The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [37]
“Where are the medical personnel?”
“In their offices or labs, sir.”
A door opened on the far end of the room, and a short, overweight man in lab whites trotted toward them. “I’m Dr. Henkel,” he offered with a bland smile. “Director of—” He clamped his mouth shut at Nikola’s raised hand.
“Give your name to the lieutenant over there.” Nikola glanced over his shoulder. “I have no need of you.” He’d decided the security boy would be easier to deal with. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jeremy, sir. Jeremy Clark.”
Nikola pointed to a hologram model of the buildings floating over a wider section of the reception counter. “Let’s start again, Jeremy. This complex has five buildings laid out like disks on the vertices of a pentagram. We are in this one.” He nodded to the pentagram. “I suppose this is admission and administration, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And these are the hibernation wards?” His hand waved through the ghosts of four orange-colored iridescent blocks.
“Yes, sir.”
He eyed the young man but found no sparkle in his eye. “And this?” He pointed to the remaining building—a blue cylinder, the precise location where the coordinates from the broadcasting sensors had crossed.
“Laboratories and research.”
“How many ways in or out?”
“One. Through here, sir.”
Jeremy’s voice would have been pleasant if fear had not ratcheted it tight. Nikola glanced around the cavernous reception space. As at Hypnos, hibernation stations, whether penitentiary or private, had only underground accesses.
“And vehicles?”
“Below us, but there’s only a single access.” Jeremy pointed to a glazed wall to one side that opened onto a wide ramp blocked by a squat black armored truck.
“Who’s at the labs now?” Nikola asked.
“Nobody, sir. Employees leave at six and the janitors don’t start until midnight.”
“Could you check?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Please?” Nikola was aware of how unnerving his full scrutiny could be on whoever was with him and that it had often proved more than some could tolerate. He smiled and watched the boy darting a nervous glance to the men spreading through the reception area—large men clad in black uniforms with shiny body armor, hard hats, and serious-looking hardware cradled in their arms. Jeremy turned on his heel and marched to the reception counter. Nikola cocked his head to speak into his lapel mic. “Get the police, the National Guard, and the army. Ring the city with roadblocks and flash images and descriptions to airports and public transport stations.” He listened to Dennis’s question and shook his head. “No escaped convicts. Terrorists. Four: a woman and three—” He paused. “There could be four or five terrorists: a woman and three or four men, one of them sick or unconscious, possibly on a stretcher or in a wheelchair. Armed, dangerous, no contact, kill on sight.”
It couldn’t be helped. Nikola would have dearly loved to interview the doctor, the lawyers, or the controller if they traveled together, but he couldn’t risk anyone listening to them before he got there. He leaned onto the counter, his eyes never leaving the young man’s face. Not a bad face—a predatory nose, almost patrician, above firm lips and jutting over a delicate jaw. High and intelligent forehead—an illusion. Most people with high foreheads seemed bright until they opened their mouths. He glanced at the young man’s fingers and flinched at the rough and ragged cuticles, the nails bitten to the quick. Nails, not the eyes, were the mirror of the soul. Abused nails belonged to throwaway people.
“I—I’m sorry, sir.” Jeremy blanched, and whatever appeal he had deserted his face.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Carpenter.”
“What about Dr. Carpenter?”
“He’s not checked out; he’s still in the research block.”
“See, I knew we would get somewhere. Lead the way.” He nodded to the lieutenant in charge of the FDU team and followed the young security officer. His earpiece blipped.
“Floyd Carpenter, Caucasian, forty-one, five-eleven, medical graduate, Maryland,