The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [124]
“You still write to that lady in the Dominican Republic?”
Dennis nodded.
“Tell me about her.”
“She grew up close to San Francisco de Macorís, in a neighborhood where they shared bones.”
Nikola sipped his drink and waited.
“They passed a beef bone from one family to the other to make soup. After boiling it a few times, the water ran clear, but still they drank it. She says the liquid probably held on to the emotion of having been next to the bone.”
“Is there a contract between you?”
Dennis nodded again. “I dash over whenever I can.”
“And flesh her bone with a little meat, I hope.” Nikola knew of Dennis’s frequent trips; it was his job to know. He also knew the young woman’s name and that his assistant’s funds had helped her large family get on their feet with an industrial laundry operation catering to the hotels. I didn’t know about the peripatetic bone, though. After panning the screens one last time, Nikola sighed. Contracts were important, and he was pleased to observe that Dennis understood their significance.
Allegiances, like most contracts, rested on implicit mutual trust but held a coiled device insidiously primed inside. If one of the parties failed, the other—providing it survived—was automatically freed from its oath. Need to know had probably been the most important words Odelle Marino had ever uttered.
After being ushered into Odelle Marino’s inner sanctum, Nikola waited for her to dismiss George. “There are rules in tradecraft, and you’ve broken them all,” Nikola said without preamble as soon as the door closed at his back.
Odelle Marino leaned forward a few inches, two white spots forming on her cheeks. “Et tu, Nikola?”
“Number one is trust,” Nikola carried on, ignoring her outrage. “An agent must trust his handler to treat him above the rank of mushroom. By which I mean keeping him in the dark and feeding him shit.”
Odelle frowned.
“Rule number two: A professional never mixes business and pleasure; it’s a recipe for disaster.”
She pointed her chin at him and leaned back in her chair.
“Go on.”
“When you sent for me, I asked you about the reason behind Russo’s punishment. ‘Need to know’ was your reply, and a poor one at that because I did need to know. I needed to know this was your private vendetta against the man who seduced your girlfriend.”
Odelle surprised him by relaxing further and allowing a faint smile to rise to her lips. “And, if I had told you, what would you have done?”
“Run as fast as I could.”
“Precisely.”
Nikola nodded. He’d surmised that much already.
“You know who is behind the breakout?” she asked.
Nothing would be gained from avoiding it, and much could be risked by lying; Odelle still commanded awesome resources. The trick when trying to rescue a drowning person was to avoid the mad thrashing that could drag you under too—a dicey maneuver in the best of cases. “Senator Jerome Palmer.”
“You’re sure?”
Her automatic question didn’t deserve an answer.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Two reasons. Rumors about shenanigans in the FBH have been rife for ages, and Congress is weary of the ever-increasing power of the DHS. Naturally, that means you.”
“Ever-increasing power? Our nation needs strong deterrents and stronger institutions. My mandate demands I protect the American people by removing criminals so our citizens can sleep soundly at night.”
“That may be, but it doesn’t include using the system for personal revenge. The second and weightier reason is personal.”
She waited.
“Perhaps personal is the wrong adjective; the whole setup is almost a family affair. Jerome Palmer is Russo’s father, and Laurel Cole is his daughter.”
The wonder of DNA matching had paid off. In theory, a DNA record was the data with the highest security rating, to protect the constitutional rights of citizens, and no data was more jealously guarded than that of government officials. But theories were fine for lengthy arguments and susceptible to hacking if you knew how, and Nikola