The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [103]
One of Odelle Marino’s most maddening idiosyncrasies was to call meetings with the same forewarning Caligula gave his senators, often gathering directors or staff from the agencies of her fiefdom in the middle of the night, in particular to deliver bad news. Genia had managed four hours of sleep when the telephone blared, announcing Odelle’s ultimatum—a hairbreadth short of a subpoena.
Genia’s security detail, permanently stationed outside her house, would already have been alerted by her night duty staff. By the time she managed a hasty shower and a gulped-down cup of espresso, they had gathered her routine three-car motorcade to whisk her down to the Department of Homeland Security headquarters—a thirty-minute race through half-deserted streets. Once tucked inside her car, she called Lawrence Ritter’s number twice—unaccountably busy at such an early hour—before checking the screen of her communications pad to discover he was trying to reach her. Odelle had also ordered Lawrence to the conclave.
“Know what this is all about?” His voice suggested high spirits.
“No idea,” she lied. “Any developments on the breakout?”
“Nope. Yesterday I requested updates from the DHS. Twice. So far unanswered. I’m limited to whatever they see fit to filter down. As you know, I was asked—no, make that ordered—to keep away from their investigation. Yesterday I also tried to raise the staff at the Washington, D.C., sugar cube. No dice. Whoever is running the show has clamped down the facility to any outside office, and that includes us.”
Genia smiled in the gloom of the partitioned compartment. Lawrence’s reply was unnecessarily lengthy and convoluted, strictly for the benefit of eavesdroppers. “We’ll find out soon. Where are you?”
“Outside the building. I’ll meet you by the elevators at the parking lot.”
“Roger that.” Genia severed the communication and retreated into a corner of her mind, the only place she felt safe from the increasingly obtrusive DHS surveillance, to weigh for the umpteenth time the slowly unfolding events and dangers ahead. A string of weak presidents had looked the other way as the DHS mushroomed out of congressional control, sucking power from scores of other agencies like a vortex. No, she corrected herself, more like a black hole from which not even light could escape. Genia suspected that no one, not even Odelle Marino, had planned to monopolize so much power. But, like a chain reaction, control had radiated from the DHS to permeate decision-making layers of government to a point where constitutionally elected bodies became paralyzed and a travesty of their former selves. Yes, the DHS needed powerful light shining on its bowels and a thorough flushing of its bilges.
When her car finally stopped feet away from the bank of elevators at the DHS restricted parking lot, five stories below street level, she rushed out, swinging her legs without much elegance and, judging by Lawrence’s cocked eyebrow, forgoing her ingrained decorum. Calm down, girl, you’re racing.
“Good morning,” Lawrence greeted her, flashing his ID card past a long slot by the farthest elevator.
Genia eyed his signature uniform—black suit, gleaming black loafers, and cashmere black turtleneck—before glancing at his face, blinking at his faultless beret, and stopping at his sparkling brown eyes. “How you manage to look so awake is beyond me.” She flicked her wrist to steal a glance at her timepiece—05:26.
“I don’t sleep, that’s why.” He stood aside when the elevator doors opened. As she walked past him, he reached to her neck. “You don’t look so bad. I say, forgot to check the mirror,