The Prisoner (38 page)

Genia recalled vividly one evening at a Russian embassy gala dinner, almost three years before, when a stocky though distinguished Senator Palmer in an impeccable tuxedo had requested they dance. A little tipsy after two glasses of champagne and gliding over the polished timbers of the ballroom nestled in expert arms, she’d instinctively nodded when he’d whispered in her ear, “Would you change the way the DHS rules this nation?”

Two days later, after a routine appearance before a congressional select committee, she’d found a small box with a strange piece of lustrous black jewelry in her overcoat pocket. At first she took it to be a necklace, but printed on a flimsy paper folded inside the box were the instructions. Genia adjusted her bathrobe belt and smiled. She didn’t believe in coincidences. Senator Palmer, besides having a brilliant mind, had an unerring sense of proportion. The waist cord fit her perfectly.

It was ironic that Odelle Marino had been responsible for their choice of code names. Years before, Odelle had boasted she had the perfect headhunter and enforcer: Onuris. It had taken Genia more than a year to put Nikola Masek’s name to the moniker.

During their first communication via their ultrasecure line,
Palmer had suggested they use suitable code names. When Genia warned about Onuris, Odelle’s freelance enforcer, Palmer had deadpanned, “I see. Then I’ll be Ra.” And, after a few seconds of silence, “And you are Horus, since Odelle is obviously Seth.”

In the process of deciphering the meaning behind Palmer’s words, she’d discovered his almost obsessive fascination with Egyptian mythology, and, from that instant, her respect for the aging senator’s phenomenal intellect had climbed to new heights.

Seth, the Egyptian god of chaos, embodied the principle of evil. His war with Horus lasted eighty years, during which Seth tore out his rival’s left eye. When Horus was pronounced the victor by a council of the gods and thus became the rightful ruler of Egypt, Seth was forced to return the eye of Horus and was killed.

On a first reading, the legend wasn’t too insightful and not awe-inspiring, except for how the council of gods settled the winner.

Seth was homosexual and had tried to prove his dominance by seducing Horus. But Horus placed a hand between his thighs to catch Seth’s semen before casting it stealthily into the river. Horus then spread his own seed on a lettuce leaf, Seth’s favorite food. After Seth ate the lettuce, they appeared before the gods to settle their feud. The gods first listened to Seth’s claim of dominance over Horus and called his semen forth, but it answered from the river. Then the gods listened to Horus’s claim of dominance over Seth and called his semen forth. When it answered from inside Seth, Horus was declared the ruler of Egypt and Seth’s fate was sealed.

After selecting a number residing in the tiny stick, the pad went through a flurry of beeps and pauses, until the boards synchronized when the receiver at the other end engaged the connection. Two letters,
RA
, scrolled across the pad’s screen to stop on its edge, a cursor slowly blinking. Sometimes Genia would simply type a short message instead of engaging a voice link, but today they had too much to discuss. “The leak to
The Post
certainly stirred up a frenzy.”

“And?”

“It’s Seth’s move. My guess is Onuris will lead the charge and …” She bit her lower lip, unsure if her emotions had altered her capacity for perception.

“Yes?”

“I may be mistaken, but I fear Seth thinks Ritter knows more than he does,” she said.

“And how much is that?”

“Nothing.”

“You reckon she’ll send her goons after him?”

“Could be.”

“Good.”

Her stomach clenched. Somehow she’d guessed Palmer’s reaction, a logical one.

“Can’t be bad to have the enemy busy chasing illusions.”

Silence.

“Unless …”

She closed her eyes.

“Unless the possibility disturbs you.”

“He’s a fine man, and an excellent professional.”

Ra’s metallic voice was preceded by a sound that could have been a sigh. “It does matter. I’m sorry, but if he’s the professional you think he is, he’ll know how to take care of himself.”

Genia doubted it. If Odelle sent her shadier operatives to gauge the extent of Lawrence Ritter’s knowledge, they would damage the man, perhaps irreparably. She was about to sever the connection when she remembered. “Thank you for the warning about
The Post
.“

Silence.

“What warning?”

The task light over her desk seemed to flicker and dim as the atmosphere suddenly thickened. Genia stared at the tiny sliver of polymer protruding from her communications pad’s edge: the foolproof security device that no hacker could bypass and no cryptologist could unravel. Their communications were secure; it was a byword in the business that paired boards could not be broken into. Only the NSA held the codes, supposedly guarded under far safer measures than nuclear weapons. Not safe enough. She drew in a long breath to calm
her racing heart and had an insane urge to sever communications as the logic crashed in on her. Someone other than Ra had sent the message.

“Tell me about it.”

When she finished, the line remained silent for a long time before the metallic voice echoed again. “What an interesting development.”

“Interesting
is not the adjective I would use. Forgive me, but you don’t seem concerned. Your boards aren’t as foolproof as we thought.”

“Oh, they are. Whoever has managed to send the message is undoubtedly listening to our exchange now. Very clever. An old English aphorism is most fitting. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s simple. Our friend has found out who we are from the government-issue signatures of these boards; otherwise, he couldn’t hack into our setup to beat the system. To do that, he must have access to the highest reaches of the NSA. Yet that in itself wouldn’t explain how he could be listening. I suppose he’s obtained one or several of these boards and tinkered with them to slip a line of code to join in. Now our conversations are three-way.”

“You mean he can listen to all government-encrypted traffic?”

“I don’t think so. He must have obtained the code signatures of our boards from the NSA. These he can track, listen to traffic, and, if he chooses, join in the conversation.”

“Who?”

“That’s the question. Someone with resources, access to NSA software, who’s a computer genius and willing to help, no doubt for his or her own agenda.”

“Help us?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. Otherwise, we’d both be a foot under thick liquid, attached to a tube.”

“And now?”

“A riddle. We could stop using our little setup, but I fear it would be like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. Our friend out there knows who we are and what we’re after. On the other hand, we could continue as if nothing had happened and insure that our silent partner knows exactly what we’re doing.”

“And dig ourselves a deeper grave?”

“Not at all. Tanks are a standard eight feet. We couldn’t go any deeper.”

Palmer’s humor could be unnerving at times, but Genia’s anxiety had subsided. It would be like walking on thin ice, but that’s what they had been doing for months now.

Before the line went dead, Ra, the head god of Egyptian deities, chuckled. “Just a small point to cheer you—and our listening friend—up: Russo is conscious, coherent, and very pissed off.”

18:20

“This covers everything?” Antonio Salinas, Tyler’s foreman, friend, and, Laurel suspected, associate held the sheet of paper Floyd had given him, crammed with lines penciled in neat script.

“Almost everything,” Floyd said. “It’s impossible to anticipate all eventualities, but I reckon these should be enough. That man,” he nodded in the general direction of the corridor, “is climbing out of an unnatural state. He needs vitamins and glucose to boost his system … and lotion; his skin is very delicate. He will also need clothes. Loose cotton garments. You know the skin is the largest and heaviest organ in the body?”

“I know now.” Tyler stepped over to them and reached for the list. “What’s his status?”

Floyd’s voice changed and took on a professional tone. “He’s stable, drifting in and out of consciousness, which is excellent, considering his condition. As far as I can determine, he doesn’t seem to be suffering irreversible brain damage, although he’s understandably confused.”

Lukas leaned against the living-room door frame, his face as reserved as usual. It was his turn to stand guard by Russo.

Laurel craned her neck over the sofa’s back to face Lukas. “Is he awake?”

Lukas shook his head. Over the past eighteen hours, Russo had climbed back from unconsciousness several times, squinting in all directions before returning to his semicomatose state.

“Has he said anything else since last night?” Tyler asked.

“Besides asking for water and food twice, nothing,” Floyd said. “Altogether he’s been awake for fewer than thirty minutes, but the periods are lengthening steadily. I’ve told Laurel to talk to him whenever he’s conscious, to explain that we’ve sprung him out of hibernation, that we’re friends, and that we’ll soon need his help.”

“When?” Tyler asked in a sharper tone.

Floyd’s features hardened. “I’m a medical doctor, not a soothsayer. In plain English, Russo has been more dead than alive for years. My guess is he’ll recover quickly, but that doesn’t mean overnight. It will take weeks of painstaking care to nurse him back to something resembling normalcy.”

Tyler squared his shoulders. “Your guess?”

Laurel swallowed. The atmosphere had been tightening progressively over the past hours, and frayed nerves were starting to show. She turned and laid a hand on Floyd’s arm. “We don’t have weeks.”

“Unless he stops fighting,
my guess
is he should be able to start communicating soon. That is, if he wants to talk.”

“He will,” Laurel said. “I’ve seen the hate in his eyes.”

A vein throbbed in Floyd’s temple. “Does he know who did this to him?”

“He must have a good idea.”

“That’s probably what has kept him alive all these years.”

Antonio reached to take Floyd’s shopping list back from Tyler and squeezed past Lukas. “I don’t know how long it will take me to put this stuff together.”

Tyler followed him, to reappear a moment later with a pack of beer cans he handed around before settling in his armchair. Like mountain cats parceling their territory, everybody had seized a favorite spot. Tyler and Antonio each had an easy chair—sort of an “I was here first” privilege. Laurel shared one of the two sofas with Floyd, while Raul and Lukas used the other. Laurel glanced at Raul’s large frame stretched over the opposite couch, his head propped on one arm of the sofa and his legs on the other. He hadn’t said much over the past hours and, in an unguarded moment, she’d seen him weep.
Bastien
.

On
TV
, a round of advertisements gave way to an old cops-and-robbers film.

“I’m sorry. We’re under a lot of stress, but some things can be improved only with time. Time we don’t have.” Floyd licked froth from his lips and leaned forward. “My gut tells me Russo is gathering information about his surroundings and getting stronger by the minute, but we must give him time.”

“I know I’m jumping the gun, but if he continues to improve, how long would it be until he can walk?” Laurel asked.

“Hard to say. He will need rehabilitation. Despite the computer-controlled muscle exercising, there’s notable withering. With proper treatment, two to three months.”

“Er …” Tyler rested his beer on a side table. “I recall you mentioning some people could walk straight out of hibernation, something to do with the squirrels’ mechanism …”

Laurel nodded, inwardly cringing at the added difficulty. If they had to move, Russo would have to be carried.

Floyd jerked his head toward Tyler. The half-empty can crumpled in his fist. “When I asked how long the subject had been down, you mumbled, ‘A few years.’ No!” He stood and towered over Tyler, stilling his retort with an outstretched hand, beer trickling over his fingers and onto the floor. “I’ve had enough bullshit. Nobody said I would have to revive a wasted shadow while being hunted by half the country. That
man,” he pointed in the direction of the corridor, “is public enemy number one for someone powerful and ruthless. We’re fucked. I mean, really fucked. A half-dead man, broadcasting sensors, and a bunch of amateurs. What else have you forgotten to mention?” By now Floyd was yelling.

On the TV set, the thief neared the window and reached for a black cord, intent on rappelling to salvation. Then the picture went blank, and everybody froze. After a few seconds, a field of blue filled the screen, soon fading to zoom in on a taciturn-looking newscaster holding a sheaf of papers.

The man glanced to his right before reaching a hand to his necktie. “Three days ago, on the evening of September twenty-first, several convicts escaped the Washington, D.C., suspension facility, aided by the terrorist organization responsible for the attempt on the Villiard power station. All security forces, the police, and the army have been placed on highest alert. DHS director Ms. Odelle Marino has recorded a press conference to be transmitted at eight
P.M
. Eastern Standard Time to update the nation and the media of the measures and progress of the investigation.”