Memoria

by Alex Bobl

  Binelli sipped the hot coffee and put the cup back onto the desk. In his fat hand, it looked like a plastic toy. He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat. Claney didn't move. His eyes glinted, that was the extent of the Congressman's self-restraint.

  Bastards. Ed Freeman and several officers had just died because of them.

  Jessup took out a notepad and clicked the pen open. "Who is the chief of security?"

  "Joe Binelli," Claney answered. "He's an acting chief while we're looking for a suitable candidate to replace him. You, officer… eh…"

  "Captain Jessup," he reminded.

  "Yes, Captain. Would you like to accept the post, maybe? The Mayor speaks very highly about you. Doesn't he, Joe?"

  "Ahem," Binelli puffed out his cheeks, coughed into his fist again and nodded.

  They had to be kidding. Jessup made a note on his pad. Imagine them mentioning the Mayor, when only two hours ago he himself had called Jessup giving him the official version of the incident. The department guys knew nothing about it yet, but give it another six hours, and the news would flood the media: newspapers, TV channels and the Web. And Jessup would have a lot of explaining to do.

  Dickheads. Apparently, the Mayor had finally relaxed his butt cheeks and accepted his position as Memoria's poodle. He's not the only one, though: just before Jessup had left for Memoria's HQ, he'd received a call from the White House. They guaranteed their support after making it clear that Shelby had to be recaptured within the next twenty-four hours... not necessarily alive. Or rather, as dead as possible. Assholes. None of them had mentioned the dead officers, as none spoke about their killers, either.

  "What kind of work did Kathleen Baker do for Memoria?" Jessup stared at Binelli.

  He gave Claney a bewildered glance which made it clear that the honorary chairman was such in name only. In reality, Claney was the man at the helm: the corporate smoke screen and their talking head whenever Memoria needed a face to put on TV or to make a media statement.

  "Scientific research," Binelli managed.

  How's that for a vague job description. Jessup shifted his stare to Claney.

  "Tell me more."

  The Congressman made no secret of it.

  "You see, Captain, the Corporation doesn't only provide for the civilian market. I'm sure you're familiar with the personality correction program, which is successfully applied by the US police for law enforcement. But there are things," he leaned forward placing his hands on the table, "of which many don't know, not even in the White House. Only the Pentagon is in the know. Kathleen Baker was one of our workers with access to classified information; one of those who work on the strengthening of our country. You have to agree its political situation is complicated to say the least. And when you think about the international arena and the tension in Europe! Do you understand me, Captain?"

  "Absolutely."

  They left him no choice. Tomorrow morning, by lunchtime at the latest, the case would go to the Feds. That this corporate lowlife should get off for the deaths of so many people! Jessup pursed his lips, nodding, and said,

  "Gentlemen, while I'm on the case, I'm obliged to ask you to come to the police station and make a statement." He glanced at his watch. "Nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

  "As you wish, Captain," Claney answered, composed as before. "Our lawyers will be there to see you."

  Jessup rose and put the pen and the notepad back into his pocket. He meant to ask another question, about a certain William Bow, the dead woman's co-worker. But their conversation had gone off the rails, and as for Bow, Jessup couldn't get hold of him. Apparently, at lunchtime Bow had been rushed to a private clinic someplace in New Jersey. The clinic's personnel had refused to let Jessup's men in or give them the man's diagnosis: all that Jessup knew was it had been some acute infection or other.

  The detective crossed the council chamber, lingering by the door under Claney's stare. He didn't return it, then pushed the door open and walked out into the reception area.

  * * *

  The Congressman turned to Binelli. The corporation manager stooped, shrinking his head into his shoulders. Binelli knew this heavy stare only too well. A killer's stare. He wanted to clear his throat again. Taking the tiny cup with shaking fingers, he poured the coffee into his large plump mouth. He burned his tongue and his palate, gagged and couldn't help coughing. He became nauseous. Then he heard Claney's harsh voice,

  "Dickens? Come now." The Congressman released the intercom key and sat back.

  The wall to their left slid sideways, letting out a tall blond man with cold pale eyes. Binelli winced and turned away. He listened as he stared out of the window.

  "Have you found him?" Claney asked.

  "We keep listening to the police frequencies, sir," the blond man answered. "My mole at Jessup's department contacts me every half-hour. I don't have enough men to cover all of Shelby's contacts, though. The police have wider opportunities in this respect. I'm just thinking how I could use them, sir."

  The Congressman slapped his hand on the desk. Binelli started and glanced at the blond man. He didn't bat an eyelid. Both Claney and Dickens — Memoria's unspoken security chief — had enviable nerve, the only difference being that the latter remained Claney's subordinate and was accountable only to him.

  "You really think we should get the pigs involved?" the Congressman nodded at the door that had let Jessup out less than two minutes ago. "They do have the means and staff to help us, that's for sure." He clasped his hands, placed his elbows on the desk and said icily,

  "It was your job to keep an eye on the Baker girl. You should have established all of her contacts, including Shelby first of all. If the police find him before we do, and if they recover the hard disk..." The Congressman glared at Binelli. "Want to tell me something, Joe? Cat got your tongue?"

  "Ahem," the manager licked his dry lips. "Russell, we… Dickens had to think fast…"

  "Too fast, apparently!" All composure left Claney's face, replaced by fury. "You got rid of this Kathleen girl without letting me know first! You've trashed the police station! You've started a shootout right in the center of Manhattan! And here's the result: Shelby's on the loose, bracelet-free, the hard disk in his pocket! How do you suggest we find him?"

  The Congressman's glare stabbed Dickens who didn't blink an eyelid.

  "Kirk," Binelli hurried to step in, turning to the blond man, "didn't you say that the hard disk had a special connector?"

  "Yes, sir," Dickens nodded. "You can only access the data either from Baker's workplace or from your own."

  "But the police," Binelli twisted in his chair, reached for the cup, remembered it was empty and lay his clenched fists on the desk to hide his trembling fingers. "If the police found the hard disk, would they be able to access the data?"

  "Theoretically yes, sir. The data is encrypted by a built-in encoder. The key to it is in the security server's memory." Dickens spoke as if reporting to a sergeant major on parade. His pale eyes remained cold. "In order to copy it and access the data, you need to obtain the remote password. And I'm the only person who can enter it, sir."

  "Which means-" Claney turned to Binelli.

  "Which means neither Shelby nor the police can read it."

  The manager held his breath watching the Congressman's reaction. For a brief moment, Claney hesitated.

  "I want you to find Shelby," he looked up at Dickens' face. "Tomorrow morning I'm meeting with the President. The day after, he and I unveil the Vaccination project. You have just over twenty-four hours to do it."

  With a wave of his hand, Claney dismissed him. Mechanically, Binelli nodded. The blond man about-turned and headed for the opening in the wall.

  * * *

  The raincoat and cap smelled of mothballs. Frank had bought them from a migrant by the subway exit. Both looked as if the man had unearthed them in his storage box that very morning, and then only in order to sell them.

  Frank sniggered at his own rambling. He had mo
re important things to think about. He rubbed his cheeks and perked up. He needed to make a plan and decide, at the very least, what to do next and where to spend the night.

  Frank hid his ears under the cap, raised the collar and shoved his hands deep into the raincoat pockets, feeling for a hefty metal-cased device in the right one. Frank didn't know much about computers but this definitely looked like the kind of thing to be hooked up to one. The device resembled a portable hard drive encased in a sturdy — possibly, even anti-shock — casing.

  Now why would Kathleen have sent it to him, of all people? Why by mail, of all things?

  Frank stopped in his tracks. He shut his eyes and gave out a sharp breath, but the nightmare refused to go: Kathleen, staring at him with her eyes glazed over; the old post office manager, gasping, his agonized mouth bleeding; the woman in the subway and her disfigured, harrowed face.

  The street swam before his eyes. His ears droned. Frank pulled his hands out of his pockets, turned to face the wall and grasped at it, feeling the stone. He vomited violently, spasms squeezing his throat. He spat pink and yellow, wiped his mouth and breathed deeply. After a minute, he started again along the street.

  The rain had stopped, but it hadn't made matters any better. A cold Northern wind dragged the thunderclouds away from Harlem. Migrants hurried toward him along the sidewalk heading for the subway entrance. They gave him a wide berth with his swaying, drunken gait. Mike must have told him the truth about the curfew: all Bronx camp dwellers seemed in a hurry to leave Manhattan.

  Frank stole a glance at his watch: very soon the streets would be deserted. A patrol car appeared at the intersection, so he shoved his hands back into his pockets and strode as naturally as he could, his back straight, The cops drove past paying no attention to him.

  The moment the patrol car turned off, Frank crossed the street to the busier side, passed the intersection and joined a bus queue not quite knowing yet why he was doing it. The bus wasn't the safest option: sooner or later he'd attract attention by not getting off, and either the driver or one of the passengers would recognize and report him.

  The line started moving — deep in his thoughts, he hadn't even noticed the approaching bus. Frank was the last to get on. He handed the driver a fifty-dollar note. The driver didn't look surprised: the proximity of Bronx with its hordes of braceletless migrants made cash transactions a common-or-garden occurrence. To pay for a ride, normally all you had to do was sweep the bracelet over the scanner by the entrance allowing the system to read the chip and extract the fare from your personal account, but without a bracelet, migrants couldn't use electronic payments.

  Without looking at Frank, the driver counted his change. Frank made his way along the crowded bus, grabbed onto a rail overhead and stood there staring at the tinted door window.

  Smoothly, the bus accelerated; the engine purred in the back, giving a light whine whenever the gears changed; the hydraulic brakes hissed.

  He had to make up his mind. Frank rubbed his temple, felt the graze on his chin and froze as his eyes followed a poster on a newsstand wall. Only a week left till the Fifty-Ninth Boxing Cup. Next to him, two dark-skinned guys were busy commenting on the last Cup, one of them rhapsodizing over the final when a certain Red Jack had knocked Rudy Novak out in the twenty-first second.

  Frank listened with half an ear trying to find his bearings. He turned round and touched the speaker's sleeve,

  "D'you know if Max's club is far from here?"

  The two exchanged glances. One of them seemed to be of Hindi origin, the other, an African American.

  "Why, do you know him?" the Hindi squinted.

  "I do."

  The bus jerked under braking. The passengers swayed, a few unhappy voices cursing the driver. Frank had to grab at the exit rail with his other hand.

  "You get off here," grabbing his friend's shoulder, the black guy pointed out of the window as the bus kept going. "go past two houses and turn north. Then it's about a block further."

  "Thanks," Frank saluted him and started for the door. "Now I remember." He smiled, unable to conceal his excitement.

  "Are you one of Max's students?" The Indian leaned across the rail and touched Frank's shoulder. "We seem to be about the same age. I remember most of them, but not you..."

  "Nah. Just a friend," Frank jumped out not waiting for the door to finish opening.

  Shame he hadn't had a chance to find out more. He wondered if the club still functioned. Did Max still train new competing boxers?

  The bus moved on, drenching him in acrid dirty smoke. Frank turned a corner and strode West toward Seventh Avenue.

  Another quarter of an hour, and he'd be there. He'd see his old coach. How could he have forgotten his second father? Frank thumped his fist into his palm. His coach used to say that every problem had a solution, whether in the ring or outside of it. He used to say that thinking was man's main weapon. A thousand times so! Which was exactly why Frank had won all those competitions for him and later, had entered and even graduated from law school. All right, the injury had hindered his boxing career, but what difference did it make now? He'd made up for it with his brilliant legal advance. Now he was a government lawyer, all thanks to his old coach and Frank's own ability to use thinking as a weapon.

  Frank recalled the past year's events and felt embarrassed. He'd thrown everything to the wind, all his old principles: he'd fallen for Kathleen and placed all his trust in her. He stopped in his tracks on the curb, nearly jumping the red light. A turning cab honked at him. The lights blinkered and turned green.

  Frank hurried across. Had he bothered to find out who Kathleen truly was, had he looked into whatever had rocked her life, he might not have had to rush around like a headless chicken saving his own skin from the police and the black-clad unknowns.

  Pointless crying over spilt milk. But it was high time he used his thinking as a weapon. He should ask his coach for a word of advice and find Kathleen's killer.

  Frank stopped opposite a dark lane. The club's squat building loomed at the other end. Frank looked around. A woman hurried along the other side of the road, wrapping her coat around herself. A car passed by, blinding Frank with its headlights. He covered his face and turned away. It started drizzling again. Frank's stare followed the receding car. He made sure the woman had already gone a long way without looking back at him and entered the lane.

  Max's Boxing Club had two means of access: the main entrance, by walking around the north side of the building and knocking on the tatty front door, or through the back door, by borrowing the key from its hiding place and approaching the club from the lane. Frank chose the one that seemed more familiar and logical in his situation.

  He found the key where it had always been, in a groove behind the drainpipe. Frank lingered thinking whether turning up without notice was a good thing to do. It could well be that his former coach had paid Memoria a visit or two and had long forgotten his best disciple.

  He shook his head and shoved the key into the keyhole in a heavy steel door. Even if Max weren't around, he could use a night's sleep. Then in the morning he'd decide what to do next, lock the door, replace the key and leave.

  The lock clanged. Frank pulled the handle and dived into the dark opening. He was about to bolt the door when the ceiling lamps went on. A baseball bat hit his forearm before smashing into the wall, breaking off a large chunk of plaster.

  Frank turned round and pressed his elbows to his sides. His left arm, aiming for the attacker's chin, stopped in mid-air.

  "Shelby?" his assailant breathed out as he took another swing with the bat. Max's face, distorted with anger, betrayed amazement quickly replaced with concentration. He lowered the bat.

  "It's me," Frank looked into his eyes. "My thinking weapon told me to come and see you. Could we have a word? Then you can either help me or call the police."

  Chapter Six. The Mentor

  The locker room was the warmest place in the whole club. Frank sat on a ben
ch next to an oil heater and drank the tea made by his coach. Max distrusted coffee and always made his own tea adding his own secret choice of herbs.

  Lockers lined the walls. Frank's wet raincoat hung on an open locker door opposite Max. The coach sat on a bench next to Frank's. He still looked fit and strong in his shabby cotton tracksuit. He lowered his gray crew-cut head as he listened to Frank, examining the dead Kathleen's posted device.

  "That's it, basically," Frank helped himself to some hot tea and glanced at his coach. "I've got nothing else to tell you. That's all I know."

  Max put the device down onto the bench. He removed his glasses and rubbed his swollen eyes.

  "I see," he glanced through the open door into the dimly-lit gym and nodded. "I need to make a phone call." He rose and motioned Frank to remain seated. "One phone call. You wait here. I'll be back and we'll talk about it."

  He left the locker room. Frank sipped the tea and felt the hem of his raincoat. Still wet. Most of all he'd love to lie down on the bench, wrap himself in something warm and fall asleep for a few hours at least. He gave the bench a longing look, forced himself up and did a few bends and flexes to get the blood going.

  His left side and shoulder echoed with pain. He had to admit he'd got a good whack in the ribs in the post office. Plus the old arm injury had manifested itself when he'd grabbed at the train's safety bar trying not to fall onto the subway tracks. Frank rubbed his wrist and flexed his hand. His shaking fingers, hurting and strained, refused to obey.

  Never mind. He'd have to ask his coach for something to bandage it with, that's all. No bones broken, and a couple of sprains he could deal with.