The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [167]
Over the following minutes, the only sounds in the room were the unmistakable voices of Senator Palmer and Odelle Marino, as the crisp images on the screen depicted the pair walking in Palmer’s garden.
You’ve been a naughty boy, Senator, stealing something of mine. I suppose that, as he is your son, you have a claim of sorts on Russo …
Everybody in the room held their breath.
… But let bygones be bygones. Your driver was killed on his way to work.
Odelle stared ahead, eyes unfocused.
… I want Russo back. As soon as you deliver him, I will have him disappear with the rest of the center inmates without a trace; they would have never existed. …
Next to Palmer, Genia darted a quick glance to Lawrence Ritter.
You can hide him in a vault, Palmer, in Switzerland or Tierra del Fuego, but I will find your Timmy. And, when I do, so help me God, you’ll never see him again. So don’t fuck with me, and don’t push me any further. I can use the full resources of the DHS to get that boy, and his mother, and his father, and his father’s father, and all of your wretched kin. …
With a slow glance, Palmer took in the shocked faces around the table.
Don’t be a fool, Senator. I could have snatched your grandson an hour ago. The snap of Odelle’s fingers on the screen echoed like a rifle shot. Just like that.
As the lights came back up, eight pairs of eyes converged on a remarkably composed Odelle Marino.
“That’s a fake. I was never near your house. I can produce affidavits from scores of people, both from the DHS and independent witnesses, who can testify under oath I was miles away from your address all morning.”
“I never said it was in the morning,” Palmer’s voice was almost a whisper.
Odelle pointed to the disappearing screen. “The light.”
“But you said it was a fake.”
She pressed her lips together into a grim line.
“Say, Palmer, according to the conversation we’ve just heard, the only other person on the grounds was your grandson, so who shot the film?” Eugene Stem, the Senate minority leader asked.
“My grandson did,” Palmer’s face was impassive. “Timmy hides in his tree house and points a plastic rifle at whoever happens to be with me. To keep me covered, he says. I strapped a miniature camera and a directional microphone to his rifle.”
Robilliard grimaced. “I see.”
“My second exhibit will tax your patience.” Palmer reached for his reading glasses and opened the folder before him. Then he nodded to Genia. She stood, reached for the folder contents—eight sets of a document stapled in one corner—and started distributing them around the table.
When she reached Odelle and slid the document before her, the DHS director hissed, “A stab in the back?”
Genia straightened. “No, love, not in the back, but staring into your eyes as you bite the bullet. Remain calm … and you won’t feel a thing.” With that she continued her rounds, placing a document before each man.
“The document before you contains photographs of two young women,” Palmer said, “and another photograph of an accidental homicide by an officer of the riot police. These are old prints. There are also recent pictures of the wretch we spirited out of the Washington hibernation facility: Eliot Russo, a civil rights lawyer, purportedly dead in a car accident eight years ago. My son.”
A buzz of shocked expletives spread across the table as senators reached for the document. Odelle remained immobile, staring straight ahead.
“On those pages, there’s an account of a wretched love affair gone wrong and the vengeance of a spurned lover. But don’t let feelings blind you. Others share my son’s fate, stored in a tank without benefit of trial. In addition, our nation’s hibernation facilities have been turned into a kind of parking area for the Russian Mafiya. They’ve been storing their enemies in our system in exchange for vast sums of money.”
“This can’t be true,” Richard Papworth, chairman of the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence,