The Prisoner (21 page)

“Where are you?” a colorless metallic voice asked.

“At my house.”

“Is the boy with you?”

“He is.”

“Send him out to play with himself.”

Once more, he arrested Dennis’s move. Odelle was untrustworthy. Nikola reached for a book and let it drop on the floor. “Go on.” Nikola settled into a comfortable slouch in an easy chair, signaled Dennis to be quiet, and closed his eyes.

“News?” the voice asked.

“No news.”

“Is that supposed to be good news?”

“No news is the absence of news.”

“Suggestions?”

“We wait.”

“For a miracle?”

Nikola opened one eye. Definitely squirrelly. “The way I see it, unforeseen developments have complicated whatever plan they had. Originally there were three and Russo. Now they may be four, and I surmise two of them weren’t supposed to be on the run. My take is they were hired hands, like the people who cut through the supposedly secure tunnel and welded the panel back on.”

“Continue.”

“If there are five people, one of them on a stretcher or in a wheelchair, and if Russo is still alive, they can’t move about very easily.”

“They must have had an escape planned for four. What’s the difference with five?”

“The difference is not in the numbers but the nature of the people,” Nikola explained. “whatever plan they had is now useless. Nyx was their repair shop. The woods is a wonderful
place to hide a tree. Dr. Carpenter would have booked Russo as one of their rich customers. I don’t think he would have had any problem palming a subject into their network. He knows the ropes. Once Russo was conditioned, Carpenter would have lowered him into torpor once more, slipped him into one of their plush capsules, and started the slow-arousal sequence. After eight years, Russo has to be weak. Carpenter would need a few days to stabilize him.”

“Would the others shack up at Nyx for the duration?”

“I don’t think so. Most of the arousal sequence is automatic. Carpenter would have rigged his timers and driven them out in his car before midnight.”

“Why midnight?”

“That’s when the janitorial crew starts working on the research block.”

“And then?”

“They would have gone their separate ways—our daring lawyers into safe houses to watch TV and wait for the dust to settle, and Carpenter back to his work routine.”

“And the controller?”

“It depends. He could retire to a sunny place or end in a shallow grave if his masters worried about loose ends. Either way, he would disappear.”

Silence.

“Naturally, that would only be Act One.” Nikola was becoming weary of the conversation. Perhaps Odelle needed a pick-me-up. “Act Two’s script would depend on what shape Russo was in. Carpenter would deliver a revived Russo to whoever has orchestrated his escape, either as a vegetable or a very pissed-off man.”

Still silence.

“As for the grand finale, your guess is as good as mine.” Nikola frowned at the box with bunches of wires in front of Dennis.

“That’s theory. Where are they now?”

Time for disinformation padded with lies and half-truths. “Somewhere in the sewers, running out of time. They can’t keep Russo alive down there indefinitely, so they have to come out. They can’t go home or to relatives or known friends. They
have to try to get out of the city. And they can’t; I’ve sealed it.” Though he thought it unlikely, he wasn’t about to tell Odelle that the fugitives could be miles away by now, ensconced on a plush yacht and toasting with Dom Perignon.

“What if they have a safe house in D.C.?”

“In the city? No way. Too crowded. Two to four people and a stretcher? Their safe house, if they have one, must be remote. I doubt they’ve considered medical equipment. With their original plan, they wouldn’t have needed it. Now they do. If Russo pulls through, he will need medical attention for some time.” Nikola paused.
Let’s analyze your reaction
. “By the way, I’ve had a cursory look at Russo’s file. I feel that a key to this complex—and, I must add, daring—operation must rest with Russo’s identity. Who is Russo?”

“What do you mean?” The voice had flickered.

“His dossier reads like a manual for teenage idealists, but he has done nothing to threaten the establishment or upset the status quo. At least, there’s no mention of anything in his file. Eight years is a tough sentence and, to my knowledge, there’s nothing to hint he would ever be released.”

“Need to know.”

But
I do
need to know, my dear
. “I see. Does that mean Russo is the victim of someone’s personal vendetta?”

The voice thickened. “Russo is anything but a victim.”

Nikola frowned, his resolve strengthened. Rule number one for a criminal investigator was to pose the question of questions:
Quo bono?
Who benefits from the crime? The issues involved were far too delicate, and dangerous, to fumble about in the darkness. He would make it his priority to unearth Russo’s real history, and that of whoever wanted him rotting in a tank.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nikola spotted a flurry of activity on the screens. Dennis’s right hand came alive, his fingers dancing over the smooth surface of a control pad. Maps superimposed on the central screen, zooming over sections of the city to freeze on a maze of multicolored lines and three throbbing white dots.

“You have them?” Nikola asked.

“What?” the metallic voice croaked overhead.

Nikola shrugged and leaned over to grip Dennis’s arm.

After a moment’s hesitation, Dennis nodded, tapped his earpiece, darted a cursory glance at the overhead speakers, and returned his attention to the console. “Yes, moving south toward Bethesda.” He panned the image.

“Speed?”

“Walking pace.”

“Send squads to Old Georgetown Road, Wisconsin with Montgomery, and Cedar Lane with Rockville Pike. Hem them in.”

On the left screen, a line of text grew as Dennis’s fingers moved over his pad.

“You’ve work to do.” The speaker crackled. “I’ll leave you to it. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” Nikola waited for the red light to fade, but the line remained open.
Now what?

“Just a thought, kid.”

Nikola tensed. Odelle was addressing Dennis.

“You must be proud. Your master has trusted you to eavesdrop on our conversation. Do you play chess? I’m sure you do. I’m also sure you know the Najdorf Variation of the Sicilian Defense: the Poisoned Pawn, a present with a sting on its tail. Your master has gifted you with his trust and, in doing so, ensured you’ll share our tank if this incident is ever made public.”

A wall of foul stench followed the thud of a manhole cover on the asphalt. Sergeant Theresa Corvin looked over the eight figures standing by the open access hole, their faces anonymous behind gas masks and image intensifiers. “Let’s go over it once more. The marks are four hundred yards due south. Number-eight squad will drop three hundred yards behind the marks. There are no spur tunnels along the way, only drainpipes too small to access. Number-four squad has finished welding all access holes along this line. We’ll hem them in. Watch out for cross fire. No warnings. No cautions. No prisoners. Shoot to kill. Go!”

One by one the DHS troops dropped through the utility hole. Corvin adjusted the HEPA mask over her mouth and nose and breathed deeply before following the last of her men.

After clearing the bottom metal rung on the tube, she dropped six feet to land in fetid water up to her knees. She sprang forward, chasing the platoon in a cacophony of thuds, splashes, and shouts. The tunnel, alive in her goggles with a ghostly greenish light, stretched ahead in a straight line. “Eight-one, you copy?” she spoke into her mouthpiece.

“Affirmative.”

“Any contact?”

“Negative.”

Corvin hated sewers. Nothing personal; she didn’t give a damn about stench or filth. But having to clean the stuff off was another matter. She had an assistant who would endure most of it, but the guys would swear for hours, swabbing at gear dripping with gunk. Besides, she had a bad feeling about this one. Too easy. “Eight-one, you copy?”

“A—ffirmative.”

Had he tripped or spotted something? “Any contact?”

“Well, that’s it. I have eye contact with ground zero. No marks and nowhere to hide.”

“Are you sure?” She screwed her eyes shut in frustration. Of course he was sure.

“I’m at the spot now.”

Ahead, shapes started to slow down and the noise gradually subsided.

When she reached the group, a few officers stood aside so she could approach a twelve-inch pipe jutting from the wall at waist height and spewing a trickle of cloudy water. Corvin looked at a man standing next to the drain and took in the three narrow stripes on his arm. Eight-one. She moved her mask aside and took a deep breath of fetid air. Might as well get used to the stink they’d carry all the way back to their vehicles, their mess, and probably to their beds.

“No lights.” She doubted anyone would ever forget when a joker, long gone from the force, had struck a lighter and blinded a full platoon on a night exercise. “What’s up?”

“See for yourself.” Eight-one nodded toward the pipe.

She leaned over, her head level with the drain to direct her infrared beam into the tube. Four feet farther in, behind a clump of brambles twisted with tampons and ripped condoms,
two dots gleamed like the eyes of the very devil, unblinking. Corvin narrowed her eyes to peer past the rat’s beady irises onto the rippling colors of the tracking devices strapped onto the animal.

“Shit.”

“Now,” Eight-one snorted, “why didn’t I think of that?”

“Neat,” Dennis offered, deadpan.

Nikola sighed. “I had to send in the troops, but it reeked of a red herring.”

“For no reason? Would they plan such a ruse without an objective?”

“You mean besides getting rid of the sensors?”

“No. It doesn’t make sense. They have lead cloth. They could have wrapped the lot and stuffed it down a hole where the sensors would never broadcast. These sensors were deployed for our benefit.”

“You have a point there. Let me see a map.”

“You mean the opposite side?”

“No, the quarter where the troops have found the sensors: north.”

Dennis tapped his fingers and the central screen dissolved into a map.

Nikola’s eyes darted between the railway station and the roads stretching toward the airports and the bus depots. “Keep everything we have on this sector.” He waited for a question from Dennis that never came. “On the south side of town, there’s the police headquarters, the power station, and the army barracks. To the north, the sugar cube. The Potomac is southwest and Chesapeake Bay is to the east. You’re on the run and send us on a wild-goose chase north. Why?”

“The report says the sensors were strapped onto a rat. Unless they can remote-control the animal, my guess is the rodent could go anywhere once freed.”

“I doubt it,” Nikola said.

“Why?”

“The rodent could follow them or go in their same direction. I doubt they would risk it. No. The rat must have been planted.”

“It says here,” Dennis pointed to a screen, “that the animal was inside a narrow pipe, surrounded by what seemed like a nest.”

Nikola nodded, his mind working overtime. “Are rats territorial?”

Dennis addressed a database.
“Brown rats in cities tend not to wander extensively, often staying within around sixty feet of their nest if a suitable concentrated food supply is available, but they will range more widely where food availability is lower.”

“More widely
can mean anything, but my guess is the animals don’t wander far from their burrows. It was planted. I still think they’re moving north.”

Dennis continued flicking through screens. “You mean reverse psychology. They want to move the heat south so they can move north.”

“That’s the idea. Keep your ear to the ground. I need a shower and a nap. Give me a shout if anything develops.”

12:03

The group made excellent progress during the better part of an hour, never leaving the disused railway tunnel. Henry marched point with Barandus, followed closely by Jim and Charlie. Susan, perhaps in her early forties—although it was difficult to guess what lay under the grime—closed the group’s rear with Raul and Laurel. Raul plodded next to Laurel in silence, and Susan didn’t speak much. No, Susan didn’t speak at all but simply stared ahead as though preoccupied. Keeping her LAD flashlight dimmed, Laurel used their so-far-uneventful journey to peck a few lines into her Metapad, outlining their status, and sent it off to Shepherd. Although
the account was far from enthusiastic, it would keep him from guessing.

“How deep does that thing work?”

Laurel started, and her Metapad would have slipped out of her hands but for the cord looped around her neck. She glanced at Henry’s hulking figure, cursing inwardly. She’d not noticed his approach.

“Er—about one hundred feet, depending on the substrata.”

Henry nodded. “Checking in with your Shepherd?” There was a trace of irony in his voice.