Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

Chapter Fourteen. The Tape

Kirk Dickens was a good foot shorter than the prisoner strapped to the chair. He could whack him in the ribs without even leaning forward. The man’s broad face was beaten to pulp. One eye was completely swollen; the nose turned to one side like a misshapen tablespoon; his lips bleeding, his left cheekbone one large bruise.

Now the man didn’t resemble Memoria’s chief executive. A crimson spot grew on his bandaged right thigh. Dickens’ soldiers had shot the man as they stormed Binelli’s office, but even after that, they had lost two more men. Only then had they finally broken the man’s defense and brought the upper floors under control.

As his men had worked over the prisoner, he hadn’t uttered a word. He hadn’t answered Dickens’ questions, either. The man bared his bloodied teeth and spat trying to hit Dickens’ face. He’d done so, the very first time, driving Dickens to distraction.

Having battered the man beyond recognition, Dickens sent for some water. He poured a bucketful over the prisoner but the man remained unconscious. Dickens gave the order to bring him round with drugs, then deliver him to William Bow, who’d been urgently summoned from his laboratory, and his mnemotech team. They had to scan the man’s memory and retrieve the information needed.

A techie in a lab coat raised the man’s chin and turned his head to the light. With his little finger, he pulled an eyelid up, then released it. The prisoner’s head dropped onto his chest. The tech felt the man’s neck for a pulse.

“We need to take him into intensive care.”

Dickens paused. “Fine. When will he be able to speak?”

The man in the lab coat shrugged.

“Do whatever is necessary. I need him to talk.”

Dickens walked out of the room. He meant to call Claney. But he didn’t need to: Claney was waiting in the hallway. In a far corner, sat a pale William Bow, his eyes scared.

“We have problems,” Dickens answered Claney’s silent question as he unrolled his shirt sleeves. His shirt was splattered with blood. Dickens spat on his finger and tried to rub the spots off, but only smeared them over the once-white fabric.

“What did Agent Archer say?” he asked.

Claney didn’t answer. Purse-lipped, he watched Dickens rub the blood off his shirt.

“Sir?” Dickens looked him in the eye.

“Please stop,” Claney lowered his head pretending he was adjusting a thick gold ring on his finger. “The Feds won’t interfere. For the time being.”

Dickens clenched his hands behind his back. He didn’t want to embarrass the Congressman with his grated fingers and bloodied sleeves.

“You said, problems,” Claney reminded and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

“The prisoner won’t talk.”

“Can’t you,” Claney turned to Bow, “can’t you use chemicals?”

“Impossible,” Dickens answered for the researcher. “The old fart will kick the bucket.”

“Old fart?” Claney’s saliva spattered Dickens’ face. “This, as you say, old fart has slaughtered half our force! Shelby’s on the loose again! TV channels start to doubt whether the person on their footage could have acted on his own. We won’t be able to fool them for much longer! And you…”

Claney shook his head and composed himself. “I don’t care how you do it,” he drawled. “He can die for all I care, but not before he tells us all he knows. Who helped him, where they hide, what they know. Don’t just sit here, Bow,” Claney stepped to the door. “Do your job. Give him a serum shot. The prisoner gave Binelli one, didn’t he?”

“Impossible,” Dickens remained calm. “The prisoner has a neurostimulator installed.”

“Pardon me?” Claney turned to him.

“A neurostimulator,” Dickens repeated. “They install this little thingy into the aorta. When it reacts with the truth serum, it bursts the artery before the victim can open their mouth.”

“What’re you going to do, then?” Claney stepped away from the door.

“Do a memory scan.”

“Bow?” Claney asked without looking at the researcher.

“Possible,” he answered.

“It’ll take time,” Claney glanced at his watch.

“We don’t need to do a full one,” Dickens suggested. “It’ll take eight hours or so.”

“And this neurostimulator, won’t it kill him?”

“It can’t,” the reasercher said.

“But we won’t get the full picture.”

“Don’t forget we have some answers already,” Dickens said.

The Congressman squinted waiting for him to go on.

“Shelby was assisted by some Maggie Douggan of the secretarial department,” Dickens came to Bow and motioned him to get up, then lifted his jacket off the back of the chair. “It’s possible Shelby has known her for some time. They could have met through Kathleen Baker. They’ve filmed the contents of her disk and smuggled it out of the building.” He put the jacket on and smoothed it out. “In order to infiltrate the building, they kidnapped Joe Binelli and extracted his computer password, then used his car to enter the premises.”

Dickens produced a watch from his trouser pocket and added as he clasped the bracelet, “And it was your order not to check his limo.”

“How many of them were there?” Claney disregarded the hint.

“Four. Two professionals.”

“Which is what?”

“The city war vets. Not your regular manpower: these are professional saboteurs. They have neurostimulators installed. They have skills. We used to train them during the war. I have reason to suspect that one is Max. We’ve worked him out twenty-four hours ago. He’s got a boxing club in Harlem. And he used to train Shelby all those years back. We kept tabs on him, but now he’s disappeared. I believe he was driving Binelli’s car. He could neutralize the parking area security. He could also unblock the gate when we announced code red. He then took care of the pursuing helicopter and the surviving men and helped Shelby and the girl to escape through the sewers.

“Find them all!” Claney couldn’t help himself. “Eliminate them!” He was about to leave the room when Dickens said,

“I don’t have enough men, sir.”

“How many-” Claney was losing his nerve, “how many do you need?”

Dickens looked at Bow.

“Three hundred would do it, I think.”

“How many?” Claney stepped forward to face him. “You have any idea what you’re asking for? This is—”

“You want me to find them?” Dickens stretched his lips in a grin. “I need to check the drains. I need to go over a few subway lines. The search area grows with every minute. Shelby and his accomplices are well-trained. They’re strong. And they’ve got what they came for.”

“And you, Dickens? Did you get what you came for? All you do is create more problems! The President’s gone back to DC so he’s out of our reach. We ad lib as we go. The whole plan is under threat, and we might have to start the Vaccination without even contacting our Pentagon friends. Just make sure,” the Congressman poked the air in front of Dickens’ face, “that we don’t have problems with the migrants.”

“Their Council is under control. We know all their plans.”

“We’ve gone too far! And you—”

“If Bow and his mnemotechs move it, I’ll get it done in six hours.”

“Six hours?”

“Yes, sir,” Dickens glared back at Claney. The Congressman paused.

“The lab is at your disposal,” Claney turned and strode out of the room.

They walked trying to figure out under which streets they were passing and which subway stations threaded nearby. Frank plodded following Max who carried a flashlight. Maggie trailed behind, all three of them exhausted.

First they had run hard along the drains. Then Max had turned off into some hole in the wall where they had to crawl over and under some sewage piping. The stench filled their nostrils. They were covered top to toe in something warm and sticky. Maggie had very nearly thrown up and Frank had stopped smelling anything at all. The coach explained to him that his nose receptors must have failed as happened sometimes.

Then they’d followed a tunnel along the mesh fence of a subway line. The fence reached the ceiling so they had to walk until they came to a gate facing a new drain entrance.

Frank had long lost any sense of direction. The coach barely spoke; only occasionally he warned them of obstructions on their way, suggesting a turn or a detour to avoid the obstacle.

A couple of times they’d hit a dead end. Then they’d come to a gate with a padlock. Max got out his gun, screwed the silencer on and shot the lock off. After that, they’d exited to another subway line.

Clenching her teeth, Maggie dragged her bare feet without complaint. Frank carried the attaché case and held her hand to make sure she didn’t fall, as she’d already done a couple of times. As they followed the coach in the dark, they couldn’t watch their step very well and could easily break an arm or a leg stumbling on some loose brick or pipe.

Frank was about to ask the coach for a breather when Max stopped. Shining the flashlight on the wall for fear of blinding them, he peered into their faces and said,

“Five-minute break.”

He moved the light underfoot waiting for them to sit down by the wall, then turned off the flashlight.

In the pitch-black tunnel, they could now hear the sounds of subway trains and the roar of the underground vent system.

“How long have we been going?” Frank asked.

For a moment, Max’s face appeared in the weak fluorescent light from his wristwatch. “An hour,” he said. “Maggie? You all right?”

The girl didn’t answer.

“Maggie?” Frank took her hand. She startled.

“I’ve been thinking about Dad,” she said.

“Barney’s all right,” clattering his gun and rustling his clothes, Max sat next to the girl. “They can’t kill him. Memoria needs him as a hostage against us. I don’t think they’re going to kill any of us until they make sure that we have the recording and there are no other copies of it around.”

“Oh, great,” Frank murmured.

He realized too well, as did the coach, that the corporation could always scan Barney’s memory and use their personality correction facilities. They must have done so already.

“We should have taken Binelli as hostage, too,” Frank ventured. “It was stupid to leave him in the garage. We could have—”

“Dragged him with us underground?” the coach chuckled.

Frank didn’t say anything. You couldn’t go anywhere far with a morbidly obese pig like Binelli in tow.

“Where are we now?” he leaned forward listening for New York street noises.

“We must be around the Central Park area,” the coach understood him. “It’s too quiet here.”

“Will they find us?” Maggie asked bravely, her voice tired.

“We’re still one step ahead,” the coach answered. Frank realized he was simply trying to humor her. Things had to be worse than that. “It doesn’t mean though that they’re too slow to catch us if we give them half a chance. So,” the coach glanced at his watch, “three more minutes, and we’re out of here.”

“I suggest we watch the recording,” Frank patted the attaché case by his side.

“Bad move,” Max said. “We don’t have time to wade through gigs of files looking for the one we need. We’ve got to find shelter first. Then we’ll go through the files at our leisure.”

“But it could change lots of things!” the girl said.

Frank didn’t expect Maggie to back him up.

“It could,” Frank nodded forgetting that Max couldn’t see him in the dark. “If the recording is any good we could take it to the media-” he stopped sensing Max’s hand on his shoulder.

“Too early to speak to the media,” Max said. “We’ve no idea what stories they’ve been fed.”

“I got a few reporters film Maggie and myself back in the building. I told them I hadn’t killed Kathleen. I showed them the attaché case. I told them it contained evidence of my innocence.”

The coach sighed. For a few seconds, he sat in silence.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s have a quick look.”

Frank placed the attaché case on his lap, unclasped the locks and lifted the lid. The coach turned the flashlight on.

“Why are there bullet holes in the lid? Look here under the handle. One went right through.”

“I was shot at,” Frank took out the camera. The battery had a deep scratch in the back, but he turned the camera on anyway. “The cord got stuck three floors under Binelli’s office. We had to break the window and fight our way to the service elevator.” He flipped the switch into video mode and pushed open a small LCD screen. “You have to thank Maggie for saving me.” Frank turned to her and held out his hand. The girl gave him a faint smile and a remarkably strong handshake.

“Turn it on,” Max said.

A blurred picture appeared on the screen, followed by some illegible text. Frank fingered the knobs, adjusting the settings. Now they could read the words — which said nothing to them. It discussed mnemocapsules and the various ways of delivering them — where to, it didn’t say. A scheme replaced the text of either a capsule or a phial. Its purpose was as clear as mud.

“Move it forward a bit,” the coach said.

Frank pressed the FF button. The picture jumped. For a few seconds, schemes flashed one after another.

“Stop it there,” Max said.

Frank released the button. Immediately, a new text — or rather, a title — read: Chemical Mind Lock.

“A mind lock?” Frank glanced at the coach who hissed him quiet.

The title was replaced by another scheme, this time of short-term memory structure, complete with pictures of brain lobes, followed by some charts showing the results of animal tests. Then the screen went blank.

“What’s going on?” Frank pressed every button but the camera didn’t come back to life. “Switch on, damn it!”

“Give it here,” Max inspected the camera turning it in his hands. He fingered the scratch on the battery and glanced at the bullet hole in the attaché case lid. “The slug has damaged the machine, but hopefully, the recording…” he tried and failed to extract the memory card out of the powerless camera, “hopefully, the recording is intact.”

The coach placed the flashlight on its side and put the camera back into the attaché case. Then he reached into his trouser pocket and produced a packet of chewing gum. He popped a few sticks into his mouth and started working on them with his jaws.

“What are you doing?”

The coach took out a blob of gum, leaned to the attaché case and stuck the gum over the bullet hole.

“The memory card is still in the camera,” he shut the lid and locked the attaché case. “No idea where we might find ourselves next. We might have to crawl our way through water, under water, or through piles of shit. As long as we can keep the tape safe, it’s irrelevant.”

He glanced at his wristwatch, picked up the flashlight and rose. “Come on, then.”

“Sir,” Frank helped Maggie to her feet. “We can’t just come out. We’re too conspicuous. We look like a bunch of homeless bums. Then there’s your gun… okay, we could dump it, but what about our clothes and our faces? We…”

“I’m working on it.”

“But how about the recording?” Frank turned to Maggie. “Have you ever heard anything about those mnemocapsules and mind locks? Exactly how dangerous are they?”

“I’ve no idea,” she said.

In the silence, a far-off subway train rumbled past.

“Actually,” the coach looked up, “Central Park is a good hiding place. Sooner or later they’ll go through it with a fine-toothed comb. But in the meantime…”

“And then what?” Frank said. “Back underground?”

“Maggie?” the coach turned to her. “What do you think?”

“Who — me?” she wavered.

“Yes, you,” Max nodded. “We need to make up our minds as to where we’re going and how we’re hiding there. The clock’s ticking. I’ll consider all ideas. We can’t stay here long. So?” he glanced at his watch, then back at Maggie.

“I really don’t know,” her voice shook. “Dad… he’s up there. That’s the only thing I can think of… I can’t concentrate, sorry…”

She hid her face on Frank’s shoulder and failed to suppress a sob. Frank reached out to give her a hug, maybe stroke her hair, but she drew back and wiped her tears. “I’ll go where you tell me to.”

The coach grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him.

“Nothing’s going to happen to Barney. He covered our retreat. He is a professional and a fighter. We’ll get him out, girl. I promise.”

“I do, too,” Frank said. The coach looked at him and nodded.

“We’ve got to go now,” the coach let go of Maggie’s shoulders and slid the flashlight along the vaults, exploring the way. “We need to get back up…”

“Sir? Wait.”

“What is it?”

“We could call their bluff and seek shelter by the migrants’,” Frank glanced at Maggie. “Don’t forget I know Gautier personally.”

“How sure are you we can trust her? What would you do if you were approached by a lone terrorist seeking shelter?”

“Not with this, she wouldn’t,” Frank raised the attaché case to his chest. “Let’s bet the Steel Lady will want to know all about it. If the tape contains some kind of migrant threat, she’ll help us, I’m sure she will. Use your head: the talks must not go through. We have the information to prevent them. All we need is an ally to confront Memoria.”

“Enough,” Max gingerly moved his head, kneaded his neck, then looked back at Frank. “Granted, what we’re offering them is an unknown entity. But under the circumstances, this is the best we can do. Memoria is their main bone of contention.” He sighed. “Maggie, what do you think?”

“As long as it can help Dad…” she started. “But how do you suggest we get to the Bronx?”

“By subway,” both answered in unison and smiled for the first time that morning.

A quarter of an hour later they took the Sixth Avenue Express heading for the Bronx. The coach had to get rid of the rifle. The handgun he’d put into the attaché case. The three had been lucky enough to grab a quick wash in a vacated utility room. On one of its walls they found a set of clothes: the shirt fit Frank just fine even though the trousers proved a little too tight. They passed around a large water bottle till they could drink no more. They couldn’t get rid of the stench of sewage but at least their faces and their hair looked decent.

It took them two stops to get to the carriage in the middle. Other passengers covered their noses as the three went past leaving muddy footsteps on the floor. They failed to look like homeless bums and rather resembled a group of Wall Street clerks who’d survived a burst toilet accident.

That’s why, as the train approached the platform at 115th Street, Max took off his jacket and stayed in a pair of filthy trousers and a dress shirt, relatively clean in places. Maggie didn’t have to remove anything or otherwise change her appearance. Her sunken face and exhausted eyes embarrassed everyone who looked at her. So young, the passengers had to be thinking, and already stooping so low.

At 155th, very few passengers stayed on the train. They were approaching the end of the line. First, the tunnel under the Harlem, and then, finally, the Bronx. The camp. Only migrants went so far. And a new obstacle: the old Yankee stadium housed the police force that guarded the New York perimeter. You couldn’t just get off the train there.

Max turned to the others about to speak when an indifferent patrol officer on the platform pushed his hat back and approached their carriage.

“Turn away,” the coach whispered to Frank. “Slowly.”

The train jerked and moved along the platform. The cop behind the window moved along speaking into a microphone on his shoulder.

Whatever he said on the radio, the train wasn’t going to stop. The cop ran waving his hands at the driver. But the train picked up speed and overtook the cop a mere couple of feet before the platform ended. The officer shook his fist at them and disappeared.