The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [168]
“Indeed. And you did know, Richard.”
Papworth gripped the edges of the table and started to rise.
“It’s over, so please spare us the theatrics. At the back of the document, there are three appendixes. Appendix One is a list of the people who knew about the use of hibernation facilities to store anybody from dissidents to whoever the Mafiya wanted to keep in cold storage. Your name is there, next to a code number. The code identifies a large file containing irrefutable evidence about the individuals involved in this infamy. In Appendix Two, you will find the details of accounts Director Odelle Marino keeps in Antigua, with a balance in excess of three hundred million dollars. Blood money for services rendered.”
All faces turned to Odelle when she started laughing. It wasn’t a forced laugh but deep, throaty, from the belly, breast-shaking. “You’re pathetic. All of you. These papers are a craftily constructed lie, full of circumstantialities and fakery. Nowhere in any suspension facility is there anyone who’s not been sent there by the courts. Nowhere. You can send inspectors to all the facilities, check the identity of each inmate. Nothing. It’s all a lie.”
“Pulling the plug didn’t work.”
Her laughter died, and, like spectators at a tennis match, all faces turned toward Genia Warren.
“Less than an hour ago, a signal flashed from this building to override Hypnos’s security program releasing center prisoners from their harnesses and then flushing the tanks.”
As the outcome of such a maneuver registered, a sharp intake of breath echoed off the fabric-clad walls.
“The men and women who are property of the Mafiya were resettled in recent days and replaced by common inmates. To even the numbers, scores of prisoners would have been reduced to mush by the fluid-treatment turbines and flushed down the sewers once the solids had been removed for incineration. Fortunately—and I’m referring to the inmates, not you,” Genia paused and exchanged a quick glance with Odelle, “we intercepted the signal and triggered the emergency status in all facilities. The nationwide suspension system is locked; it will remain thus until each facility has been thoroughly inspected and illegal prisoners have been sent to reanimation to ascertain their identities and secure their freedom or to return them to their countries of origin.”
Odelle’s face was frozen in a stony expression.
A sharp beep shattered the silence. Palmer reached to his pocket, drew out a slim cellular phone, and listened for several seconds. When he folded the device back into his pocket, he had to rein in a sudden urge to smile. “As I said,” Senator Palmer continued in a soft voice, his eyes on the empty folder before him, “the document before you is my second exhibit, but, as Ms. Marino sagely pointed out, our technology allows us to fake almost everything. In Appendix Three, you may peruse a list of thirty-six illegal prisoners and their relative location within the system.” At Eugene Stem’s frown, he paused. “No mistake. Thirty-six. These are the ones left alive. In the second part of the appendix there’s a long list of names, but these are long dead. Appendix Three will corroborate the document you hold and everything I’ve revealed so far. Providing the facilities are inspected by an independent committee, you will find twenty-six men and ten women who shouldn’t be there. Scattered through various facilities, inspectors will also find twenty-four Russian and Chechen citizens, a few Chinese, and several others, all wanted by sundry governments for organized-crime activities.”
Palmer leaned back and massaged his eyelids. “Naturally, that will take time, and I don’t want to impose on you any more than necessary. My Exhibit Three is outside that door, waiting to testify for himself.”
For several seconds nobody moved, then John Crookshank started to stand, but Robilliard arrested the movement by gripping his arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. Let me claim a little glory.” Robilliard stood, marched to the door, and opened it with a sharp pull, only to