The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [163]
“When the fugitives refused to leave their vehicle and reached for concealed weapons, the officer in charge had no option but to order his men to open fire. Those were Mr. Masek’s exact words.”
Odelle waited.
“The vehicle exploded. No survivors.”
Odelle peered through narrowed eyes at the Capitol grounds. The light had changed and the mist must have shifted; in the new aching clarity, vegetation and monuments sharpened into focus. The doctor was missing, but he was of little consequence. So much for Palmer’s witnesses.
“Now you can pull the plug.”
Vinson’s face lit up as he jabbed a code into his cell phone. Then there was a soft rap on the door and Odelle turned to find Edward O’Keefe, the Capitol’s head of security, personally handpicked by her several years before. As the Senate’s chief law-enforcement officer, the sergeant at arms traditionally maintained order and security on the premises and was independent of any agency or the army. But that was before the providential takeover of Capitol Hill by an extreme-left group in the fall of 2049. After taking a score of senators and other lesser officers hostage, a standoff ensued, in which it was clearly demonstrated that the resident security forces were ill-equipped to deal with such an emergency. While Thomas Corvus, then the aging and incompetent president, agonized, surrounded by his advisers, she had sent in her Fast Deployment Units. After a show of tactical virtuosity transmitted live by all the major networks, in less than two hours Odelle’s team had killed all the terrorists—and only two senators were wounded in the cross fire. That the “terrorists” ranged from age sixteen to twenty-one and were armed with weapons loaded with blanks was carefully kept from the public view.
Fueled by a vindictive press and riding the crest of the ensuing outcry, Odelle had managed to change an ancient rule and substituted DHS forces for Capitol security.
“At ease.”
On the sunny side of fifty, Edward O’Keefe was no sergeant but a full colonel, and he cast an imposing figure in black fatigues. The ex-marine had always refused to don any apparel more congenial with his office.
“As they tried to reach these grounds,” Odelle said, “the fugitives from the Washington, D.C., suspension facility were spotted at a checkpoint. Regretfully, they’re all dead.”
O’Keefe didn’t move or relax his stance, eyes fastened on a small print and its oversize frame on the opposite wall. Yet the man had an unnerving aura about him: the body language of someone who actually knew how to break people’s bones.
“Naturally, we know nothing of their supporters—the organization that masterminded the breakout,” she continued.
Vinson pocketed his cell phone. “I’ll use a computer at the security center,” he said, dropping his voice into the age-old lilt of the marketplace. Slipping past O’Keefe, he opened the door and disappeared, leaving a trail of laughter in his wake, like the Cheshire cat’s smile.
Odelle cringed at Vinson’s childish behavior and continued. “I’ve heard a rumor, so far unconfirmed: There’s a possibility such a criminal group may attempt a repetition of the 2049 fiasco.” Nothing wrong in adding a little overkill security. “Suggestions?”
“I will power the antitruck hydraulics throughout the Hill, call in additional FDU units, and place my men on maximum alert.”
“Sounds good, Colonel. Seal the grounds tight. Don’t let anyone in. In particular, all access to this building: Constitution Avenue, First Street, Delaware Avenue, and C Street.” Then she threw him a morsel. “I’m counting on you.”
When she was alone, she neared the window again and looked toward the fountain. Her eyes blurred. She treasured a hoard of private memories of Araceli’s face, her voice, and her form, but none like the images of a distant morning when Araceli had danced in that same fountain and together they had to flee before the shouts of an irate gardener.
Then training took over. She swallowed hard, stepped over to the desk where she’d propped her briefcase, and marched