Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

Chapter Fifteen. Questions Without Answers

The chopper hovered over the deserted landing pad in front of the Yankee stadium. Behind the pilot, Bud Jessup peered into the window from his seat.

He’d sent all the available staff, including the reserve squad, to the subway station where Shelby had last been sighted. The moment the chopper touched the ground, Jessup unblocked the door, forced it aside and jumped out. The rotor still moving overhead, he ducked in from the downdraft and ran for the station entrance at 161st.

To his left, the stadium stretched its oval bowl, paralleled by a tall barbed-wired concrete fence. About three hundred feet away, the fence was broken by a two-story checkpoint building, with turnstiles and the sentries’ room below and a watchroom above, a guard pacing its balcony. More than once had his superiors suggested that Jessup got rid of the structure: the stadium perimeter was well covered with alarms and cameras, and the stadium roof offered sentries a much better view of the Bronx than the watchroom balcony. But the Captain wasn’t in a hurry to follow their advice. He didn’t want his men to lose the only vantage point they had over the migrants at the Bronx’s only entry.

The chopper’s roar abated, replaced by a strange new noise. Jessup turned his head in the direction of the Harlem. Two black dots over the river grew in size until he could make out Memoria’s orange flowers. The company choppers were approaching the camp limits.

Jessup cursed and hurried to the subway. Those guys were quick. To arrive so promptly whenever a Shelby sighting was reported, they had to have a mole in his department. Someone really close to him. It could be anyone, that was the problem — Gizbo, Salem, the secretary, one of his own operatives. Before reaching him, the information was passed on from the patrol officer who’d sighted Shelby, all the way down to the city controller.

Lieutenant Gizbo met him by the platform, clenching a radio in a dark hand. Behind his back, the station swarmed with cops. An idle passerby might have thought it chaotic, but in fact, everyone there knew their job and were doing it. A patrol squad questioned the passengers crowded in the center of the platform. A forensic team was working their way through the train. All the carriages were brightly lit, with a guard inside each of them.

“Have you found Shelby?” Jessup asked Gizbo as they headed to see the forensics.

“No, sir,” Gizbo turned off the radio, and the rattle of patrol policemen stopped. Now they could talk. “He wasn’t on the train. Once we received the report, we blocked all the exits and searched the train.

“Where’s Lieutenant Salem?”

“Gone into the tunnel, sir. He’s got seven men and more track workers with him. The train traffic has been stopped in both directions. The live rail has been cut off. They’ve been gone five minutes, sir.”

“How on earth did he escape?” The captain stopped to face the open doors of a carriage watching the forensics team work. “Do you know?”

“One moment, sir,” Gizbo called a sergeant and whispered something in the man’s ear. He then slapped his shoulder and the man walked off.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment, sir.”

The sergeant approached the group of passengers and came back with a dark man in a subway uniform.

“This is the train driver, sir,” Gizbo turned to the man. “Can you repeat your statement for the captain here?”

The driver sized Jessup up and down. He looked at the lieutenant, then at the sergeant.

“Well?” Jessup said.

“I tell ya, sir,” the man shrugged, “I didn’t get the radio message until it was too late…”

“The cop who made the 151st Street sighting, tried to stop the train,” Gizbo explained. “Go on now,” he said to the driver.

“I tell ya, sir,” the driver nodded at the sergeant, “they ordered me to go non-stop till the end of the line. But the train stopped in the Harlem tunnel, sir.”

“Was stopped,” Gizmo added.

“Exactly so, sir,” the driver said. “Clean job, sir, I tell ya. Not everyone can do that, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Jessup glanced back at the staircase rising to the station entrance. The Memoria choppers could land at the stadium at any minute. Doubtful they’d come here for a breath of fresh air. The corporation knew about Shelby. They wanted him, now.

“I tell ya, sir,” the driver grinned, “you gotta know how to open the hatch. There’re handles and things, you know. Not a DIY job, sir.”

“Shelby had to have had help,” Jessup looked at Gizbo. The lieutenant gave an unnoticeable nod.

“Could you do me a favor, sergeant,” Jessup glanced at the staircase, “could you take this gentleman to our base for a while? Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give him something to eat, will you? I won’t be long.”

Jessup said nothing to Gizbo’s puzzled stare. He was puzzled enough as it was. Why did Shelby have to gatecrash Memoria’s HQ? Why did he go to the Bronx? Who was helping him? More importantly, why did the Feds insist it was a one-man job?

“Let’s go,” he said to the lieutenant. Together, they went up the stairs following the sergeant and the train driver. “Close the station and send all the witnesses to the base for a quick and quiet questioning. I want the tapes on my desk the moment the questioning’s finished. Make sure the other platforms are under control, as well as the parallel lanes. Search all potential suspects and detain if necessary, but make sure you keep the Feds at bay and give the public no excuse to file complaints.

The captain glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. The Mayor had cut down the migrants’ hours, hadn’t he? In thirty minutes, the Sixth Avenue Express would leave Brooklyn completely packed, followed by trainfuls of workers who cleared the debris in Manhattan South. If they didn’t open the line by then, in the next thirty minutes they could expect an absolute stampede at all the surrounding stations…

Jessup cringed. To find Shelby, he had fifteen minutes at the very most.

By the time he walked up the stairs, one of Memoria’s choppers had already landed. The other hovered over the landing pad. The first one disgorged a squad of over a dozen soldiers, all clad in black, with Memoria’s orange logos on their shoulders. They formed an uneven line and jogged toward Jessup.

“Sir?” Gizbo glanced at him, unsure, and turned on the radio.

“They’re not going in,” the captain said looking straight ahead. “Call for reinforcements.”

Behind his back, the lieutenant mumbled orders into the microphone as Jessup watched the other helicopter land far to their right. The engine roar died down, the rotor blades losing momentum. A few seconds later, the cabin door slid open. Agent Archer leapt out, followed by three civilians: two men and a woman. Yet more men stayed inside, dressed like guards or wardens and apparently accompanying the three.

Immediately, Jessup recognized the migrants’ leaders. The senior — in rank as she was in years — was Anna Gautier. The two men were Lionel Batford and Nicholas Floyd. The captain boasted nice fat files on all three, much of which he could recite from memory, thanks to his own mole among their leaders. The men were about the same age as Frank Shelby. The difference being, they had been born in migrant camps.

Anna Gautier smoothed out her grey hair, disheveled by the downdraft. She turned to the captain, but the Memoria squad poured into the station blocking her from his sight.

“Stay as you were!” Gizbo stepped forward.

A few patrol cops joined the officers, their guns at the ready.

The lieutenant raised his hand.

“I order you to stop — now!” He spoke into the radio and glanced back, nervous.

Jessup’s eyes searched for the squad leader. They all looked alike, faces hidden under the identical helmets and masks, and no insignia, apart from the orange flower on one shoulder. The uneven line approached fast, stomping their combat boots against the tarmac. The gloomy formation didn’t seem to experience emotion: Jessup had a funny feeling he was attacked by a line of either robots or suicide killers, the kind he’d seen during the city war.

“Sir,” Gizbo glanced back again, “they look like…” he didn’t finish the sentence as if scared of what he was about to say.

Cold sweat trickled down Jessup’s spine. He wiped the palms of his hands, suddenly clammy. No doubt these were the same goons who had attacked the police station and killed Detective Freeman. But how could he prove it? Should he confront and provoke them? But what if Memoria waited for an occasion exactly like that? No, not now. He shouldn’t show he suspected anything.

As if obeying a silent order, the runners stopped in their tracks at five paces from them. Jessup glanced up: could there be a support chopper hovering nearby and controlling the squad’s actions by radio? But the skyline was clear. The next moment, a tall man stepped out of the line.

“Captain Jessup. We’re here to assist the arrest of a dangerous criminal,” said a firm voice from under the mask. The speaker nodded at the men behind his back. “My men are adequately trained. They are capable of finding Frank Shelby and arresting him. Eliminating him, if necessary.”

Ever since the station had been trashed and Shelby shot at in the very heart of the city, Jessup had had little doubts they would stay true to their word. Until now, Shelby had had luck on his side. The guy was a new Houdini indeed.

Jessup peered into the man’s wide visor as if trying to see the color of his eyes — or read his thoughts. His nylon helmet lining had come adrift by the man’s temple showing a strand of gray hair. Not much of the description, but it would have to do. With a cop’s eye, he registered the slightest details. You never knew when you might need them.

“We’re awaiting your orders… Captain.” The threat in his voice was almost tangible. Gizbo drew back and reached under his coat for his gun.

What was it Shelby knew that no one else was supposed to know? Jessup looked at the man, sensing his cold stare. What did Memoria want from Shelby? Why did they try to eliminate him? Then again, what were the motives behind killing Kathleen Baker? The corporation must really be onto something, brazenly sending their men here wearing the same uniform they’d worn when seen attacking the police station. They had to be in a hurry indeed.

Having said that… Shelby and his little helpers must have forced the Memoria bosses to make a mistake or two. Might not be a bad idea to show yesterday’s police reports to his analytics. They might see something useful.

Strangely, all of a sudden he had a good feeling about this Shelby and his friends.

“Captain, you’ve got to let them through,” he heard a familiar voice behind the fighters’ backs.

Agent Archer elbowed his way through and showed his ID to Jessup and Gizbo.

“As a Federal agent authorized by the government, I command you to let these men enter the station,” he stepped close to Jessup and added in a quiet voice, “Otherwise I’ll be forced to report you for perverting the course of justice.”

“Please do,” Jessup snapped. “Let them through!” he waved to his men. Brushing Archer aside, he nodded to Gizbo.

The policemen stepped aside. Jessup didn’t want to see the rest of it. He headed for the checkpoint hearing the stomping of combat boots behind his back. He needed to speak to Gautier first. The migrants’ leaders had just arrived from Memoria, off limits for the police. With any luck, they could by privy to something useful.

Anna Gautier, a.k.a. the Steel Lady, strode in front, chin up, making it clear she couldn’t care less about Bud Jessup walking to intercept her, let alone speak to him. She looked straight ahead, her face unemotional.

When he was at an arm’s distance from her, the two men confronted him: the dark, burly Lionel Batford and the long, round-faced Nicholas Floyd. Jessup attempted to bypass them to block Gautier’s way, but the two wouldn’t let him. The captain grinned and raised a brow.

“Ms. Gautier?” he called. “Hello?”

The woman didn’t stop.

“Don’t force me to-” He stopped, unwilling to pull rank. He hurried after her, nearly catching her up by the checkpoint. “Anna, you sure you’re all right? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

The police guards at the checkpoint saw something going on and blocked the electronic turnstiles. One of them walked out of their room, another phoned the guards’ room upstairs. Three more guards appeared on the balcony with semi-auto weapons in their hands. They shouted to Lionel and Nicholas to stop when the two tried to get closer to the captain.

Gautier reached the checkpoint and looked back. Her tough lips curved, distorting her face into a grimace of contempt. Jessup expected her to give him one of those pieces of her mind that, together with her unbending will and fearlessness for authorities, had earned her the Steel Lady moniker. She was never short of criticism for the powers that be whenever migrants’ interests were at stake. She couldn’t care less what the media wrote about her, let alone what society would think about her. As far as she was concerned, the New York police chief — whose job it was to make sure the migrants stayed guarded in their camps, well locked up at night and under control during daytime — could shove his opinion where the sun didn’t shine.

“So we’re under arrest, then?” she said in her deep low voice, her eyes piercing him.

The captain shook his head.

“Just curious how the Memoria talks went.”

Her eyes glistened with amazement. She looked puzzled, then thoughtful, contempt replaced by surprise. The next moment, her political expertise suppressed all emotion.

She looked up at him, “Don’t you know yet?”

“Know what, exactly?”

Her stare stopped at something behind his back. Jessup turned. The Memoria fighters and the agent by the station entrance had disappeared, replaced by three patrol cops. Gizbo and the sergeant stood nearby together with the other migrants’ leaders.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he said.

Both the lieutenant’s and the sergeant’s radios sprang to life. The stadium staff duty officer demanded to speak to the police chief.

“You might be looking for a new job,” she dropped heading for the turnstiles. “Sooner than you think.”

“Pardon me?” Jessup said.

“Make sure you watch the evening news,” she said without looking back.

Lionel Batford and Nicholas Floyd walked past, Floyd pushing him out of his way.

“Shall I detain him, sir?” a guard shouted coming out of the checkpoint.

Jessup gestured them to be let through. Gizbo stepped toward him, holding out the radio. The captain took it.

“Captain Jessup,” he said into the microphone.

“Staff duty officer here, sir.”

“What is it?”

“You’d better come here yourself, sir. You’ve got to see this.”

“What do you mean, officer?”

“You need to come to the staff office, sir. Frank Shelby has been sighted by the perimeter, accompanied by two unidentified civilians. I’ve already sent a patrol to intercept them.”

“Don’t shoot!” Jessup barked into the radio. “We need them alive!”

He threw the radio back to Gizbo and ran toward the stadium. When he ran past the choppers, his cell phone rang. Out of breath, Jessup slowed down. The phone showed a number he didn’t know. He hesitated, then answered.

“Jessup here.”

“Captain?” an unknown voice said.

“Yes.”

“My name’s Serge Gillan. I’m an independent reporter.”

“Who gave you this number?”

“Later,” the voice in the receiver, too, was out of breath, as if the caller had just run a hundred meters. “My life’s in danger. I’m afraid that—”

Jessup covered the receiver and turned to Gizbo, about to ask him to detect the caller’s ID. But the words in the phone made him jump. He listened to the voice, called the lieutenant and dictated him an address.