by Alex Bobl
"I'll tell you now," Max's eyes glistened with triumph.
* * *
When the limousine pulled away from Joe Binelli's mansion, the sky over Long Island was bright and clear. The sun had just come up flooding the coast with its soft light that didn't yet hurt the eye.
The executive always left for work at the exact same time. His bodyguard sat next to the driver in front. The glass partition was lowered. Binelli virtually never used it: he had nothing to conceal from his staff. He never used his vintage armored Maybach for business discussions. The car took him from A to B, and that was how he liked it.
Speeding up through the still-empty streets, the limo reached Manhattan in under fifteen minutes. There, a Fifth Precinct patrol stopped him. All approaches to Memoria's HQ were blocked and the police performed ID checks. The cops asked his driver to open the trunk, glanced at the interior and waved him on.
Binelli looked at his massive gold wristwatch and asked the driver if he thought he could catch up the lost time. Pleased by his affirmative answer, he relaxed. He hated to change his morning ritual. He buttoned up his coat, put on his hat and waited for the driver to stop at the corner of Broadway and 42nd. Accompanied by his bodyguard, he got out of the car and bought a fresh issue of the New York Times at a newsstand. As he walked back, he opened the newspaper glancing through the news. The driver opened the door, and Binelli lowered his weight onto the custom-made leather cushions. The bodyguard returned to his seat, the driver yanked the steering wheel to the left and the car pulled away from the curb.
The limo had no problem moving into the right lane. It continued for another block and was about to enter an intersection when the driver slammed on the brakes.
The road in front was blocked for some maintenance works. Rotating warning lights flashed orange. A single tall worker in a yellow hard hat and a reflective jacket bent over a manhole. Next to him stood a welding machine. Cables ran from it to a minivan covered with road maintenance service logos.
The worker looked up at the approaching limo. He pushed his hard hat back, lifted the mask from his face and shouted to the driver, waving with the electrode in his hand. Apparently, he was busy sealing manholes on the Presidential route on the police chief's orders.
Binelli looked out of the window but didn't see any police. Weren't they supposed to supervise the works?
The driver and the bodyguard started discussing the best detour. Listening to them, Binelli glanced at the watch, then at the blocked road. He had plenty of time. He could refresh his speech and look through the legal paperwork at his leisure.
But the moment the driver backed up, a police alarm sounded and then died away behind them. A cop on a motorbike sped onto the street, his red and blue lights flashing. He waved them to stop and swerved behind the car blocking their retreat.
The bodyguard looked back. Not at Binelli: he wanted to see what the cop was doing. The policeman pulled the bike on its stand, adjusted his large goggles and walked to the Maybach. The driver rolled his window down a crack as the security instructions prescribed.
"Everything all right, officer? We've had our IDs checked already,"
"Sorry, but you're in violation," the cop pointed back in the direction of Broadway. "You've stopped under the 'no-stopping' sign."
He bent down and peered inside. He saw Binelli, nodded and reached into his pocket for a receipt book.
"I want you to cut the engine and step out of the car," Binelli heard as he went back to his newspaper. He lowered it rumpling the paper to attract the cop's attention.
"I'm afraid I'm pressed for time, officer," he said, impatient. "You can follow us if you wish and write us a ticket when we arrive."
The officer stepped back, undid his holster and laid his hand on his gun.
"Step out!" he shouted.
Binelli knew he'd overdone it. No sense arguing: the Shelby case had the police on their toes. They'd already lost several patrolmen, a whole station had been razed to the ground, and now the Feds had taken over their case. Any moment, the President would arrive, and he wasn't going to commend them, either. Quite the opposite: heads would roll.
"Let's get out," Binelli ordered, then added under his breath, "Get this motherfucker's badge number, and I expect him out of the department by this time tomorrow."
His order distracted the bodyguard. It took him a split second longer to get out of the car and open Binelli's door. The bodyguard never made it. He shrieked and collapsed in his seat.
The next moment, the driver was pushed back inside. A bone snapped with a crunch, followed by a shriek and a honk as an assaulting hand brushed the steering wheel.
A brightly-clad figure flashed behind the window to Binelli's right. The door flung open, and the large heavy worker in the dust mask jumped onto the seat next to him.
Easily moving his wrestler's body, he helped the traffic cop to drag the stunned driver into the passenger's seat. Binelli had no idea what was going on. He just stared at his staff hunched up in the front.
The traffic cop pulled his helmet off exposing a gray crew cut. He peeled off his uniform and threw it in the back.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"Fine," the worker boomed into his mask. "May I?"
Binelli startled. They removed his fedora and replaced it with the hard hat.
"Hurry up," the cop said as he changed into a business suit.
"Where did you get the bike?" the wrester slammed Binelli's fedora onto his head and pulled off his orange jacket. "The agreement was, you'd get a patrol car. You were late, too. You nearly missed us."
"I'll make it up to you."
"You didn't answer the question."
"One of those things." The driver's seat slid toward Binelli, its back stood upright. The fake traffic cop adjusted the steering wheel and buckled up. "Don't worry, no bones broken."
"And-" the wrestler stopped. His brother in crime turned, peering at Binelli between the seats, and added that the chloroformed bike owner was now sleeping it off in a grocery backroom nearby.
Now the fake cop wore a business suit a shade lighter than Binelli's driver. He started the car, backed up, nearly hit the bike and turned the steering wheel all the way to the right. The tires mounted the sidewalk, and the man stepped on the gas.
The massive car lunged forward, bouncing on its shock dampers. The front wheels skidded, the bumper brushed the pavement, and the car dashed out onto the intersection jumping the already flashing green traffic light.
The limo straightened up. The momentum pushed Binelli into the seat, the hard hat saving his head from hitting the door. Someone jerked him back up.
"Take your clothes off," the wrestler said.
Binelli still couldn't make out his face from behind the dust mask and hat.
"Don't make me ask you twice," the man said.
Binelli's throat made a gruff sound. He tried to move but fear paralyzed his muscles.
"Sorry, Joe," the wrestler looked into Binelli's eyes. "You're obliging me."
He raised his hand. Strong fingers squeezed Binerlli's throat. The world started to fade. The last thing he heard was the driver's "What a muppet!"
* * *
The elevator went down, silent but for the rustle of the aircon. Only the floor numbers flashing on the screen told Frank it was moving. The hidden stare of the camera made him nervous. He looked down, his hand feeling the edge of the fat file under his arm. Maggie stood by his side. Together they were descending to Memoria's underground parking lot.
"They only check cars when they pass through the gate," she mouthed and touched his hand.
He looked at her. Maggie gave him a reassuring smile.
"They never check the manager's car. That would be against company rules. We'll make it. Just do as we planned and try to merge in with the others. You're already in."
Frank nodded. Easier said than done. He couldn't shrug off the feeling that they could be exposed at any moment. He smoothed out his aubur
n wig and fingered the file again.
"In ten minutes, the media accreditation will be over," Maggie reminded. "They'll seal the building. We'll have twenty minutes."
"I know," Frank squinted at the girl. Her face was calm. A smile played on her lips. "Thank you," he whispered.
"What for?" Maggie looked up at him.
"For all your help, all of you. For believing me. For not asking questions. I've dragged you all into this. You could have opted out..."
"It's not that," her face turned serious. "Uncle Max saved Dad's life during the war. Had Dad died then, I wouldn't be around, either. I never forget that. Uncle Max is my family."
Her words hurt him.
"Mine, too. More than anyone," Frank admitted. "My parents died young. And how about-" he stopped, but Maggie must have read his thoughts. She answered,
"My Mum died, not so long ago. Cancer. Dad couldn't get over it. Had it not been for Uncle Max..."
The elevator reached their level and chimed. The doors slid open, exposing dimly-lit rows of columns supporting the concrete ceiling. The underground parking stood empty as most of the staff had obeyed the management orders and stayed at home.
Frank and Maggie walked out of the elevator and stopped in the driveway, looking around. From afar, a motor purred. Tires squealed on the tarmac. Xenon lights sliced the vast darkness.
The next moment, an armored limo braked in the driveway. The back door swung open, letting out a tall stocky man. He wore an unbuttoned light gray coat and a fedora hat. Large shades concealed his face. Under the coat, Frank could see a striped black suit and a bright-blue tie on the man's dress shirt. A diamond glistened in his tie clip.
Maggie clasped Frank's hand. Her nails dug into his skin as she stared, breathless, at the arriving manager.
"How about someone helps me with my stuff?" a familiar deep voice echoed in the parking lot.
"Dad!" Maggie exhaled.
"Pardon?" Barney pushed his shades to the end of his nose and looked around. "What was it you said, Ms. Douggan?
"Oh. Sorry, sir. I'm so sorry." Maggie's stilettos clicked on the concrete as she hurried to the car. "I'm so nervous, sir. It's such a special day for all of us..."
Frank let out a sigh of relief. He'd already imagined this was the real Binelli, therefore their plan had failed. All the consequences had flashed through his head. He didn't expect Barney to be so good at impersonating. It was strange to see him without his mustache and wearing an expensive suit and coat.
Frank strode toward the girl and handed her the file. He nodded to Douggan/Binelli and glanced inside the car. The driver and the bodyguard lay bound on the floor, and the half-naked manager, on the back seat.
From behind the steering wheel, Max handed Frank a shiny metallic attaché case.
"No hurry. You have plenty of time. If anything goes wrong, come directly down here. If you can't get away, use what's in the case."
"I remember."
"I'll be waiting."
Frank shut the door close and turned back. Barney already headed for the elevator leafing through some paperwork. Maggie scurried along chirping about the press conference schedule and the media presence.
By the time all three got into the cabin, the limo had left the driveway and sat, darkened, in a parking slot closest to the elevator. Its headlights blinked and went out.
Chapter Twelve. Code Red
Despite the bright sunshine and the forecast's promises of a warm day, gusts of cold wind blustered over the roof of Memoria's HQ. Kirk Dickens winced as the wind slashed his face. He stood at the helipad straining his ears to hear snippets of radio reports.
On the roofs of adjacent streets, he could make out black silhouettes of snipers and Fed agents taking their positions. An air support chopper flew past, carrying yet more men. Stunned by the roar of the engines, Dickens watched the chopper bank to the left heading for the Hudson River. Two rows of cops lined the street leading to the Memoria building. Groups of bystanders stared at the mounted police patrolling the road.
Dickens rubbed his eyes, teary with the wind. The radio in his hand beeped.
"Binelli's arrived," the speaker reported.
After a hiss and some crackling, the radio chirped again.
"The media's accreditation is over. The migrant leaders have arrived."
Dickens pressed the PTT switch,
"Block all accesses to the building," with a cupped hand to his forehead, he shaded his eyes from the sun, peering in the direction of Queens and the airports. The President was to appear from there.
The hissing and crackling subdued. The attention signal sounded, replaced by a new report,
"Air Force One has landed."
"Attention all personnel," Dickens said on the microphone. "Memoria tower speaking. Ready for reception."
"Agent Archer to tower," the radio answered. "Activating Plan B."
"Affirmative," Dickens pressed the button changing the frequency and waited for the radio to come back to life.
"Tower to Central Station," he said. "Number One arrives by bird. I'm coming down."
He left the helipad, ran down the roof to an open door, then down the stairs through a narrow portal, and found himself in a wide corporate hallway lined with gray plastic. He strode past the rows of closed office doors to the other end of the building and came out onto a staircase. Heels clicking on the metal steps, he reached another hallway, blocked by a glass partition. At some distance from it, he could see another identical one. The space between the two partitions was brightly lit.
Kirk Dickens ran his braceleted wrist along the electronic lock. The glass doors opened for him, then closed shut behind his back. Behind the next glass door he could make out the figures of security officers. The lights blinked, and Dickens closed his eyes. A grid of light slid down his face, scanning his body in its expensive suit, the patent leather shoes reflecting the scanner's rays. At waist level, the scanner pinged detecting his gun. A red alarm light flashed overhead and went out again. The controls operator flipped a switch, and the doors opened. Dickens went through, past the security with their lowered guns.
He glanced to his left. About three dozen men in full combat gear sat on chairs in a dimly lit hallway. The lights from behind the glass entry lock glistened on the bald skulls of those who sat closer to the exit. The men's faces were blank. They froze, silent and waiting, like stone statues.
But the first impression didn't fool him. One press of a button, one code word uttered into a special transmitter, and these three dozen well-trained, well-equipped men would rise from their seats and follow his instructions.
In, out, and over the building, security cameras kept streaming footage to the screens lining one wall of the Central Station. Dickens headed for his workplace. His chair was between two operators controlling a curved switchboard.
"Get me the lab," he snapped as he sat down. He put on the earphones and adjusted the microphone.
"I got them," said the controller to his right.
"Turn the picture on."
One of the screens in front of Dickens blinked and came back on. An excited William Bow stood in front of it in the lab, wearing a white coat. The picture was good. The researcher's skinny hollow-cheeked face was glossy with sweat. He nervously wiped his forehead and cheeks with a tissue. The unkempt fair hair clung to his temples and bristled at the back. Like a bird's nest, Dickens thought.
"Is everything ready?" he asked.
Bow's scared eyes glanced up at the camera.
"Yes, sir... Nearly there."
"What do you mean, nearly there?"
"Another hundred and sixteen ampoules to go, then we're ready to leave."
"Report to the Central Station when you are."
Before he could remove the earphones, the controller to his left said,
"Binelli's office is asking for the remote password. Do we confirm?"
"Yes," Dickens said automatically, squinting at the monitor.
Two b
oxes appeared on the screen, one with the password already entered by the executive. The controller tapped his keyboard, entering the password into the other. Dickens was about to turn away when he sat up, pressed an intercom button and leaned to the microphone.
"Mr. Binelli's office," a female voice answered.
"Dickens here. Give me your boss."
"Mr. Binelli is busy at the moment, sir. Can I help you?"
"The President's chopper is approaching," the other controller reported. "ETA in seven minutes."
"What the hell! I don't mean you," Dickens turned from the controller to the microphone, "I need to speak to Binelli — now."
"But-" the girl halted.
"Shut up and do it!"
He hadn't yet finished when the speaker beeped with the hung-up signal. Puzzled, Dickens turned to the screens.
"Give me Binelli stream."
He had a bad feeling. Once again he reached for the intercom, reconsidered and turned to a screen showing the chief executive's spacious office.
The miniature camera was hidden in a wooden panel right under the ceiling and looked like a knot in the wood. The picture's inferior quality didn't matter much considering the audacity of installing a camera in one of Memoria's main offices.
Binelli, in a hat and coat, sat at his desk with his back to the camera. Dickens frowned. The man looked... fitter? Stronger and slimmer, even. Why was he wearing a hat? And the glasses, what did he need them for?
Another man stood in the far corner of the room looking out of the window. He was lean and tall — apparently, young.
"You think you can point the camera at him," without taking his eyes off the screen, Dickens said to the controller, "and make the picture better?"
"I'm afraid I can't, sir. This is the best angle and resolution we have."
"They seem to be talking. Can you stream the sound through his intercom?"
Binelli moved his lips. His hands lay on the keyboard. The monitor was turned sideways. In front of it stood a portable camera on a tripod, wires stretching from it to an open attaché case on the desk.
