The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [111]
She pursed her lips, sipped her drink, and returned the compliment with an almost imperceptible movement of her glass. Then she closed her eyes slowly, her free hand cupped over the photographs on her lap. “If you can copy her files, you can also have them erased, correct?”
Nikola nodded, enjoying the way she marshaled her thoughts along the line he’d surmised from her first question.
“And, to even matters, other files could be substituted. …”
Beloved, never avenge yourselves but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” “I can see that would bolster my bartering position. Of course, our trade would depend on what you can offer in exchange.”
For a long time nobody spoke, but they shared a silence, quietly sipping exquisite malt. The sensation of mental cogs whirring was almost physical. Over the fireplace, the portrait of a red-haired young woman in white muslin holding a basket of flowers on her lap smiled down on them. Bernice, their oldest daughter, now married to an up-and-coming senator, Frederic Maass, old money.
The general glanced in turn to Nikola and then his wife before nodding behind his glass. She turned to Nikola and cocked her head in mute interrogation, her eyes alive.
Nikola sighed. With a nod, he closed the deal and leaned farther back on his seat. To strike a civilized bargain in a civilized setting and with civilized people was almost too pleasurable to bear.
“Araceli Goldberg was a fine young woman,” Martha Brownell stated, her head high and proud.
General Brownell, obviously weary of standing up, rescued the decanter and neared the sofa to attend the performance by Nikola’s side.
“She was beautiful, and bright, but paled before the raw intelligence of her lover, Odelle Marino.”
chapter 37
11:22
Everybody was free to take a walk, Tyler had said—keeping to the area framed by the cluster of buildings—as long as they donned blue overalls, wide-brimmed hats, and refrained from looking upward. The chances of being photographed by satellites was slim, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
Floyd stepped outside the house, his feeling of uneasiness increasing. He breathed deep and dug his hands in his pockets. Lucky Laurel. She was still asleep after her night shift by Russo’s side, but he hadn’t managed a wink. Although Russo had recovered consciousness for only a few minutes, it was obvious his mind was in one piece. That could only mean Tyler and the others would make their move soon. The city had been sealed tight; that much he’d gathered from the stream of news blaring from the radio and frequent interruptions on TV. whatever the plan, when they left the estate they’d run straight into the gauntlet the DHS had thrown nationwide.
He glanced around. Tyler had sworn they would be reasonably safe at the farm unless the DHS launched a house-to-house hunt. But Floyd shook his head in frustration. Going it solo would be tantamount to suicide; his biometric data would by now be lodged in the hardware of every officer’s pad and squad car.
He stopped, glanced around, and tried to get his bearings by studying the different structures. A diagram set on a glazed frame by the house’s entrance displayed a large property, almost two hundred fifty acres, ten times larger than when Tyler had bought it more than fifteen years before. It seemed the government had contributed a large tract a few years ago, but Tyler had not offered more explanations. Shaped roughly like an 8 and divided by a small river where the circles met, the business end was centered in the middle of the lower circle. Although most operations were automated, the farm was the livelihood of many people. But only Tyler and Antonio and his family lived within the