The Prisoner

by Carlos J. Cortes

  “Done,” Vinson said, his face creasing into a cockeyed smile. “A van was stopped at a checkpoint on Rhode Island Avenue, halfway to the ABC building.”

  “Spare me the geography,” she snapped.

  He didn’t raise his eyes from the tiny screen. “From the video feed, the scanner positively identified Lukas Hurley, Raul Osborne, and Laurel Cole with over ninety percent certainty and Eliot Russo with over fifty percent.”

  “Why only fifty percent?”

  “The man was prone on a stretcher and wrapped in blankets. Reasonable, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.” The tightness in her chest relaxed a fraction. “Go on.”

  “When the fugitives refused to leave their vehicle and reached for concealed weapons, the officer in charge had no option but to order his men to open fire. Those were Mr. Masek’s exact words.”

  Odelle waited.

  “The vehicle exploded. No survivors.”

  Odelle peered through narrowed eyes at the Capitol grounds. The light had changed and the mist must have shifted; in the new aching clarity, vegetation and monuments sharpened into focus. The doctor was missing, but he was of little consequence. So much for Palmer’s witnesses.

  “Now you can pull the plug.”

  Vinson’s face lit up as he jabbed a code into his cell phone. Then there was a soft rap on the door and Odelle turned to find Edward O’Keefe, the Capitol’s head of security, personally handpicked by her several years before. As the Senate’s chief law-enforcement officer, the sergeant at arms traditionally maintained order and security on the premises and was independent of any agency or the army. But that was before the providential takeover of Capitol Hill by an extreme-left group in the fall of 2049. After taking a score of senators and other lesser officers hostage, a standoff ensued, in which it was clearly demonstrated that the resident security forces were ill-equipped to deal with such an emergency. While Thomas Corvus, then the aging and incompetent president, agonized, surrounded by his advisers, she had sent in her Fast Deployment Units. After a show of tactical virtuosity transmitted live by all the major networks, in less than two hours Odelle’s team had killed all the terrorists—and only two senators were wounded in the cross fire. That the “terrorists” ranged from age sixteen to twenty-one and were armed with weapons loaded with blanks was carefully kept from the public view.

  Fueled by a vindictive press and riding the crest of the ensuing outcry, Odelle had managed to change an ancient rule and substituted DHS forces for Capitol security.

  “At ease.”

  On the sunny side of fifty, Edward O’Keefe was no sergeant but a full colonel, and he cast an imposing figure in black fatigues. The ex-marine had always refused to don any apparel more congenial with his office.

  “As they tried to reach these grounds,” Odelle said, “the fugitives from the Washington, D.C., suspension facility were spotted at a checkpoint. Regretfully, they’re all dead.”

  O’Keefe didn’t move or relax his stance, eyes fastened on a small print and its oversize frame on the opposite wall. Yet the man had an unnerving aura about him: the body language of someone who actually knew how to break people’s bones.

  “Naturally, we know nothing of their supporters—the organization that masterminded the breakout,” she continued.

  Vinson pocketed his cell phone. “I’ll use a computer at the security center,” he said, dropping his voice into the age-old lilt of the marketplace. Slipping past O’Keefe, he opened the door and disappeared, leaving a trail of laughter in his wake, like the Cheshire cat’s smile.

  Odelle cringed at Vinson’s childish behavior and continued. “I’ve heard a rumor, so far unconfirmed: There’s a possibility such a criminal group may attempt a repetition of the 2049 fiasco.” Nothing wrong in adding a little overkill security. “Suggestions?”

  “I will power the antitruck hydraulics throughout the Hill, call in additional FDU units, and place my men on maximum alert.”

  “Sounds good, Colonel. Seal the grounds tight. Don’t let anyone in. In particular, all access to this building: Constitution Avenue, First Street, Delaware Avenue, and C Street.” Then she threw him a morsel. “I’m counting on you.”

  When she was alone, she neared the window again and looked toward the fountain. Her eyes blurred. She treasured a hoard of private memories of Araceli’s face, her voice, and her form, but none like the images of a distant morning when Araceli had danced in that same fountain and together they had to flee before the shouts of an irate gardener.

  Then training took over. She swallowed hard, stepped over to the desk where she’d propped her briefcase, and marched purposefully out of the room and into the corridor where Anthony, the killer aide, waited.

  Partway down the hallway, he stopped before a door, reached for the handle, and opened it, standing aside.

  A long line of military trucks snaked to a stop before the roadblock at the confluence of Pennsylvania and Independence Avenues.

  Edward O’Keefe, the Capitol sergeant at arms, rested both hands on the back of the swivel chair occupied by Sergeant Thomas, the shift officer at the Capitol Security Center, peering over his shoulder at the computer screen on the desk.

  “Zoom in,” he said.

  The screen filled with the cabin of the first truck and the insignia stenciled on the door: Marine Corps. What are they doing here? A sergeant appeared around the front of the vehicle to hand over a sheet of paper to the Capitol security platoon leader. The security officer seemed to scan the page, then shook his head.

  O’Keefe’s radio beeped. He tapped his ear set. “O’Keefe.”

  “General Erlenmeyer to see you, sir.”

  “Where?” O’Keefe zeroed in on the screen again. His security officer and the Marine sergeant continued to argue.

  “Outside the door, sir.”

  O’Keefe turned to look at the solid steel door protecting the control center.

  “Sir, another military convoy has been halted at Maryland and Second.”

  He spoke into the microphone clipped to the neck of his tunic. “Is the general alone?” A stupid question, since generals never went alone anywhere.

  “Two aides, sir. A colonel and a major. All security-cleared.”

  O’Keefe bit his lower lip. He couldn’t leave a four-star general standing by the door. Other security officers had stopped scanning the scores of screens at their stations and were looking at him.

  “Open the door,” he said to no one in particular as he stepped forward.

  After a muted thud, the thick door swung on its diamond-tipped hinges to frame General Erlenmeyer, flanked by two officers in full uniform.

  O’Keefe stood at attention and drew a rigid arm to his brow. “General …”

  The security officers stood at attention by their stations.

  Erlenmeyer looked down his patrician nose at O’Keefe. “Colonel, I am relieving you of your duties. Please stand aside.”

  Time seemed to slow. Sergeant Thomas pushed his chair back and was reaching for his regulation sidearm when the colonel accompanying Erlenmeyer leaped forward, slapped a huge hand on Thomas’s crotch, and rammed a pistol in his neck. O’Keefe turned to the general, to stare into the black hole of a Smith & Wesson an inch away from his nose.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear the order, Colonel. Witnessed by Colonel Robinson and Major Freedman, you’ve been relieved of your duties. I will construe any further move as rebellion and a threat and will blow your brains out. The same applies to your men.” Erlenmeyer’s voice remained conversational and even. “Freedman.” He spoke to the major at his side. “Show the colonel our presidential orders.”

  A collective sharp intake of breath followed as the men reacted to the statement.

  O’Keefe scanned the sheet of paper held in midair by the major, his mind in turmoil. First Odelle Marino and now the army. What’s going on?

  Freedman folded the paper and, with swift movements, removed O’Keefe’s sidearm, flicked the safe
ty catch, and checked the weapon. When he noticed there was no bullet up the spout, he snapped the action to load it and shook his head. “Slipshod.”

  Colonel Robinson nodded to Thomas’s screen. “Order your sentries to let our vehicles through.”

  Pain flickered on Thomas’s face as his eyes swiveled downward to the paw grinding his groin.

  O’Keefe made to turn around, but Freedman rammed his weapon in his side.

  “You heard the colonel,” Erlenmeyer said. “That’s a direct order.”

  Robinson removed his hand.

  Thomas leaned over his console and spoke into a microphone. On the screen, the security officer at the roadblock froze. Thomas repeated the order, enunciating each word with care. After a few seconds, an obviously confused officer stood aside and the barriers dotting the ground started to lower.

  “Now the convoy at Maryland and Second,” Robinson said.

  Thomas flicked through screens and repeated the orders.

  “Take over, Colonel.” Erlenmeyer nodded to the deadpan faces of the security officers, then lowered his weapon. “Let’s go meet our men.” At the door, he stopped and signaled to Major Freedman, who prodded O’Keefe ahead of him.

  Odelle stepped into the room and froze. She’d been there before—it was a place for informal meetings, with a large oval table, its high-backed chairs now occupied by people she knew well. But she was taken aback by the level of the confederates. To one side of the table sat Senator Palmer with Genia Warren and her very much alive black-bereted puppy, Lawrence Ritter, his face curiously dotted, and Richard Papworth, chairman of the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. The opposite side was occupied by John Crookshank and Eugene Stem, Senate majority and minority leaders, respectively, followed by Robert Barrat, the assistant secretary of the Senate. At the head of the table stood Bernard Robilliard, the secretary of the Senate.

  She stood transfixed, staring at Bernard Robilliard and his big, slightly brutish face. It could have been the light and the precise angle his face was turned, but for an instant he looked like Tomas de Torquemada—the ruthless inquisitor who ordered the burning and torture of thousands at his autos-de-fé.

  She darted a glance at Ritter. So the man was mauled but in one piece, unlike her aide George Wilson, naked on a marble slab with several holes in his body and a tag around his big toe. So far, Nikola Masek had been unable to piece together what had happened to Wilson, but it was only a question of time.

  She didn’t believe in coincidences, but she felt a definite clenching in her gut when Bernard pasted a genial smile on his face and turned to look directly into her eyes.

  “Ah! Here you are. Don’t stand there. Please, make yourself comfortable. This is not the Inquisition.”

  chapter 58

  10:32

  Odelle Marino approached the table, where an obliging Robert Barrat held a chair for her, flanked by an unoccupied seat and the bulk of Richard Papworth doodling on a legal pad. She lowered her briefcase and ran a hand down the back of her skirt to sit. “If you say so. Still, I thought I caught a whiff of burning bramble.”

  “Nothing can be further from our minds, I assure you.” Robilliard slid into his seat and ran a hand over the polished surface of the wood in front of him. No papers. “Before we start, let me clarify that this is not a committee—”

  “Then what is it?”

  Robilliard pursed his lips an instant. “Let’s say a fact-finding meeting to decide if an inquest is necessary.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the others. “You know everybody.”

  She stared at Genia Warren, who stared back with cold determination. “Some better than others, but, yes, I know everybody. You’ve not answered my question.”

  “I thought I had.”

  “There’s an agreement between my agency and this House to give reciprocal fair warning and background before convening any meeting.” She raised her hand a fraction to forestall Robilliard’s reply. “I’m well aware that agreements are honored more in the breach than the observance, but the fact of its existence still stands. I have been arraigned before this—”

  “You haven’t been arraigned. You’ve been asked, like the rest of us, to attend a meeting, and there hasn’t been time to draw an agenda we can all agree to. In fact, there is no agenda.”

  “Fine, let me rephrase my original question. What’s the purpose of this … friendly gathering?”

  “Ah, the legal mind. I have convened this meeting at the request of Senator Jerome Palmer to determine whether we have grounds to form a special committee.”

  “To do what?”

  Robilliard pursed his lips again, but this time Odelle knew it wasn’t an oratorical device but a ruse to delay an uncomfortable answer.

  As if on cue, Senator Palmer rested a hand over a thick folder. The bastard had brought papers. “The events of the past days have raised grave questions, not only about the security of the prison system but about alleged criminal abuse of the facilities.”

  “Alleged by whom?” Odelle snapped.

  Senator Palmer turned to face her. Dark bags under his eyes gave him the appearance of a tired bloodhound. “Alleged by me.”

  “Criminal abuse of the facilities? Don’t make me laugh! No doubt you have depositions, documents, or the like to back your preposterous accusation.” She stretched out a hand, palm up, her eyes on the folder.

  “Madam Director, you’ve not convened this meeting. I have, chaired by the secretary of the Senate. Your role here is to answer questions, not make demands.”

  She lowered her hand to the table and held it there for an instant, before drawing it back. “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Robilliard said.

  “Or else?”

  “Or else I will presume Senator Palmer’s claims have substance, in which case I will convene a special committee.”

  Odelle stared at Robilliard. whatever that bastard Palmer had concocted must surely rest on his vanished witnesses. In a flash, she decided to call their bluff. “Do it, Mr. Secretary. And, when you do, summon me through the proper channels and I will gladly answer any questions. Until then, if you’ll excuse me …” She pushed her chair back as a commotion sounded outside the door.

  All eyes turned to the door and the imposing figure of Colonel Edward O’Keefe, the Senate sergeant at arms. He stood under the frame for an instant, then stepped in with curiously short steps. Odelle’s gaze stopped at his empty holster; his sidearm was missing.

  Two mountainous soldiers in full combat gear, their weapons trained on O’Keefe, prodded him into the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her companions around the table start to rise, faces disfigured with shock. No, not everybody: Palmer, Genia, Ritter, and Robilliard remained seated.

  “What’s the mea—” John Crookshank, the Senate majority leader, blurted.

  Another figure blocked the entrance, to a collective gasp around the table. General James Erlenmeyer, also decked in combat fatigues, waited until O’Keefe and the two soldiers stepped aside before marching into the room.

  “My forces have secured Capitol Hill and all its accesses. Until this emergency is over, nobody will leave the premises.” He glanced at Odelle Marino. “Or this room.”

  “Holy—” someone swore.

  Odelle sprang to her feet. “This is high treason, General. I’ll have you thrown in a tank, headfir—” Then she clamped her mouth shut.

  General Erlenmeyer turned in her direction, his chin raised so he looked at her down his nose. “I’m sure you would, madam, given the chance.” Then he swiveled on his heel to face Bernard Robilliard. “I have orders from the President of the United States.” He slapped at his tunic top pocket. “My commander-in-chief and that of everyone in this building.” He spoke forcefully, clipping his words. Then he turned to O’Keefe. “Ahead of me, Colonel,” he said, and nodded toward the open door.

  Both soldiers stood at attention and marched out
of the room after the general and O’Keefe. Odelle gasped as, before the door closed, she spotted Vinson’s ashen face peering in from the hall.

  “Now that we’re safely tucked in, perhaps we can resume,” Senator Palmer said.

  Silence.

  “I will pose a few questions—”

  “The only questions I will answer will be before a court of inquiry.”

  Senator Palmer tapped his folder lightly, his eyes unfocused. “Very well. I will lay the case and you will listen.”

  She had started to shake her head when Senator Palmer jerked his head in her direction, a ferocious expression on his face. “And if you refuse to listen, so help me God I’ll have you placed in irons by the soldiers outside and restrained while I read the charges.”

  “Charges?” she growled. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “I’m your nemesis.” Then he snapped his fingers and turned to look over Robilliard’s head.

  “Yesterday, at my home, Director Marino threatened my life and that of my family if I didn’t bow to her demands.”

  “You liar!” Odelle shouted.

  Senator Palmer stared at her for an instant. “A sound and video recording of the exchange is my first exhibit.”

  The lights dimmed as a large screen lowered from a groove in the ceiling; a tiny video projector peeked from a housing over the table and flared to life.

  Over the following minutes, the only sounds in the room were the unmistakable voices of Senator Palmer and Odelle Marino, as the crisp images on the screen depicted the pair walking in Palmer’s garden.

  You’ve been a naughty boy, Senator, stealing something of mine. I suppose that, as he is your son, you have a claim of sorts on Russo …

  Everybody in the room held their breath.

  … But let bygones be bygones. Your driver was killed on his way to work.

  Odelle stared ahead, eyes unfocused.

  … I want Russo back. As soon as you deliver him, I will have him disappear with the rest of the center inmates without a trace; they would have never existed. …