The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [90]
“How’s Laurel?”
“She’s fine, and Raul is too. They’re young—perhaps a little older after this experience, but they’re doing fine. My take is she’s making eyes at the doctor, but it could be my imagination.”
“What about the supervisor?”
“He’s a wild card. So far he’s holding up. Out there he doesn’t have a chance until the dust settles, if it ever does. He’s a marked man, and he knows it.”
“But?”
“The kids and the doctor know the score. I saw Laurel returning a loaded syrette to Floyd, and he keeps another with him always.”
“How do you know?”
“Laurel told me.”
“Poison?”
Tyler nodded.
Palmer shook the flask to gauge how much was left. Suicide involved considerable resolve. He had no truck with those who glibly dismissed it as a coward’s way out.
“Lukas Hurley is a civil servant,” Tyler said.
“So am I. What has that got to do with it?”
“In my experience, people cling to groundless ideals: The mob looks after its pals, the army after its men, and the system—any system—after its kin.”
“That’s wishful thinking.”
“Most people thrive on similar fantasies.”
“And you reckon he may be tempted to trade?” Palmer asked.
“It will depend on the pressure. Before long, the DHS will make a move; they can’t afford not to. And when they do, they will dangle a carrot in front of Floyd and Lukas. Laurel and Raul are driven by ideals, and Russo doesn’t count. That leaves the hired talent, and Floyd is no fool.”
“Come home and all is forgotten?”
“Something like that.”
Palmer turned to face the warm buttery brightness of the sun. “Will Lukas fall for it?”
A breeze pushed past Palmer and Tyler down the path, shifting the leaves and making them whisper. Tyler squinted at the sky, as if trying to attach words to the sounds and failing. “I don’t know, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Palmer nodded. “Time for the second act.”
Tyler reached into his windbreaker to produce a cell phone—a plump model made obsolete by card-thin devices.
Palmer dug an oblong tube out of his jacket pocket, removed its lid, and shook it to dislodge a pair of foldable reading glasses.
“Wait.” Tyler fumbled with his wristwatch—a cheap bright-yellow plastic piece. After pushing several tiny buttons on its side, he nodded.
Palmer keyed a string of numbers into the cell phone.
“Louis Hamilton,” a voice answered.
Palmer followed Tyler’s lips as he mouthed, “Ninety seconds,” then the senator nodded.
“There’s not much time, so you better listen carefully.” Palmer tried what he thought would pass for a gangster’s voice. Tyler rolled his eyes.
“Who is this?”
“You don’t want to know, buster.”
An audible intake of breath followed and Palmer relaxed a notch. The penny had dropped at the other end of the line. It had been Hamilton’s idea of a code word: When Valerie calls me “buster,” I know she doesn’t want her husband, but her man. I’ll know it’s you. Palmer smiled. That’s what he liked about the Washington Post reporter. He always called things by their name, without resorting to euphemisms.
“I’m listening.”
“There’s been a breakout from the Washington sugar cube.”
“Repeat.”
“You heard me. Three inmates have escaped with the help of Lukas Hurley, the shift supervisor.” A faint high-pitched noise intruded on the line. The NSA computers scanned all U.S. domestic and international communications, sampling and comparing them with a list of words. Washington sugar cube and the supervisor’s name must have triggered the alarm. He nodded to Tyler, who adjusted his watch.
“Thirty seconds,” Tyler mouthed.
“The DHS has launched a covert operation to capture the fugitives while keeping the event under wraps. Wednesday’s terrorist attack on the power station was a diversion perpetrated by the fugitives to fool the security forces and effect their escape. They detonated the charges at a distance to guarantee no damage to the core.”
Tyler offered both hands, fingers splayed: ten seconds. One bird chirped high up; there was a pause; another chirped lower down.
“Can you back