The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [104]
As the elevator doors closed silently, she smiled. “Why the fake British accent? You should try French. Last I heard, you were from Manitoba.”
“It gets me better tables at eateries. You should try it.”
Genia nodded once. Ritter knew. He could have been forewarned as she had, not by her source but by his own staff. But the most likely origin of his knowledge would have been a quick scan through the digest prepared by his round-the-clock press department as soon as he received Odelle’s summons.
After exiting the elevator at the executive floor and submitting to the routine body scan and the surrender of their weapons, George Wilson, Odelle Marino’s personal assistant—a fastidious middle-aged man with a slight limp and green eyes—ushered them through a long corridor onto a small rotunda with double doors flanked by a pair of oil paintings depicting blurry seascapes. At the doors, George glanced at a small brass panel to one side and its slowly pulsing green light before sliding the panels open and stepping aside.
Genia nodded before striding in. Years before, she had studied Odelle’s bodyguard’s file: George Wilson, a full ex-colonel from the British SAS, untainted by the political loyalties besieging American personnel—a killing machine.
“This is unacceptable.” Odelle Marino stepped into the boardroom from her inner office and hurled a folded newspaper across the table. Then she marched to the head of the large oval table, slipped into a high-backed chair, and waved a hand for them to sit.
Genia reached for the newspaper. On the front page, tucked on the right-hand side of the headline announcing a major bomb scare in Paris, was a piece by Louis Hamilton, opening with a question: Are our prisons as secure as we’ve been led to believe? It was followed by a carefully worded article based on rumors not categorically denied by the FBH.
“Do we have any idea who leaked it?” Genia asked, careful to sound outraged but without overdoing it.
“I was hoping Mr. Ritter, your director of security, would be able to enlighten us,” Odelle said.
“I’m afraid not.” Ritter hadn’t glanced at the paper.
Odelle leaned forward. “You don’t seem surprised about the news, Mr. Ritter.”
“I’m not. I read the article an hour ago in the digest prepared by my press staff. It was predictable.”
“What was?”
“That sooner or later the press would get a whiff of something foul, in particular after the power station’s fireworks.”
“You call a terrorist attack at a nuclear installation ‘fireworks’?”
Ritter sighed and pursed his lips. Genia flinched; she knew his body language and guessed what was coming next.
“With all due respect, madam, although high explosives were used, other than tickling the trembler alarm switches of the station, the facility was never in any real danger. The charges were placed in the sewers a mile away, clinically arranged so the blast would travel under the station and trip the alarms. Had the so-called terrorists wanted to inflict harm, they could have easily positioned the charges right under the reactor and probably fissured it. Then we would have had a major nuclear emergency on our hands. It’s my view that the explosions were part of an elaborate ruse to divert your forces so the fugitives could escape.”
“Where did you get that information?”
“It’s my job.”
“That was a direct question.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Marino.”
Odelle Marino placed both hands on the table and had started to rise when Genia felt compelled to intervene, inwardly cursing Ritter’s chutzpah. “He has a right to protect his sources. If such information is classified and an offense has been committed, Mr. Ritter will answer in writing on a documented request from your office.”
Odelle stood, eyes narrowed. When she spoke, her voice had dropped several decibels to slightly above a whisper. “I order you to tell me the source of that information at once.”
Ritter stepped away from the table and stood erect, his eyes on the