The Prisoner (39 page)

After a long discussion trying to speculate what the Department of Homeland Security mavens would have to say, they gathered before the TV set a few minutes before the scheduled press conference. The atmosphere was tense and gloomy. With the nation’s full security forces gunning for them, the rules of the game had changed for the worse.

Lukas leaned on the door frame, also intent on the screen, but he turned often toward the faint beeps from Russo’s cardiac monitors.

On the television screen, the scene shifted to a room crammed with reporters. After a short wait, two women entered from the right and stepped over to twin lecterns. The camera zoomed in on a tall, distinguished-looking woman in a smart gray suit. A caption scrolled underneath in bold yellow characters:
Odelle Marino, Director of the DHS
.

“As disclosed earlier,” she started without preamble after adjusting a pair of gold-framed reading glasses, “several
convicts have escaped the Washington, D.C., suspension facility. The breakout was contrived by a terrorist organization led by an unknown leader calling himself the Scourge of God, and it was aided by members of the facility’s personnel. These terrorists were also responsible for the attack on the Villiard nuclear power station. All security forces, the police, and the army are following several leads, and we are confident the fugitives will be captured shortly.” She slid her glasses toward the tip of her nose and peered at a sea of raised arms as if noticing them for the first time. After a pause, she pointed an outstretched finger to a lanky young man.

“Pete Robertson,
Washington Post
. Why was the breakout not announced earlier?”

Odelle smiled, as if the question pleased her. “Due to the breakout’s extraordinary nature, it was decided to keep the matter confidential until a full assessment gave us a clearer picture of the dangers involved.” She jabbed a finger toward a nerdy-looking woman fumbling with pencil and pad. Obviously, recording equipment had been banned.

“Cornelia Schaffer,
New York Times
. Are we to understand that security at federal suspension facilities is not as tight as it’s claimed to be?”

Odelle turned toward the woman who had entered the stage with her, up to this moment off camera. “My colleague from the Federal Bureau of Hibernation is better equipped to answer that question.”

The camera panned to a slightly shorter woman with blond hair pulled from her face by a slender circlet of matte material. Below the image a caption scrolled:
Genia Warren, Director of the FBH
.

“Security at penitentiary installations remains unimpaired.” A faint smile, soft as candlelight, pulled at the edges of her lips. She turned toward Odelle and opened a hand in a small gesture, as if returning a ball.

The camera zoomed on Odelle’s tense face. She seemed about to retort, but the moment passed. She scanned the crowd and pointed again.

“Maria Schmidt,
Boston Globe
. How many inmates are involved?”

“The breakout took place with the help of a federal employee,” Odelle answered at once, “as well as medical personnel from a private facility.”

“My question was—” the journalist protested, but Odelle silenced her with a gesture.

“I heard your question. This is a case where extraordinary security issues are at play. I will not give any details that may risk the investigation. Next.” She pointed toward the rear of the room.

“Charles Douglas,
Los Angeles Times
. Can you tell us what progress has been made in your investigation?”

Again she smiled; it was obvious the question had been agreed upon earlier. “Several arrests have been made, including a family of Peruvian origin. On a raid by units of the DHS task forces, a quantity of explosives, weapons, and communications equipment hidden in the family’s home was subsequently seized.”

As if a bolt of lightning had suddenly energized everyone in the living room, all heads jerked toward the figure of Lukas, still leaning against the door frame, his face frozen in pain and horror.

On the screen, Odelle paused to stare fixedly into the camera. “No more questions, but I’ll leave you with a statement: Extraordinary events need extraordinary measures and the use of unparalleled resources. I’ve been empowered by the President to offer an unprecedented deal.” Once more she paused to stare into the camera lens, her stark expression softening. “The U.S. government will guarantee full protection, total immunity from prosecution—including that of the informer’s family—and fifty million dollars to whoever can supply information leading to the capture of the fugitives. We believe some of the people helping the terrorists may have been coerced or brainwashed. This is a unique opportunity to step forward and serve your country.” Odelle Marino’s face set once more. “It’s only a matter of time before all the terrorists are apprehended and brought to justice.”

The image faded into a blue background with a string of numbers in white, throbbing across the center of the screen. A phone number aimed straight at Lukas.

Although Henry Mayer didn’t count any gods among his friends, he believed there was a reason behind every event, even if that reason was not clear at the time. When, by two measly minutes, he missed his connecting bus to Tampa, he fumed for a while, dropped his bulky backpack on the concourse floor, and even considered kicking it with his new lizard-skin boots. But he thought better of it and slumped on a hard plastic bench to curse under his breath. There had to be a reason, a reason tied to his destiny.

Getting rid of his old persona had been much more involved than he ever thought possible. After acquiring supplies from a twenty-four-hour store, he’d unsuccessfully tried to rent a room at two small hotels, only to be turned away by the nose-twitching night staff. Eventually he’d managed to sway the attendant at a dingy hostel, suitably greased with five hundred extra bucks, into letting him in. After applying shears to his matted hair and beard, he shaved all hair from his head, except eyebrows and lashes, then soaked in an overflowing bathtub of hot water and liquid soap. It had taken three water changes before his skin lost all trace of ingrained dirt and shone pink. Then he discovered twenty nails a quarter of an inch long and hard as concrete. He swore and reached for a pair of sturdy cutters he’d sagely bought at the store. When he’d finished his toilette, he crashed on top of the bedcovers and slept most of the day.

Missing the bus wasn’t a big deal, but Henry had arranged passage in exchange for work on the
Carolina
—a container carrier bound for Recife and loading cargo at San Pedro Sula, where he planned to jump ship. An otherwise costly trip for a song. After glancing around for signs threatening smokers with fire and brimstone, he fished a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit one, under the reproachful gaze of a lone police officer who must have kicked the habit recently and begrudged anyone
who dared to light up. He puffed away contentedly and weighed his alternatives. He had money to spare and could grab a flight to Tampa and be at the docks before the
Carolina’s
appointed time to cast off. He could fly to San Pedro Sula, for that matter, and be done with it. But after years of rubbing coins together, he couldn’t bring himself to be careless with money. He’d splurged on the boots, new jeans, a plaid shirt, a sage-green windbreaker, and a black Stetson hat. He’d needed new clothes. Okay, perhaps the boots qualified as a want, but he needed something on his feet, and he’d dreamed of narrow-pointed high-heeled lizard-skin boots. So he bought them.
Henry
, he thought to himself,
you’ve worked hard and gone through lots of shit and you deserve a superb pair of boots
.

Another alternative was to wait almost four hours until midnight to grab a night bus heading in the right direction. Eventually he would get to Tampa. There he could bum around and hope to find another ship. Fat chance. Yet as he drew a small tin box from a side pocket of the backpack and ground the butt inside—to the obvious chagrin of the police officer, who must have hoped to call him to order for tossing it on the concrete—he thought about destiny. Had missing the bus been a signal? Could it be that he wasn’t destined to catch that bus or board the
Carolina?
It would be sobering to read in the next morning’s paper that the bus had hurled itself from a bridge or down a ravine, coaxed by a sleepy or bungling driver. Or the ship. Damn ships disappeared all the time. Agreed, the run to Recife wasn’t the Bermuda Triangle, but what if? Stranger things had happened.

Some people nurtured the most outlandish beliefs—reincarnation, homeopathy, or the flatness of the earth were only a few examples—but not him. Yet he routinely admitted to a higher office entrusted with drawing the destiny of every human being and ensuring nobody strayed from the set course. Definitely, there had to be a grand reason why he’d missed the Tampa bus.

Henry nodded, glanced toward the police officer, and produced his pack of cigarettes again. He made a mute offer
and, basking in the disgust shadowing the face of law and order, lit another cigarette.

He must have drifted or zoned out. When he jerked his head, the shadows had shifted into dusk and the concourse looked deserted. Then he heard a woman’s voice, little more than a whisper, and was about to reach for a small bottle of water from his windbreaker’s pocket when he caught “Washington, D.C.,” then “facility” and finally “breakout.” He snapped alert, craning his neck toward the sound.

Smack in the middle of the concourse was a kiosk selling soda, hot dogs, candy, and ice cream, staffed by a morose fat man in a filthy apron, looking at a small TV hooked to one of the booth’s supports. Hefting his backpack, Henry neared the stall, his eyes never leaving the screen where a woman with something mean about her spoke to the camera.

“The U.S. government will guarantee full protection, total immunity from prosecution—including that of the informer’s family—and fifty million dollars to whoever can supply information leading to the capture of the fugitives. We believe some of the people helping the terrorists may have been coerced or brainwashed. This is a unique opportunity to step forward and serve your country.”

He didn’t need to listen anymore. Henry turned on his heel and walked purposefully away from the booth toward the exit. Once on the street, he sought a secluded corner between two buildings, lowered his backpack to the ground, and rummaged in its pocket. When he found his new cellular phone, Henry flicked it open and keyed in the number he’d memorized. Now he knew why he’d missed the Tampa bus, and, besides, his fucking new boots hurt like hell.

20:45

“What do you think?”

Nikola glanced at the single sheet of paper with a list of Egyptian deities, the names appended after them, and the notes in red ink penned on the margins with Dennis’s all-capitals print. At the bottom of the page was an underlined and circled address—a hog farm an hour away from downtown Washington, D.C.

“Fitting. The sewers and now this.” Jean-Paul Sartre wrote of a category he called
the slimy
—a state with no fixed edges where existences flow into one another.
The slimy is a soft clinging, there is a sly… complicity of all its leach-like parts followed by a flattening out that is emptied of the individual, sucked in on all sides by the substance
. He flicked his eyes at the IR sensor atop the twin screens on his desk and searched the files. Mercenaries, misfits, cripples, and idealists, laced with indescribable doses of heroism. Then he focused on Senator Palmer’s photograph. No general could hope for a finer army. “We wait.”

If Dennis was surprised by Nikola’s lack of enthusiasm, he didn’t show it. He just sat taking measured sips from his Coke can. Finding out the fugitives’ hiding place had been a feat of sleuthing worthy of Holmes. Dennis had collated all the bills, committee work, and any scrap of paper where Senator Palmer’s name appeared, fused them into a database, and set to work. Eventually a strange thing emerged—a hog-farm-cum-research-station with a score of grants and land acquisitions promoted by Palmer. Running a check on the farm had yielded the names of two army veterans—one a national hero, and both crippled in action. A cursory scan of
Antonio Salinas’s service file had produced nothing beyond heroism by the truckload. The other file belonged to Harper Tyler, Air Force Chief Warrant Officer 4, chopper pilot, with a damaged left leg, pensioned lump sum, and hog farm. But Dennis was thorough. He spotted a void: a full year between an entry in Tyler’s service file and the date of his hospitalization.

After his return from a memorable cold lunch with the Brownells, Nikola had taken over Dennis’s investigation, called in an old debt, and stopped over at the Pentagon for a brief glance at a top-secret file.

Harper Tyler had been in Iran. His commanding officer—now a retired colonel—was Major Scott Marino, Odelle’s dad. Reading the top-secret file of Major Marino’s exploits had been a revelation and explained Tyler’s involvement. But Nikola couldn’t understand why Tyler had not killed the bastard and been done with it.