The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [170]
“Just a moment, Senator.” Laurel stood and stepped into the center of the room. “A moment ago you said, ‘Everyone but Russo will remain anonymous.’ That won’t do. As you said yourself, enough lies.” She turned around and locked eyes with Raul, who stepped over to her side. “We’re not all gathered. Bastien Compton died.”
Aside from the agency executives and politicians, the rest of the gathered gravitated to the center of the room.
Laurel looked over her shoulder and nodded before facing Senator Palmer once more. “We can’t just ignore his sacrifice.”
Something flashed deep in Palmer’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything.
“Arlington,” Raul said.
Robilliard huffed. “He wasn’t a member of the armed forces.”
“In a way he was,” Palmer said. “Acting on direct orders from the White House.”
“I see your point.” Robilliard ran a hand over his hair.
“What can we do about armed forces membership, General?” Palmer asked.
General Erlenmeyer adjusted a blanket over Russo’s legs. “We’re swamped in paperwork. Often names are misspelled, dates are absent or inaccurate—it’s a miracle we can keep track of everybody. If we look carefully enough, I’m sure the service record of Bastien Compton will be found.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lawrence Ritter pointed out. “On June first, 2002, army rules changed, and some civilians who served the United States during war time were allowed to have their cremated remains inurned with military honors at Arlington National Cemetery.”
“War time?” Robilliard asked.
“How else would you describe this morning’s events?” Tyler retorted.
“No cremation,” Laurel said.
Robilliard sighed. “We should be able to manage a standard honor cerem—”
“Full honors,” Tyler interrupted.
“And the Medal of Honor,” Henry chipped in.
Robilliard opened his mouth to say something but clamped it shut and shook his head. General Erlenmeyer nodded. “Such a medal is bestowed on members of the United States armed forces who distinguish themselves above and beyond the call of duty while engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States.” He glanced at Palmer. “Most fitting.”
“We shall honor our departed friend,” Palmer said.
Laurel turned to look into the sparkling eyes of her companions and stopped at Russo’s.
He reached for his sunglasses with an unsure hand, removed them, and squinted, keeping his eyes half closed. “There’s hope for us if there’s still honor among thieves.”
Senator Jerome Palmer stepped forward, suddenly looking much older than his years. “Now we must endeavor to recompose our lives, or whatever is left of them. I have resigned my office and, before leaving, I wanted to thank you all for your indescribable courage. Most of you have placed careers and even your lives in jeopardy to have a modicum of justice done. I’m proud of you, proud of being your countryman, and proud of having known the kind of people who have made our nation great.” One hand on the door handle, he turned to face a sea of stern faces. “Nothing I can say will erase the past. Justice may not have been served in full, but the prisoner is free.”
epilogue
Mark Shirer, Noncommissioned Officer in Charge, from the Third United States Infantry Old Guard, glanced toward the approaching hearse with apprehension. For more than eight years he’d escorted deceased army officers and two ex-presidents to their final resting places in the Gardens of Stone. The procedure, honed through almost two centuries, was a production worthy of a big-budget Hollywood picture, combined with the precision of time-honored military code—almost a ballet, every movement, event, and detail painstakingly