The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [27]
“For what porpoise?”
Sandra gritted her teeth. He could probably speak better English than she could. Why the affectation?
Kosmerl turned on his heel and his boots squeaked on the polymer floor. “When can we get the doors unlocked?”
At least he’d not tried ze doors this time.
Pete, one of her shift mates, nodded to a telephone hooked into a landline. “I’m waiting for clearance codes.”
“You can do nothing?”
Pete shrugged.
Sandra narrowed her eyes and glanced at the clock: 18:48. Processing should have been back online ages ago. For an instant, she thought of the unprocessed prisoners cooking inside the truck, still waiting. Then her mind turned to practicalities. She would probably be home late, today of all days, when Pedro would drop by and with any luck spend the night. The home-cooked meal she’d planned was out. By the time she managed to get out of the station and back to the apartment with Chinese takeout, Pedro would be snoring or gone. Shit!
Kosmerl reached to his belt, which was bristling with all sorts of objects dangling from carabiners, and unhooked a shortwave two-way radio. Cellular phones didn’t work in the station for an area of two hundred yards around the building, to thwart camera phones beaming pictures to friend or foe.
“Any heat signatures?” Kosmerl barked.
A screech issued from the contraption. Kosmerl adjusted the device and turned the volume down.
“No signatures,” replied a tinny voice Sandra recognized as belonging to Rafael Sosa, a good-looking man from Aguas-calientes. Just her luck he was happily married with two kids.
A loud snap at the main door to the control room startled everyone. Two large men who looked like linebackers stood at the entrance, casting quick, menacing glances in all directions.
Sandra straightened and pulled at the hem of her skirt, eyeing the newcomers with caution. Dark suits, turtleneck pullovers, and close-shaven heads seamlessly fused to beefy necks. The cavalry?
Kosmerl stepped forward. “You from HQ? About time! I need processing back online at once.”
The two men didn’t even look at him but went to stand at opposite ends of the room, seemingly relaxed but for their eyes, which were busy darting glances.
“Hey!” Kosmerl shouted to the man who had taken the station close to Pete. “I spoke to you!”
The man didn’t move or even acknowledge Kosmerl in any way.
“Identify yourself!” Kosmerl reached to his belt.
The man was insane. The newcomers must have cleared four security checks before reaching the control room. Sandra detected movement by the door. Another man had entered the room. Slight, about five one or five two, and thin, with prominent cheekbones; his piercing blue eyes were rimmed with luxurious black eyelashes and magnified by thick bifocals. Obviously the man didn’t believe in corrective eye surgery. From where Sandra sat, the newcomer looked like a caricature of a British professor she once saw in a book when she was little. He stood by the door, rubbing bony fingers as if preparing to roll a set of dice. The man could have been any age between forty and sixty and wore a light tweed jacket with elbow patches, corduroy trousers, and a plaid shirt. Far too hot for the weather outside.
Kosmerl jerked his head toward the door. “And who are you?”
The man put a rigid index finger to his lips. “Too loud.”
Like a beast searching for an exit, Kosmerl looked in turn at the three men. “What’s going on here? I demand to see IDs.”
Sandra followed the exchange as if viewing a slow-motion game of tennis on a plasma screen.
“Please, remain calm.”
Kosmerl froze and Sandra narrowed her gaze. The stranger’s choice of words was unsettling.
“My name is Masek, Nikola Masek.” The man stepped closer to Kosmerl. Suddenly a small cellular phone appeared in his hand, as if he’d conjured it out of his sleeve. Thin lips pressed a smile of sorts on his face as he flicked the phone open.
“That won’t work here,” Kosmerl said.
“This one does.” Masek offered the open device to Kosmerl, who reached for it, a dubious look on