Next to Palmer, Genia darted a quick glance to Lawrence Ritter.
You can hide him in a vault, Palmer, in Switzerland or Tierra del Fuego, but I will find your Timmy. And, when I do, so help me God, you’ll never see him again. So don’t fuck with me, and don’t push me any further. I can use the full resources of the DHS to get that boy, and his mother, and his father, and his father’s father, and all of your wretched kin. …
With a slow glance, Palmer took in the shocked faces around the table.
Don’t be a fool, Senator. I could have snatched your grandson an hour ago. The snap of Odelle’s fingers on the screen echoed like a rifle shot. Just like that.
As the lights came back up, eight pairs of eyes converged on a remarkably composed Odelle Marino.
“That’s a fake. I was never near your house. I can produce affidavits from scores of people, both from the DHS and independent witnesses, who can testify under oath I was miles away from your address all morning.”
“I never said it was in the morning,” Palmer’s voice was almost a whisper.
Odelle pointed to the disappearing screen. “The light.”
“But you said it was a fake.”
She pressed her lips together into a grim line.
“Say, Palmer, according to the conversation we’ve just heard, the only other person on the grounds was your grandson, so who shot the film?” Eugene Stem, the Senate minority leader asked.
“My grandson did,” Palmer’s face was impassive. “Timmy hides in his tree house and points a plastic rifle at whoever happens to be with me. To keep me covered, he says. I strapped a miniature camera and a directional microphone to his rifle.”
Robilliard grimaced. “I see.”
“My second exhibit will tax your patience.” Palmer reached for his reading glasses and opened the folder before him. Then he nodded to Genia. She stood, reached for the folder contents—eight sets of a document stapled in one corner—and started distributing them around the table.
When she reached Odelle and slid the document before her, the DHS director hissed, “A stab in the back?”
Genia straightened. “No, love, not in the back, but staring into your eyes as you bite the bullet. Remain calm … and you won’t feel a thing.” With that she continued her rounds, placing a document before each man.
“The document before you contains photographs of two young women,” Palmer said, “and another photograph of an accidental homicide by an officer of the riot police. These are old prints. There are also recent pictures of the wretch we spirited out of the Washington hibernation facility: Eliot Russo, a civil rights lawyer, purportedly dead in a car accident eight years ago. My son.”
A buzz of shocked expletives spread across the table as senators reached for the document. Odelle remained immobile, staring straight ahead.
“On those pages, there’s an account of a wretched love affair gone wrong and the vengeance of a spurned lover. But don’t let feelings blind you. Others share my son’s fate, stored in a tank without benefit of trial. In addition, our nation’s hibernation facilities have been turned into a kind of parking area for the Russian Mafiya. They’ve been storing their enemies in our system in exchange for vast sums of money.”
“This can’t be true,” Richard Papworth, chairman of the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, blurted. “We would have known.”
“Indeed. And you did know, Richard.”
Papworth gripped the edges of the table and started to rise.
“It’s over, so please spare us the theatrics. At the back of the document, there are three appendixes. Appendix One is a list of the people who knew about the use of hibernation facilities to store anybody from dissidents to whoever the Mafiya wanted to keep in cold storage. Your name is there, next to a code number. The code identifies a large file containing irrefutable evidence about the individuals involved in this infamy. In Appendix Two, you will find the details of accounts Director Odelle Marino keeps in Antigua, with a balance in excess of three hundred million dollars. Blood money for services rendered.”
All faces turned to Odelle when she started laughing. It wasn’t a forced laugh but deep, throaty, from the belly, breast-shaking. “You’re pathetic. All of you. These papers are a craftily constructed lie, full of circumstantialities and fakery. Nowhere in any suspension facility is there anyone who’s not been sent there by the courts. Nowhere. You can send inspectors to all the facilities, check the identity of each inmate. Nothing. It’s all a lie.”
“Pulling the plug didn’t work.”
Her laughter died, and, like spectators at a tennis match, all faces turned toward Genia Warren.
“Less than an hour ago, a signal flashed from this building to override Hypnos’s security program releasing center prisoners from their harnesses and then flushing the tanks.”
As the outcome of such a maneuver registered, a sharp intake of breath echoed off the fabric-clad walls.
“The men and women who are property of the Mafiya were resettled in recent days and replaced by common inmates. To even the numbers, scores of prisoners would have been reduced to mush by the fluid-treatment turbines and flushed down the sewers once the solids had been removed for incineration. Fortunately—and I’m referring to the inmates, not you,” Genia paused and exchanged a quick glance with Odelle, “we intercepted the signal and triggered the emergency status in all facilities. The nationwide suspension system is locked; it will remain thus until each facility has been thoroughly inspected and illegal prisoners have been sent to reanimation to ascertain their identities and secure their freedom or to return them to their countries of origin.”
Odelle’s face was frozen in a stony expression.
A sharp beep shattered the silence. Palmer reached to his pocket, drew out a slim cellular phone, and listened for several seconds. When he folded the device back into his pocket, he had to rein in a sudden urge to smile. “As I said,” Senator Palmer continued in a soft voice, his eyes on the empty folder before him, “the document before you is my second exhibit, but, as Ms. Marino sagely pointed out, our technology allows us to fake almost everything. In Appendix Three, you may peruse a list of thirty-six illegal prisoners and their relative location within the system.” At Eugene Stem’s frown, he paused. “No mistake. Thirty-six. These are the ones left alive. In the second part of the appendix there’s a long list of names, but these are long dead. Appendix Three will corroborate the document you hold and everything I’ve revealed so far. Providing the facilities are inspected by an independent committee, you will find twenty-six men and ten women who shouldn’t be there. Scattered through various facilities, inspectors will also find twenty-four Russian and Chechen citizens, a few Chinese, and several others, all wanted by sundry governments for organized-crime activities.”
Palmer leaned back and massaged his eyelids. “Naturally, that will take time, and I don’t want to impose on you any more than necessary. My Exhibit Three is outside that door, waiting to testify for himself.”
For several seconds nobody moved, then John Crookshank started to stand, but Robilliard arrested the movement by gripping his arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. Let me claim a little glory.” Robilliard stood, marched to the door, and opened it with a sharp pull, only to step back at once. “What in the na—”
General Erlenmeyer stood in the opening with a bundle in his arms—a frail figure with enormous eyes and almost translucent extremities. After a painful awed silence, the general stepped forward to occupy the vacant chair, still holding Eliot Russo to his chest like a baby. Then a man and a woman, with shaved heads carpeted with stubble, and a small man with a remarkable likeness to Woody Allen entered the room, carrying with them an obnoxious smell of excrement. Their shoes and trouser legs looked as if they had waded through something dark and slimy.
Odelle stared at the figure that General Erlenmeyer held, her face distorted by an expression of fascinated revulsion. After a few heartbeats, she reached under her hair with an al
most coquettish gesture to unclip a small reddish-colored earring. Ritter started to move, but Senator Palmer reached over Genia and stilled his arm. Then Palmer locked eyes with Odelle and blinked once.
Odelle Marino smiled faintly, pushed the earring past her lips, and crunched it between her teeth. Then she leaned back and turned to look at Eliot Russo before convulsions racked her body.
Senator Palmer stood staring into Odelle Marino’s lifeless eyes as pandemonium broke out.
chapter 59
14:47
Senator Palmer moved to the desk and half sat on a corner, facing the group scattered on chairs and sofas in a large Congress office he’d commandeered to accommodate everybody. Eliot Russo sat wrapped in a blanket on one of the sofas, with Laurel holding his hand and Dr. Carpenter next to her. Most senators had scrounged a seat, but a few stood with the motley group stationed close to the door, the air heavy with the odor of excrement. The confederates had emptied the contents of the truck in a garage basement and trampled the stuff all over.
With Lukas and Genia stood Ritter, Harper Tyler, Raul, Henry Mayer, Antonio, Barandus, and Colonel O’Keefe, his regulation sidearm back in its holster. General Erlenmeyer sat on the sofa next to Eliot Russo.
“Now that you’re all gathered, I can tell you that, within a few minutes, the President will convene a press conference to inform the world about what’s happened.” Palmer paused to inspect his fingernails. “Enough lies: The President will give the world a version of what’s happened. It can’t be any other way. The full truth would serve no purpose and would cause this nation much harm.
“In her address, she will disclose having found one illegal prisoner in the system: Eliot Russo. The rest will be given the best medical attention we can muster. Some will be returned to their countries of origin and others will be granted asylum. Everyone but Russo will remain anonymous.”
“Er …” Bernard Robilliard cleared his throat. “The stunt all of you have pulled is remarkable, and it’s obvious other agencies lent a hand.” He nodded toward Genia Warren. “But I’ve just heard that the … shit tank and a van with the rest of your confederates passed through the gauntlet Director Marino had thrown around Capitol Hill. How?”
Senator Jerome Palmer glanced at Genia. “By the devices of a man unknown to most of you: Nikola Masek.”
“Ah, Odelle’s bloodhound. Hardly an innocent bystander,” Robilliard pointed out. “If anyone knew about the atrocities within the hibernation system, he did.”
Genia leaned forward. “Without his help, we wouldn’t be here.”
“And no doubt he’s been adequately compensated,” Robilliard mused as if to himself.
“The President will sign a document giving him full immunity from prosecution before the day is over,” Palmer said.
“And the man from Hypnos? Will he also enjoy immunity? And the others?” Floyd Carpenter blurted.
“No, my friend. Vinson Duran from Hypnos is in custody, and, within the next few hours, scores of people—a few occupying some of this nation’s highest offices—will be arraigned before the Senate.”
“And then condemned to the tanks?” Henry Mayer asked.
Senator Palmer held Henry’s gaze, then shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. A nation as large and complex as ours demands compromise. Perhaps justice will not be served in full, but all of those who knew of this infamy will be forever removed from public office. That’s the best we can attain without irreparably damaging our nation’s reputation. Victims will be compensated—generously—although I’m aware no compensation can ever be sufficient to erase what’s been done to you.” He looked into Russo’s eyes. “Or any other innocent who has ever had to spend a minute in those harrowing tanks without trial.”
“Just a moment, Senator.” Laurel stood and stepped into the center of the room. “A moment ago you said, ‘Everyone but Russo will remain anonymous.’ That won’t do. As you said yourself, enough lies.” She turned around and locked eyes with Raul, who stepped over to her side. “We’re not all gathered. Bastien Compton died.”
Aside from the agency executives and politicians, the rest of the gathered gravitated to the center of the room.
Laurel looked over her shoulder and nodded before facing Senator Palmer once more. “We can’t just ignore his sacrifice.”
Something flashed deep in Palmer’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything.
“Arlington,” Raul said.
Robilliard huffed. “He wasn’t a member of the armed forces.”
“In a way he was,” Palmer said. “Acting on direct orders from the White House.”
“I see your point.” Robilliard ran a hand over his hair.
“What can we do about armed forces membership, General?” Palmer asked.
General Erlenmeyer adjusted a blanket over Russo’s legs. “We’re swamped in paperwork. Often names are misspelled, dates are absent or inaccurate—it’s a miracle we can keep track of everybody. If we look carefully enough, I’m sure the service record of Bastien Compton will be found.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lawrence Ritter pointed out. “On June first, 2002, army rules changed, and some civilians who served the United States during war time were allowed to have their cremated remains inurned with military honors at Arlington National Cemetery.”
“War time?” Robilliard asked.
“How else would you describe this morning’s events?” Tyler retorted.
“No cremation,” Laurel said.
Robilliard sighed. “We should be able to manage a standard honor cerem—”
“Full honors,” Tyler interrupted.
“And the Medal of Honor,” Henry chipped in.
Robilliard opened his mouth to say something but clamped it shut and shook his head. General Erlenmeyer nodded. “Such a medal is bestowed on members of the United States armed forces who distinguish themselves above and beyond the call of duty while engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States.” He glanced at Palmer. “Most fitting.”
“We shall honor our departed friend,” Palmer said.
Laurel turned to look into the sparkling eyes of her companions and stopped at Russo’s.
He reached for his sunglasses with an unsure hand, removed them, and squinted, keeping his eyes half closed. “There’s hope for us if there’s still honor among thieves.”
Senator Jerome Palmer stepped forward, suddenly looking much older than his years. “Now we must endeavor to recompose our lives, or whatever is left of them. I have resigned my office and, before leaving, I wanted to thank you all for your indescribable courage. Most of you have placed careers and even your lives in jeopardy to have a modicum of justice done. I’m proud of you, proud of being your countryman, and proud of having known the kind of people who have made our nation great.” One hand on the door handle, he turned to face a sea of stern faces. “Nothing I can say will erase the past. Justice may not have been served in full, but the prisoner is free.”
epilogue
Mark Shirer, Noncommissioned Officer in Charge, from the Third United States Infantry Old Guard, glanced toward the approaching hearse with apprehension. For more than eight years he’d escorted deceased army officers and two ex-presidents to their final resting places in the Gardens of Stone. The procedure, honed through almost two centuries, was a production worthy of a big-budget Hollywood picture, combined with the precision of time-honored military code—almost a ballet, every movement, event, and detail painstakingly rehearsed with no possible departure from the established pageantry. Until today.
According to the schedule details supplied by the Arlington Memorial Cemetery office, the man in the approaching casket, Bastien Compton, had no military record. Of course, a Medal of Honor and sanctions by the President and both Houses of Congress went a long way toward justifying his final rest in the most hallowed land in America. Over the previous hour, a trickle of limousines had turned into a flood, as politicians, military officers, and the high echelons of
government flocked to pay their last respects to the unknown man who had merited the highest decoration in the land.
By Shirer’s side, the Right Reverend Shawn Ramfis, bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta and reportedly a close friend of the Compton family, was to officiate the ceremony at the grave. The bishop’s presence wasn’t unusual, but the motley group of honorary pallbearers—a mix of civilians, two of them with only a faint stubble on their heads—was. With them were four military officers looking awkward in new uniforms and a four-star general behind an alien-looking man in sunglasses, wrapped to his neck in blankets and strapped to a wheelchair.
Laurel followed Floyd Carpenter with her gaze as he stepped over to Russo’s wheelchair. The doctor reached into a side pocket and produced a plastic bottle capped with a thin spout, which he placed between Russo’s lips. General Erlenmeyer watched the procedure and nodded. Since the gathering at Bastien’s church service, the general had remained at Russo’s side.
Henry, Barandus, Antonio, and Tyler looked unrecognizable in their army uniforms, their usually hunched or relaxed stances now gone, as if someone had soaked their clothes with an overdose of starch. Apparently a team of military tailors had been busy. Laurel knew nothing about insignia, but she didn’t see how there would be room for any more ribbons on Barandus’s and Antonio’s chests.
The four previous days—following the events at Congress—were hazy, lost in a dizzying whirlwind. Laurel didn’t see Floyd during that time, but they spoke often on the phone. Floyd had transferred Russo to a wing of Nyx and arranged an army of medical personnel to tend to his charge. After signing papers and learning by heart the official version of events for carefully staged appearances before the media, Laurel went home for an overdue supply of hugs, tears, and the nearness of her mother and father. She needed to replenish her exhausted soul. In four days she’d spent more time with them than in the past four years, and it felt good. Her father had explained that they were taken from the house by DHS men and locked in a room at their headquarters. They hadn’t suffered any harsh treatment, only the anguish of not knowing what had happened. Three days later they were returned to their home by a nice man who assured them Laurel would be joining them soon. During Laurel’s visit, Mother busied herself with meat loaf and banana bread in the kitchen but stopped every time Laurel entered her inner sanctum. They would stare an instant and smile, then they would hug and cry and laugh, and her father would join them. She’d never seen her father cry before, but now he seemed to enjoy a newly discovered pleasure. Nor did the DHS entourage escape her mother’s bounty; they would return to their families a few pounds overweight.
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