The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [38]
“What’s that?”
“Advanced Mammalian Metabolism.”
“Family?”
“Divorced, no children. His mother is the only surviving relative.”
“Pick her up.”
Silence.
“Confirm,” Nikola insisted irritably.
“That may be difficult. Cecilia Carpenter, née Hailey, is the high priestess of Twilight’s Children, last heard of in Pidakkesh.”
“Where’s that?”
“Northern Pakistan, a stone’s throw from Afghanistan and China’s Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region. She’s running an enlightenment mission there.”
“Try to find her, anyway.”
“Will do.”
In the garden outside, intermittent gusts of wind blew the leaves up and down. But Senator Palmer wasn’t watching their movements; his unfocused gaze was lost in the distance. He jolted, pivoted around, and dashed to his desk in two strides to reach for the secure phone a fraction of a second after the first blip.
“Palmer.”
For an instant he thought he’d been rash and messed up the link, but after a short delay, the scrambler kicked in its sizzling stream of exchange data before HORUS flashed on the terminal’s screen.
A metallic cackle. “That was quick. Are we nervous, Senator?”
Palmer waited.
“Your boys are having a spot of trouble. Onuris tracked them to Nyx Corporation a few minutes ago.”
An eddy started to swirl in his stomach. “How?”
“That’s the beauty of technology. It appears the sensors carried by the inmates are also location transmitters.”
“That’s impossible.” But after he said it, Palmer closed his eyes.
“Is it? One must agree it’s a logical feature.”
“Kept secret?”
“Well, that’s not exactly true. The DHS knew.”
“And so did Hypnos,” Palmer said.
“Precisely.”
Palmer’s mind raced. Your boys meant Horus didn’t know the names of those involved. The voice had sounded even, almost nonchalant. They had not been caught. There had to be hope.
“They lost them,” the voice said.
Dragging words from Horus was like getting credit from a hooker.
“A few minutes before the troops arrived, they lost the signal.”
“Meaning?” Palmer asked.
“Either they removed the transmitters or found a way to interfere with the signal.”
“And now?”
“Onuris has lost their scent.”
Silence.
“Senator, your boys are running, probably frightened, and frightened folks are unpredictable.”
After a burst of static, the screen went blank. Palmer stood from his desk, neared a credenza, and poured a shot of malt whiskey from a decanter into a cognac glass. As he was about to drink, he frowned, peered into the liquid, and sniffed. Right glass, wrong stuff—or the other way around. He downed it in one gulp and returned to his desk. He had to warn Shepherd.
The tunnel passing under the bowels of the Nyx station was a dead end; they could only retrace their steps. Laurel trotted ahead toward the main sewer, as the men huffed behind her in single file and kept to the dry sidewalk flanking a trough filled with a lazy whitish fluid. With a flashlight in one hand slashing wildly over the crumbling brick surfaces, she reached by feel to the side of her computer to bring it online. Laurel glanced at a bunch of fluffy-looking stalactites dangling from the curved roof. Above their heads, the DHS would be positioning their awesome assets. A Machiavellian paradox, but the DHS involvement and the identity of the man on the stretcher worked to their advantage, affording them a slim chance of escape.
Had Russo been a common criminal, the DHS would have mustered every agency and corps in the land: police, National Guard, the army, and even the fire brigades. Within minutes, the sewers would have been swarming with soldiers. They wouldn’t have had a chance. But Russo was a secret, a genie the DHS couldn’t afford to let out of the bottle. If they involved other agencies, the DHS would have to offer explanations and someone might recognize Russo—although after seeing his emaciated face, Laurel doubted even his mother would. No. The DHS would go solo. They might use forces from other agencies, but only to secure a perimeter of roadblocks and mass transport exit points.