The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [109]
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
Nikola appraised the starched uniform of a prim Asian woman. Outside old bondage books, he hadn’t seen a maid’s uniform in years. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Brownell.” Nikola reached into his coat pocket and offered a card from an obscure government department but with his real name.
She stood aside to allow Nikola into the hall. “Please, wait here.”
Nikola glanced around, taking in the art—a passable Mac-Tarvish oil on canvas of a stormy sea and a group of watercolors he couldn’t identify. Subdued but expensive. Class. The room was a reflection of its owners—neat and with a tightly controlled atmosphere of wealth and orthodox good taste. A slight noise drew his gaze to the facing wall and a display of schiavonas, rapiers, foils, and a couple of smaller side swords. Underneath, a clepsydra—an ancient time-measuring device worked by a flow of water—whispered and clicked. Nikola stepped closer and peered at tiny cups slowly filling and emptying into larger ones. It wasn’t a reproduction.
“Mr. Masek?” A tall thin man with the gait of the career soldier marched across the hall, one hand outstretched.
Nikola caught a glint of determination in his light-blue eyes and arrested a reflexive move to accept his hand.
“Let me see your credentials.” Delivered in a measured tone, but an order.
Nikola produced a wallet and offered the ID he’d chosen for this particular errand without taking his eyes from the general. With a carefully combed-back mop of white hair and trim mustache, General Brownell didn’t look a year older than sixty, although Nikola knew he was seventy-two. In khaki trousers, a dark-brown wool jacket, and tan loafers, he cast the imposing figure of a driver of men—an illusion, because General Brownell had never seen real fire besides the one blazing in the adjoining living room.
“What’s your department’s interest in my wife?”
After stowing away his wallet, Nikola squared his shoulders and straightened. “None, sir. Our inquiry concerns an alumnus of Paulson College, from the time Mrs. Brownell was the principal.”
“Shouldn’t you address the college authorities?”
“I would, sir, but it’s a sensitive matter.” He lowered his voice a fraction. “Terrorism. If possible, we want to restrict the matter to the highest levels without involving people who might not be familiar with security realities.”
General Brownell stood even more erect. There, you loved the “highest levels” bit, associating you with the patricians instead of the commoners. After the “security realities” line, I bet your ears rang with “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
“I see.”
I doubt it.
“Please, keep it short. My wife is recovering from a long illness and she’s not strong.” General Brownell marched to a set of double doors at the end of the hall. The doors slid open, revealing paneled and tapestried walls flanking another lined with bookcases and a woman sitting in a wheelchair. Slender, with high cheekbones and silver hair held off her face with tortoiseshell pins, her sage-green shirt and matching trousers seemed to glisten and reflect the light. With a thick gold choker at her neck, she looked like an aging Egyptian princess.
“It will take only a few minutes,” Nikola said.
When Nikola heard the door latching behind him, he approached Mrs. Brownell’s wheelchair, which rested beside a gleaming leather Chesterfield sofa, and tendered another card.
She glanced at it and dropped it on a glass tray resting on a small side table. “Never heard