by Alex Bobl
"Yes, you.... or we, rather, were going head-to-head until now. But I'm afraid they'll be gaining ground before long. Let's assume that the data on the hard disk has something to do with this Vaccination thing. Then if it turned out to cause physical or mental damage, Gautier must have demanded they went public about it. And they refused her demand causing the DC talks to collapse."
"Then what's the point in going public about it tomorrow?" Frank threw the pen onto the desk. "All this media-summoning, migrant-cajoling presentation?"
"They need to remain one step ahead. To shut Gautier up and appease the public. They're too scared that we can hack the files and they have no way of knowing if Kathleen told you why she'd copied them to begin with." Max reached under Frank's arm and pulled out a sheet where they'd listed all the events of the past few days.
"Look," he took the pen and circled an item on the list. "You were taken to the station for questioning. Immediately they attacked it."
"They must have thought," Frank started, "that I knew what was going on. They thought I would testify against them."
"Exactly. They also thought you had the hard disk. So they wanted to get rid of the eyewitness and remove the device." He pulled the laptop closer and tapped "Memoria board of directors" into the search engine.
Frank exploded.
"So now I'm a terrorist acting on his own? It's not what they said before! Can't anyone see they're lying? How could I trash the station on my own? Even a child can see that I couldn't turn the city into a battlefield all alone. Besides, didn't you just say that three hundred thousand migrants are a force to be reckoned with? All these war-mongering alerts of yours, and now you're backpedalling?"
"Relax," Max gave him a cold stare. "I may be mistaken. Kathleen's killers could have another agenda for all that I know."
"Yeah, right, but how about Memoria? And the President? They don't even try to hide their contempt for the migrants. The authorities can barely stand them. Surely everyone can put two and two together..."
"You're forgetting our civic duty. Most eyewitnesses to yesterday's carnage must have already visited Memoria branches and had their horrible memories erased. Why should they carry around thoughts of gunfire and dead bodies on the streets? I'm more than sure they were very nicely asked to do so. I'm also sure that the media have refuted their earlier stories under the pretext of not wanting to hurt people's sensibilities. You are the scape goat because they hope to catch you pretty soon. Now that they've prejudiced everyone against you, they just sit and wait till you give yourself up."
Max turned the screen toward Frank. He saw several mug shots and brief resumes of a couple of dozen Memoria executives. They hadn't removed Kathleen's file yet, listing her as their research manager.
"The fact that the President called you a terrorist acting on his own means that those who put a hit out on Kathleen have government connections and media control. They can force their own version of events on everyone. Basically, they let us know, very nicely, who we're dealing with. Just a suggestion on their part that we stop nosing around searching for the truth."
"Whatever. It's not a loner, it's a group, a numerous and well-trained one, too."
"You're right on that one."
"So you don't think it could be the migrants?"
Max shook his head.
"Doubtful. To challenge the authorities so openly..." he cringed. "The moment they show any signs of aggression, they'll be toast. This is what we'll do. We won't eliminate the migrant theory, not quite yet. I want you to jot down some questions," Max half stood and poked his finger at the farthest sheet on the table. "What did Gautier want the Memoria technologies for? How did she know about the Vaccination project? Now..." he sat back. "You got it? Good. Now have a look at all these people. Check out their personal files. And tell me which one of them could be of interest to us."
"In which respect?"
"We need someone we can use to read the hard disk."
Frank scratched his cheek, thinking and picking fresh scabs off the scratches.
"William Bow is one. Cathleen's deputy manager. They worked together."
The coach nodded.
"Anybody else?"
"Joe Binelli, the chief manager. Maggie is one of his secretaries. They have a workstation with an access to the server."
"That'll do," the coach pulled the laptop closer. "You're thinking in the right direction."
"Thinking is one thing. But-"
'But what?" Max didn't look up from the screen, busy studying the files.
"Just that," Frank blinked, "how are we supposed to find out the truth? We can't ask either of these two to hook us up to their server, can we? Or do you want Maggie to do it for you? She's a good girl, she can risk her life..."
Max looked up at him. For a second they glared at each other.
"I disagree," Frank shook his head. "Kathleen's death is more than enough. Others' deaths are more than enough. I don't-"
"Do shut up, will you?" Max stood up. "And calm down. No use for emotions in my line of work. We need to exercise wisdom and act for certain. There's no margin for errors, as they say." He tapped his fist on the desk.
Frank turned to the TV, sulking.
"Never mind," Max calmed down. "Let's think some more."
"Go ahead, then," Frank gave him a frowning glance and straightened the loose notes.
"Who do you think would be easier to get hold of? Binelli or Bow?"
Frank shrugged.
"Take an educated guess," the coach removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, red with the sleepless night.
"Binelli, most likely," Frank grumbled. "He has to be at the press conference tomorrow afternoon. Maggie has access to his office."
"Not bad," the coach gave him a faint smile. "Ideally, we should first see what Bow has to say for himself. But I'm pretty sure he has more corporate bodyguards than the government have FBI agents. I'm almost sure Bow knows what happened. But he's out of our reach."
He added, answering Frank's silent question,
"Had I been one of Kathleen's killers, I'd have moved him out of the HQ. As far as I could. I'd take him to some secret underground lab. And I don't doubt for one second that one exists."
The TV speakers rustled with, "Joy and prosperity." Memoria's orange flower blossomed on the screen. Images of people started flashing. Happy people going about their business at home and on the street. Happy children at school. Everyone was smiling, and everyone had something orange: an item of clothing, or a bunch of tulips in their hands.
The commercial ended, replaced by yet another ad. Frank turned to his coach.
"Yes?" Max gave him a strained look.
Frank tapped his fingers on the table. "One thing I keep thinking about."
"Go ahead, shoot. That's why we're sitting here. We need to exhaust all possibilities, however implausible."
"This isn't implausible. Quite the contrary. But still. I keep pondering why all my pursuers had no hair. Claney didn't, either. But the story said that he'd lost his hair in some early Baker experiments. They said that later the problem had been solved. Otherwise everyone who'd ever been to Memoria would have been bald as an egg by now."
Frank paused and went on,
"This is what I don't understand. If my pursuers have some kind of Memoria connections, then what's their common denominator? Claney is in his late sixties while those who fought me were about thirtyish. The fake airport cab driver had to be forty or so. What do they all have in common?"
Max didn't answer.
"You have a point, Frank. Jot it down, will you?"
Chapter Ten. The Vaccination Project
Bud Jessup sat in his office and looked through the glass partition at the departing backs of Claney and Binelli's lawyers. Talking to them had been a mere formality, albeit unavoidable. He knew he couldn't expect any positive outcome, but instead could look forward to all kinds of innuendo that they'd promised him. They'd made it pretty clear he shouldn't try too hard, unless
he wanted to lose his post and his head.
Jessup picked the lawyers' business cards off the desk, crumpled them in his fist and binned them.
Fucking rats. Jessup turned his chair to the window. An audacious bunch of bullies. Smug and knowing that he had nothing against Memoria. Its bosses ordered the media around telling the majority what they were supposed to think. The government, the President, the law itself — they had everything on their side.
He rose and looked out into the street. The hustle and bustle made one forget yesterday's murders. Twenty years ago, a violation like this would have had the whole city on its toes. People didn't bother to consider these things any more. The world had changed. Those who'd once fought for its freedom were far past their prime now. Who would need a patriot these days? They were few and far between now, those who still bothered to remember. All thanks to Memoria and its memory wipes. They also wiped out integrity.
He turned to the desk, reached for the mug of cold coffee and froze, astonished by his thoughts. Now he could see Gautier and her migrant buddies in a totally different light. They had youngsters in their camps who remembered the war very well, and that had been thirty years ago. All right, they might be rightless, they had no access to proper education, but at least they knew stuff about their fathers' past. People like those were a threat indeed. For the government, but first of all, for Memoria's business.
It was all so simple. Forgetting the mug, he plonked down into the chair. The coffee splashed out over his dress shirt and poured down his trouser legs.
"Shit!" he stepped aside, grabbed a sheet of paper and tried to blot out a large brown spot on his belly. It didn't work. "Melanie!" he called for his secretary without raising his head.
The opening door caused a window pane to rattle in its wooden frame.
"Sir," she sounded excited.
"Get me a few tissues, please."
"Sir, I was just trying to tell them..."
"Thank you," a strange male voice dismissed her.
Jessup raised his head. A tall ginger-haired man stood before his desk. Dressed in a cream-colored trench coat, he had a long face and a slightly aquiline nose. His eyes seemed to pierce everything he looked at. He glanced over the office and fixed his gaze on the Shelby file in front of Jessup.
"Sir," the secretary gave him a guilty look.
"You can go, Melanie. I'll fetch some tissues myself later."
When she closed the door behind her, the man showed Jessup his ID.
"Agent Archer."
Without further ado he reached for a spare chair, turned it around and straddled it back to front.
Jessup moved aside. Behind the glass partition, several of Archer's agents crowded in the hall staring at their boss.
"Let's get straight down to business," he said.
"As you wish," Archer pointed at the file. "You give me and my men whatever you've got on Shelby and Baker, and we'll leave."
Jessup paused, then nodded. Leaning against the back of the chair, the agent rose and walked to the door.
"Oh," he said. "One last thing. The President's arriving tomorrow. Make sure there's no rioting. Keep the migrants under control. The Mayor has already given them the afternoon off, so make sure they're back in their camps by thirteen hundred.
Jessup ground his teeth but kept himself under control.
"How about the President's safety?"
"The standard procedure," Archer reached for the door handle. "Your people will assist my agents with on-site inspection. They will be responsible for cordoning off the possible cortege routes."
He opened the door and added out loud,
"It's the President's request to have no police inside the Memoria building. Their security will take over there. Make sure you control the adjacent streets and the airport. The air gate over Manhattan is also their responsibility. No police choppers."
Jessup didn't speak. He wished he could hurl his unfinished coffee into the agent's smug face. How dared he humiliate the entire police force, all those people who'd sacrificed their lives to protecting each and every New Yorker. But even here Memoria had to have its pound of flesh. He was out of it now, and as for speaking directly to the President, he now had a slimmer chance than a snowball in hell.
Without looking away, Jessup moved to the desk and pressed an intercom key.
"Melanie. I want you to ask Lieutenants Salem and Gizbo to see me now. Tell them to bring everything they have on the Shelby case."
Before Jessup heard the secretary's "Yes, sir," Agent Archer closed the door behind him. He went to his men still crowding in the hall and spoke to them glancing back at Jessup through the glass.
Jessup drummed his fingers on the desk and opened the file. He'd have loved to have known two things. First, what kind of item had Shelby collected at the post office. And secondly, what the man planned to do next.
The Captain wasn't going to abort the investigation.
* * *
They woke Barney up before lunch. He drove them away from the kitchen table and started cooking. In jeans and T-shirt, he opened the fridge and produced a large cut of neck for a stew.
"Migrants' meat," he said.
"Pardon?" Frank perked up.
"They raise cattle in those camps," Barney threw the meat onto the table and reached for the biggest knife on the rack. "Without them, New York would have starved a long time ago."
Max moved his laptop onto the window sill. Frank collected their notes covered in diagrams and question marks. He moved closer to the fridge and to Barney in order to tell him their brainstorm results.
Barney sliced the meat on the board, his enormous shoulders unmoving. He listened carefully, nodding whenever Max asked if he understood what Frank was saying. When Frank came to the shootout, Barney forgot his meat and turned to him, listening. Once Frank finished, Barney gave the coach a meaningful glance.
"Same people," the coach summed up. He ran his hand through his crew cut. "All bald, mind you. Any idea why?"
"Experiment volunteers," Barney suggested. "Same as Claney."
"Yeah, right," said Frank. "Children volunteers."
Barney stared at him.
"You do the math," Frank said. "Claney is the same age as you two. When Baker was testing his technology, he was the same age as I am now. Afterward, they solved the hair loss problem. Now think. The attackers are all my age. All have hair loss. Why?"
Barney stuck out a quizzical chin. Frank went on,
"Let's assume they were subjected to Baker's experiments while still children. Kathleen found out and wanted to go public and report Memoria's child abuse. You think it's serious enough?"
The two men nodded.
"Until now, it seems to add up," Frank glanced at the sheets of paper in his hand, sat back and crossed his legs. "One thing I don't understand is their military training. What's that got to do with Baker's experiments? Another thing. Those who attacked me at the post office couldn't speak clearly. They didn't seem to be able to form complete sentences. Could that be a side effect of the experiments? If so, how does Claney tie into the picture? He can talk the legs off a chair, that one. We've just heard him do it."
"Barney? What do you think?" Max adjusted his glasses. The laptop started sliding off his lap. He caught it by the monitor just in time. "Any ideas?"
Barney took the cutting board and used the knife to sweep the chopped meat into a large pan.
"Well," he mused, picking his teeth with the knife. "I'm not a hundred percent sure, but it's possible they were specially trained. They wanted to use them whenever need be." He looked at Max. "Did I make myself clear?"
"More or less," Max shut the laptop. "Are you implying that their volunteers were intended to perform secret missions, just like I used to do for Hopper?"
"You got it," Barney picked up a lid and covered the pan.
"Right," Frank butted in, "but why them and not somebody else? What makes them special? All this fantasizing may not do us any favors."<
br />
"Sometimes fantasizing is the best way to find a solution," Max said.
"Yeah, right," Barney shrugged, put the knife down and lifted the pan. "I'll never forget how you sank that U-boat in the Gulf of Mexico. And they didn't believe you then, either!"
"Leave it," the coach said. "We'd better try to find a connection between Claney and the baldheaded attackers. And if there is one, then what exactly is it? So let's have a think and then a meal, and then Frank can finally go get some rest."
Without answering, Barney put the pan onto the stove and opened the fridge, looking for some vegetables. Max set the laptop aside. He dragged the bag from under the table, took out an assault rifle and began taking it to bits, placing each part onto the window sill.
"And what if-" Frank stopped himself.
The veterans turned to him.
"No, sorry," Frank waved them aside. "Won't work."
"Spill it out, boy," Barney pointed his knife at him. "It's for us to decide whether it'll work or not."
"Exactly," Max glanced at the clock over the fridge. "Hurry up."
"Right," Frank rummaged through the pile of notes and pulled out a sheet. He turned it to the veterans so they could see a diagram with a few questions jotted down underneath. "What would you say if the migrants were supposed to start a war in New York? Only they don't know about it yet?"
"In which respect?" Barney munched on a carrot.
The coach lowered the rifle onto his lap.
"Easy," Frank shrugged. "They'll make them do it."
"How exactly?" Max asked. "You just can't let go of this migrant theory, can you?"
"First, a question," Frank said. "Do you agree that there is a connection between Claney and the baldies? I think it's pretty obvious."
"I only saw Claney. And he was on TV," said Barney finishing his carrot.
"I do," Max nodded to Frank. "Their skin is too smooth to be natural, I have to agree."
"Accepted," Barney flicked the carrot end into the bin and reached into a bag for a new one.
"Good," Frank glanced at the paper. "Kathleen told me something once that I dismissed as irrelevant. At the time, I thought she'd dreamt it all up. It was something about transplanting one person's memories into another. I didn't know then that she worked for Memoria, did I?"
