the impersonal office, the safe, the false plant, and the pristine medical textbooks that lined the shelves and were probably never consulted.