The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [165]
Thomas flicked through screens and repeated the orders.
“Take over, Colonel.” Erlenmeyer nodded to the deadpan faces of the security officers, then lowered his weapon. “Let’s go meet our men.” At the door, he stopped and signaled to Major Freedman, who prodded O’Keefe ahead of him.
Odelle stepped into the room and froze. She’d been there before—it was a place for informal meetings, with a large oval table, its high-backed chairs now occupied by people she knew well. But she was taken aback by the level of the confederates. To one side of the table sat Senator Palmer with Genia Warren and her very much alive black-bereted puppy, Lawrence Ritter, his face curiously dotted, and Richard Papworth, chairman of the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. The opposite side was occupied by John Crookshank and Eugene Stem, Senate majority and minority leaders, respectively, followed by Robert Barrat, the assistant secretary of the Senate. At the head of the table stood Bernard Robilliard, the secretary of the Senate.
She stood transfixed, staring at Bernard Robilliard and his big, slightly brutish face. It could have been the light and the precise angle his face was turned, but for an instant he looked like Tomas de Torquemada—the ruthless inquisitor who ordered the burning and torture of thousands at his autos-de-fé.
She darted a glance at Ritter. So the man was mauled but in one piece, unlike her aide George Wilson, naked on a marble slab with several holes in his body and a tag around his big toe. So far, Nikola Masek had been unable to piece together what had happened to Wilson, but it was only a question of time.
She didn’t believe in coincidences, but she felt a definite clenching in her gut when Bernard pasted a genial smile on his face and turned to look directly into her eyes.
“Ah! Here you are. Don’t stand there. Please, make yourself comfortable. This is not the Inquisition.”
chapter 58
10:32
Odelle Marino approached the table, where an obliging Robert Barrat held a chair for her, flanked by an unoccupied seat and the bulk of Richard Papworth doodling on a legal pad. She lowered her briefcase and ran a hand down the back of her skirt to sit. “If you say so. Still, I thought I caught a whiff of burning bramble.”
“Nothing can be further from our minds, I assure you.” Robilliard slid into his seat and ran a hand over the polished surface of the wood in front of him. No papers. “Before we start, let me clarify that this is not a committee—”
“Then what is it?”
Robilliard pursed his lips an instant. “Let’s say a fact-finding meeting to decide if an inquest is necessary.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the others. “You know everybody.”
She stared at Genia Warren, who stared back with cold determination. “Some better than others, but, yes, I know everybody. You’ve not answered my question.”
“I thought I had.”
“There’s an agreement between my agency and this House to give reciprocal fair warning and background before convening any meeting.” She raised her hand a fraction to forestall Robilliard’s reply. “I’m well aware that agreements are honored more in the breach than the observance, but the fact of its existence still stands. I have been arraigned before this—”
“You haven’t been arraigned. You’ve been asked, like the rest of us, to attend a meeting, and there hasn’t been time to draw an agenda we can all agree to. In fact, there is no agenda.”
“Fine, let me rephrase my original question. What’s the purpose of this … friendly gathering?”
“Ah, the legal mind. I have convened this meeting at the request of Senator Jerome Palmer to determine whether we have grounds to form a special committee.”
“To do what?”
Robilliard pursed his lips again, but this time Odelle knew it wasn’t an oratorical device but a ruse to delay an uncomfortable answer.
As if on cue, Senator Palmer rested a hand over a thick folder. The bastard had brought papers. “The events of the past days have raised grave questions, not only about the security of the prison system but about alleged criminal abuse of