The Prisoner (40 page)

Then Nikola had shuffled his painstakingly collated information and dealt hands for Odelle, Russo, Palmer—the puppeteer behind the scenes—and himself; a few cards he planned to play close to his chest. In this game, instead of concentrating on the hand held by the defense, he’d had to waste precious time and resources to figure out what cards Odelle held, to the point of openly cheating by lowering her hand and looking. Such a waste. Nikola checked the time at the base of one of the screens and sighed. He would need to get going for his meeting with her soon. He glanced at the can in Dennis’s hand. “I could do with one of those.”

Dennis nodded, stood, and went to the kitchen.

Nikola shook his head. He was now a part of the plot. There could be no redemption for him, and he smiled faintly when he determined that he didn’t seek any. Perhaps a little fresh air, and light, and the warmth of the sun—he loved the sun licking his face—but no redemption.

He reached for the tumbler of dark liquid that Dennis handed over his desk, conceding that he really had made up his mind hours before.

“You still write to that lady in the Dominican Republic?”

Dennis nodded.

“Tell me about her.”

“She grew up close to San Francisco de Macorís, in a neighborhood where they shared bones.”

Nikola sipped his drink and waited.

“They passed a beef bone from one family to the other to make soup. After boiling it a few times, the water ran clear, but still they drank it. She says the liquid probably held on to the emotion of having been next to the bone.”

“Is there a contract between you?”

Dennis nodded again. “I dash over whenever I can.”

“And flesh her bone with a little meat, I hope.” Nikola knew of Dennis’s frequent trips; it was his job to know. He also knew the young woman’s name and that his assistant’s funds had helped her large family get on their feet with an industrial laundry operation catering to the hotels.
I didn’t know about the peripatetic bone, though
. After panning the screens one last time, Nikola sighed. Contracts were important, and he was pleased to observe that Dennis understood their significance.

Allegiances, like most contracts, rested on implicit mutual trust but held a coiled device insidiously primed inside. If one of the parties failed, the other—providing it survived—was automatically freed from its oath.
Need to know
had probably been the most important words Odelle Marino had ever uttered.

After being ushered into Odelle Marino’s inner sanctum, Nikola waited for her to dismiss George. “There are rules in tradecraft, and you’ve broken them all,” Nikola said without preamble as soon as the door closed at his back.

Odelle Marino leaned forward a few inches, two white spots forming on her cheeks.
“Et tu
, Nikola?”

“Number one is trust,” Nikola carried on, ignoring her outrage. “An agent must trust his handler to treat him above the rank of mushroom. By which I mean keeping him in the dark and feeding him shit.”

Odelle frowned.

“Rule number two: A professional never mixes business and pleasure; it’s a recipe for disaster.”

She pointed her chin at him and leaned back in her chair.

“Go on.”

“When you sent for me, I asked you about the reason behind Russo’s punishment. ‘Need to know’ was your reply, and a poor one at that because
I did
need to know. I needed to know this was your private vendetta against the man who seduced your girlfriend.”

Odelle surprised him by relaxing further and allowing a faint smile to rise to her lips. “And, if I had told you, what would you have done?”

“Run as fast as I could.”

“Precisely.”

Nikola nodded. He’d surmised that much already.

“You know who is behind the breakout?” she asked.

Nothing would be gained from avoiding it, and much could be risked by lying; Odelle still commanded awesome resources. The trick when trying to rescue a drowning person was to avoid the mad thrashing that could drag you under too—a dicey maneuver in the best of cases. “Senator Jerome Palmer.”

“You’re sure?”

Her automatic question didn’t deserve an answer.

“Why?” she demanded.

“Two reasons. Rumors about shenanigans in the FBH have been rife for ages, and Congress is weary of the ever-increasing power of the DHS. Naturally, that means you.”

“Ever-increasing power? Our nation needs strong deterrents and stronger institutions. My mandate demands I protect the American people by removing criminals so our citizens can sleep soundly at night.”

“That may be, but it doesn’t include using the system for personal revenge. The second and weightier reason is personal.”

She waited.

“Perhaps
personal
is the wrong adjective; the whole setup is almost a family affair. Jerome Palmer is Russo’s father, and Laurel Cole is his daughter.”

The wonder of DNA matching had paid off. In theory, a
DNA record was the data with the highest security rating, to protect the constitutional rights of citizens, and no data was more jealously guarded than that of government officials. But theories were fine for lengthy arguments and susceptible to hacking if you knew how, and Nikola—or, rather, Dennis—did.

“Palmer’s daughter?”

Nikola peered into Odelle’s dark irises, appalled at the hope lurking in their depths. To witness the most powerful woman in the country clutching at straws filled him with aesthetic horror. “No. Eliot Russo and Araceli Goldberg’s.”

For a long time neither spoke. Nikola reached for a chair and toyed with the idea of pouring a drink of water from the carafe on a tray in the center of the table, but he thought better of it after inspecting the fine bubbles festooning the liquid. Stale, probably from the morning or even the day before. Were he inclined to show off, Nikola could have written down what was to follow. Odelle would probably pick up the gauntlet and deal with Palmer herself. Blood feuds had to be squared within the family, and Nikola was an outsider. But such battles had a momentum of their own and, probably for the first time in her life, Odelle was in a defensive position. To stage a successful counterattack, a commander needed a cool head and warriors, not mercenaries. Machiavelli had argued the same point in
The Prince
. Sun Tzu, in his
Art of War
—the finest collection of strategy insights humanity had ever known—had made the same observation. Granted, mercenaries were fine soldiers, probably the best, but they couldn’t be trusted to forgo their lives to defend ideals. Mercenaries demanded payment and a fair chance to enjoy their plunder. To take the next hill and face certain death so a remote commander could eventually claim his laurels needed honor, king, or country. Certainly stronger lures than money.

“You have evidence?” she asked.

A sensation of unbearable fatigue nibbled at the edge of Nikola’s consciousness. “Family lines are easy to plot from the DNA database. Of Palmer’s involvement, no. There isn’t a scrap of evidence, and I doubt any could ever be found. He’s an old fox, and a damn clever one. To flush out a wily
fox, the final recourse is to torch the woods, and you can’t do that. Before you attempt to grapple with a senator, you’d need the President’s sanction. A sanction you will not get without hard evidence, and, again, there isn’t any.”

“Do I detect a certain admiration for the man?”

Overestimating an enemy meant wasted time and resources, and underestimating it could be suicidal. Nikola believed wisdom resided in correctly assessing situations or the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. The mean: the middle ground Aristotle referred to as virtue. “No. No admiration. Respect.”

22:18

“Pet. No calls.” A thin bar on her communications console flickered from green to red. Odelle peered into the retinal scan atop her computer screen until it locked. Then she ran her fingers over a laser keyboard embedded in her glass desktop and called up the building’s security center records, entered the date and the time span she wanted, and waited until a menu scrolled across with a list of available recent digital recordings. First she selected the garage cameras, and the screen split into four smaller rectangles: two general views, the access ramp, and the area before the elevator bank.

Once she located the section she wanted, Odelle followed Ritter’s car as it entered the garage at 05:16. She noted the choreography of his security detail. The man adjusted his ridiculous beret and stood by the bank of elevators, unmoving, without fidgeting or glancing at his watch. She zoomed in on his face and caught a slight puckering of his lips, as if he was weighing a thorny issue. After a few minutes, three cars slipping down the ramp appeared on the top left quadrant of the
screen. The motorcade maneuvered through a wide corridor to stop at an open area before the elevators, where Genia Warren alighted from the middle car. When Ritter leaned over to adjust the neck of her blouse, Odelle froze the image before advancing the scene in slow motion. She zoomed on his lips, moving like dragonfly wings. Clever. Ritter had likely warned Genia about the probable reason for the impromptu meeting. Odelle closed the views, returned to the menu, and selected the recording from the cameras in the elevators. She watched the scene, ran the audio, and once more closed the file.

After keying in a later time, she selected the recording from her executive elevator and ran it forward until the pair entered the car after their tumultuous meeting. Suddenly the screen went black. Frowning, Odelle stopped the image and backtracked to the lightning-fast gesture, to analyze the recording in slow motion. Ritter had removed his beret and draped it over the camera. What had he passed on to Genia? What couldn’t wait until they reached the garage? No, she corrected herself: At the garage, they’d meet their respective security details and then board separate cars. Still, what couldn’t wait? Suddenly the image returned and Ritter was adjusting his beret. Genia looked dazed. Then her lips moved. Odelle paused the recording, went back to the moment when the image returned, and hiked the volume.

What was that?

A short pause.

Heroic gestures have the strangest effect on me
.

She ran the digital recording twice more, noting the short exchange as Genia exited the elevator car, far too feeble to be registered by the microphones.
It can’t be
.

“Pet, security.”

Two clicks and a low-frequency buzz. “Sergeant Oscar Sanchez.”

“Who is in charge of recordings?”

“Pardon me, ma’am?”

“Who staffed the screens this morning?” She changed tack. “The cameras?”

“Oh. That would be Agent Cossio.”

“Have you registered any incidents, camera failures, or glitches in the elevators?”

“Yes, ma’am. Er … this morning there was a—”

“Has anyone studied that tape?”

“Agent Cossio filed a report.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Odelle snapped.

“Well, Agent Williams has run the tapes several times and—”

“Is he on duty?”

“Well, yes, bu—”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Send Agent Williams to my office at once.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Odelle killed the line, paged floor security, and told George Wilson, her aide, to let Williams through.

In fewer than five minutes, a nervous young man stood before her desk, looking ill at ease. She kicked her chair back a foot and waved a hand to Williams. The young man swallowed and walked around the table like a lamb to the slaughter. Odelle ran an eye over Williams and fought back a smile.
You’re thinking I’ll order you to service me on your knees?
Just for the hell of it, she stared into his ridiculously young face. The guy was practically quaking.

Odelle nodded to the oversize screen on her desk. “Have you seen these images?”

After an audible sigh, Williams croaked, “Yes, ma’am.”

She ran the recording to the point where Ritter covered the camera, then she hiked the volume as high as it would go.

“Have you examined this recording before?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“I … er, there was a report filed by the morning staff. They thought the camera was broken.”

“Have you analyzed the sound? What’s going on there?”

Silence.

Odelle turned to Williams, whose face had acquired a healthy reddish hue. “Out with it, son. What’s happening in that elevator?”

“They’re … They’re making out. I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Mr. Williams. I wasn’t born yesterday.” Then she rewarded the young man with a thin smile and waved her hands at him, as if shooing chickens. “That will be all. You’ve been most helpful.”

When Williams left her office, Odelle leaned back in her chair and stared at the black surface of her computer screen until it blurred.
Making out
. Just as she thought, but … couldn’t it wait? Her mind flew to another elevator—at the Atlanta Marriott Hotel, a sixty-eight-story obelisk—and a memorable ride to the roof terrace, a finger firmly pressed on the door override. No matter how many times the elevator stopped, the doors refused to budge. Making out in an elevator—of course she knew what it meant.