The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [28]
Whoever was at the other end of the line must have been shouting, because tiny scratching noises issued from the area around Kosmerl’s ear. The giant paled, continued listening, then paled some more. “Yes, ma’am.” He closed the cell and handed it back.
“Well, Mr. Kosmerl, now that we’re enlightened, why don’t you tell me what you have bungled so far?”
In a monotone punctuated with frequent contractions and none of his pseudo-German accent, Kosmerl rattled out a full account of the security measures.
“The black man is still at tank 913?” Nikola asked.
Kosmerl nodded once.
“His neck snapped, you said?”
Kosmerl nodded again.
Nikola pondered the information. “And this pig of yours has no cameras?”
Silence.
“Sloppy. Very sloppy,” Nikola said.
A loud beep issued from the central console area.
“We’re back online,” Pete announced. Then he swiveled his chair toward Nikola. “Your instructions, sir?”
Sandra had to suppress a smile. Pete knew how to survive.
“Thank you.” Nikola smiled. Then he turned to Kosmerl. “Let me have the location codes of the fugitives. How many?”
Kosmerl’s face sagged and he looked around once more as if seeking help. “Besides the controller, there are four inmates involved but as I told you, sir, one didn’t make it. And there are no codes.”
“Fugitives without codes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But if there are inmates with no code, how do you know how many have escaped?”
“The wires, sir. Over tank 913 there are four pairs of empty wires.”
“I see.”
Perhaps this could be her opportunity to be noticed. “I—I may be able to help,” Sandra supplied.
Masek stepped over and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You must be Sandra, Sandra Garcia.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how could you help me?”
Sandra glanced at Pete, who avoided locking eyes. He swiveled his chair back and stared into his center screen. “I—”
Masek ran his hand softly over her hair. “Please, calm down. I don’t bite.”
She was committed, and his touch felt oddly soothing. “I know where the restricted center codes are,” she whispered.
Masek leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. Restricted center codes, you said?”
“Yes.”
He drew closer, his lips almost brushing her ear. He smelled of cinnamon. “You have accessed restricted files?”
She shook her head, but her lips moved. “Yes.”
“And Kosmerl? And the others? Have they accessed Hurley’s files?”
Sandra shook her head automatically, as understanding bloomed in her mind. How could he know the center codes were in the supervisor’s restricted files? He’d only wanted to find out who, if anyone, knew the center inmates’ identities, and she’d fallen for it.
Masek stood and patted her shoulder. “Thank you, Sandra.”
With slow steps, Masek walked over to the door, where several security officers had appeared out of nowhere. He neared one wearing sergeant stripes and stopped to whisper in his ear. “There are temporary vacancies in tank 913. Process the Mexican bitch.”
chapter 12
19:17
In the last two centuries, only a portion of the Washington sewers had been upgraded to concrete. The section the group now crossed was formed of brick, crumbling in places. “At the next junction we bear left,” Laurel said, after checking her GPS.
Lukas nodded and trained his flashlight along the left side of the tunnel until the jutting fork of a Y junction came into view. Behind her, Raul plodded like a work horse. He hadn’t spoken a word since they entered the city sewers. The anonymous workers had welded the curved panel back with remarkable speed after gesturing to several oversize carryalls loaded with treasure: four sets of waders, two-piece suits of stout reinforced polymer in sewer-regulation yellow, flashlights, waterproof plastic watches, a gold-foil thermal blanket, and a waterproof, military-issue Metapad carefully programmed with a map provided by Shepherd.
While they dressed, Laurel watched the closemouthed workers. Each of the three must have been close to seventy—far too old to be in active service and probably brought out of retirement for this one job. As soon as they finished