Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

Chapter Eleven. Underdogs Bite

After lunch, Frank and Max went to Barney’s room for a nap. They awoke to his shouting and cursing at someone. When, still half-asleep, the two made it back into the kitchen, they found Barney in front of the TV screen. He was shaking with rage.

Frank recognized the gray-headed man on the screen. He’d popped into the interrogation room at the police station to speak to Inspector Freeman. The running caption showed his name and job title: Captain Bud Jessup, the head of New York police department. His face gloomy, Jessup was finishing an official announcement.

“The entire police force will ensure peace and security as the city prepares for the Presidential visit. Stay assured we won’t let you down.”

“What’s all this swearing about?” Max yawned and stretched. “Did he say something about Frank?”

“He did,” Barney put the sound down. “The Feds have taken over Shelby’s case.”

“So what’s there to go mad about?”

“Can’t you see? Some shitbags start a carnage, they kill their own cops, and they have to surrender the case!” Barney choked with fury. “If I were… if I… why have none of the victims spoken out?”

“Normal. Eyewitnesses have had their memories erased. Memoria cleans up after itself—”

The lock on the front door clicked. They turned around. Maggie stood in the hallway. Max finished the sentence,

“They let us know who we’re up against.”

“You’re okay, teddy?” red-faced, Barney hurried to meet her.

“I’m fine,” the girl offered her cheek to kiss. Barney helped her out of her coat. “Uncle Max, I’ve found out everything you asked me to. And then some! I’m sure you won’t be cross with me, will you? I’ve skipped lunch working on it…”

Maggie walked into the kitchen straightening her perfectly straight business suit.

“I’ve got some stew on the go,” Barney hurried to add behind her back. His glare pinned Frank and Max to the ground: food first, business next.

“Sit down and eat,” Max pulled up a chair for her and pressed her shoulders down with his hands. “We could use some chow, too.”

“We could indeed,” said Barney. “Then we’ll talk.”

After they’d eaten, she told them everything that had happened in Memoria that day. The HQ were preparing for the President’s visit. The security had additional personnel posted at all the entrances, equipped with screening machines for all the visitors, including reporters and their cameras. Basically, they were to search for concealed explosives and firearms. Most Memoria workers got a day off, except for the secretarial and legal departments, and mnemotech teams.

“You’d like to gain access to the building tomorrow, wouldn’t you?” she asked Max.

“If I possibly could,” he answered. “Preferably, before the press conference starts.”

“I think I can arrange it. But I can only take one person,” Maggie looked at Frank.

“Him? Why on earth-” Barney switched his gaze between his daughter and Frank.

“There’s a guy at our legal department who looks a bit like him. He’s on sick leave. So I had a copy of his pass card made by one of our secretaries.”

“Max,” Barney turned to the coach. “Say something. No, don’t. Maggie isn’t going there tomorrow. Not with him, anyway. Forget it. If anyone has to go, it’s me and nobody else.”

He fell silent at Max’s glare. Silence hung in the kitchen. The sounds of footsteps and voices on the street filled the air through the half-opened window.

“Oh, well,” the coach smiled. “Now that’s a thought.”

“You can’t be serious!” Maggie shook her head.

“Absolutely.”

“But,” she looked first at him, then at her father.

“You’ll go there, all three of you,” Max said.

Now it was their turn to stare at him in surprise. Barney’s face clouded like a Manhattan sky before a storm.

“And how do you suggest we do it?”

Max took the laptop from the window sill, did a quick search for a file and turned the screen toward them.

“You think there’s a likeness there?” he smiled to Barney. “I think there is.”

“Don’t even think! I-” Barney’s finger very nearly poked a hole in the screen. “We have nothing in common!.. Just look — Maggie, and you, man, you tell him!”

“With a bit of makeup, provided you shave your mustache off…” the coach said.

Barney froze, open-mouthed.

“He’s the spitting image of Binelli, eh?” the coach winked to Maggie.

She cocked her head to one side, studying the screen.

“You know what, Uncle Max? I think you’re right.”

“Sure,” Frank added.

“Never!” Barney jumped off his stool. “Never, ever, not in a million years!”

“Sit down!” Max shut the laptop close.

Maggie moved closer to Frank, away from the two men who were now yelling at each other. Barney wheezed, his reddened eyes glaring down at the coach. His lips and mustache moved as he swore under his breath.

“Sit down,” Max repeated. When Barney lowered his bulk onto the stool, the coach went on, “Their manager is the same height and body type as you are. We can use this fact to our advantage. And please, don’t let me raise my voice at you when your daughter’s around.”

Barney rested his elbows on the table and turned away to face the window. He clutched one hand with the other and buried his chin in a powerful fist.

“The mustache will grow back,” the coach said. “Unlike your head. Now that’s something you might lose if we don’t get hold of the hard disk data.”

Barney grabbed the device off the desk, as if about to throw it out of the window. Then he put it back.

“Can we go on now?” Max stared at his friend as if nothing had happened.

“If you wish,” he mumbled.

“Fine.”

“Questions,” Frank said. “Apparently,” he glanced at Maggie, “I have a pass into the building. But what am I supposed to do about the electronic bracelet?”

“That’s the least of your problems,” Barney grumbled.

“Fine. So tomorrow,” Frank looked at Barney, “there’ll be two Binellis at Memoria. But gaining entry into the building is only half the job. We still need to either read the disk or copy it onto something. After that, we need to leave the building. How are we supposed to do that?”

“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 auburn 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.