Memoria

by Alex Bobl

  Maggie came out with their clothes. Her eyes sparkled. She looked fresh and rested. Frank smiled back, unable to take his eyes off her. Maggie handed him his trousers and a large checkered shirt.

  "Whose is this?" he asked as he unfolded it.

  "No idea," Maggie shrugged. "Oprah gave it to me for you. Don't forget to thank her."

  "I won't," Frank looked down. "Are these her sandals you're wearing?"

  "They are," the girl turned away. The two men hurried to put their clothes on.

  Then all three came over to the front door where Oprah was waiting for them. Lynda and Tom looked out of the first-floor window. Maggie waived to them, and they returned her farewell.

  "Thanks a lot for the shirt," Frank said.

  "You've been a great help," Max nodded at the children in the window. "Lynda said the Council was in Fordham. Is that correct?"

  "That's right," Oprah took one step down.

  "It's that way, isn't it?" Frank motioned in the direction of North Nelson Avenue.

  "I shouldn't hurry if I were you," Oprah grabbed the banisters and glared at the coach, her corpulent body filling the stairway.

  Max didn't move. A car was approaching along 167th. Maggie cowered behind the men's backs.

  A few seconds later, an off-road pickup truck pulled up at the house: light gray with deep-treaded wide wheels. Three fit young men jumped out of the back. Two more men emerged from the cab.

  "Lionel!" Frank recognized the one with high cheekbones as one of the camp's leaders. "You're Lionel Batford. Don't you remember me? I was-"

  "Which one?" the man cut him off and looked at Oprah. "Which one is it?"

  She pointed at Max.

  "I would ask you to surrender your gun, sir," Lionel looked over Maggie and Frank and stepped toward Max. "You and your friends don't need problems, do you?"

  The men stepped forward surrounding them.

  Chapter Seventeen. No Justice

  Frank stood by a wide window in the Keating Hall. The tower's shadow lay across the neat lawn below: the sun was setting, darkening the grass with the barely recognizable outline of the upper-story turrets. All around the former University building, heavy treetops barely moved in the breeze letting but a few soft sunrays fall through their thick foliage. Through the shafts of dust playing in the sunbeams, Frank, Maggie and Max had been shepherded up the granite stairs and into the building.

  The coach and Maggie now sat at the long table with their backs to the window. Lionel Batford and Nicholas Floyd faced them. Frank watched their reflections in the window pane. Lionel, indifferent, studied the gun he'd taken from Max.

  On the table between them lay the attaché case, buffed to its former silvery shine, its lid deformed by the bullets. Next to it stood the camera on its tripod connected to the monitor. The damaged battery hadn't stood up to the pressure, so that the camp engineers, having fiddled with the contacts, had decided not to bother and connected it to the mains with a transformer. But it didn't do much good, either. After a few minutes' discussion, the engineers had said they were sure they could fix it if they could get it to the workshop. And so they had left under Max's morose glare.

  Frank looked down at the granite steps under the windows. He couldn't read the names from that height, but some of them he remembered from school: Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Mary Robinson, Harry Truman. The rest of the names he'd seen for the first time as he climbed those steps a few minutes ago. But if someone had bothered to immortalize those names in the stone worn by centuries of footsteps, then their bearers must have deserved being remembered.

  It felt almost like a symbol: could it be why the Council presided here in the gothic edifice of Fordham?

  He thought against asking those present, and only turned round when a door creaked, to meet Anna Gautier's morose stare. She entered; Frank stepped to the table. The bored Floyd rose and pulled a chair up for her. Lionel Batford put the gun aside, placed his cell phone on the table next to him and sat up straight. Frank nodded to Max, looked at the restless Maggie and stood with his hands on the back of his chair, watching the Steel Lady.

  "So," her sharp contralto echoed off the walls. She glared at Max. "You've entered the Bronx bearing arms." Her stare shifted to Frank. "You're wanted by the authorities. You're accused of murder and a terrorist attempt!" Gautier raised her voice high at the end of the sentence as if to underline it.

  Frank held her stare. "You're absolutely right. I am indeed accused of everything you've just said. God knows," he sighed and looked at his coach, "I didn't want my friends to get involved. Especially my new friends," he looked at Maggie suppressing the desire to touch her shoulder. "I definitely didn't plan on seeking help from you. Or from any migrants, for that matter. But," Frank clasped the back of the chair hearing his fingers crack. "But I do have evidence of my innocence. This tape was made by Kathleen Baker and decoded using Joe Binelli's workstation. This evidence, if only the public learns about it, will be Memoria's undoing. Isn't it what you want? You, of all people, need to get the authorities off your back. Didn't you speak to Memoria's bosses only this morning? What did they propose?"

  Opposite him, Nicholas Floyd shifted in his chair. Lionel Batford's hand slid under the table. Frank heard a click — could be the safety lock of a gun.

  Gautier stared at him, her thin lips pursed. A web of deep lines crumpled her bony face, shriveling her forehead. Her eyes, encircled by a pair of crow's feet, reflected the bright lights high above, as if her very glare was on fire. Would it destroy him and his friends? Only time could tell.

  "Young man," Gautier's lips formed a bitter grin, "don't you know you're playing with fire? Who told you Memoria bosses us around? Who told you they are the authority? Could be the other way round, you know."

  She waited for him to answer. The future of Frank's and his friends' now depended on his right choice of words.

  "But you are going to check the tape," he allowed himself a passing grin, "of that I'm sure."

  Gautier nodded.

  "Very well, then," Frank breathed a sigh of relief. "The administration's dependency on the Bronx camp and its business activities makes the migrants their number one enemy. They can't control you. And no government can afford that. Especially if some members of the said government have a generous share in Memoria's dividends. Russell Jefferson Claney is running for the Presidency. Doesn't it make the administration one with Memoria? Did you get some of the answers you expected?"

  She nodded. "Almost."

  Frank chose to ignore her sarcasm. "But this is only one side of the coin. Let's turn it the other way up. Let's presume that the migrants' camp in DC has ceased to exist. There're too many strategic objects in DC, aren't there? The White House, the Pentagon, to name a few. So let's presume, for the sake of argument, that the DC migrants," Frank looked first at Max, then at Batford and Floyd, "have been relocated to smaller towns and communities. Let's presume that there exists a secret agreement between the administration and the migrants' Presiding Council that does just that..."

  "Is it true?" Floyd rose, his bulk overpowering Gautier. She didn't flinch, her morose stare fixed on Frank. "So it is, then. But how... How could you?"

  Batford, as more cool-headed, pulled Floyd's arm, forcing him to sit back down. Frank went on,

  "It would only be a temporary measure, wouldn't it? A compromise. Just another deal."

  The Steel Lady glared as if she wanted to burn a hole in him.

  "We all want to live," Frank mused. "No matter how old we are. We all want to live a long comfortable life. Back to DC, though. Theirs wasn't a large camp: just over twenty thousand people. Many other smaller camps have disappeared off the map in a similar way," he started unfolding his fingers, "one in Oklahoma, another in Montana, the West Coast..."

  "Wait a bit, Frank," Max nodded at Gautier. "Do you imply they paid her to do it?"

  "Enough!" the Steel Lady slapped her hand on the table.

  The door creaked, letting one of
the young men in who'd taken Frank and his friends to Fordham in the pickup truck. Gautier waved him away, and the man disappeared.

  "All of us in the Presiding Council were promised freedom of movement," she started, looking out of the window. "We hoped that by sacrificing little we could obtain more. As we surrendered our territories we increased the population of the larger ones, thus ensuring greater efficiency of our ventures. By doing that, the population of larger cities came to count on and respect us. That included their administration..."

  The coach raised his eyebrows. "Which became dependent on your ventures," he summed up. "But it doesn't explain your reaction a minute ago. Am I the only one who's dumb here?" he lifted his hands in dismay. "That gives you and the migrants the highest advantage ever."

  "Let Shelby explain," Gautier looked down at her wrinkled hands.

  "Easy," said Frank. "Freedom of movement in exchange for lands and all the assets. With one reservation," he glanced over at all who were present, "The program is planned for twenty-five years. The Presiding Council and the administration come to a secret agreement..." He turned to Max. "I'm sorry, sir. I meant to tell you all about it while still in the boxing club, but then Barney came and I never-"

  "You mean, another twenty-five years, and the reservations will disappear," Max crossed his arms on his chest. "All thanks to an agreement between a handful of people."

  It was Max's turn to shake his head in disbelief. "That's the way to do it," he glanced at Maggie next to him, "without as little as asking anyone if they wanted it or not. Then again, the powers that be never bother."

  The girl stared down at the table, quiet and reserved. She was rather like a fifth wheel in their company. Too many things had been said not meant for her ears, and everyone seemed to realize that, Frank included. But once started, the argument couldn't be stopped.

  Max turned to the Steel Lady. "You hoped to keep the agreement a secret. Easy enough to do, considering not so many people knew about it in the first place. A lawyer from each state, the heads of government, possibly, the President, plus a couple dozen camp leaders... a hundred, hundred and fifty in total. Not many, considering the stakes: twenty-five years of change for the better, restoring the migrants' position in society... Twenty-five years is a figure to be reckoned with. You've nearly made it, too."

  He paused. "The problem was, Memoria had a plan of its own. And most likely, your secret agreement was part of it. They only made it in order to lull you into a false sense of security while Memoria was getting their Vaccination up and running. You must have a mole or two nosing about. Memoria's people have studied you well, each of you."

  Silence fell. Frank held his breath watching the others. Nicholas Floyd stared in front of him, drooped and crestfallen. The news of the agreement between Gautier and the government seemed to have shaken him to the bone. Lionel Batford, one hand still under the table, squinted at his cell phone, tapping a number in.

  The gray-haired Steel Lady seemed to have aged another ten years in the past half-hour. Her hands shook. The flame in her eyes had faded.

  "Frank, with your permission?" Max looked up at him. "I've got something else to say."

  "If you wish."

  "You should have told us about the secret agreement when you met us yesterday. We'll leave it for the moment. But before we see the tape and learn more about the Vaccination project, there's something else I need to know. Have any of you — of the camp leaders or their entourage — have any of you ever heard of mind locks and mnemocapsules? Were they mentioned at all during those talks yesterday at Memoria? Have you heard these names before?"

  Gautier raised her sunken face at him and shook her head. There was nothing left of the Steel Lady in her.

  "Put your phone away, Lionel," she gnarled. "Nicholas, go find out what's taking the engineers so long."

  The phone beeped acknowledging a text reception. A gun shot resounded from under the table. Maggie cried out. Blood trickled out of Gautier's open mouth onto her chin. She tumbled off the chair clasping the wound in her stomach. The coach jumped up.

  Lionel Batford did the same, the gun in his hand trained at Floyd. Before Floyd could move, Batford shot him twice.

  Max rushed to the girl to shield her from the shots. A bullet hit his chest. Frank lunged forward and slammed the chair on Batford's hand holding the gun. Batford cried out and dropped the weapon. Frank buried his fist in the man's face, and Batford collapsed on the floor.

  Frank picked up his gun and ran past the table to the door. It swung open, people bursting in.

  "He did it!" Wiping the blood over his face, Batford crawled to the wall. "He shot us! He's got a gun!"

  Several people grabbed Frank's shoulders forcing him down. He knee-kicked one of them. The attacker yelped and released his grip. Another one tried to take the gun away. Frank jabbed his left elbow into the man's chest and received a hearty hook to his jaw in return. The blow made his head reel, letting out hundreds of stars before his darkening stare. He growled as he struck out at the attacker's ribs, all the while feeling someone trying to wriggle the gun out of his hand. Finally, he managed to get up, throwing the attacker down onto the floor.

  The gun lay under his feet. Frank's right arm didn't obey, its hand burning in agony, its forearm stiff as if it had been fitted with a steel rod. Familiar sensation: many years ago, this had been the kind of injury that had got him out of the ring for good. A couple of fingers broken, probably — not that it mattered any more. He kicked the gun under the table, avoided somebody's lunge and parried another one's left hook to his jaw, simultaneously kicking somebody behind his back.

  "Frank!" Maggie screamed.

  He was too busy to answer. He couldn't even turn to take a look. He had to get to the door and lock it, whatever it took. Then he'd deal with these people, and then — he didn't know what would happen then. He didn't care. He clenched his teeth and kept fighting. This was what he'd learned from his coach, now bleeding to death somewhere under the table.

  He finally realized he'd been fighting three people in total: the three young men in the gray pickup truck who'd brought them there from Oprah's house. The driver wasn't with them — he must have stayed with the truck. One of the three writhed on the floor clutching at his stomach after Frank's knee kick to his solar plexus. Another one didn't move at all, unconscious after the hook to his jaw. The third one leaned against the table edge trying to get up. Frank stepped forward and punched the man in the temple knocking him out.

  "Behind you!" Maggie screamed.

  Too late. A chair crushed against Frank's back and disintegrated. Frank collapsed on top of his injured arm, yelped with pain and tried to kick the attacking Batford's leg. The man stepped aside, two loose chair legs still in his hands, and took a swing at Frank. A chair leg hit Frank's throat, stopping him breathing.

  Batford grasped the other chair leg with both hands and raised it over his head aiming its sharp splintery end at Frank's chest.

  A gunshot shook the room. Batford doubled up. His eyes, full of surprise, froze on Frank's face. He dropped the chair leg and started to turn around. A dark spot grew on his back. He stepped to the door, teetered and collapsed. On the other side of the room, something heavy clanged against the floor.

  Frank turned his head. Maggie stood by the opposite wall. She covered her mouth with both hands, staring at the dead Batford. The gun lay at her feet.

  From behind the door came shouting and the stomping of many feet. As he scrambled upright, Frank tried to speak to Maggie but could only manage a croak. The pain in his larynx made him hiss; he swallowed, grabbed a chair and dragged it to the entrance.

  He barred the door with it and tried it. A chair was no barrier for one or two fit men, but all Frank wanted was to play for time.

  He looked back. A recovered Maggie leaned over the coach under the wide window. Tears flooded her face. She was whispering something that sounded like a prayer.

  Frank ran up to them and knelt next to
his coach looking into his eyes. The man was dying. Max couldn't see his student, but he moved his bloodied lips trying to say something. But nothing came out.

  "Frank," Maggie called. "Frank, do something. Please."

  Frank bent down to his face.

  "Sir? It's me, Frank Shelby. We don't have much time."

  The door shattered, followed by loud demands to open it.

  "You can hear me, can't you?" Frank went on. "I know you can. Maggie and I are all right. You wanted to tell us something. I knew you did when you asked the leaders about the mind lock. I knew you'd sussed it out..."

  "Pe...ople," the coach uttered, very softly, and started to rattle. He grabbed Frank's shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he breathed out, "People!"

  His head dropped to one side. He died.

  A droning sound added to the thumping at the door. Window panes rattled. Frank turned and faced a black helicopter hovering over the lawn, the orange flower of Memoria on its side. More armed men sat inside.

  Frank grabbed Maggie's hand. The windows shattered. Tear gas grenades filled the room with their rancid smoke and acrid stench. Frank's eyes watered. Black masked figures slid down ropes and appeared in the windows amid the breaking of glass. One of them raised a strange-looking rifle loaded with four red things that looked like bowling pins.

  The shot sounded like a balloon bursting. Frank stepped out, shielding Maggie, when he realized that the four pin-like things weren't the threat. They flew apart unfolding a net between them. Strong nylon cord hit Frank's face. It entrapped their shoulders and legs and clung to the screaming Maggie. Rifle butts sent both onto the floor. The shooter jumped off the window sill, moved the rifle behind his back and pulled his cord out of the window. Kneeling next to them, he looped the end of the cord around their feet, drew it tight, clasped a safety hook to it and pulled the cord.

  Frank wasn't prepared for being jerked out. His head hit the window sill, and he found himself hanging feet up over the lawn. Over his ear, Maggie screamed, petrified. The drone of the choppers filled his other ear. One of the helicopters hovered over the lawn, the other above the Keating Hall. He and Maggie were being pulled up into it. Max's last word echoed in Frank's head. Blood rushed to his face, pulsating in his agonizing temples. The lawn swam before his eyes. Frank collapsed.