The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [110]
“We are attached to the DHS, dealing with sensitive matters.”
“Bullshit.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. I listened to the way you soft-soaped my husband.” She glanced at a squat intercom resting on a sizable desk. “Nicely worded, but it won’t do for me. What do you want?”
A change of tack was compulsory. Nikola stepped to the couch, picked the creases of his trousers between thumb and forefinger, and sat down on its edge, his eyes on Mrs. Brownell’s as he shelved his carefully prepared speech. He hated needless insults, and his sense of aesthetics cringed at addressing an intelligent woman like a dimwit. Nikola studied her face. She had a high, intelligent forehead and a predatory nose over full lips—too full to owe nothing to a surgeon’s needle. An attractive face but not altogether pleasing—too sensuous, hinting at stubbornness and self-will rather than firmness or strength. This woman controlled her passions and never burned by any fires other than those of hate, worldly ambition, or anger.
“Are you done?” she asked.
“No.” Nikola stared into her eyes for a few heartbeats, reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, and drew out a flat device the size of a PDA. After flicking a switch, he waited for a line of red LED to flicker and slowly turn green before pressing a bar on its lower half. Satisfied, Nikola deposited the device with care on the table before the couch, where it continued to emit a faint high-pitched drone. She followed his movements and smiled but didn’t offer any comment. “I propose a trade,” Nikola began.
“What have you got?”
Nikola leaned forward and offered Mrs. Brownell a glassine bag with several snapshots inside.
She reached over, glanced at the first photograph through the transparent cover, turned it over, and deposited it on her lap. If the uppermost print had shocked her, she disguised her feelings with such mastery that Nikola couldn’t spot any telltale sign. His respect for the old girl increased.
“And in exchange?”
“The life and miracles of Araceli Goldberg.” He raised a hand to still her reply and complete the specification. “Not the college records; I have those.”
She nodded, and a fine-boned hand rested over the glassine bag with the photographs before returning to the wheelchair’s armrest.
Nikola stiffened when she glanced down and pressed a red button by the wheelchair’s controls.
As if on cue, the double doors opened and General Brownell stepped in, turned, and slid the doors closed.
Mrs. Brownell handed over the photographs to her husband.
The general extracted the prints and examined each one until the stack played out. “The lighting is wrong, as is the choice of lens. Good resolution in the center, but a tad blurred on the edges. The composition is passable, though.” After replacing the prints in the bag, he handed them back to his wife and stood still, as if at attention.
Mrs. Brownell’s long fingers laced together over the photographs on her lap. “I fear this barter of yours is a little lopsided. You don’t have much to offer.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I have exactly what you want.” She raised her face and eyed her husband, a smile, soft as candlelight, touching her lips. “Mr. Masek and I could do with a tot; would you join us, dear?”
General Brownell nodded. From a shelf between bookcases, he picked out a decanter and poured the amber liquid into three whiskey snifters.
Nikola relaxed, feeling suddenly at ease. He leaned back onto the tufted leather. The glass you drank whiskey from made a huge difference in its enjoyment. A tumbler was widely thought of as correct, and it was fine for ruining a good liqueur, in particular if one planned to desecrate it further with water and ice. He accepted the tulip-shaped glass and sniffed. Ambrosia.
A jet flew overhead, leaving in its wake a deeper sensation of quietness, broken only by the occasional creak of leather and the soft ticking of a carriage clock over the drinks shelf.
“Where did you get the prints?” she asked.
Understanding bloomed in Nikola’s mind. He narrowed his eyes and sipped, letting the flavors