Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

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 boxes 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.

“What the hell is he doing?” Dickens whispered. “Make the picture bigger. I want to have a better look at the computer panel. I said, I wanted the sound!”

“There’s no sound, sir. Doesn’t seem to work, for some reason.”

The camera focused on the desk. A hard disk protruded out of the computer panel.

“The President’s chopper lands in two minutes, sir,” said the controller on the right.

“Put your men on alert,” Dickens said without taking his eyes off Binelli. Then he rose, reaching for the radio on his belt, and placed his hand on the other controller’s shoulder. “What’s this device Binelli’s busy with?”

The controller’s fingers fleeted over the keyboard.

“What is it?” Dickens’ fingers squeezed the controller’s shoulder.

“Sir!” the man jerked in his seat.

“Speak!”

“It’s Kathleen Baker’s disk, sir.”

“Code red! Code red!” Dickens yelled into the microphone and rushed out of the Central Station.

He shoved his hand into his pocket as he ran and dragged out a small transmitter. Connecting it to his radio, he repeated,

“Code red!”

The glass doors flung open before him. Dickens escaped onto the staircase.

Behind him, dozens of combat boots clattered down the steps.

Barney entered Binelli’s reception first and headed straight for his office. Frank followed, the hefty attaché case in hand. Maggie blocked the doors and took her usual place.

“Put it down here,” Barney pointed as he walked around a wide desk.

Frank put the attaché case down next to the monitor and walked to the wall-to-wall window. The sidewalks below swarmed with people. From the height of the seventieth floor they did look like bugs. Police lined the street. Mounted patrols hovered in side lanes.

A black helicopter with an orange flower on its side whirred low over the neighboring roofs. For a moment, the drone of its engines penetrated the office, then diminished as the chopper banked to one side, changing direction, and headed to the west in a wide semi-circle.

Frank thought he’d made out the figures of armed men, clad in black, sitting in the open cargo bay. But for the distance and speed, he couldn’t see their heads therefore couldn’t tell if they were the same as those who’d attacked the police station and the post office.

Frank described the scene to Barney. He didn’t answer, busy mounting the portable camera on a tripod next to the monitor. He then pulled out a few leads, attaching them to an accumulator in the open attaché case. Turning the monitor to the camera, he reached inside the attaché case again.

He produced a plastic box very much like those ancient bulky calculators. Barney then took out a shiny spike and screwed it into a socket on the front side of the device. He clamped to it a small antenna-like wire frame and pressed a key on the side of the device. An LCD display lit up, a strip of greenish light.

Slowly, the veteran moved the antenna over the desk, watching the device’s readings. When his hand passed over the intercom, Barney froze, then removed the phone’s receiver and brought the antenna close to it. Apparently unhappy with the result, he moved the wire scanner over the intercom and sat on the chair. The black blade of an army knife glinted in his hand. Barney used it to break the intercom’s case and bashed the handle hard against the circuit board smashing microchips. Then he raised the scanner and slowly went along the walls, inspecting the office.

“There must be a camera here somewhere,” he said quietly.

“Can I help you?” Frank looked around the room.

“You can. Just keep an eye on the street, will you?” Barney finished the check and came back to the desk. “Maggie, we start!”

Frank turned to the window. He watched Barney’s reflection pull out the keyboard drawer and tap away with his strong chubby fingers like a certified typist clerk. Frank didn’t realize the man was capable of such things. Then Barney leaned back in his chair and looked down, feeling the underside of the desktop.

Something snapped. Part of the desk next to the monitor clicked open. Frank couldn’t help it. He turned for a look.

Barney reached into a side pocket for the hard disk, then placed it vertically into a slot showing under the opened desk panel. He stretched his fingers, blew at his palms and placed them back onto the keyboard. Tapping the keys, he entered a long sequence of letters and digits.

“Maggie? The password request submitted!” he turned the camera on and peered into the monitor.

Frank caught his breath. He loosened his tie and was about to undo the collar when he heard,

“There!” Barney breathed out.

In the reception, the phone rang.

Frank jumped, concealing his shock behind a nervous smile. The phone rang too loud, almost like the wail of a fire tender.

“Cool down,” Barney glanced at the doorway. “Face the window and don’t turn around.”

Frank obeyed. He stood still staring into the window when Maggie said in a practiced voice,

“Mr. Binelli’s reception, how can I help you?”

Outside, nothing had changed. Onlookers crowded the sidewalk lined with police.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Binelli’s busy at the moment,” Maggie said in the reception, and, a moment later, “But you can’t-” She fell silent.

“Don’t move,” Barney told him. “Maggie? How much time do we have?”

“One to three minutes. I’ve disconnected the intercom and cut the wires.”

“Shame,” Barney sighed. “We won’t make it to the front door. Frank — plan B!”

He rose from his seat and strode into the reception putting on a pair of leather gloves. Maggie ran out toward him. Frank leapt toward the desk. On the monitor, the decrypted text had been replaced by charts and diagrams. Frank turned away from a scheme that appeared on the screen. He grabbed the attaché case, opened it and took out a few spools of cord thin as a fishing line. He picked up two rubberized tubes with rollers on each end and went back to the window. He knelt, as did Maggie next to him. She held a nail gun.

They turned to a dragging sound behind their backs. Barney in reception was moving furniture barricading the entrance. Frank took a spool and snapped open steel plates on each side. Each plate had four holes in it. Frank pressed the roll to the floor, and Maggie nailed first the right plate to the floor with the nail gun, then the left one. The spool was now firmly attached to the floor.

They moved aside and did the same with the other spool, then placed the rubberized tubes on the low window sill. Frank released the springs on the spools and fed the line through the rollers.

“We’re done!” Maggie called out to her father.

Barney reappeared in the office. He threw the coat aside and raised an assault rifle with a silencer that had been hanging under his arm.

“Step back!” he snapped.

Frank grabbed Maggie’s hand and pulled her to the wall. The bolt chattered. The rifle thudded out a long burst. Shattered glass mixed with spent shells cascaded to their feet. A gust of cold wind burst into the room tearing the curtains.

“Clip on to the line,” Barney stepped to the desk and leaned across it looking into the monitor.

Under their jackets, Frank and Maggie had parachute-type harnesses, the straps coming together just under the solar plexus. One after the other, they clipped themselves onto the line. They stepped to the open window and used Barney’s clever method to remove their electronic bracelets. The girl pressed the nail gun to her chest and glanced down. The nail gun’s leash wrapped around her wrist. Frank watched Barney who’d turned off the camera and forced the hard disk free. He disconnected the camera and the tripod and threw the parts into the attaché case, snapping its lid shut. Then Barney jumped off the desk and headed for the window holding the rifle barrel aloft.

The second spool was meant for him. Barney alone weighed more than Frank and Maggie together, so they had decided to use two rappelling devices instead of the one originally suggested by Max.

Barney hadn’t made it to his spool. A blast shattered the reception room. The door flew off its hinges. The heavy filing cabinet barricading it leaned and exploded producing a fountain of paperwork. Clouds of smoke belched into the office. Maggie screamed and ducked in, covering her head. Barney slid the attaché case along the floor toward Frank, turned around and fell onto one knee. At that moment, the massive filing cabinet toppled onto the floor under powerful kicks from outside.

The first of the attackers fell full length onto the floor under Barney’s bullets. Another one followed him into the reception. In the smoke, return shots flashed over his shoulder. Barney snarled, lowered the barrel a little and peppered his attacker with bullet holes. The attacker stumbled, dropped his weapon and collapsed head first onto the capsized filing cabinet.

“Go!” Barney shouted.

“Dad!”

“Go!”

Frank held Maggie tight and climbed onto the window sill, kicking the remaining shards of glass out of the window frame. She was so light he didn’t need a cord to support her. But she was frightened now; she didn’t understand they had to escape while Barney could keep their attackers at bay. In his other hand, Frank held the attaché case. If the scared girl jerked or turned awkwardly during the descent, he risked dropping it. Then all their work and planning would be for nothing. Without the data from the disk, Frank wouldn’t prove anything to anyone.

“Go now!” Barney repeated. He reloaded and stepped forward, closer to the broken door.

“You ready?” Frank looked into Maggie’s face. Then he kicked the latch on the rubberized tube free, releasing the rollers’ braking ring.

“Close your eyes. Don’t look down,” he instructed her. He noticed the nail gun still hanging off her wrist but had no time to get rid of it.

Frank hugged the girl tight and stepped out into the void.