chapter 51

10:30

Jerome Palmer glanced at a battered ormolu clock sitting above the fireplace when it produced a ratchet noise ending in a hollow clunk: ten-thirty. Eons ago, he’d helped his father castrate the clock by excising its bells. He’d been impossibly young, on short reprieve between sophomore semesters at Harvard. After polishing off a decanter of port—a vintage Sandeman, from which Mother accepted only a sip—Senator Leon Palmer had led a foraging party of two to a seldom-visited corner in the house’s cellar. Later, after much arguing over the respective merits of grape and grain, they had adjourned to the library, clutching a dusty bottle of cognac and two snifters.

After listening to his father’s preposterous tale of a defrocked bishop turned pimp—to cash in on his proselytizing savvy—and with the contents of the venerable bottle a memory, they had suffered in hazy stupor the racket of the clock as it chimed away at midnight. With the sudden enlightenment of the very drunk, they carried the clock to the garage and proceeded to strip its back and remove the bells to thwart future interruptions. Mother would never let anyone forget and would mutter, “That poor castrated clock,” every time the machine struggled to accomplish the task conceived by its creators.

The house had been silent for a long time.

Chelsea, his daughter, had left for work before seven with her husband. Regardless of their efforts at stealth, he’d heard the swift rush of their sedan’s motor and the crunch of gravel as they left. When by seven-thirty Mrs. Timmons, the housekeeper, failed to make an appearance—for the first time in ten years—he roused Timmy, supervised his toilette, and rustled up a breakfast of cereal and juice. Brad Hawkins, a lame ex-marine who refused to take a pension at forty-five, and who doubled as his driver and handyman, hadn’t turned up at the appointed time either to take Timmy to school. The situation abundantly clear, Palmer climbed the steps and marched to Timmy’s room.

“What are you reading, son?”

The little boy held up his large book.

“Let me see.” Palmer donned his reading glasses and leaned over Timmy’s shoulder. He scanned the picture of a lone officer in impeccable blue atop a small knoll, surrounded by a sea of feathered warriors. A caption underneath read: General Custer’s Last Stand.

“I don’t understand, Grandpa.”

“What is it you don’t understand?”

“Instead of stand, why didn’t General Custard attack?”

Palmer thought it over. “Beats me, but I’ll look into it.” Then he gently squeezed Timmy’s shoulder. “No school today. I have an assignment for you, soldier. Will you accept it?”

Timmy nodded his head enthusiastically.

“Good, here is what you must do. I am waiting for some people. Bad people. Probably there will be a woman. She’s a spy, a wicked spy. You’d better go to your tree house and keep me covered at all times. Now, soldier, this is important: Don’t come down, no matter what you see. Don’t come down until I call you. Promise?”

Timmy seemed to weigh his orders and then sprang to his feet, drawing a hand to his chest. “Cross my heart, sir!”

That had been over an hour ago.

The wide screen flashed an artificially colored thermal image showing a large red spot, another of smaller size, and a few tiny ones.

“The large blob is the senator, this is the boy, and the others are a few squirrels, a rabbit, and rats in the senator’s basement. There’s nothing else within a mile radius; no other heat signatures.”

Odelle peered at the screen. “And these?”

“One car with our men and the housekeeper at the intersection with the E 311, and another with the senator’s driver at the track leading to the house. Er …”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“The crippled driver—he tackled the men …” A predictable description of stupidity under the guise of heroism followed.

Silence.

“Where’s the boy?”

“In a tree house. Should we grab him?”

Applying force was an art. Often a threat was more effective than an action, and Senator Palmer was unpredictable. “No, leave him there.”

With a final glance to the dim van’s interior and the four men hunched before surveillance and communications stations, she turned to the sergeant by the side door. “Get my car and let’s pay a visit to our friend.”

Palmer snapped from his reverie at the buzzing sound of the main entrance gate opening. Besides his daughter and her husband, only Mrs. Timmons and Hawkins had access cards, but he doubted any of them had opened the gate.

At the kitchen, he glanced at a split screen offering different views of the estate. A dark sedan was progressing along the graveled road to the house.

He sighed, his mind replaying Seth’s trial before the gods. I have the lettuce leaf loaded for you. He walked toward the main door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch in time to see Odelle Marino alighting from her car, chaperoned by two young men with lively eyes. Another woman, the driver, remained behind the wheel. Let’s see if you wolf it down.

“Madam Director, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Thank you, Senator, I was passing by and I thought I’d pay you a visit.” She climbed the steps and offered her hand for a dry, warm, strong handshake.

“Please, come in.” Palmer pointed to the open door and led the way into the house and his study. “We’ll be more comfortable here.”

She told her bodyguards to wait by the car.

As they entered Palmer’s den, the clock whirred to follow with twelve evenly spaced thwacks. Odelle spied the contraption, one inquisitive eyebrow flexing upward.

“Ah, the clock …” Palmer chuckled. “A long story. Coffee, tea, something stronger?”

“Thank you, Senator, nothing. I will be leaving shortly.” From her handbag, she drew a flat frequency analyzer. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

After a while, apparently satisfied, she made as if to sit on an easy chair but seemed to think better of it. She glanced through the twin glazed doors leading to the back garden and smiled. “You have a wonderful garden. Could we take a stroll?”

“Of course. Here, let me.” Palmer gripped the handle and slid one of the doors aside.

“Senator, this is truly magnificent.”

Palmer offered her a dazzling smile. “Madam, I’d rather you cut the bullshit, deliver your pitch, and get the hell out of my house.”

Her composure never cracked. “I admire your professionalism. Business first.”

“Only, in this instance, the pleasure is all yours.”

She drew closer and gripped his arm. “Charming as usual.” Then her voice altered and dropped—low, throaty. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Senator, stealing something of mine. I suppose that, as he is your son, you have a claim of sorts on Russo, but I find your sudden discovery of earth-shattering paternal love gratuitous. You could have acted like a real father, given him an education, and taught him to be a man, whatever that means. Instead, you sired a despicable bastard and got rid of him. But let bygones be bygones.”

They continued strolling arm in arm toward the center of the lawn. “Your driver was killed on his way to work.”

Palmer whirled and grabbed her wrist. “You bitch!”

Instead of backing off, Odelle drew near until her breasts brushed Palmer’s chest. Her mouth twisted. “It was an accident. The man tackled four DHS officers from the Special Forces, bare-handed. Epic, but a waste. Don’t worry. His car will explode somewhere. Accidents happen every day.”

“Have you finished?” Palmer fought to control his mounting rage.

“Here is my deal. I want Russo back. As soon as you deliver him, I will have him disappear with the rest of the center inmates without a trace; they would have never existed. Then I will tender my resignation. You’ll be able to clean the stables and bring Hypnos to heel. That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?”

Odelle Marino was much more intelligent than he’d given her credit for, Palmer conceded. Rather than fighting a battle she couldn’t possibly win, she was willing to step down, as long as she could keep the spoils. It wasn’t surrender but a negotiated armistice.

“And if I don’t?”

“I spotted your grandson earlier. Timmy, isn’t it? Hiding in his tree house, adorable.”

Palmer knew what was coming next. Predictable. “You have no shame. …”

“None. We’re talking survival, Senator. As a student of history, you should take Sun Tzu’s counsel and leave a gap for your enemy to flee. A cornered foe is as formidable as its desperation.”

She’d shown her ace, and she wasn’t bluffing.

“When I get back downtown, I plan to announce the imminent recapture of the fugitives. Twenty-four hours, Palmer. That’s how long you have to hand over Russo.”

“What about the others?” he asked grimly.

“They’re irrelevant in the scheme of things. Keep your granddaughter and the young lawyer as a consolation prize. The doctor won’t ever be able to practice again, but he’s young. The turncoat can elope to Peru and sire dozens of cinnamon-skinned bastards; I couldn’t care less. Get them new identities and make sure they keep their noses clean. I’ll send photos to the press showing a few prisoners returned to justice, and that will be that.”

Palmer backed up a pace to recover his personal space. She stared—not at him, but through him.

“You can hide him in a vault, Palmer, in Switzerland or Tierra del Fuego, but I will find your Timmy. And, when I do, so help me God, you’ll never see him again. So don’t fuck with me, and don’t push me any further. I can use the full resources of the DHS to get that boy, and his mother, and his father, and his father’s father, and all of your wretched kin. You’ll get me, eventually, but it will cost you.”

“Are you done?”

She smiled. “I am, but … I would love to hear you accept my reasonable offer.”

Palmer pasted a suitably shaken grimace on his face.

“Will you deliver Russo within twenty-four hours?”

I will, indeed. Palmer stared at her, then nodded.

She swiveled toward the copse of trees and waved a hand. “Don’t be a fool, Senator. I could have snatched your grandson an hour ago.” She paused, raised an arm, and snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”