Date: 2012-02-28 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Dystopia; Fiction; Thriller; Suspense; Action; Post Apocalyptic; Russia; Science Fiction Fantasy
Description: In a futuristic bombed-out New York, the almighty Memoria Corporation helps people erase their traumatic memories. What else would you need in a world free from wars and crime? But the bubble bursts when a humble citizen Frank Shelby becomes a murder suspect on the run. Betrayed by his friends and hunted down by mysterious killers, Frank has to penetrate Memoria and find evidence of their real plans before it's too late for all of us.
Publisher: Smashwords

Memoria

Alex Bobl

Sky Bridge (2012)

Rating: ****

Tags: Hardboiled Sci Fi

They control your memories...

They tell you how to live...

In the bombed-out streets of New York, the corrupt bosses of Memoria
Corporation make billions by erasing people's traumatic memories. But their
bubble bursts when a humble citizen Frank Shelby becomes a murder suspect on the run. Betrayed by his friends and hunted down by mysterious killers, Frank has to penetrate Memoria and find evidence of their real plans before it's too
late for all of us.

Alex Bobl

MEMORIA

A Corporation of Lies

Memoria. A Corporation of Lies

Alex Bobl

Published by Sky Bridge Publishers, 2012

Copyright © Alex Bobl 2012

Cover Art © Vladimir Manyukhin 2012

English translation copyright © Irene Woodhead 2012

Editor Neil P. Mayhew

All Rights Reserved

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.

Table of Contents:

Chapter One. Who? When? What For?

Chapter Two. The Men in Black

Chapter Three. The Letter from the Dead

Chapter Four. One Against All

Chapter Five. Nowhere to Run

Chapter Six. The Mentor

Chapter Seven. It's a Small World

Chapter Eight. The Expert's Lodgings

Chapter Nine. A Pattern Starts to Form

Chapter Ten. The Vaccination Project

Chapter Eleven. Underdogs Bite

Chapter Twelve. Code Red

Chapter Thirteen. Rappelling into Hell

Chapter Fourteen. The Tape

Chapter Fifteen. Questions Without Answers

Chapter Sixteen. The Migrants' Camp

Chapter Seventeen. No Justice

Chapter Eighteen. The Bent Cop

Chapter Nineteen. Personality Correction

Chapter Twenty. Things Fall into Place

Chapter Twenty-One. Chasing Tails

Chapter Twenty-Two. The Murderous Friend

Chapter Twenty-Three. The Final Combat

Epilogue. The Lull Before the Storm

About the Author

The author would like to express his sincere appreciation to Tais Khulish, Yulian Zagorodny, Cyd Athens and Sergei Grushko for their wealth of advice.

Chapter One. Who? When? What For?

Frank didn't like the cab the moment he saw it.

The ancient Ford Victoria had tinted windows, a rusty rear fender and a massive brush guard mounted on the bumper. The driver pulled out of the cab line that stretched all the way to the airport exit, cutting off the car that already waited for Frank. Brakes screeching, it came to a halt by the curb.

Frank had a bad feeling about it. The car raised questions. First, what cab company would keep this rust bucket in their fleet thirty years after the end of the war in the city? Secondly, what kind of taxi driver would so brazenly cold-shoulder his fellow cabbies?

The driver rolled down his window and yelled at Frank, his voice drowned out by an airbus landing in La Guardia. The plane's shadow darkened the bombed-out skeletons of buildings along the road. Crossing the faces of people waiting on the sidewalk, the shadow brushed the glass façade of a newly restored building and fleeted away.

"You deaf? It's half the fare!" Frank heard once the whine of the jet's engine subsided.

He stepped toward the car, opened the door and looked inside. An unpleasant face stared back at him, its cheekbones high and eyes deeply set. Smooth skin was drawn tight over the man's skull, and a thick white scar ran from his right temple to the back of his head. The man's skin, although perfectly natural, looked too smooth to be real. It gave Frank the impression that the bully had slapped on some makeup before pulling in at the terminal exit.

"Get in," the baldhead barked.

Frank had another look at him and stepped back.

"I said, get in," the man glanced up impatiently at the road in front of him. A spot of light fell on his face, causing his pupils to contract, and Frank gave up his initial idea of the driver being a spaced-out junkie.

Behind Frank's back, unhappy voices tried to hurry the line along. Another cab pulled up by the sidewalk, causing the whole line of cars that snaked around the terminal's perimeter to edge forward.

"Move it!" the bald-headed driver wheezed through his teeth. He stuck out a sharp chin and shifted in his leather seat.

The cab behind him tooted and pulled too close, locking his bumper. Its front door swung open, letting out an indignant middle-aged heavyweight with a fat mustache.

About to comply, Frank laid his hand on the door handle when a familiar stinging filled the bridge of his nose. His eyes watered. He glanced inside and cringed at the view of battered leather seats.

Leather.

He let go of the door and shoved a shaking hand into his coat pocket for a tissue. All gone. Shit! Wretched allergy, always messing with his life!

He stepped back and forced a smile to the baldheaded driver.

"Sorry... I can't go with you... It's not your fault, I'm allerg-"

"You piece of crap!" the baldhead lunged across the cab and grabbed Frank's hand dragging him inside. Frank pulled his hand free and slammed the door, barely missing the man's fingers.

His heart pumping, he looked around him at the staring people, mumbled something about giving up his turn and stepped over to the mustached cabbie's vehicle.

"I'll go with you, if it's okay." He reached for the door.

"Hey you! Get lost!" the baldheaded cabman croaked behind his back.

Frank turned round. The bully driver pushed aside a passenger who was trying to load his suitcase into the trunk. He waved to Frank again. "Come on, quit stalling!"

Frank chose to ignore him. The angry passenger picked up his suitcase and mumbled something. The bald driver slammed his fist into the man's shoulder. The crowd recoiled.

"I think the guy could use a lesson," the mustached cabbie said. "I can teach him one if he insists." He stepped toward the first taxi, but the bully driver jumped into his cab, rolled up his window and took off, his intent eyes fixed on the road.

"Don't bother," Frank wiped his stinging eyes and said out loud, for the crowd's sake. "I'm a lawyer. I work for the Government. I'll take care of it."

He made a show of marking down the departing Ford's plates as well as the company's logo and phone numbers from the trunk. Then he checked the other cab's fabric upholstery, got in and gave the mustached driver his West Side address.

His heart was still pumping hard. The bald man's bosses got to know about this. His poor conduct shouldn't be tolerated. Nor should Frank himself head for Memoria in order to erase the unpleasant incident from his mind. The bully had to get his comeuppance: be punished, demoted, fired — let him take his pick.

Of course, the man could always go to Memoria himself and erase the memories of his dismissal and the airport incident that had caused it. But it wouldn't help him much: his name would be blacklisted by all cab companies' databases, or maybe even the New York police department files. That would be more than enough. The La Guardia bully would never be able to appear in public again; he'd lose his driver's license, and no amount of Memoria wipe would help it. He could erase his memories every day if he wanted to, but every time the bald son of a bitch tried to get a job, the incident would come up until the day the sanction was lifted.

Satisfied, Frank reached for the cell phone in his pocket. After a brief hesitation — whom to call first? — he dialed his home number. Wouldn't it be wonderful if Kathleen had remembered his arrival and was now waiting for him?

Under the gloomy sky, Queens' half-restored ruins flashed past the cab window. Shame if it was going to rain: he'd been looking forward to a breath of fresh air. Provided Kathleen picked up. Provided nothing had come up to keep him from seeing her.

The phone rang. Frank shifted it to his other hand and leaned back. Theirs was a strange relationship indeed, Kathleen’s and his, nothing normal about it. High time they sat and talked about it. You couldn't expect a successful lawyer like himself, a government advisor, to keep dating someone he'd met six months ago at some Mayoral event without even knowing her full name. Kathleen was an intelligent and educated girl, all designer clothes and sports cars, but she'd never spoken about herself.

He tried to remember when exactly he'd given her the key to his place... Was it their second date? Third? Come to think of it, it had been her idea to begin with. Pretty irrelevant, but still, they had to talk it all over. Frank didn't look forward to falling victim to a jealous husband or anything like that. In the light of his position, and especially his potential promotion to a post in EPPD, it wouldn't be a good idea to take his relationships lightly. So he needed to weigh up all the pros and cons and approach their future discussion with some seriousness. He had to practice what he was going to say and how he'd say it — his arguments, his body language... Then they'd decide where their relationship could go from there.

Her voice echoed in the receiver.

"Hello? Frank?" She sounded hoarse and nervous, breathing in short fits.

"Oh, hi," he said. "You okay? I thought you'd given up on me."

"I'm fine, thanks."

He heard her sniffle. Frank's heart skipped a beat. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I got soaked in the rain so I'm not feeling very well, sorry. You'd better tell me how it went in DC."

Her voice softened. Even her breathing sounded more even.

Frank glanced at the driver. You couldn't tell what he was thinking: no reaction was evident on the back of his head, and the part of the broad face seen in the rear-view mirror didn't betray any emotion, either. The cabbie kept his eyes on the road, steering with one hand and stroking his mustache with the other.

"It didn't go well, I'm afraid," Frank said. "Not for us, anyway. The talks have been rescheduled."

"So what's so bad about that?" Kathleen's voice asked, caring and sweet.

She was good at it. You could trust her to find the right words of support when a man could use some. She knew how to strike the right note in a conversation, ignoring her own problems.

"Just my future," he started pouring his heart out. "My career, and this promotion, too... I've been laying the groundwork for this deal for a long time. Too long, in fact. Now it's back to square one."

"I don't think so! It wasn't your fault that the talks didn't go through, was it?"

"No, it wasn't." Frank could almost see Kathleen's foxy smile and, unconsciously, his lips curved into a smile, too. "I've no idea how it happened."

"So you see! Your career is in no danger."

Her words soothed him a little. Frank had even forgotten about the bald cab driver, let alone the failed talks. Kathleen was the best pill ever. Her voice sounded soft and musical.

"Frank, I miss you. Please come soon."

In his mind, he saw her lying on their king-size bed in her designer lace underwear — the girl wouldn't wear anything less, or at least he'd never witnessed it. Her groomed skin glowed golden against snow-white sheets; the dark lace teased, promising passion and pleasure.

He choked, swallowed and shifted in the seat. "I will. I'm coming now."

"Please do," she paused. "Oh, and this old lady next door, she dropped in..."

"Mrs. Fletcher? What did she want?"

"She still can't get the hang of her remote. She needs help to set up the cable channels."

"Did you do it for her?"

"No. I didn't let her in. She didn't seem too eager to see me, anyway. She said, she'd better wait for you to come back."

"Looks like I'll have to pay her a visit."

"Just make sure you pay me a visit first."

He got the hint in her voice. "Sure."

She hung up. Phone in hand, Frank lingered for a couple of seconds, then slowly exhaled and turned to the window.

They'd already left Queens behind and were crossing Queensboro Bridge. To their left, barely half a mile away, rose Manhattan. If traffic permitted, he'd be there in minutes. Along the East River, towers stood in ruins; their burned-out, bomb-smashed skeletons crowded the ocean shore, black squares gaping where windows had been.

The only memory of the city war that had ravaged the center of New York. Try and erase this out of the memories of millions.

They hadn't tried to. Yet.

From afar, the blackened concrete stumps looked as if they could fold any moment like a house of cards and then slide down the shore into the ocean at the slightest poke. And once their remnants were done with, you'd be able to see the towers of the New Financial Borough in the process of construction. There, the enormous edifice of Memoria's HQ had already arisen: the corporation that had stopped the bloodshed thirty years back. It was Memoria that had given people hope and a sense of security. Had it not been for Memoria, the whole Eastern shore from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico would still be engulfed in flames, fighting the resources war.

Bellville's army — migrants from Texas, New Mexico and other Western states — had wanted to secure their own grasp on the country. But they had lost the oil war. Jacque Bellville himself had been tried and executed in DC. His entourage had fled abroad. Those of their combatants who had failed to escape had been locked in migrant camps, stripped of their right to vote and subjected to round-the-clock monitoring through security cameras and the personal electronic bracelets that Memoria had enforced on the entire population.

Frank's gaze followed the enormous orange spot of Memoria's flag fluttering over the corporation's tower.

"Jesus. Things seem to be improving much faster in DC," he said. "Most of their buildings are already restored. The Capitol building is as good as new. Memoria's branches are mushrooming on every corner. And there aren't so many migrants left there, you know, most have already gotten their citizen status."

The cabbie braked at a red light, turned round with a smirk and showed Frank his electronic bracelet. An orange light flashed on the man's right wrist which meant that he'd fought for his citizenship in General Hopper's squads.

Frank lowered his eyes, embarrassed. His own bracelet was flashing with a little green light which meant that he'd been born after the war. His own citizenship was an automatic after-war privilege.

"You don't know how lucky you are, kid," The cabbie clasped the steering wheel and moved off when the light turned green. "Having a house, a job — a girl..." He glanced at Frank through the rear-view mirror, grinned and added in his strong, low voice, "You never had to lose your friends or family."

"But why—" Frank stopped short.

It had been a long time since he'd had a chance to talk to a veteran who'd chosen to preserve his war memories. All the old people he knew — those who still remembered the battles between Hopper and Bellville — had died since, or had Memoria erase their recollections. Somewhere in this city lived Frank's old boxing coach. Like so many others, he too must have visited one of the corporation's numerous branches, having forgotten the war and with it, his old students. Frank wasn't even sure the man still lived here — he could have relocated from New York for all Frank knew. His coach used to talk a lot about freedom, the word acquiring many new meanings through his interpretation. In the young Frank's eyes, he was the wisest man that ever lived, his mentor and his role model.

How long had it been since Frank had seen him last? Had to be nearly a decade. Occasional phone calls and seasonal greetings didn't count. He absolutely had to see him. Make him meet Kathleen, maybe...

Frank rubbed his face hard and interlocked his fingers. Wasn't he a jerk, after all? How could he forget the man who was, in fact, his second father? What if the man failed to remember him?

"What was it you said?" the ageing cabbie squinted in the rear-view mirror. "Why won't I get rid of my past?"

Frank nodded and unclasped his fingers.

"When half the civilian population happily erase their memories, apparently content with living below the bread line," the veteran looked back to the road, "when I live next door to a migrant camp packed with those motherfuckers..." he cut himself short, locked his hands on the steering wheel and hunched over it, tucking his head into his wrestler's shoulders, wide and sloping.

Well, well, well... Frank leaned against the door keeping an eye on the cabbie and wondering what this sudden candor could mean and whether the cabbie was indeed candid and not demented. The latter seemed more likely. Success is never blamed, so the victors in that war guarded their presidentially granted right to preserve their memories. They didn't have to visit Memoria three times a year, like all the others had, and the recollections of the past war remained entirely their own business.

"Here we are, kid," The cabbie pointed at the meter.

"Would you mind waiting a bit?" Frank reached into his pocket for his wallet. "I'll go get my girlfriend," He handed the man his fare.

"No problem, kid," The mustached face softened. The man ran his thick strong fingers over his mustache and added, "I suggest you pay Memoria a visit, too."

Frank pursed his lips waiting for him to continue.

The cabbie shook his head. "Don't give me all that bullshit about you having already done it," he reached between the seats, smoothed out Frank's creased coat lapel and patted him on the shoulder. "Not a good idea to ignore your duty. You know you've got to visit them three times a year. They run a free promotion now, too: you might still make it if you don't put it off for too long. Now off you go! I'll wait for you right here."

Frank scrambled out of the cab and wrapped his coat tighter around his body. Strange man, this veteran. He seemed to read Frank's mind. He had a point, though: landing a well-paid job these days took a lot of luck. Having a place to live, a family and children was taking on quite a strain. He really shouldn't lose Kathleen. He should try and talk to her, maybe suggest moving in together — and why not for keeps?

For a split second, Frank wanted to stick to the status quo: what was the point in trying to dig up her past if they might not share a future? But today, it was different. Today, things seemed to form a pattern. He hadn't fallen for the bullying cabbie's abuse, he'd remembered his old boxing coach, he'd realized that he loved Kathleen — yes, loved was the right word — and worked up the courage to propose.

Frank couldn't help smiling.

The first raindrops hit the sidewalk. Frank glanced up at the stormy clouds thickening in the dirt-gray sky and hurried inside the lobby of his apartment building. He couldn't make it past the entrance: the hallway was blocked by the backs of newspapermen, TV reporters and photographers busy setting up their cameras and lighting.

They crowded into the lobby blocking out the reception desk. Frank tried to bypass them through a narrow opening to their left. When he finally made it to the desk, the doorman produced two days' back mail and suggested he hurried to the elevators if he didn't want to have to take the stairs: the lobby was about to close for a press conference.

Frank was just about to ask him what all that media fuss was about and who called the press conference, but two media men complete with a camera and the ID badges of an international news channel beat him to it and demanded the doorman's attention. After a hesitant wait, Frank looked at the media crowd. It had perked up, and Frank hurried to the elevators. He'd find out what it was all about later. Upstairs, Kathleen was waiting and he couldn't think of much else but her.

When he left the elevator, he saw that his front door was slightly ajar. His first thought was about old Mrs. Fletcher next door: more than likely, she'd called on him again and Kathleen must have helped her to set up the cable remote. The poor old bag couldn't live without her TV, applying for every talk show and dreaming of her fifteen minutes of fame.

Frank entered the hall and removed his coat. Kathleen's purse was missing from the shelf under the coat-rack mirror where she always left it. In its place, he found a note: "Kitchen".

A puzzled Frank forgot to close the front door and moved along the corridor, taking off his jacket. He turned to the right and entered the kitchen. On the kitchen table sat a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

Frank smiled. This was so unlike Kathleen. She'd never done anything like it. He hung his jacket on a chair and took a corkscrew out of the drawer. Apparently, their restaurant date would have to wait. Same went for the cabbie. Kathleen was easily aroused, fiery in bed, and she climaxed quickly. He'd make her groan with exhaustion as she readied to come, and then—

He pulled the cork out and tilted the bottle. The red bubbly warbled in the glass.

Then she would get ready — shower, makeup, whatever — while he went downstairs and asked the cabbie if he could wait a bit longer than planned.

Frank left the bottle on the table, lifted the full glasses and headed for the bedroom. His hands trembled slightly with arousal. He stopped in front of the door and took a swig. Excellent wine. He raised the glass against the light admiring the bubbles coming to the surface, kicked the door open and entered.

Kathleen lay on the king-size bed in her lacy lingerie and stockings, her arms spread wide. The electronic bracelet was missing from her right hand. Her raven-black curls tumbled across the pillow, her head turned to the doorway. Her glassy dead eyes stared at Frank.

For a second or two he stood there staring at the girl, unable to take it in, the wine glasses in his hands. His ears were blocked, his throat, tight. Finally, with a whimper, he rushed to the bed. The wine went all over his shirt and the sheets. He dropped the glasses, lifted Kathleen's head and looked into her eyes, praying for her to blink and say, hi there! But it didn't happen.

She had a tie wrapped around her throat — her own gift to Frank before he'd left for Washington. The pale skin under the tie showed a thin blue stripe.

She'd been strangled.

When? Why? By whom?

Something rustled behind his back. Frank turned round. Mrs. Fletcher stood in the doorway, the cable remote in hand, squinting nearsightedly. After a second, her eyes widened filling with terror.

She must have thought she'd understood — but she misunderstood when she saw Kathleen's body and the red spots on Frank's shirt and the bedclothes. She must have thought it was blood, but what difference did it make now? Frank lifted his hand, and his wine-spotted fingers trembled, betraying his desperation. He opened his mouth and looked at Kathleen. No difference whatsoever. She was dead for good.

When he turned back, Mrs. Fletcher was already gone. Hollering on top of her shaky voice, she shuffled along the corridor, hurrying away.

Frank collapsed on the edge of the bed, lifted the radiophone off the bedside table and dialed 911.

Chapter Two. The Men in Black

Detective Ed Freeman slid three fingers underneath his belt and studied the suspect's face. The man sat in the interrogation room. A soundproof mirror, half the wall wide, separated him from the detective in the observation room.

A man's face could tell Freeman a lot. A heavy forehead in combination with pronounced brow bones and a square chin betrayed violent tendencies and high aggression levels. Small mouths, thin lips and narrow, close-set eyes betrayed stealthy types prone to sexual abuse. But the man in front of the detective didn't seem to fit the typical mold.

Women had to find his oval face attractive with its high square cheekbones, a straight nose, light-green eyes and dark hair. The man was a couple of inches shorter than Freeman who used to pump iron when he was younger and therefore looked slightly bigger with wider shoulders.

Frank Shelby sat at the desk in the interrogation room staring straight in front. He wore a crinkled navy raincoat over a red-stained shirt: Freeman could easily tell that the stains weren't blood. The man was facing a camera. The chair opposite him stood empty.

It had been a while since Ed Freeman had rested his fat butt on the chair's polished seat. It had been ages since he'd last heard the familiar claims, "I didn't kill!" and "I want to call my lawyer!" that greeted him whenever he entered the interrogation room. They were usually accompanied by tears and bail pleas, by assurances that they didn't remember anything, that the whole thing was nothing but an enormous mistake. Then they all begged him not to call for a Memoria tech, hoping he'd give the memory scan a miss.

That had been a long time ago. No murders had been committed in New York for a long time. The corporation's methods had proven efficient enough, and the number of capital offences had gradually dwindled to nothing. Still, the city's police force remained the biggest in the country. It had to be: the Bronx's migrant camp still housed almost three hundred thousand people. And migrants, they don't feel obliged to visit Memoria. They keep their thoughts to themselves.

The door of the observation room opened, letting in the gray mane of Bud Jessup, the chief of the police department. Without saying a word, he slid inside, handed the detective a file and glanced through the mirrored glass.

"Has the victim's identity been established?" Freeman asked as he leafed through the paperwork.

"They're busy with it now."

"Why didn't she wear the bracelet? How on earth did she manage to take it off?"

"As if I don't want to know!" Jessup leaned over the control panel next to the glass wall and studied the suspect. "I'm afraid you've got your job cut out for you, Ed. It's not an easy case. Not an easy suspect."

Freeman looked up from the file.

"And don't look at me like that," Jessup stood up. "I know better than you do that there's no fucking murder without a fucking motive. And you're gonna find it for me." He smoothed out his thick gray hair and rested his hand on the detective's shoulder. "Now go and talk to him. You're good at that. Strike a chord and try to wheedle out whatever it is he has..."

"Bud," at work, Freeman avoided being too familiar with his boss and old friend, but the moment called for some informality. "What're you driving at? If this Shelby is innocent, he has nothing to worry about. He'll be out in no time, no charges filed. It could be manslaughter for all we know. He could have taken their lewd games one step too far and didn't notice that he'd-"

"Very well," the police chief dismissed his ideas with a shrug. "Just go through the file and have a heart-to-heart with this Shelby before his brief arrives."

Freeman nodded and returned to the paperwork. He knew what his old friend had meant to say. There had been no murders in New York for over five years now. Surely Jessup had already had the Town Hall on the line demanding to get to the bottom of it ASAP. He wouldn't be surprised if Memoria's expert and mnemotech team made it to the station before the man's lawyer did. The Mayor had his head firmly implanted up the corporation bosses' asses. Nothing new there. The suspect was a government lawyer so they should expect DC calling in no time.

Freeman turned the page, thinking. Jessup had passed his anxiety onto him. Scanning pages of small print, he marked out that Shelby had done some serious boxing in the past although an injury to his forearm had prevented him from pursuing a professional career. Freeman made a mental note. The suspect also had a record of police assistance: when Shelby had been twenty years old, he'd defended a fellow trainee student against some hoods. Later in court, Shelby testified against them. The fellow student had apparently been an acting assistant city attorney.

Freeman snapped the file shut, checked his holster and left the observation room, leaving Bud Jessup alone with the recording system.

When he entered the interrogation room, Shelby still sat staring at the desk, his left hand feeling his empty right wrist: the electronic bracelet had been removed as part of the arrest procedure.

The detective flipped the camera on. "Feel strange, eh?"

"What does?" the suspect raised his eyes at Freeman.

"The bracelet. Feels funny when it's not there, doesn't it? As if a body part's missing."

Shelby didn't answer. He sat there staring blankly at the desk.

"Never mind," the detective sat at the desk opposite and placed the file in front of him. "It won't last. Once we're finished, you'll be returned to jail. There, they'll give you the bracelet back, after they've changed the encoding."

He clenched his hands and got serious.

"My name is Ed Freeman and I'm investigating the murder case which lists you as the main suspect at the moment. I'm informing you that under the ninety-third amendment, your name is now on the special category list, the electronic bracelet is temporarily confiscated, and you're deprived of your right to erase your memories. If you refuse to cooperate, we will have to contact Memoria for their expert and mnemotech team. In this case, you'll have to undergo a memory scan."

The detective paused, watching Shelby. "Want to make a statement?"

Shelby raised his head. For a few moments he studied the detective and asked in a calm voice, "Where's my lawyer?"

"He's on his way."

Freeman couldn't help admiring the man's composure. He undid his sleeve buttons and started rolling them up, exposing thick hairy forearms. "I could turn the camera off, you know. Want to say something off record?"

Shelby placed his elbows on the desk and rubbed his handcuffed wrists. He glanced at the mirror partition behind Freeman's back and returned the man's stare. "You have a good face, detective. And I appreciate your trying to speak with me off the record. But," he shook his head, "I won't speak to you without my lawyer."

"I promise," Freeman turned around, nodded to the unseen observer behind the mirror and turned back to Shelby. "I'll have the equipment turned off. I don't want to waste our time. So?" he opened the file and got busy sorting the papers.

Shelby remained silent.

"Frank. You help me, and I'll help you."

Freeman never pressurized his suspects. No need to. Once they realized the Memoria expert was waiting, they would tell him all he needed and then some.

After about a minute, Shelby spoke. He rambled on, reasoning with himself, and immediately the detective managed to single out a few interesting facts. The suspect knew the victim by the name of Kathleen and used to see her occasionally at his place. She always called him herself or contacted him by email. Alternatively, she arrived at his apartment first, preferring to wait for him there. Shelby had gone so far as to entrust her with the door key — something the detective would never have done. To allow a stranger access to your home... oh well. It was one thing sleeping with a woman, or living with one, but these two didn't seem to know themselves what kind of relationship they were having.

Still, at this point he didn't want to interrupt the suspect. Let him pour his heart out.

"I meant to ask her to tell me more about herself tonight. I was going to propose." Shelby tried to raise his hands, but the movement failed, restricted by his handcuffs. He laced his fingers and lowered his wrists onto the desk. "But tell me, detective-"

"You can call me Ed if you wish."

"All right. Ed. Can you give me one reason why I should kill her?"

That's what he himself wanted to know. "Frank," Freeman produced a pen and a clean sheet of paper. "Can anyone confirm seeing you together? How often? Where and when?"

"Our doorman can, I suppose... Also, a friend of mine has a bar in Brooklyn. His name is Mike. Kathleen and I used to go there for a meal or a beer, or to watch a game..." Shelby paused, thinking.

Freeman waited patiently over his notes.

"There's also the girl from the minimarket next door. She used to like Kathleen a lot. She once told me we were a handsome couple. I think," Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose, "I think she might remember how many times she saw us together."

"Excellent. We'll have to ask them a few questions. Now I want you to concentrate and tell me. Did your girlfriend seem concerned about anything lately? Received threats, maybe?"

"No, she didn't," Frank shook his head. "She... She used to be outgoing and cheerful. One thing I did notice before leaving for DC, she seemed kind of preoccupied."

"Did you meet before you left?"

"No. No, we spoke on the phone. She seemed reserved and kept losing track of our conversation."

Freeman was about to ask his next question, but Shelby added,

"Then there was the cabman. On my way home from the airport, I spoke to Kathleen on the phone. Nothing special, really, only that her voice sounded strange. Concerned, you could say. And hoarse. She told me she'd had a cold, but was feeling better already..."

Frank stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose again. "I spoke to the cabman, too. I told him how it had gone in DC, said the place was rebuilt anew..."

"Did you take his plate number?"

"No, but… The cabman is a Hopper veteran guy, huge, broad face, thick mustache. I'm sure you can find him through the airport transportation department..."

"I will," Freeman marked it down.

He could already see the way Shelby was heading. The man was recreating the events on his way home from the airport. Clever move: the more eyewitnesses he had, the more chances he had to be acquitted in court. Jessup seemed to be convinced of Shelby's innocence, but still there was some investigating to be done.

"When I arrived home, the lobby was wall-to-wall media," Frank hurried to add. "I elbowed my way to the reception, collected the mail and went upstairs. Ah! One other thing! Kathleen said to me on the phone that Mrs. Fletcher, my neighbor, had dropped by to see me."

This was something Freeman already knew from the crime scene unit report.

"She came back," Shelby went on, "when I'd just discovered Kathleen's body. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes since I'd spoken to Kathleen on the phone. It means that the murderer was in the apartment at that exact time. He strangled Kathleen with the tie which she'd given me recently. Why would he do that?" Frank put his hands together and shook them. "Don't you think it's too elaborate? He could have hit her on the head with something. Or stabbed her, or broken her neck-"

He could have, Freeman agreed. He couldn't tell Frank, but that was exactly what had happened. She was first knocked senseless, then strangled.

"It's as if the murderer was trying to leave a message. Another thing," Frank raised a warning finger, "Why did the murderer take the trouble of looking for this particular tie? It was shoved away in the back drawer. He could have taken one of those that hung on the wardrobe door. You think it could be jealousy? One thing I don't understand is how he got into my apartment in the first place. Could it be he was on our tail all that time?"

"That's possible," Freeman said, thinking. "The girl could have known him, too. She could have answered the door herself."

"There, you see! So you believe me now, then? What's the point of me killing her? And how do you think I was going to get rid of the body?"

Freeman nodded. Alternatively, the murderer could have made it look like jealousy. Could Shelby be trying to throw them off the scent?

"Have you ever seen her without her bracelet?"

"Why? Ah, no, of course not. No one can remove the bracelets, apart from Memoria people or one of you guys. And even then you can't do it without the explicit consent from the chief of police."

"That's right."

"No," Shelby shook his head, "I never saw her without it."

"Good," the detective shuffled through the papers and produced a yellow post office receipt. "Have you any idea what kind of item this is? Sent to you by general delivery this morning. You see," he pointed with a pen, "This is her name and the date. Kathleen Baker. Any chance this is your late girlfriend?"

Now Shelby didn't know how to react. He stared at the receipt in Freeman's hand, moving his lips. Finally, he leaned back and said,

"No idea who that might be. I didn't check the mail the doorman gave me. So I didn't know about this receipt. I went straight upstairs," he rubbed his forehead.

"Never mind, Frank. We'll find out."

"Listen, Ed," the suspect perked up. "There was another odd thing about this. When I walked in, I didn't see Kathleen's purse anywhere. She always used to have this fancy little purse, black with those square buckles. She loves..." Shelby paused for a second, "loved black. She always used to leave it on the mirror shelf when she came. But the last time, the purse wasn't there."

Freeman paused, then asked,

"Is that it?"

"It is."

Freeman remembered the crime scene unit report. They did point out that the only things that belonged to the victim were her dress, shoes and a coat with its pockets empty. No keys, no IDs, no makeup whatsoever, not even a paper tissue. And the victim didn't look like one of those migrant girls or a penniless odd-job woman. But even those women have some items of personal hygiene on them, so their absence didn't look right. It just wasn't normal.

The door opened a crack. Bud Jessup beckoned Freeman.

"One moment," Freeman rose and went to the door.

Jessup whispered a few words, gave Freeman a meaningful look and retreated, closing the door behind him.

Slowly, Freeman turned around. Frank looked at him, as if expecting them to tell him that Kathleen had somehow survived.

Freeman returned to the desk and leaned across it grabbing at its edges. "I'm afraid you're deep in shit, Frank. This girlfriend of yours, d'you know who she used to work for?"

The lights overhead went out. The station building shuddered, and the blast pounded against Freeman's eardrums. Something hit him hard on the face cutting his eyebrow open. He let out a cry and fell over the desk. When the emergency lighting flickered on, he saw that the lighting fixture had come off the ceiling and landed on his head, cutting his face with broken glass.

Blood flooded his eyes and streamed down his cheek. Freeman squinted, trying to stem the wound, his other hand feeling for the gun.

Shaking his head, a stunned Shelby crawled out from under the desk. He stared at Freeman round-eyed, shouting, "The handcuffs!"

The detective reached into his pocket for the keys and stepped toward Frank. Then, bullets started crackling through the door, covering it with a complex pattern. The camera cracked and exploded. The mirror partition broke into a thousand pieces. A bullet stung Freeman's shoulder. He staggered. Another one hit him, and he grabbed at his chest swaying. His legs gave. Trying to latch onto a chair, Freeman collapsed on his side, using the desk between him and the door as a cover.

For a few seconds, the whole building fell silent. Moving to the door, Freeman finally managed to get the gun out.

"Get under cover," he croaked in whisper.

Shelby jumped up, glanced at the desk, grabbed the paperwork and clattered across the broken mirror to the observation room.

Freeman turned to the exit and raised his gun, trying to keep it steady in both outstretched hands. The interrogation room door swung open. A masked black figure appeared in the doorway, machine gun at the ready.

The bullets sent Freeman to the floor. He didn't get one round off. The man started moving along the wall toward the observation room. Another masked man joined him, then two more. Four faceless figures moved slowly, their pointing guns scanning the room. Two more trained their guns on the detective. He was bleeding heavily, his chest burned, his mind started to collapse.

Another vague figure appeared in the doorway. This one had a smudge of white where others had masks. Freeman squinted, trying to focus. A tall blond man looked down at him, his eyes cold. He walked into the room, pointed his silencer at Freeman's face and said indifferently,

"Where's Shelby?"

Freeman wanted to tell him to get stuffed but all his throat could manage was an unintelligible wheeze. Droplets of bloody saliva landed on the stranger's trouser leg and his combat boot.

The gun in his hand jerked, spitting fire. The breech resounded, ejecting an empty shell. Freeman didn't hear it. He was dead.

Chapter Three. The Letter from the Dead

Later, Frank had trouble remembering how he'd made it to the parking lot. He seemed to have gone down a dimly lit hallway, pushed a door and ducked in, falling out onto a street lined with police vehicles. A cold drizzle hit his face and ran down the back of his neck.

He stole past the cars to a mesh fence. Behind his back, machine gun bursts still rattled, answered by lone loud claps of the besieged cops' service guns.

Frank reached the fence and ducked in behind a car. Holding his breath, he peered out. The station door opened, disgorging two masked people in black carrying machine guns. They didn't seem to be in a hurry to chase him. Frank ducked back in again, pressing his shoulder into a bumper. Only two of them, but there could be more in the building. It looked like a well-planned attack by trained professionals.

Frank listened, then lay on his stomach on the wet tarmac and looked between the cars' wheels. Two pairs of combat boots walked back to the door and disappeared behind it.

Frank exhaled, rose, jumped the fence and ran down the street.

He ran for quite a while until he came to an intersection. Unfocused, he glanced down at his torn coat and his wrists, wrapped in coat fabric. He must have done it to hide the cuffs, but he didn't remember doing it.

Frank looked around and started along the street, as naturally as he could, trying to figure out exactly where he was. Streets were teeming with people: up and down subway stairs, in and out of cars and buses, thousands of people on their way home or to the bar as night descended on New York City. They hurried to get in from the cold drizzle. The dirty blackened sky flashed lightning and rattled with thunder, threatening a good downpour.

Frank raised his collar, craned his neck forward and walked faster in order to lose himself in the crowd. The coming rain would make people take cover in shops' doorways and subway tunnels, making it hard for him to hide. It wasn't easy for a camera to detect him in the crowd, especially because they couldn't trace his movements without his electronic bracelet.

He walked past an electronic supplies store with rows of TV screens in its window. All were tuned to the same channel, and on all of them, the red Breaking News sign flashed in the lower part of the screen. Above it, he saw Kathleen's face. Frank edged along the crowd until his face was pressed against the glass. The news ticker read, Baker's daughter found dead in West End.

The picture of a middle-aged man replaced Kathleen's on the screen. John Baker, the great scientist who had founded Memoria, and one of the most influential people in the world, stared back at Frank. He had Kathleen's eyes and the same shape lips.

How stupid could he be! Frank shut his eyes and wanted to cover his face but remembered that his hands were cuffed and wrapped in fabric.

He should have known!

But of course. That's where Kathleen had acquired her expensive tastes, her manners, her human skills. Frank wasn't quite clear what she had done with herself all those years, though. The murder could have something to do with her job. Just before the explosion, Freeman had indeed said she'd been working but he hadn't told Frank where or for whom.

His own picture came up on the screen. Frank startled. The picture wasn't good quality: it looked like a security camera shot taken somewhere in his neighborhood. Why would the cops use that when they'd just taken his mug shots?

Frank turned away from the window and hurried on, trying not to run as he negotiated the crowd. He felt as if every passerby recognized him from the photo. It took him longer than he would have liked to settle his nerves: the people hurried along each their own way and didn't seem to notice him hurrying his own way, too.

Frank slowed down. He had to think what to do next. He had no money. He had to get rid of the handcuffs and lie low somewhere for a while. And he needed to have a good think. Who attacked the station, and why? What did they want with him?

Frank stopped and felt the inside pocket containing Freeman's paperwork. He had to collect this parcel from Kathleen's at the post office. It could be the key piece of murder evidence that could exonerate him and expose the criminals.

Now how would he do it? They could easily recognize him at the counter. A face isn't something easy to conceal, and even if it were, a postal worker or someone would surely spot the handcuffs and call the cops. There had to be a way around it.

A soft and soothing voice overhead helped him loosen up. It came from the speakers mounted on the wall. "...happiness and prosperity. They are Memoria's gift to you. Plus one free yearly session, yours at any time, in one of our branches all over the world. Memoria's caring staff will be pleased to-"

The rest of the pitch was drowned out by the honking of traffic. A bright orange flower blossomed on a large publicity screen mounted on the building's corner. Frank felt the urge to walk into one of their branches and take advantage of the offer. But to do that, he would have to fill out a special form giving his name. that would allow their computer to identify him as a suspect on the run. Frank could barely resist the desire to erase Kathleen's death from his memory, but that wouldn't drop the charges against him. And you couldn't change your identity as fast and as easy as your memories. He could give them a false name pretending to be a migrant wishing to go legal, but this wouldn't work, either, because he didn't have an electronic bracelet. No, Memoria was of no help to him. He had to deal with it himself.

He saw a plaque with the name of the street. It took him a moment to find his bearings. This was Brooklyn. Why had the cops taken him so far from his home? Had they anticipated the assault? Or could they have known about Kathleen all along and just played with him to make sure he'd been involved?

He walked faster. Mike's bar had to be about a block away. Mike owed him two hundred bucks since their student days when he'd put it in his head that he didn't want to be a lawyer any more. Frank had lent it to him to help get Mike's little business going.

Mike had been a better student, with the potential of landing the assistant city attorney's job, but he'd chosen an entirely different walk of life. Apparently, there'd been an incident of some kind which had made the then-intern Mike change his mind.

Frank turned the corner, walked to the next intersection and turned again into a street parallel to the one with the Memoria promotion screen. A bolt of lightning flashed, drowning the buildings in white dazzle. A clap of thunder followed. Large raindrops hit the sidewalk and rattled on windowsills and concrete overhangs, covering window panes with thick sidelong rivulets of watery bubbles.

Frank ran the length of the last three buildings hoping Mike would be in. His friend had even promised Frank the bar's discount card once but had never kept his promise.

He crossed yet another street and wiped the water from his face, cursing himself for his simple-mindedness. What was the point in trying to second-guess his friend's motives? It was one thing calling on an old friend to see if he could pay back an old debt; and quite another when half the city knew Frank had murdered the heiress to the Baker empire. Knowing it, Mike could do all kinds of funny little things. Frank had to be on his guard. Let's just hope that the former acting assistant city attorney hadn't forgotten Mike's defending him from a bunch of hoods who tried to put the screws on him.

The attack had been behind Mike's decision to quit law. But then it had also secured their friendship. They used to get together in Mike's bar to have a chat about their studies over a glass of Bourbon.

Frank thought better than to use the front entrance. He traced the building, entered an inner court, had a quick look around and opened the back door.

Mike employed a couple of very decent cooks and several waiters — all migrants, nine in total. But now his kitchen stood empty. Frank pushed the serving door and opened it a crack.

Mike sat straddling a bar stool by the door watching the TV news. The only three patrons sat at the far table over their beers and pistachio nuts. Here, too, the waiters were nowhere to be seen.

How weird. Frank crouched and sneaked behind the bar, lowering his body onto the floor.

Mike sensed and turned around. His eyes rounded. He stared at his friend, unable to speak. Frank whispered that he hadn't killed Kathleen Baker and used his teeth to pull off the scrap of fabric from his cuffed hands.

"I'm up to my ears in shit because of this relationship. All I need are some dry clothes," he added in a low voice. "Some kind of hat would be good, and a few bucks, too. Then I'll be on my way."

Mike pursed his lips. His eyes scanned the bar. He reached for a bottle of Bourbon, picked a tumbler off the rack, then reconsidered and put it all back.

"Follow me," he nodded.

The other end of the bar joined a slightly protruding wall that partially concealed the barman from customers' prying eyes. In the wall was a door to a small utility room, lined with shelf units. Mike waited as Frank crawled into the room on all fours, hiding from the customers. Mike followed him in and bolted the door behind himself. He took his own gray fleece jacket and hat off the coat rack.

"Put these on," he placed the clothes on a shelf, reached for his wallet and thumbed out two hundred dollars.

"Thanks," Frank took the money and once again showed him his cuffed hands. "First off, we've got to remove these."

Mike didn't think long. He reached up to the shelves and pulled out a couple of cardboard boxes. Having rummaged through them, he produced a large bunch of keys and dangled them in front of Frank. He could see that not all of them were keys: some looked like hooks strongly reminiscent of a set of picks.

"What's that?" Frank asked.

"Ask no questions, hear no lies," a faint smile crossed Mike's face. "Show me your hands."

In less than a minute, the cuffs were off.

"Where did you get them from?" asked Frank, rubbing his wrists.

"A cop friend couldn't foot his bill once. So he left these as security." Mike flicked the keys in his hand.

"He didn't happen to've left anything else, did he?"

A cop leaving Mike a set of picks as a deposit was hard enough to believe. He couldn't have also left a gun, surely?

Once again Mike rummaged through the box and produced a shiny detective badge. Frank took the piece of metal, weighing it in his hand. "A fake, I reckon?"

His friend nodded and added, "A good one. You think you can tell the difference?"

Frank twiddled the badge in his hands, shrugged and put it in his pocket. Not as good as a gun, but it will have to do. "Thanks."

"Where are you to now?" Mike avoided meeting his eyes. His friend looked frightened: he'd parted with the money too easily, helped him remove the handcuffs, even given him the badge.

"Post office," Frank turned to the door.

"What for?" he heard behind his back.

"Got some mail to collect. I think they want me dead. I need to find out why," he unbolted the door.

"They said on television the whole thing was migrants' doing," Mike hurried to add. "They said you'd worked for them. Said you'd planned to plant a bomb at Memoria's HQ but failed."

Frank looked back at him. Mike gulped and went on,

"They said you'd killed Kathleen Baker to avenge your father who had fought Hopper in Bellville's army. Now they've closed the migrant camps, and all the migrants working in town got to report to Bronx before midnight." Desperation and fear in his eyes, he kept talking. "The Mayor is about to declare code orange and introduce a curfew. They're talking about starting a reserve call-up."

"Including the veterans?"

"Also."

"But I — I didn't kill Kathleen! I wasn't going to plant any bombs, either!"

Mike raised his hands. "Mike, please. Keep your voice down."

Frank couldn't believe his ears. Somebody was busy setting him up, cleverly planting false evidence.

"I didn't kill her," he repeated in whisper.

"I do believe you." Mike nodded. "I'm sorry if it had to come to this..."

Frank pushed the door, strode past the bar and left the building through the back.

Mike paused staring at the shelves. Then he pushed the boxes back, reached for the door handle, stepped into the doorway and stopped. What he hadn't told Frank was that there now was a price on his head. Twenty thousand dollars for the information on his whereabouts and another hundred thousand for assisting in his arrest.

A moment later, Mike was reaching for the ancient wall phone next to the utility room door. He was dialing the police assistance line.

Chapter Four. One Against All

Frank's plans were simple. He would collect Kathleen's parcel at the post office claiming to be the police interrogator, Ed Freeman. The badge would help him. Of course it was a fake, but the postal workers would hardly bother to check the number or verify it with the police. The Collection counter had to be operated by some youngster with a green light on his bracelet: his job not important enough to employ an older, more responsible person.

The parcel could just be his salvation, the proof of his innocence. Frank had no idea what made him so sure but he trusted his gut instinct. They accused him of assisting terrorists, of the assault on the police station and an attempt to blow up the Memoria tower. He had no time to waste if he wanted to find out who the assailants in black were, whose toes Kathleen had stepped on, and why they wanted his head, of all people.

Frank didn't want to risk going by subway. He flagged down a cab. Surprisingly, the first driver stopped for him, a dark man with thick long dreadlocks. The rain must have had something to do with it, as the streets were almost deserted — either that, or he had no reservations.

Frank got in. Straight away, the familiar smell of leather filled his eyes and nostrils with moisture. He sneezed and gave the driver the address.

"Are you all right, sir?" the cabbie drawled. "You don't sound too good."

Frank wiped his eyes and blurted out he was allergic to leather.

"Oh!" The driver glanced in the mirror. "Sorry to hear that." He took one hand off the wheel, reached into the glove compartment and produced a packet of tissues. "There, sir. Take this."

"Thanks a lot," Frank mumbled.

He took the packet, tore off the plastic flap and blew his nose into a fresh tissue. When he raised his head he saw his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His allergy might just do him a good turn. He could blame it for hiding his face behind a tissue.

They soon reached the post office address on the receipt. Frank was back in Manhattan now. The rain had all but stopped but the clouds still clung to the sky. He gave the driver a generous tip, thanked him for the tissues and got out.

Once inside the post office, Frank looked around, all the time sniffling and covering his face with a tissue. At that hour, the benches along the wall had no customers waiting, and the Collection counter looked deserted. The figure of a teller loomed in the farthest booth from the door. Stacked on plastic shelving behind his back, lay yellow boxes taped with red scotch tape, envelopes of all sizes, and plastic bags.

Frank approached the counter, sneezed, wiped his nose and produced a new tissue.

"How can I help you?" A gaunt middle-aged man behind the glass rose and leaned against the counter. His electronic bracelet flashed orange. The manager's silver name tag glistened on the lapel of his jacket.

Damn. Frank coughed to conceal his awkwardness. Just his luck. He pulled himself together, produced the badge and showed it to the manager. Then he handed him the receipt.

"Excuse me," he mumbled, his nose running, his eyes streaming. "Excuse me," he wiped his face and went on more clearly, "I am Detective Freeman from Police Department. I'm here to collect some mail. Here's the receipt." He showed the paper to the manager, spat into the tissue, took out a fresh one and covered his face with it. "Damn this allergy. Everything to please…"

The manager inspected him through the glass.

"Have you heard what happened in West Side today?" Frank asked him.

The man twitched his head. Was it a yes or a no?

"I'm talking about the murder. Kathleen Baker," Frank added, just in case.

"I have."

"The mail is evidence. A very important piece of evidence. I'm here to retrieve it."

"I understand that. In order to give you the mail, I need to make a phone call to the station first. Detective Freeman — what did you say your first name was?"

"I didn't," Frank mumbled behind the tissue. "It's Ed."

"Very well," the manager picked up the phone, popped his glasses on and started punching in the number.

Fucking paper-pusher. Frank blotted his eyes and tried to gauge his own body. He could breathe much better now. Looked like the allergy bout was nearly over. What wasn't so good was the news that the old manager was about to hear at the station. Most likely, Freeman was dead. The bullets had hit him in the chest and the shoulder. He'd told Frank to duck in, saving his life. Frank should now use this chance the detective had given him. He had to obtain the package whatever it cost, but without giving himself away.

"This package, is it very big?" Frank spoke. "You think I can manage it on my own?"

The manager winced, hung up, took his glasses off and turned to the shelves. After a brief search, he showed Frank a box the size of a small pack of Oreos, put it on his desk and reached for the phone again.

That was better. Frank could grab the box now and escape by breaking a window. The manager dialed the police department again when the door swung open behind Frank's back.

"Put the phone down!" a voice growled from the doorway.

Trying to look calm, Frank turned around. Two men stood by the door, tall and fit, their faces unfriendly, their eyes deeply set and the skin, unnaturally smooth and drawn tight over their bones. One was bald, and the other wore a knitted cap, but Frank was almost sure there was no hair under it, either.

The pair reminded Frank of the airport cabbie who'd been so eager to drag him into his cab. He'd looked very much like these two.

"National Security Agency," the bald man produced an ID.

They approached the booth, walking in step. Frank covered his face with a tissue and stepped aside.

The two didn't look like federal agents, but they did look like the station attackers. Only these two had no helmets, no masks and no bulletproof jackets. They wore thick black jackets, combat trousers with side pockets, gloves and combat boots. Frank could bet his bottom dollar they had guns hidden under those jackets.

The one in the knitted cap glared at Frank, his bald-headed partner, at the manager. The latter squinted at all three men. An awkward silence hung in the air, broken by the manager.

"How can I help you?" he flustered in a shaking voice.

The bald one leaned against the counter's edge under the window, lowered his head like a young bull preparing to charge at the glass, and said,

"There must be... mail… from Kathleen Baker… general delivery..." he seemed unable to spit out more than two or three words at a time which made him sound like an information machine. "It was sent... to your office."

The manager let out a nervous little cough and glanced at Frank.

Now Frank had little doubt that these were two of the attackers, two of the force which was hunting him down. Now they'd come to collect Kathleen's package.

At that moment, the guy in the knitted cap gasped, recognition in his eyes.

"He-" he pointed his finger at Frank who couldn't wait any longer. Frank's right fist collided with the man's chin and, once the jaw snapped, his left one went for the ribs. The man heaved and collapsed at Frank's feet.

The second man unzipped his jacket in one well-practiced motion. His hand reached under his arm. But Frank failed to reach him: the bald man retreated a few steps and pulled out his gun. His actions were much better organized than his speech: his thumb pushed the safety catch, and the breechblock clanged under the palm that covered the weapon. When the gun was about to go off, Frank felt a blow to his knee, and another one that hit his calf. His legs gave way in agony, and a powerful figure rose in front of him. Frank barely had time to cover his head when a headbutt from the knitted cap sent him flying against the wall.

The bald man's partner — who'd scrambled off the floor — had blocked the line of fire. Pure luck. He bared his bloodied teeth, grabbed a collapsed Frank by the collar — and received another blow as Frank buried his knuckles into the man's Adam's apple.

The man's throat made a hoarse noise, and Frank's face was showered with spit. Frank doubled up, pulling his bent legs into his stomach, and kicked knitted-cap toward his partner. The latter stepped aside in a fluid motion, letting his brother-in-arms hit the empty benches. Again Frank was at gunpoint and couldn't reach the shooter.

Doubtful he'd be as lucky second time round.

Something bright and yellow, the size of a football, shot out of the counter window. The bald one swung round to face the manager and pulled the trigger twice.

Although deafened by the shots, Frank leapt at the bald man. The shattered glass was still rattling behind his back and the yellow box, pierced by a bullet, was still falling, when he karate-chopped the hand holding the gun. His other hand was stopped mid-air by a counterpunch as the man struck back.

Frank turned his body to the right and stepped forward to minimize the distance. The other one's fist brushed past his ribs. The man's eyes glistened when Frank's elbow collided with his cheekbone. Another knee kick to his hip, topped up with a fist to his nose, and Frank knocked the man to the ground.

He didn't have a chance for a breather: the knitted cap guy had come to and was trying to get up, leaning against the bench with one hand and trying to reach for his holster with the other. Frank stepped closer. The man attempted to shield himself with his elbow but failed and got kicked in the jaw.

The man yelped. His head tilted backward. He collapsed, hit his chin against the bench and became silent.

"The package!" Frank gasped as he turned to the counter. "You-" he strode across the office, "You all right?"

The old manager lay between the shelves in the heap of boxes and plastic bags that had tumbled down. He breathed fitfully, his eyes wide open, his hand clasping the wound in his chest. Dark blood, almost black, was oozing between wizened fingers.

Frank looked back at the door, then at the motionless attackers.

"Shit!"

He reached through the broken glass window and took Kathleen's package, then reached for the phone.

"Shit!"

He dialed the rescue service.

The manager erupted in convulsions, opened his mouth, sucked in air with a wheeze — and stopped moving.

"What kind of emergency are you having?" the receiver resounded with the answering machine's mechanical voice. "Press one for the fire brigade; press two for ambulance; press three for police…"

Frank hung up and gingerly started for the door.

He nearly stumbled over the stunned attacker and stepped over him. Seeing his hat on the floor, he dropped the phone to pick it up. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled the knitted cap off the man's head — damn it, he was bald, as well, — and ran to the door.

He should have taken the back exit, but Frank had no time left to go looking for it. A blond, cold-eyed man was mounting the steps to the front door. He wore the same gear as the false security agents who now lay on the post office floor. Amazement flashed in the blond man's eyes. Just for a split second, he slowed down — and immediately reached under his jacket.

Frank shouldered him off the steps and onto the sidewalk. He wanted to dash across the street when he noticed yet another black-clad, bald-headed goon appearing out of a Jeep parked on the opposite side of the street. A second Jeep had just pulled up behind the first one. Seeing the reinforcements arrive, Frank dashed along the sidewalk to the nearest intersection. He ran into a passerby, very nearly falling and dropping the package, lunged forward to regain his balance and stumbled on, stomping his way through the puddles. As he reached the corner of the building, he slipped on the wet tarmac, turning to face his pursuers.

The blond man and the bald-headed goon were following him. Tires screeching, the second Jeep pulled out. The first one was already snaking onto the road, honking for other drivers to let him into the right lane.

Police sirens wailed. Frank turned the corner hoping that his pursuers wouldn't use their guns on the street busy again now that the rain was over. Mistake. A police car swung out into the intersection. More tire screeching. Shots rang out.

It took Frank some time to realize they didn't target him. He looked back. The blond man and his partner stood on the corner emptying their guns into the arriving patrol car. They simultaneously snapped their clips, removing them, inserted new ones and continued firing.

Most passersby panicked and sought cover by the building walls. One froze in his tracks, lost. Somebody screamed. A Jeep shot out into the intersection. It rammed the patrol car throwing it toward an edifice on the opposite side of the street, and stopped. A door opened, letting out yet another masked goon. On his shoulder he carried a thick green tube.

The screech of brakes forced Frank to recoil back to the wall. Another patrol car approached the intersection, blocking the street in front of him.

Frank glanced at the goon with the tube. The man lowered himself onto one knee, and Frank bolted in the opposite direction. A deafening clap resounded behind his back, followed by a whizz; then an explosion. The blast wave knocked him off his feet. The hot wind burned the back of his head and blew away his hat. Frank's knees and elbows hit the sidewalk; he grazed his chin but didn't let go of the package.

His head rang, his ears rumbled with the impact. The street was quickly submerging in thick smoke coming out of the burning car.

Frank scrambled onto his feet and staggered along the wall, reaching for his hat on the way, when still more shots rang out behind.

Bullets hit stones overhead, showering him with splinters. Fear and danger made Frank disregard pain. He ducked between two parked cars. On the other side of the street was a subway entrance where passersby now took cover from the bullets.

If he could just make it! Frank craned his neck to peer through the car windows at the junction covered in smoke. Two vague figures were sneaking toward him along the building wall. A cop jumped out onto the road. He, rather stupidly, called out to them and raised his gun. They turned on him and shot almost simultaneously.

He couldn't wait much longer. Frank dashed across the street to the subway entrance. He ran down the stairs into the tunnel and bumped into another cop who tried to stop him. Both fell onto the mosaic floor. Frank dropped the package and landed on top of the cop as his radio squalled. The speaker crunched, hissed, then squalled again. The duty officer's voice came through the white noise, ordering all squads to detain Frank Shelby and giving his new description. He ended the message saying that a group of terrorists under Shelby's command had opened fire on civilians in the city center.

Frank got up on all fours, grabbed the parcel and met the cop's glare. Still flat on his back, the man reached for him. Frank smashed him on his chin, blocked his hand and pressed his knee down on the man's stomach in order to get up. But the cop's other hand grabbed his trousers and pulled him down.

Frank swung and kicked him in the head. The man weakened his grasp. Frank finally rose and ran to the ticket gate. They were busy as the crowd tried to take cover inside, shouting and screaming. A woman was wailing.

Frank pushed a man aside, hit another in the ribs, made his way to the gate, jumped over its steel bars and ran down the stairs to the platform.

He glimpsed the crooked face of a woman whose cheek had been struck by a bullet. Her blood squirted onto Frank's clothes, making him recoil. He looked back just in time to notice a shooter behind the nearest column and bolted after a departing train.

He managed to catch up with it. He pushed himself off the edge of the platform and launched himself onto the footplate of the last carriage right under the windscreen. His feet slid off the narrow plate. Frank yelped and grabbed at a wiper, barely holding on to it. His sweaty palm kept slipping. The wiper started bending. If he wanted to use the other hand, he would have to drop the parcel first.

At the risk of falling under the wheels, Frank grabbed at the handrail below. Sleepers flashed by underfoot, and the fear of falling paralyzed his mind and body. He screamed. To his one side, columns and people gleamed in the lamp light. The train gained speed and was about to disappear into the dark tunnel.

His knee hit a bulge of some kind. Frank made himself look down. The trailer coupling was protruding a few inches from under the car. Frank placed his foot onto it, pulled himself up, sat himself down on the footboard and let out a sigh when the train rolled into the tunnel.

Chapter Five. Nowhere to Run

The view of the Manhattan skyline filled a wall-to-wall window. The wind had changed and was now sending the thunderclouds toward the ocean. For a split second, they drifted apart revealing a scarlet strip of sunset and flooding the roofs and the gigantic construction site on the coastline with red.

Captain Bud Jessup closed his eyes and turned away. Two men sat at the desk in front of him. One was Russell Jefferson Claney, a member of Congress and Honorary Chairman of Memoria's board of directors. The other, Joe Binelli, the corporation's chief executive.

The door into the council chamber opened. The secretary brought in a trayful of fresh coffee. She started passing the cups around while the gray-headed Jessup watched Claney. He couldn't help wondering why this ageing bald-headed man, a good fifteen years his senior, still looked so good. His complexion was smooth, with the exception of a few negligible crowfeet in the corners of his eyes. His scalp and cheekbones looked almost polished, like the precious walnut paneling of the council chamber's walls.

Jessup rubbed his stubbed chin and looked at Binelli. Compared to Claney, the executive was a mere wreck: an obese pig oozing fat all over the chair. He was larger than even Freeman, God rest his soul, with his neck concealed by folds of multiple chins, his droopy cheeks and his constant panting. Binelli grabbed at the edge of the desk as if expecting them to take him to the slaughterhouse any minute. Skittish, as opposed to a composed Claney with his eyes glistening like steel spikes, ready to bare his shark's teeth.

Jessup sensed Claney's stare. The secretary wondered if they needed anything else. The Congressman gave her a dismissive nod. He sat up in his chair, crossed his legs and clasped his fingers round his knee. Cold-headed and in control, ready to handle whatever came his way.

The captain didn't like either of them. He wasn't sure which one he'd rather deal with. Still, he had little choice. The city attorney hadn't issued a search warrant for the Memoria's HQ — insufficient grounds, apparently, — but confirmed the directors' consent to Jessup's examining Kathleen Baker's desk — already long after local security had snooped around her work place. Nothing to glean there.

Jessup was beside himself. He'd rather turn the whole building inside out, confiscate their computers and servers, visit the laboratories and question the staff. He was almost a hundred percent sure that the Memoria's dons stood behind the girl's murder. After all, someone had hacked the police frequencies and entered the information that Frank Shelby was the head of a terrorist group which led to confusion in the department and patrols. Before her death, Kathleen had managed to send Shelby a package of some kind. Once he's escaped during the attack on the police station — and most likely, he'd been the one the attackers had wanted to eliminate — he'd been the first to make it to the post office. Had the suspect's friend the bartender not called the police, Jessup wouldn't have known anything about the parcel. But the attackers, armed to the teeth, had also followed Shelby into the center of Manhattan to start yet another massacre. Three officers killed on the spot, two more in a bad way, and yet more civilians killed.

Binelli sipped the hot coffee and put the cup back onto the desk. In his fat hand, it looked like a plastic toy. He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat. Claney didn't move. His eyes glinted, that was the extent of the Congressman's self-restraint.

Bastards. Ed Freeman and several officers had just died because of them.

Jessup took out a notepad and clicked the pen open. "Who is the chief of security?"

"Joe Binelli," Claney answered. "He's an acting chief while we're looking for a suitable candidate to replace him. You, officer… eh…"

"Captain Jessup," he reminded.

"Yes, Captain. Would you like to accept the post, maybe? The Mayor speaks very highly about you. Doesn't he, Joe?"

"Ahem," Binelli puffed out his cheeks, coughed into his fist again and nodded.

They had to be kidding. Jessup made a note on his pad. Imagine them mentioning the Mayor, when only two hours ago he himself had called Jessup giving him the official version of the incident. The department guys knew nothing about it yet, but give it another six hours, and the news would flood the media: newspapers, TV channels and the Web. And Jessup would have a lot of explaining to do.

Dickheads. Apparently, the Mayor had finally relaxed his butt cheeks and accepted his position as Memoria's poodle. He's not the only one, though: just before Jessup had left for Memoria's HQ, he'd received a call from the White House. They guaranteed their support after making it clear that Shelby had to be recaptured within the next twenty-four hours... not necessarily alive. Or rather, as dead as possible. Assholes. None of them had mentioned the dead officers, as none spoke about their killers, either.

"What kind of work did Kathleen Baker do for Memoria?" Jessup stared at Binelli.

He gave Claney a bewildered glance which made it clear that the honorary chairman was such in name only. In reality, Claney was the man at the helm: the corporate smoke screen and their talking head whenever Memoria needed a face to put on TV or to make a media statement.

"Scientific research," Binelli managed.

How's that for a vague job description. Jessup shifted his stare to Claney.

"Tell me more."

The Congressman made no secret of it.

"You see, Captain, the Corporation doesn't only provide for the civilian market. I'm sure you're familiar with the personality correction program, which is successfully applied by the US police for law enforcement. But there are things," he leaned forward placing his hands on the table, "of which many don't know, not even in the White House. Only the Pentagon is in the know. Kathleen Baker was one of our workers with access to classified information; one of those who work on the strengthening of our country. You have to agree its political situation is complicated to say the least. And when you think about the international arena and the tension in Europe! Do you understand me, Captain?"

"Absolutely."

They left him no choice. Tomorrow morning, by lunchtime at the latest, the case would go to the Feds. That this corporate lowlife should get off for the deaths of so many people! Jessup pursed his lips, nodding, and said,

"Gentlemen, while I'm on the case, I'm obliged to ask you to come to the police station and make a statement." He glanced at his watch. "Nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

"As you wish, Captain," Claney answered, composed as before. "Our lawyers will be there to see you."

Jessup rose and put the pen and the notepad back into his pocket. He meant to ask another question, about a certain William Bow, the dead woman's co-worker. But their conversation had gone off the rails, and as for Bow, Jessup couldn't get hold of him. Apparently, at lunchtime Bow had been rushed to a private clinic someplace in New Jersey. The clinic's personnel had refused to let Jessup's men in or give them the man's diagnosis: all that Jessup knew was it had been some acute infection or other.

The detective crossed the council chamber, lingering by the door under Claney's stare. He didn't return it, then pushed the door open and walked out into the reception area.

* * *

The Congressman turned to Binelli. The corporation manager stooped, shrinking his head into his shoulders. Binelli knew this heavy stare only too well. A killer's stare. He wanted to clear his throat again. Taking the tiny cup with shaking fingers, he poured the coffee into his large plump mouth. He burned his tongue and his palate, gagged and couldn't help coughing. He became nauseous. Then he heard Claney's harsh voice,

"Dickens? Come now." The Congressman released the intercom key and sat back.

The wall to their left slid sideways, letting out a tall blond man with cold pale eyes. Binelli winced and turned away. He listened as he stared out of the window.

"Have you found him?" Claney asked.

"We keep listening to the police frequencies, sir," the blond man answered. "My mole at Jessup's department contacts me every half-hour. I don't have enough men to cover all of Shelby's contacts, though. The police have wider opportunities in this respect. I'm just thinking how I could use them, sir."

The Congressman slapped his hand on the desk. Binelli started and glanced at the blond man. He didn't bat an eyelid. Both Claney and Dickens — Memoria's unspoken security chief — had enviable nerve, the only difference being that the latter remained Claney's subordinate and was accountable only to him.

"You really think we should get the pigs involved?" the Congressman nodded at the door that had let Jessup out less than two minutes ago. "They do have the means and staff to help us, that's for sure." He clasped his hands, placed his elbows on the desk and said icily,

"It was your job to keep an eye on the Baker girl. You should have established all of her contacts, including Shelby first of all. If the police find him before we do, and if they recover the hard disk..." The Congressman glared at Binelli. "Want to tell me something, Joe? Cat got your tongue?"

"Ahem," the manager licked his dry lips. "Russell, we… Dickens had to think fast…"

"Too fast, apparently!" All composure left Claney's face, replaced by fury. "You got rid of this Kathleen girl without letting me know first! You've trashed the police station! You've started a shootout right in the center of Manhattan! And here's the result: Shelby's on the loose, bracelet-free, the hard disk in his pocket! How do you suggest we find him?"

The Congressman's glare stabbed Dickens who didn't blink an eyelid.

"Kirk," Binelli hurried to step in, turning to the blond man, "didn't you say that the hard disk had a special connector?"

"Yes, sir," Dickens nodded. "You can only access the data either from Baker's workplace or from your own."

"But the police," Binelli twisted in his chair, reached for the cup, remembered it was empty and lay his clenched fists on the desk to hide his trembling fingers. "If the police found the hard disk, would they be able to access the data?"

"Theoretically yes, sir. The data is encrypted by a built-in encoder. The key to it is in the security server's memory." Dickens spoke as if reporting to a sergeant major on parade. His pale eyes remained cold. "In order to copy it and access the data, you need to obtain the remote password. And I'm the only person who can enter it, sir."

"Which means-" Claney turned to Binelli.

"Which means neither Shelby nor the police can read it."

The manager held his breath watching the Congressman's reaction. For a brief moment, Claney hesitated.

"I want you to find Shelby," he looked up at Dickens' face. "Tomorrow morning I'm meeting with the President. The day after, he and I unveil the Vaccination project. You have just over twenty-four hours to do it."

With a wave of his hand, Claney dismissed him. Mechanically, Binelli nodded. The blond man about-turned and headed for the opening in the wall.

* * *

The raincoat and cap smelled of mothballs. Frank had bought them from a migrant by the subway exit. Both looked as if the man had unearthed them in his storage box that very morning, and then only in order to sell them.

Frank sniggered at his own rambling. He had more important things to think about. He rubbed his cheeks and perked up. He needed to make a plan and decide, at the very least, what to do next and where to spend the night.

Frank hid his ears under the cap, raised the collar and shoved his hands deep into the raincoat pockets, feeling for a hefty metal-cased device in the right one. Frank didn't know much about computers but this definitely looked like the kind of thing to be hooked up to one. The device resembled a portable hard drive encased in a sturdy — possibly, even anti-shock — casing.

Now why would Kathleen have sent it to him, of all people? Why by mail, of all things?

Frank stopped in his tracks. He shut his eyes and gave out a sharp breath, but the nightmare refused to go: Kathleen, staring at him with her eyes glazed over; the old post office manager, gasping, his agonized mouth bleeding; the woman in the subway and her disfigured, harrowed face.

The street swam before his eyes. His ears droned. Frank pulled his hands out of his pockets, turned to face the wall and grasped at it, feeling the stone. He vomited violently, spasms squeezing his throat. He spat pink and yellow, wiped his mouth and breathed deeply. After a minute, he started again along the street.

The rain had stopped, but it hadn't made matters any better. A cold Northern wind dragged the thunderclouds away from Harlem. Migrants hurried toward him along the sidewalk heading for the subway entrance. They gave him a wide berth with his swaying, drunken gait. Mike must have told him the truth about the curfew: all Bronx camp dwellers seemed in a hurry to leave Manhattan.

Frank stole a glance at his watch: very soon the streets would be deserted. A patrol car appeared at the intersection, so he shoved his hands back into his pockets and strode as naturally as he could, his back straight, The cops drove past paying no attention to him.

The moment the patrol car turned off, Frank crossed the street to the busier side, passed the intersection and joined a bus queue not quite knowing yet why he was doing it. The bus wasn't the safest option: sooner or later he'd attract attention by not getting off, and either the driver or one of the passengers would recognize and report him.

The line started moving — deep in his thoughts, he hadn't even noticed the approaching bus. Frank was the last to get on. He handed the driver a fifty-dollar note. The driver didn't look surprised: the proximity of Bronx with its hordes of braceletless migrants made cash transactions a common-or-garden occurrence. To pay for a ride, normally all you had to do was sweep the bracelet over the scanner by the entrance allowing the system to read the chip and extract the fare from your personal account, but without a bracelet, migrants couldn't use electronic payments.

Without looking at Frank, the driver counted his change. Frank made his way along the crowded bus, grabbed onto a rail overhead and stood there staring at the tinted door window.

Smoothly, the bus accelerated; the engine purred in the back, giving a light whine whenever the gears changed; the hydraulic brakes hissed.

He had to make up his mind. Frank rubbed his temple, felt the graze on his chin and froze as his eyes followed a poster on a newsstand wall. Only a week left till the Fifty-Ninth Boxing Cup. Next to him, two dark-skinned guys were busy commenting on the last Cup, one of them rhapsodizing over the final when a certain Red Jack had knocked Rudy Novak out in the twenty-first second.

Frank listened with half an ear trying to find his bearings. He turned round and touched the speaker's sleeve,

"D'you know if Max's club is far from here?"

The two exchanged glances. One of them seemed to be of Hindi origin, the other, an African American.

"Why, do you know him?" the Hindi squinted.

"I do."

The bus jerked under braking. The passengers swayed, a few unhappy voices cursing the driver. Frank had to grab at the exit rail with his other hand.

"You get off here," grabbing his friend's shoulder, the black guy pointed out of the window as the bus kept going. "go past two houses and turn north. Then it's about a block further."

"Thanks," Frank saluted him and started for the door. "Now I remember." He smiled, unable to conceal his excitement.

"Are you one of Max's students?" The Indian leaned across the rail and touched Frank's shoulder. "We seem to be about the same age. I remember most of them, but not you..."

"Nah. Just a friend," Frank jumped out not waiting for the door to finish opening.

Shame he hadn't had a chance to find out more. He wondered if the club still functioned. Did Max still train new competing boxers?

The bus moved on, drenching him in acrid dirty smoke. Frank turned a corner and strode West toward Seventh Avenue.

Another quarter of an hour, and he'd be there. He'd see his old coach. How could he have forgotten his second father? Frank thumped his fist into his palm. His coach used to say that every problem had a solution, whether in the ring or outside of it. He used to say that thinking was man's main weapon. A thousand times so! Which was exactly why Frank had won all those competitions for him and later, had entered and even graduated from law school. All right, the injury had hindered his boxing career, but what difference did it make now? He'd made up for it with his brilliant legal advance. Now he was a government lawyer, all thanks to his old coach and Frank's own ability to use thinking as a weapon.

Frank recalled the past year's events and felt embarrassed. He'd thrown everything to the wind, all his old principles: he'd fallen for Kathleen and placed all his trust in her. He stopped in his tracks on the curb, nearly jumping the red light. A turning cab honked at him. The lights blinkered and turned green.

Frank hurried across. Had he bothered to find out who Kathleen truly was, had he looked into whatever had rocked her life, he might not have had to rush around like a headless chicken saving his own skin from the police and the black-clad unknowns.

Pointless crying over spilt milk. But it was high time he used his thinking as a weapon. He should ask his coach for a word of advice and find Kathleen's killer.

Frank stopped opposite a dark lane. The club's squat building loomed at the other end. Frank looked around. A woman hurried along the other side of the road, wrapping her coat around herself. A car passed by, blinding Frank with its headlights. He covered his face and turned away. It started drizzling again. Frank's stare followed the receding car. He made sure the woman had already gone a long way without looking back at him and entered the lane.

Max's Boxing Club had two means of access: the main entrance, by walking around the north side of the building and knocking on the tatty front door, or through the back door, by borrowing the key from its hiding place and approaching the club from the lane. Frank chose the one that seemed more familiar and logical in his situation.

He found the key where it had always been, in a groove behind the drainpipe. Frank lingered thinking whether turning up without notice was a good thing to do. It could well be that his former coach had paid Memoria a visit or two and had long forgotten his best disciple.

He shook his head and shoved the key into the keyhole in a heavy steel door. Even if Max weren't around, he could use a night's sleep. Then in the morning he'd decide what to do next, lock the door, replace the key and leave.

The lock clanged. Frank pulled the handle and dived into the dark opening. He was about to bolt the door when the ceiling lamps went on. A baseball bat hit his forearm before smashing into the wall, breaking off a large chunk of plaster.

Frank turned round and pressed his elbows to his sides. His left arm, aiming for the attacker's chin, stopped in mid-air.

"Shelby?" his assailant breathed out as he took another swing with the bat. Max's face, distorted with anger, betrayed amazement quickly replaced with concentration. He lowered the bat.

"It's me," Frank looked into his eyes. "My thinking weapon told me to come and see you. Could we have a word? Then you can either help me or call the police."

Chapter Six. The Mentor

The locker room was the warmest place in the whole club. Frank sat on a bench next to an oil heater and drank the tea made by his coach. Max distrusted coffee and always made his own tea adding his own secret choice of herbs.

Lockers lined the walls. Frank's wet raincoat hung on an open locker door opposite Max. The coach sat on a bench next to Frank's. He still looked fit and strong in his shabby cotton tracksuit. He lowered his gray crew-cut head as he listened to Frank, examining the dead Kathleen's posted device.

"That's it, basically," Frank helped himself to some hot tea and glanced at his coach. "I've got nothing else to tell you. That's all I know."

Max put the device down onto the bench. He removed his glasses and rubbed his swollen eyes.

"I see," he glanced through the open door into the dimly-lit gym and nodded. "I need to make a phone call." He rose and motioned Frank to remain seated. "One phone call. You wait here. I'll be back and we'll talk about it."

He left the locker room. Frank sipped the tea and felt the hem of his raincoat. Still wet. Most of all he'd love to lie down on the bench, wrap himself in something warm and fall asleep for a few hours at least. He gave the bench a longing look, forced himself up and did a few bends and flexes to get the blood going.

His left side and shoulder echoed with pain. He had to admit he'd got a good whack in the ribs in the post office. Plus the old arm injury had manifested itself when he'd grabbed at the train's safety bar trying not to fall onto the subway tracks. Frank rubbed his wrist and flexed his hand. His shaking fingers, hurting and strained, refused to obey.

Never mind. He'd have to ask his coach for something to bandage it with, that's all. No bones broken, and a couple of sprains he could deal with.

He walked into the gym. The wind bellowed through cracks in the window frames despite the thick curtains covering them. The light from the locker room fell on part of the boxing ring, a few gym machines and punch bags hanging on chains from the ceiling. To the left of the ring, a closed door led to the coach's room. There, Max kept his trophies and champion's belts. The room was wallpapered with the pictures of his students.

Hand on the boxing ring rope, Frank walked along the ring. He walked past the punch bag, hit it once or twice and stopped, eyeing the machines with regret. It had been over twenty years since he'd first entered the club's locker room and met his coach.

The gym grew lighter. Frank turned around. Max closed the door and walked toward him.

"I've arranged for an expert to come and have a look at this thingy of yours," Max said walking around the ring. "He's on his way. In the meantime," the coach pulled up his track pants and sank onto a gym machine bench, "I need to tell you something about your father, the war and myself."

Frank's drowsiness was gone. He forgot about his sprained arm and sat on the floor, resting his back against the apron of the boxing ring, his hands on his knees.

"His name was James Shelby," the coach started, looking Frank in the eye. "He was with Bellville's army. Oh yes, he fought against us, your Dad did. But that's none of your fault. And once the war was over and done with, James took the migrants' side. Campaigning for their rights, he was, and he did it good."

His words came as a complete surprise. Frank had no idea Dad had been a migrant himself. He'd died from old war wounds a mere month before Frank was born. Max couldn't have met Dad during the war, but his job at General Hopper's HQ reconnaissance unit — training saboteurs and venturing on rather successful missions — allowed him to glimpse into things. Max must have been good otherwise Hopper's men would have never overpowered Bellville's.

Frank's mother, wary that her husband's past could hurt her boy's future, had one day brought the nine-year-old boy to Max's and told him their story. In return, Max promised that he'd grow a man out of the Shelby boy without letting anyone know whose son he was.

Max had kept his word. He had a good memory for the war and a lot of respect for his enemies. Frank had started his training. He'd inherited his father's competitive nature and wanted to excel at everything he tried. And excelled he had.

Once again, his coach removed his glasses, pretending to wipe the already clean lenses. Giving his story the time to sink in.

"Now the important bit," Max put his glasses back on and continued.

He didn't sound like himself. Frank had never seen his usually reserved coach so excited. But now the subject was too delicate and too dangerous for comfort: apparently, everyone's duty to visit Memoria hadn't been an immediate post-war decision. It had taken the President ten years to introduce obligatory memory cleanups as he'd decided to put an end to the migrants' unwillingness to reject their past.

The only category of population allowed to preserve their memories were Hopper's veterans, indispensable in case of a reserve call-up. The rest of the population was offered the easy choice between either preserving their agonizing memories or acquiring citizenship. This was when the color-tagging had come about: blue, green and orange bracelet lights.

Although migrants were also obliged to wear the bracelets, theirs came with neither citizenship nor electronic banking access. Their bracelets were basic tracking tools. Their rights and movements restricted, migrants were driven together into camps where they were watched like some pre-war criminal convicts had been by means of radio collars.

" Your father was one of its most vigorous opponents," Max put the glasses back into a leather case, adding, "I have to admit I've learned a lot from him. But it took me years."

He raised his eyes to Frank. "So, what do you think about it all?"

"I really can't judge," Frank pressed his fist against his chin. "It was so long ago." He tapped two fingers on his temple. "I just don't get it, sorry. How come that you — a veteran, a sports coach — you speak as if you don't blame the migrants or my father. It's as if you're on their side."

"I want you to remember one thing," Max stood straight, his shoulders wide, his chin up. He looked down at Frank. "Only our memory can make us human."

"What are you getting at?"

"It took me too long to understand a great many things. I don't want you to repeat my mistakes. Had the President made all the veterans have their memories erased there and then, the whole country would have revolted. They would have regarded such a step as betraying them and their ideals. So he'd chosen a soft approach. Those who fought for Hopper got the right to preserve their memories plus the President's support once he was elected. Plus all the aid and other perks that went with it. I have to admit the latter worked best," Max grinned and patted the lifting bench. "I got this little shop thanks to their aid. Because I'm good at this war business... was. All my life I've been training fighters.

"The rest of the population was of two kinds," he went on. "Those born after the war automatically became citizens by birthright. They were not exempt from Memoria's visits even though they were voluntary. The second were the migrants: these visits were forced onto them if they chose to leave their camps. The only difference between the two is the color code of their bracelet signal. As for the veterans, most of us are either dead or on our last legs." The corners of his eyes curled down in a sad grin. "Our cities have risen from ruins but millions of people still live below the poverty line. One-quarter of all the population is crowded into migrant camps."

Max's glazed stare scanned the gym. "What did the authorities try to achieve? You tell me, Frank."

"To bring back order," Frank started and frowned.

"And? Go on."

Frank shifted in his seat stretching his numbed muscles and trying to guess what his old coach was driving at.

"They wanted to allow people to forget about the war. Shift their priorities." He looked up at Max. "Give them a sense of security."

"Closer, but not quite," Max leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've always been the competitive kind. You used to work for the government, dealing with migrant camps. Until today, that is."

"How do you know that? It's classified information."

"Intelligence work leaves its stamp, you know. I can still analyze media messages. You read a few interviews, compare the facts and draw your conclusions accordingly. Okay, so in the case of the Bronx you've all failed big time. The migrants refused to surrender it to the city. I wonder why?"

"The Vaccination."

"Pardon me?"

"During our DC meeting the migrants' representatives demanded we provide information on the Vaccination program," Frank closed his hands and rested his face in them.

"And?"

"It didn't go the way we planned."

"Which is what?"

Frank looked up at him.

"The DC meeting didn't proceed as expected. Things went awry right from the start. The migrant leaders refused to discuss anything until we gave them information on the Vaccination. They demanded its technology from Memoria."

"You know what it's all about?"

"No idea. First time I heard about it."

"Who spoke of the migrants' leaders?"

"Anna Gautier. When her demand was rejected she told them to go stuff themselves."

"The Steel Lady has bared her teeth," the coach chuckled. "Sounds like her. She's the one who wears the trousers in their little shop."

"Exactly! Had she not been head of the Presiding Council, I'm pretty sure the whole migrant situation would have long been resolved. Gautier's well-known for it. She fears no one, she despises authority, and is next to impossible to convince about anything at all."

Max raised a protesting hand. "She knows her decisions' worth. Shows off her strong will." He paused. "The Presiding Council, what's that about now? Is Gautier in charge of something else?"

"She is. Every migrants' camp is managed by a Leading Council. And they in turn are united by the Presiding Council."

"I see," Max fell silent. "All right. Let's give the Vaccination gig a miss for a while. You tell me what the authorities tried to achieve."

Frank felt angry with himself for dwelling too much on the DC meeting. He really should keep their conversation in check. He shrugged.

"You know what the authorities are like. They need to be in control."

"There!" Max rose. Behind the front door, an arriving car honked twice. Max turned to the door and added, "Still, there are three hundred thousand migrants in the New York camp alone. And you can't control them. Gautier is the only person who can. And if you take the whole country... They are a force to be reckoned with." Max traced ring side and headed for the door.

Frank nodded mechanically and mumbled, thoughtful,

"Sure. The migrants are self-sufficient all right. They grow their own vegetables, they even have corn fields to the North of the Bronx. They produce their own electricity, they have wind farms and tidal power. They even sell surplus electricity to the city. Their whole infrastructure aims for New York to depend upon the camp. In this respect, the Bronx is a choice morsel for the authorities. But Gautier will never part with it."

For the first time, he thought about the lay of the land. Now he understood the reasons behind the concrete fence and the roadblocks surrounding the camp. And the fact that New York still boasted the largest police force in the country. The migrants threatened stability because in actual fact, they were a state unto themselves.

So those were the reasons behind the government's year-old secret agreement with the Presiding Council.

Frank was just about to tell his coach about it when Max headed for the front door. He turned the key in the lock, and the door opened, letting in the large shape of a man.

Chapter Seven. It's a Small World

He was bearlike, with a broad face, a fat mustache and two powerful paws like kettlebells. Frank immediately recognized the cabman who'd given him a ride from the airport.

"Come in, quickly," Max grabbed the visitor's hand and pulled him inside. "This is Frank Shelby," he pointed at an open-mouthed Frank. "And this is Barney Douggan," he clapped the bearlike man on the shoulder. "Old friend and partner."

Max locked the door and gave Barney a light shove, "Come in, don't just stand there. Want some tea?"

Finally, Barney Douggan came back to reality. He blinked, adjusting his old army jacket with the shoulder mark of the 101 Paratroopers Division. "What's he doing here?"

The coach turned to him, but Barney didn't give him a chance to reply. "I'm six hours out of the police station. Had to give evidence in the Shelby case. Are you crazy? He's in for a murder and terrorist connections. They can easily trace him by his bracelet. How on earth did he get here?"

His powerful voice echoed over the gym.

"Frank is an old friend," Max said calmly and disappeared inside the locker room. "The police are taken care of," they heard from inside. "They removed Frank's bracelet and didn't have a chance to replace it. So they can't trace anyone, I'm afraid."

He reappeared with the device from Kathleen's parcel in his hands and gave it to Barney. "There, have a look. Tell me what you think about it. You're the expert."

Frank came closer. Barney took the device and turned it around in his hands. He touched the connector, sniffed at it and went on inspecting the box.

"What does he do?" Frank whispered.

"He's a field engineer and liaison officer," Max answered. "Hopper's radioelectronic intelligence group. He's the best. Computers, gadgets, booby traps, the Net, you name it. Just shut it and try to look cool."

"Will do."

Barney looked around, mumbled something about the lack of lighting and headed for Max's office. Frank and the coach followed him. Frank tried to get his head around it. How could this burly wrestler of a man — you couldn't, in all honesty, call him old — be a what, a computer whiz? He looked more like a navy Seal, but not a geek.

Frank took a chair by the door. Max sat at his desk opposite Barney who was inspecting the device under the desk lamp.

"This is some kind of data carrier. Military hardware."

"A data carrier," Max pulled his glasses on and took the device.

"You could say so," Barney glanced at Frank. "But they've worked on it. They've made it lighter, to start with. It feels as if it's steel but it's not. Some kind of composite, I suppose."

Max placed the device onto the desk.

"Second, the connector." Barney turned the device to them and poked the connector with a thick finger. "It's been tampered with."

"Which is good or bad?" Max asked.

"No idea. All army models used to have two ports for cable connection. This one only has one. My educated guess would be," he slid his fingers along the grooves cut in the edges of the case, "that these are to insert the thing into some kind of docking device. Hermetic, maybe. To use it underwater or-"

"I see," Max glanced at Frank. "Anything else?"

"Inside there's a encoding system. Most likely, more than one. You need a key to access it, and the key is normally stored in the Pentagon database. Alternatively, it can be wired into the long-term memory of a submarine, a fighter plane or an aircraft carrier." He shrugged his wrestler's shoulders. "All depends what's in it. What it's for and how important it is. To activate the key you need a password. Even if you bypass the connector and hook the thing up to a regular PC, you still can't read it without the key and the password. You can try and use special password-hacking software but this way it could take you years, with no guarantee of success."

"We need to read it," Max said.

"We?" Barney glanced at Frank and chuckled. He tapped the device. "Any idea where the server would be?"

"I know," Frank said. "It's in Memoria's HQ."

Barney's face darkened.

"And how do you suggest we get there? Shall we storm it with machine guns? Or walk in nicely and ask the receptionist to show us to the source station? Is that what you're suggesting?"

"We do know the source station," Max said. "Don't we, Frank?"

"We do. It's Kathleen Baker's."

"How can you be so sure?" Barney chuckled.

"If she sent it to Frank, then it stands to reason she was the one who recorded it," Max said.

Barney fingered his mustache as he stared at Frank. Finally, he turned to the coach.

"You sure you need it? Max? Any idea what you're dragging me into?"

"You think you can go all the way?" The coach's eyes glistened behind his glasses.

"Max, I've asked you a question."

"Like in the good old days?"

"Answer me."

The two veterans stared into each other's eyes. The coach leaned toward Barney who rested his elbows on the desk, the device in his hands. Frank wriggled in his chair.

"I think," Max reached out and took the device from his friend, "that somebody's trying to start a new war."

Barney slapped his hand on the desk and swore under his breath. Better not ask questions now, Frank thought. These two need to work it out between themselves first.

"All right," Barney's voice sounded tired. "Tell me what you have."

"Tell him your story, Frank. Then we'll see what we have between us."

They didn't have much. Kathleen's murder and her parcel, plus two attacks on Frank: one to get rid of the witness and the other to get hold of the device. That was it. The Memoria trail was apparent but it had to be proven first.

They couldn't go to the police as whoever it was could make an attempt on Frank's life again. And veterans had no sources of their own in the police department.

"Where are we expected to gather intelligence? Max?" Barney tapped on the desk. "You know?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"How about watching the TV news?" Frank said.

"I am your TV news, man," Barney pointed his thumb at his chest. "The Mayor has declared Code Orange. They're about to introduce a curfew and put up street blocks with strip searches at the subway exits. The airports and the railway stations are already under surveillance since the first mention of a terrorist threat." He pulled up his sleeve and glanced at a massive waterproof watch. "If DC confirms the curfew," Barney pressed two buttons, setting the timer, "then within two hours they'll be able to block all the traffic." He raised his eyes to Frank. "Your picture is plastered all over the TV, and the media are screaming about your involvement in Kathleen Baker's murder. Apparently, she was about to make a media statement when you zapped her just in time."

"Yeah right," Frank turned to Max. "I forgot to tell you. The place was chock a block full of media. I mean, the house where I live. The lobby was crawling with reporters." He turned back to Barney. "So it was Kathleen who called them?"

"Well, unless you know another Kathleen Baker in your house with a thing for black lacy underwear."

Frank jumped off the chair, clenching his fists.

"You taking the piss? You and Kathleen, you-"

Barney rose, looking down at him.

"Wake up, man. It's the talk of the whole of New York City. Reporters can't get enough of your neighbor's stories. She is the star of the show."

Frank went for him; Max stood between the two.

"Barney — enough!" He pushed his friend in the chest and slapped Frank's wrist. "Put your hands down! Now!" Max's eyes glistened behind his glasses. "We don't have much time," his voice was harsh. "Sooner or later they'll know you started here, Frank. Either the detectives or those who attacked you, but we need to expect company."

"You wait!" Barney insisted. "Don't you understand, both of you?"

"Understand what?" Max turned to him.

"You think. The murdered woman calls a press conference. Then she takes her clothes off and goes to bed. See what I'm getting at?"

Frank tried to lunge forward but Max gestured him to stop.

"Barney has a point. It doesn't add up." He paused, thinking. "We'll talk about it later. We need to act quickly."

"What do you suggest?" Barney grumbled and sat back down.

Frank glared at him, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"We need to hide him somewhere," Max said.

"Where?"

"At your place."

"At my what?" Barney jumped up. His bulk loomed over Max. "You must be mad. Not with my-"

"I count on her, too. She's the only person who can get access to the data."

"No. You... you can't be serious. You planned it all along!"

"You tell her what it's all about, and Frank will give her all the details."

"No way. Not her. Anyone but her."

'Oh, yes."

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, damn it! Sergeant Douggan!" Max slammed his fist on the desk, and the device jumped with the impact.

"You can't give me orders!" Droplets of Barney's saliva spattered Max's face. "The war is over!"

Max breathed out, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, red with exhaustion.

"It is indeed," he put the glasses back on. "I'm just trying to appeal to your conscience."

Barney lowered his head, hiding his eyes from Max. He sat back down, the chair creaking under his weight. He breathed heavily and massaged his chest. Deep lines furrowed his face.

"Anyone but her," he raised his pleading eyes. "You know I'll follow you anywhere. I trust your decisions. I would do anything for you, storm the police department or Memoria building, all you need is ask. Just keep Maggie out of this. Please."

Frank blinked, uncomprehending. Barney seemed on the brink of tears.

"She's a big girl now. You... and I," the coach put his hand on Barney's shoulder and glanced at Frank," all of us together, we'll deal with it. The situation is far from easy. We can't afford to make mistakes."

Barney shrugged his hand off.

"How can you be so sure we haven't made a mistake already? You tell me!"

"Because," the coach stood up, "because we've already let them down once." He jerked his chin, pointing it at Frank. "Him, and Maggie, and all those we fought for. Who still have to live here after we're gone. Barney, they're being brainwashed. Who is going to tell them about the past once we're gone? You think the migrants will? There're not many of them left, either, and they have their hands full with other things. Why? Because they want to remain human."

"Stop it," Barney raised his hand. "Enough of that. Don't you stare at me like that! Sit down."

"Is it a yes?" Max sat next to him.

"It is. But not because of the migrants, damn them. And don't you dare compare me to them. I'll follow you to hell and back, and you know it. But not because of the migrants. Two years we were fighting them. And we won — we did!"

"Agreed," the coach glanced at his watch. "What time do you have?"

"Quarter to two."

"Go now."

"And you?" Barney rose.

"I have some packing to do. There," Max handed him the device and headed for the door. "The stash is safe, I presume?"

"It was, last time I checked it," Barney replied to his back. "Are you sure force is really necessary?"

Frank couldn't stand it any longer. "I really appreciate your help and the attention you've given to my problems, but really..."

Max stopped on his way to the locker room and turned to him.

"...really, I don't understand! Who's Maggie? What's your plan?"

"Barney will tell you," the coach disappeared in the locker room.

Frank turned to the veteran.

"Come on, then," he grumbled and headed for the front door.

With a sigh of relief, Frank followed.

"I'll be at your place tomorrow morning," the coach shouted from the locker room. "Six o'clock."

A locker door slammed.

"Agreed," Barney answered.

Chapter Eight. The Expert's Lodgings

Frank forced his eyes open. Darkness surrounded him. Somebody shook him by the shoulder.

"There we are," Barney's low voice boomed in his ear.

His large frame moved aside, letting some light into the cab. Barney had turned the interior light off so that no one could recognize his passenger from the outside. The weak light of a street lamp drizzled into the opened door. The car was parked on the corner of an apartment block.

"Out you come, quick."

Frank rubbed his face and finally felt awake. He got out, stretched and took in a lungful of air.

Which was fresh and windless. A few stars showed in the sky. The rain had passed leaving a few clouds behind. The coming day promised to be sunny and warm.

"Where are we?" Frank turned his head, looking around.

"West Brooklyn," Barney slammed the door shut, turned the alarm on and pointed at something behind his back. "That's the East River over there. Come on now," he climbed the stairs that led to the front door and produced a bunch of keys. The lock clicked.

"Now remember," Barney said. "I expect you to be as quiet as a mouse. Stay put in your room. No nosing about. I'll wake you up as soon as I'm back. Understood?"

"Sure," Frank nodded. "Where are you to now?"

"Got to take the cab back to my partner," Barney let him inside, cast a quick glance along the street and shut the front door. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Up the stairs, second floor."

They went upstairs together. The bunch of keys jangled in Barney's hand as the veteran opened the apartment door. Without turning the light on in the hall, he showed Frank to his room.

"Get some sleep," Barney whispered, lingering in the doorway.

Frank sat down on a couch. Springs creaked under the battered upholstery.

"Remember the drill?"

"Yeah. Stay put, no nosing about…"

"Hush!" Barney hissed.

"...and get some sleep." Frank kicked off his shoes and stretched his body out on the couch. Hands under his head, he stared at the ceiling.

"In other words," he heard from the hall, "stick your neck out, and I'll break it."

Frank didn't answer. He closed his eyes and listened to the shuffle of feet, the clinking of keys and the screech of the closing lock. In a couple of minutes he heard a motor starting outside. A car drove off.

Now he could finally catch a few z's, at least until the monstrous mustachio was back. Frank tried to relax. But sleep wouldn't come. He turned on his side. The upholstery stank of sweat and dust. Barney must have slept here himself, not bothering with bedclothes. About time he gave the place a good clean.

Frank thought he'd heard a quiet sniffling in the next room. He really didn't look forward to any more aggro from Barney over the disrupted sleep of his daughter or girlfriend, whoever she was. But he could use a leak.

Frank got off the couch and nearly fell over his own shoes. He swore under his breath and walked out into the hall, feeling along the wall for a light switch. He didn't find it. In the dark, he could make out another door further on, and two more to his left. Frank pushed the one closest to him. The kitchen. The next one was the bathroom.

He flipped the switch above the mirror and squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. A cheap shower cabin took up half the space. A toilet in the corner completed the scenario.

Frank glanced in the mirror, turned to the toilet bowl, undid his fly and relieved himself. He flushed the toilet and opened the tap above the sink. Cold water helped to clear his head, heavy with exhaustion and lack of sleep.

Frank washed his face, poured some water onto the back of his neck, closed the tap and admired his mug in the mirror. Oh well... He could do with a shave and a... Frank touched his chin and the large scratch from the fight on his cheek. A shower would be a good thing, too. Still, it had to wait until the morning.

Frank yawned. Back to bed now. He needed to recover properly.

He stepped out into the hall, nearly knocking over a young woman. At first he took her for a tousled teenage boy, but then realized it was a grown-up girl in her twenties. She had a round face with large eyes and a snub nose. About a foot shorter than him, quite chubby — or rather, squat like a gym coach. Wide-boned, apparently. Must have taken after her dad.

She squinted sleepily, shielding her face from the lamp over the mirror. The girl was wearing pajamas with a teddy-bear print and a pair of pink slippers topped with puppies' heads.

Frank stood staring at her. She did the same; her eyes betrayed neither fear nor surprise, only curiosity.

"Pardon me," he croaked and squeezed past her into the hall. "I'm a friend of Barney's. Hope I didn't scare you too much."

The girl waved him aside and locked herself in the bathroom.

Idiot. Frank returned to his room and sat on the couch. What an idiot! He shook his head. All that was missing was to have told her his name and life story.

Water ran in the shower. Frank leaned against the couch, his eyes getting used to the darkness. Soon he could see the mess Barney called his room. In the corner under the wardrobe lay bagfuls of stuff. The desk under the window was heaped high with paperwork and manuals. A soft chair by the door was buried under heaps of clothes.

He wondered what kind of family the girl was to Barney. Was she the Maggie?

The water stopped trickling. For a second, light issued from the doorway, then it was dark again.

"Did he say when he'd be back?" he heard from the hall. A silhouette appeared in the doorway.

She had a nice voice, Frank decided as he rose to greet her.

"Said he'd take the car back."

"Good," the silhouette disappeared.

Frank looked out. The girl walked into the kitchen and turned on the light.

"Are you hungry?"

Frank listened to his stomach rumbling. He wouldn't be able to sleep now. Plates started clinking in the kitchen. A coffee machine hummed.

"I am," he entered the kitchen. "Are you Maggie?"

They made one another's acquaintance to the humming of the coffee machine. Her name was indeed Maggie, and she was Barney's daughter. And over the coffee, Frank discovered that Maggie worked for Memoria as Mr. Binelli's secretary.

"I used to know a girl who worked for them too."

Immediately he cursed his loose tongue.

He remembered the argument between Max and Barney. The picture became clearer. His coach wanted to use Maggie to get access to Memoria's files. She could gain entry to their office and copy the information stored on the device. The risk — primarily for the girl — was enormous.

"What's her name?" Maggie opened the fridge, took a bowlful of salad off the shelf and placed it in front of Frank.

The juicy radishes mixed with lettuce and slices of bell pepper looked too good to resist. It took all of Frank's willpower not to wolf it down: he hadn't eaten anything for twenty-four hours.

"I meet a lot of people there. Wonder if we both know her?" Maggie added looking down at him.

Nonchalantly, Frank picked up a fork and poked the salad.

"Nah. She quit. Doesn't work there any more." He lifted the first forkful and started munching. "That's good," he managed with a full mouth.

"Good. I'll fix some pasta for you now," Maggie turned back to the fridge.

"Please don't... no need to bother," Frank started.

She turned and gave him a meaningful glare. So like Barney.

"I'll take offence. And so will Daddy."

He choked on a half-chewed lettuce leaf.

"Joke," her thin lips stretched into a smile. "Daddy promised to break your neck, right?"

Frank nodded.

"I wasn't asleep. I heard you two come in." Maggie retrieved a plastic box from the fridge and put it into the microwave. "This is what he promises to do to all men younger than himself who happen to walk within handshaking distance of me." She reached for a cheese grater above the stove.

"Why would he?" Frank returned to his salad.

"He still thinks I'm his little girl. He calls me his teddy bear." She sighed and started grating some cheese over a bowl.

"I think, we remain forever children in our parents' eyes," with this platitude, Frank shoved the rest of the food into his mouth and pushed the bowl away.

"Yes, but..." the girl put the grater aside, spooned the pasta onto a plate and topped it with the grated cheese. "Unfortunately, sooner or later their children grow up. Then they have their own ideas on how to go about their wishes. True or not?" She put the dirty bowl into the sink.

"Sure," Frank chuckled and wrapped some spaghetti around his fork. "Same old story."

"Now don't you start!" he heard reproach in her voice. "I've been reading a lot about it lately."

"It can't be that bad, surely!"

Maggie sat on a stool by his side, propped her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. Her eyes were sad now.

"Never mind," she forced a smile. "I like watching men eat. You mind?"

Frank mumbled that no, he didn't, munched his way through the first mouthful of pasta and told her that he'd never eaten anything better than cheese pasta Maggie Douggan-style.

"What about the salad, then!" she protested with a smile.

"The salad was great, the coffee, amazing..." Frank paused thinking of a good way to finish the compliment.

"Yeah right! Eat now before it gets cold. Don't mind me," Maggie rose.

"Mind if I ask a question," Frank looked around the kitchen. The fork in his hand outlined the room. "Is this your family's..." Embarrassment flooded over him but he went on. "You don't seem to be afraid of me. You're giving me food. What if I'm a criminal? A murderer on the run?"

Maggie laughed, then abruptly stopped, growing serious.

"If Daddy brought you here, then it was the right thing to do."

She disappeared into the bathroom leaving Frank alone with his thoughts and his pasta. When she reemerged, he'd already polished off his dinner and thanked her for it, bringing about a burst of happy laughter. She seemed to laugh a lot and with gusto.

Frank gave her a lost smile. Maggie pointed at the sunrise in the window and said that his dinner was rather like an early breakfast. She was due to work soon.

"Daddy will be back any time. I've got to cook something for him."

"What?" it dawned on Frank that Barney wouldn't be amused if there was no food in the house left for him. "You... I didn't..."

"Don't worry," Maggie touched his shoulder. "I'll fix him something."

She opened the fridge and produced a can of milk and a plastic box with some veg. Then she reached into a cupboard by the stove for a packet of corn flakes. "There! Daddy calls this mix a dead migrant's breakfast."

Frank barely had time to give a sigh of relief when the front door slammed. Barney walked into the kitchen in his coat, gently kissed his daughter and sat on a stool, casting angry glances at Frank.

As he ate, he told Maggie how his shift had gone, calling her teddy bear three times, twice his darling sunshine, and only once his daughter. He kept casting Frank unhappy glares without saying a word.

Maggie pretended she didn't notice the way her father treated his guest. Smiling, she went about cleaning the kitchen. Frank wanted to offer his help but he stopped himself just in time in order not to annoy Barney. What if he sees it as an attempt at courtship or accuse him of attempting to seduce or even rape her? He could easily break Frank's head with those fists of his. He surely knew how to use a knife, too. Frank glanced at the clock above the fridge. Half past six, and Max hadn't arrived yet. What if something had happened?

Barney, too, squinted at the clock but didn't say anything finishing his corn flakes. Finally, Maggie left them. She went back to her room where she hummed something as she readied herself for work.

Frank didn't have time to realize what had happened. Strong arms grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. The edge of the table pressed into his stomach, and Barney's face, distorted with anger, rose before his eyes.

"Let me go," Frank hissed, pushing with his palms against the table.

"You woke her up!" Barney bared his teeth.

"You idiot! She woke herself up! All I did was introduce myself."

Maggie's humming approached. Footsteps resounded behind Frank's back. Barney let go of him and smiled sweetly to his daughter in the hall. He picked up his spoon and got busy scraping the remaining soggy corn flakes off the bottom of the bowl.

The moment Maggie disappeared in her room, he clenched his fists again and leaned forward.

"I didn't wake her up!" Frank whispered. "Barney, get some sense. She has no idea why I'm here. She simply gave me something to eat."

The humming stopped.

"Hey, I'm off!" they heard her voice in the hall.

Frank turned to take a look. Maggie was wearing a stern trouser suit. A thin strip of white satin was tied under her collar in an elegant knot secured with a silvery brooch. Her face was almost devoid of makeup, and her hair was done in an elaborate side wave. No more teddy-bear pajama girl: in her place, a businesslike corporate staff worker worthy of the name of her worldwide employer.

She turned away to take a coat off the rack, and Frank suppressed a scream, feeling Barney's toe buried in his shin.

"Daddy? Can your friend see me to the car?"

All three of them were smiling, only Frank did so through the agonizing tears that filled his eyes. His leg hurt like hell now.

"Wait a sec, teddy bear. We need to tell you something." Barney puffed out his cheeks and gave Frank another glare. "Come here for a sec."

The girl came closer. He leaned under the table, dragged out a stool and placed it next to his. "Take a seat."

"Dad. I'll be late. What is it?"

Frank wiped his tears and gave her a nonchalant smile moving his stool closer to the wall and away from her.

"Can't it wait till the evening?" Maggie pursed her lips, shifting her gaze from her father to Frank and then back.

"Teddy, please. It won't take long," Barney took the girl's hand stroking it.

"Is it so important?"

"It is."

"All right then," she sat on the stool.

Frank surreptitiously rubbed his smarting leg. Barney cast him another glance, took in a lungful of air but didn't utter a word and let the air out.

"Daddy," Maggie looked at him accusingly. "Quit your world conspiracy nonsense. When you look so indecisive, it's always because you and Uncle Max have got something on your minds. Come on, spill the beans. You've got ten minutes."

"Sure," Barney nodded. "You're right, of course. Max's in it, too." He paused, then reached out to straighten the brooch under her collar and said decisively, "Our guest's name is Frank Shelby. He's accused of Kathleen Baker's murder. He needs help."

Maggie opened her eyes wide. She leaned back, staring at Frank.

"You're joking, surely?"

"Not at all. There's big trouble coming if-"

"Was it Uncle Max who asked you to help him?

"It was."

"He used to coach me," Frank butted in.

"Shut up," Barney snapped.

"No, don't," Maggie's face took on a serious, grownup expression. "Let him speak."

Frank and Barney looked up at the clock. He recounted the whole story in three minutes, giving her the bare bones thanks to the previous experience in the boxing club.

"Yeah, I see..." For a few seconds, the girl fell silent. Then she asked, "Which of you has the device now?"

Barney raised his hand.

"I'd like to have a look," Maggie looked at him expectantly.

Reluctantly, Barney produced the hard drive from his inside pocket and handed it to his daughter.

"I've seen one like this before," She fingered the connector. "Mr. Binelli, my boss, sometimes uses it in his office. He hooks it up to his personal workstation."

Frank exchanged glances with Barney. What a stroke of luck. Binelli's workstation was one of the corporation server's data access points. Still, the veteran didn't look too happy, and Frank himself couldn't imagine how they were going to access it and copy the data.

Maggie returned the device to her father. A doorbell rang three times in the hall.

"That's Max," Barney said.

The girl opened the door. Max kissed the girl on the cheek and started giving her instructions. She had to go to work as usual and do what she always did.

"Just keep your eyes open," Max dropped a large golf bag from his shoulder and put it down in the middle of the hall. "No fussing about, just listen to what they say and try to remember anything relevant."

Maggie nodded and gave Frank a wink.

"Also, we might need the plans and layout of the building and the security schedule, especially those surveilling the underground parking. Think you can do it?"

"I'll see what I can do."

Barney's face darkened.

"Go. And don't take stupid risks," the coach said taking off his battered jacket with the Yankees logo.

"I won't, Uncle Max."

* * *

When the front door closed behind her, the Coach moved the bag into the kitchen and without further ado said,

"Barney, your self-control skills are non-existent. You need to take a leaf out of your daughter's book. She's good, is our Maggie. Always has everything clear and businesslike."

"What took you so long?" Barney chose to ignore the remark.

"I had a tail," Max dropped his bag onto the floor next to the TV. "Been following me from the club the moment I came back from the stash."

He wore faded combat trousers, a white T-shirt and black soft-soled shoes. He turned to Frank.

"Not to worry. Those cretins have no idea who they're playing with." He pulled up his right sleeve. "No bracelet."

"Oh," Frank blinked. "How did you remove it?"

"Later," Barney rose, leaned across the table and looked out of the window. "You didn't take the car, I hope?"

"I left it three blocks from here," the coach dropped his jacket onto the stool.

"Who were they? How many, what kind of car?" Not waiting for Max to answer, Barney went into his bedroom. The flat's acoustics permitted everything to be heard from everywhere.

"They weren't police," Max opened the fridge and stared inside. "Cops are much better undercover. There were three of them in a black Jeep, dressed in black..."

"...no hair," Frank butted in.

"Exactly," the coach turned round holding a milk carton; "How do you know?"

"Same people at the post office. Not exactly the same ones, but those too were bald and in black."

Max took a large swig from the carton and put it back. Frank frowned and buried his chin in his fist. He was trying to remember some detail, something to do with those bald attackers. But he couldn't remember what it was.

"All clear outside," Barney walked back into the kitchen. "But if they could suss you out, they can trace you to me."

"Doubtful," the coach crouched next to his bag. "When was the last time you came to the club?"

"Today, wasn't it?" Surprised, Barney stared at the coach.

"That's not what I mean," the coach looked up at him. "Do you see me often?"

"Not really, no," Barney fingered his mustache, thinking. "Normally, you come to see me. You mean those who're after Frank will look into his contacts first, and only then-"

"Exactly. As far as Frank is concerned, you've got nothing to do with him." Max rummaged through the bag. Something inside clanged. "Now they know that I know what he does, but they don't know where to look for me."

"Is that good or bad?" Frank looked over the coach's shoulder.

Gun butts protruded from the bag: two assault rifles with ribbed handguards. Max pushed the guns to one side and produced a bulky laptop in a rubberized case. He handed it to Frank saying,

"The killer will start freaking out. And when people start freaking out, they make mistakes."

"How do we know when they do that?" Barney took the laptop from Frank and placed it onto the table.

"You go and get some rest now," Max rose and unraveled the laptop's power cord. "Frank and I here, we'll power up the PC, watch the TV news and see what comes up in the media. In the meantime, Maggie will be back."

Without saying a word, Barney went into his room. In response to Frank's unasked question, Max explained that before planning a mission, one should gather as much intelligence as possible.

"Mind plugging this in," he hooked up the power cord and handed Frank the plug. "And put the news channel on, will you?"

"What do you want me to do?" Frank passed the cord under the table and plugged the laptop in. He sat in front of the TV and zapped through the channels looking for the news.

"I wonder if something comes up," the coach sat on a stool and turned the laptop toward him. "Look at the news, especially trailers, and commercial breaks."

The laptop's fan hummed. Green and red lights flickered on the side panel. Max frisked through his pockets for a pair of glasses.

"There's a folder in the side pocket. Whatever you consider odd or note-worthy, write it down."

"What, all of it?" Frank reached inside the bag for the folder and found a stack of paper.

"Please do. We'll deal with it later." Looking at the laptop screen, he tapped in a command. "Don't hesitate to call me. I'll listen to whatever you consider interesting."

"Will do."

"I don't think we'll have to wait long. You think you can do it until lunchtime?"

"Pardon me?" Scanning through the news, Frank took some time to understand the question. "Ah — yes, sure. I can do it all day if it's needed."

"It's not. Barney will replace you once we've eaten. We'll have to take turns resting. Tomorrow we need to be fresh and clear-headed."

Chapter Nine. A Pattern Starts to Form

Frank watched the news but he couldn't concentrate. He couldn't help thinking of the men in black who had attacked the police station. They knew about Kathleen's package, too, and had tried to kill him at the post office. The blond guy seemed to have been the one in charge. He was the only one with his hair on. Or could it have been a wig?

Frank crossed his arms and leaned back listening to TV reports. Nothing relevant as yet. The anchor was speaking about the presidential election campaign and the Republican candidate Congressman Russell Jefferson Claney.

Frank was about to turn away when footage of Claney and the acting President came up. The two stood on the lawn in front of the White House and shook hands, smiling for the camera.

Slowly, Frank leaned forward eyeing Claney's face. The camera panned in for a close-up, the President's friendly tapping hand on his shoulder. The shot was replaced with a White House view — apparently, the cameraman had had a glitch so the director switched over to another camera that was filming the meeting from the sidewalk behind the fence. The faces of passersby flashed on the screen followed by a car, and the picture froze on a blurred image of a taxicab. Immediately it was replaced by the anchor's smiling face. He apologized for the malfunction and promised to rerun the story once the problem was fixed.

A large picture of Russell Claney filled the screen behind his back. The anchor began to recount the Congressman's life story. At this moment Frank finally realized what had been bothering him. The bullying cabman in the airport, the one Frank had refused to go with, had the same kind of bald head as those at the post office. Just like Claney was on the TV screen now. The cab driver had tried to insist that Frank take his cab.

Hurriedly, Frank shared his ideas with his coach. What if they'd wanted to kidnap him to begin with? Apparently, their plan had been to set him up for the murder. But they couldn't have possibly known he wouldn't take the cab because of his leather allergy.

"Did you remember the plates?" Max removed his glasses and rose.

"I did, yeah."

"Write it down together with the car make and its description. I'll go wake Barney up." He shut the laptop.

"What for?"

"I want him to run a make on the car." He walked out of the kitchen.

Frank started writing when he heard the anchorman say, "Memoria". He jerked his head up and stared at the TV screen. Aha. So this Russell Claney was Honorary Chairman of Memoria's board of directors.

"Max!" he called. "Mind coming here for a moment?"

He reached for the remote and put the volume up. Behind his back, Barney grumbled. Max appeared over Frank's shoulder telling Barney to shut up. The anchor went on saying that Claney and John Baker used to be friends and had started the company together. Apparently, the Congressman had been the first volunteer to have a painful memory erased and had lost his hair in one of Baker's experiments. Soon afterward, the late scientist had found a solution for this unpleasant side effect.

"And now back to our story," the anchor nodded to his audience. The President and the Congressman reappeared on the screen.

"Was it so necessary to wake me up?" Barney grumbled.

"No. Wait," Max sat at the table and put his glasses back on.

On the screen, the Congressman was announcing the start of the Vaccination. This program, he said, was a one-of-a-kind solution to the nation's numerous ills such as unemployment, the ultimate tool to humanity's happy future.

"Yeah, right," Barney mumbled.

"To my dismay," Claney sighed for the camera, "We have lost our main designer, the soul of the project. Kathleen Baker was murdered yesterday, the heiress of her father's genius and a beautiful young woman all around."

He paused and lowered his head in mourning. The President supported him by the elbow, motioning him to go on.

"I don't think that Memoria's complex relationship with the migrants is a secret to anyone," the Congressman spoke again. "The day before yesterday, more talks have been cancelled when the Bronx leader Gautier demanded full transparency regarding the Vaccination program. The board of directors, including myself, have decided to grant their request and," the Congressman turned to the President who nodded, "we've decided to present the Vaccination to the world during our unscheduled press conference at Memoria's HQ tomorrow. Our chief executive Joe Binelli will make a complete report to the media. At the same time, we plan to have a new round of our talks with the migrants' representatives. The President will be our guest of honor." Claney paused, showing his excitement to the audience.

"I would also like to add," He shook his index finger in the air while keeping his other hand behind his back. "This is something I want everyone to know. The late Kathleen Baker was like my own daughter to me. Her life... and her work... were terminated in a most cruel way by the outcast Frank Shelby: a terrorist acting on his own. The President and I have already discussed it. The administration will do everything possible to bring the murderer to justice. The talks with the migrants will take place as planned. The President has confirmed his participation. The police have dismissed all accusations regarding the unsubstantiated participation of the Bronx migrant population in the murder. They had nothing to do with it. Let me assure you that the murderer was a terrorist acting on his own. Code Orange has been lifted accordingly."

Frank expected to hear something along those lines. No sleep lost.

The lawn resounded with applause and a few cheers. Claney raised his hands, appealing for silence.

"Now that we've laid all the groundwork, all we need to do is to conduct the much desired talks with all the parties concerned. Understanding and agreement are our objectives. We will offer the migrant population an opportunity to be the first to take part in the Vaccination. Together, we can change the world. We can bring joy and prosperity to everyone!"

Behind Frank's back, Barney chuckled.

The President nodded. "Thank you, Russell. I can't agree more with you. I am amazed at how far Memoria has gone in its research. It is such a terrible shame that Ms. Baker is no longer with us, slain by an outcast. But her memory will always live on in our hearts. What a loss. The whole family seems to be hostages to ill fortune. Her father, as far as I remember, also died under suspicious circumstances."

Just like Claney before him, the President pressed his right hand to his heart and lowered his head in an expression of his sorrow. Then he smiled and patted the Congressman's shoulder. "But life must go on," he said. "Russell Claney may be my Presidential adversary, but that's because not many people know we're big friends outside of politics. I admire his business sense and tenacity and would like to wish him luck in all his undertakings. See you all in New York."

They shook hands, and the footage ended, replaced by the figure of the news anchor. He reminded his audience that the full report of the Vaccination project would be presented to the public the next day at Memoria's HQ in the presence of the President. Then he moved to other stories.

Frank turned the sound down and walked away from the screen.

"Tomorrow," the coach said staring in front of him. "It will all happen tomorrow. Then we could-" He stared at Barney in the doorway. "We need to get inside the HQ before the press conference starts and get hold of the data."

"Still no reason to wake me up," reminded Barney.

"Oh yeah," Max removed his glasses and wiped his red eyes. "I need some information on one of your taxi drivers. I've got the plate number."

"Piece of cake," Barney said. "Give me the number."

Frank grabbed the piece of paper, jotted down the car's make and color, and passed it over to him. The coach opened his laptop. His fingers flitted over the keyboard.

Barney in the next room bellowed into the phone, "That son of a bitch cut me off on the Fifty-Ninth the other day. Exactly. Are you sure? All right, then."

He popped his head into the room to tell them the news. Not only did the plates not match, but his company had only eight Fords which were all currently firmly stuck in major overhaul.

"Can I go to bed now?" he yawned.

"Please do," Max turned to Frank. "Get some paper out. We need to mull over these facts for a bit. Let's see where they take us."

"And how about the news?"

"We've already heard whatever they had to say. First, they're plugging this Vaccination thing in a bit of a hurry. Secondly, you're the scape goat."

Frank reached for the remote and was about to press the off button.

"Don't," said Max. "Put the sound down so it doesn't distract us. Let's do it."

Fifteen minutes later, they had their first model. Someone had intended to intercept Frank on his way from the airport. They had sent a bogus taxi out for him. His allergy had saved his butt. They had killed Kathleen while he was being driven home, staging their date and removing her purse. Possibly, they had let the killer know that Frank was on his way and given the killer an order to smoke him, as well. But it hadn't worked because of the media crowded in the hall, and Kathleen had been the one who'd called them. She must have intended to break some news to them. She'd also backed up whatever information she'd had onto the hard disk. Suspecting that they might be after her, she'd mailed the disk to Frank. The killers hadn't learned about it early enough. Could Kathleen have tried to negotiate with them? What if she'd tried to blackmail them by threatening to go public with the information on the hard disk? Before leaving, the killer had removed her electronic bracelet and either destroyed it or placed it into an insulated container, preventing the police from detecting its signal.

It was also possible that the bracelet chip was hooked up to some access codes. It could have been Kathleen's workstation, or it equally could have been some secret bank accounts. After all, the Bakers weren't exactly poor. One of the world's richest families, to be precise. Most importantly, the killer knew how to remove the electronic bracelet. Someone had to have trained him to do it. The removal technology was classified so all the technicians capable of doing it could easily be checked. But to check it, you had to contact Memoria's research center whose staff were directly interested in doctoring the data.

When the killer had left Kathleen's apartment with her purse, he hadn't found the hard disk inside. What he had found was the post office receipt, and not straight away but after Frank's arrest. Otherwise, what had been the point in risking their butts at the post office? This was the only explanation Frank and Max could come up with to explain away the assault on the post office a mere two hours after Frank's escape from the police station.

"They basically followed in my wake," Frank concluded staring at the notes.

The coach nodded.

"Yes, you.... or we, rather, were going head-to-head until now. But I'm afraid they'll be gaining ground before long. Let's assume that the data on the hard disk has something to do with this Vaccination thing. Then if it turned out to cause physical or mental damage, Gautier must have demanded they went public about it. And they refused her demand causing the DC talks to collapse."

"Then what's the point in going public about it tomorrow?" Frank threw the pen onto the desk. "All this media-summoning, migrant-cajoling presentation?"

"They need to remain one step ahead. To shut Gautier up and appease the public. They're too scared that we can hack the files and they have no way of knowing if Kathleen told you why she'd copied them to begin with." Max reached under Frank's arm and pulled out a sheet where they'd listed all the events of the past few days.

"Look," he took the pen and circled an item on the list. "You were taken to the station for questioning. Immediately they attacked it."

"They must have thought," Frank started, "that I knew what was going on. They thought I would testify against them."

"Exactly. They also thought you had the hard disk. So they wanted to get rid of the eyewitness and remove the device." He pulled the laptop closer and tapped "Memoria board of directors" into the search engine.

Frank exploded.

"So now I'm a terrorist acting on his own? It's not what they said before! Can't anyone see they're lying? How could I trash the station on my own? Even a child can see that I couldn't turn the city into a battlefield all alone. Besides, didn't you just say that three hundred thousand migrants are a force to be reckoned with? All these war-mongering alerts of yours, and now you're backpedalling?"

"Relax," Max gave him a cold stare. "I may be mistaken. Kathleen's killers could have another agenda for all that I know."

"Yeah, right, but how about Memoria? And the President? They don't even try to hide their contempt for the migrants. The authorities can barely stand them. Surely everyone can put two and two together..."

"You're forgetting our civic duty. Most eyewitnesses to yesterday's carnage must have already visited Memoria branches and had their horrible memories erased. Why should they carry around thoughts of gunfire and dead bodies on the streets? I'm more than sure they were very nicely asked to do so. I'm also sure that the media have refuted their earlier stories under the pretext of not wanting to hurt people's sensibilities. You are the scape goat because they hope to catch you pretty soon. Now that they've prejudiced everyone against you, they just sit and wait till you give yourself up."

Max turned the screen toward Frank. He saw several mug shots and brief resumes of a couple of dozen Memoria executives. They hadn't removed Kathleen's file yet, listing her as their research manager.

"The fact that the President called you a terrorist acting on his own means that those who put a hit out on Kathleen have government connections and media control. They can force their own version of events on everyone. Basically, they let us know, very nicely, who we're dealing with. Just a suggestion on their part that we stop nosing around searching for the truth."

"Whatever. It's not a loner, it's a group, a numerous and well-trained one, too."

"You're right on that one."

"So you don't think it could be the migrants?"

Max shook his head.

"Doubtful. To challenge the authorities so openly..." he cringed. "The moment they show any signs of aggression, they'll be toast. This is what we'll do. We won't eliminate the migrant theory, not quite yet. I want you to jot down some questions," Max half stood and poked his finger at the farthest sheet on the table. "What did Gautier want the Memoria technologies for? How did she know about the Vaccination project? Now..." he sat back. "You got it? Good. Now have a look at all these people. Check out their personal files. And tell me which one of them could be of interest to us."

"In which respect?"

"We need someone we can use to read the hard disk."

Frank scratched his cheek, thinking and picking fresh scabs off the scratches.

"William Bow is one. Cathleen's deputy manager. They worked together."

The coach nodded.

"Anybody else?"

"Joe Binelli, the chief manager. Maggie is one of his secretaries. They have a workstation with an access to the server."

"That'll do," the coach pulled the laptop closer. "You're thinking in the right direction."

"Thinking is one thing. But-"

'But what?" Max didn't look up from the screen, busy studying the files.

"Just that," Frank blinked, "how are we supposed to find out the truth? We can't ask either of these two to hook us up to their server, can we? Or do you want Maggie to do it for you? She's a good girl, she can risk her life..."

Max looked up at him. For a second they glared at each other.

"I disagree," Frank shook his head. "Kathleen's death is more than enough. Others' deaths are more than enough. I don't-"

"Do shut up, will you?" Max stood up. "And calm down. No use for emotions in my line of work. We need to exercise wisdom and act for certain. There's no margin for errors, as they say." He tapped his fist on the desk.

Frank turned to the TV, sulking.

"Never mind," Max calmed down. "Let's think some more."

"Go ahead, then," Frank gave him a frowning glance and straightened the loose notes.

"Who do you think would be easier to get hold of? Binelli or Bow?"

Frank shrugged.

"Take an educated guess," the coach removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, red with the sleepless night.

"Binelli, most likely," Frank grumbled. "He has to be at the press conference tomorrow afternoon. Maggie has access to his office."

"Not bad," the coach gave him a faint smile. "Ideally, we should first see what Bow has to say for himself. But I'm pretty sure he has more corporate bodyguards than the government have FBI agents. I'm almost sure Bow knows what happened. But he's out of our reach."

He added, answering Frank's silent question,

"Had I been one of Kathleen's killers, I'd have moved him out of the HQ. As far as I could. I'd take him to some secret underground lab. And I don't doubt for one second that one exists."

The TV speakers rustled with, "Joy and prosperity." Memoria's orange flower blossomed on the screen. Images of people started flashing. Happy people going about their business at home and on the street. Happy children at school. Everyone was smiling, and everyone had something orange: an item of clothing, or a bunch of tulips in their hands.

The commercial ended, replaced by yet another ad. Frank turned to his coach.

"Yes?" Max gave him a strained look.

Frank tapped his fingers on the table. "One thing I keep thinking about."

"Go ahead, shoot. That's why we're sitting here. We need to exhaust all possibilities, however implausible."

"This isn't implausible. Quite the contrary. But still. I keep pondering why all my pursuers had no hair. Claney didn't, either. But the story said that he'd lost his hair in some early Baker experiments. They said that later the problem had been solved. Otherwise everyone who'd ever been to Memoria would have been bald as an egg by now."

Frank paused and went on,

"This is what I don't understand. If my pursuers have some kind of Memoria connections, then what's their common denominator? Claney is in his late sixties while those who fought me were about thirtyish. The fake airport cab driver had to be forty or so. What do they all have in common?"

Max didn't answer.

"You have a point, Frank. Jot it down, will you?"

Chapter Ten. The Vaccination Project

Bud Jessup sat in his office and looked through the glass partition at the departing backs of Claney and Binelli's lawyers. Talking to them had been a mere formality, albeit unavoidable. He knew he couldn't expect any positive outcome, but instead could look forward to all kinds of innuendo that they'd promised him. They'd made it pretty clear he shouldn't try too hard, unless he wanted to lose his post and his head.

Jessup picked the lawyers' business cards off the desk, crumpled them in his fist and binned them.

Fucking rats. Jessup turned his chair to the window. An audacious bunch of bullies. Smug and knowing that he had nothing against Memoria. Its bosses ordered the media around telling the majority what they were supposed to think. The government, the President, the law itself — they had everything on their side.

He rose and looked out into the street. The hustle and bustle made one forget yesterday's murders. Twenty years ago, a violation like this would have had the whole city on its toes. People didn't bother to consider these things any more. The world had changed. Those who'd once fought for its freedom were far past their prime now. Who would need a patriot these days? They were few and far between now, those who still bothered to remember. All thanks to Memoria and its memory wipes. They also wiped out integrity.

He turned to the desk, reached for the mug of cold coffee and froze, astonished by his thoughts. Now he could see Gautier and her migrant buddies in a totally different light. They had youngsters in their camps who remembered the war very well, and that had been thirty years ago. All right, they might be rightless, they had no access to proper education, but at least they knew stuff about their fathers' past. People like those were a threat indeed. For the government, but first of all, for Memoria's business.

It was all so simple. Forgetting the mug, he plonked down into the chair. The coffee splashed out over his dress shirt and poured down his trouser legs.

"Shit!" he stepped aside, grabbed a sheet of paper and tried to blot out a large brown spot on his belly. It didn't work. "Melanie!" he called for his secretary without raising his head.

The opening door caused a window pane to rattle in its wooden frame.

"Sir," she sounded excited.

"Get me a few tissues, please."

"Sir, I was just trying to tell them..."

"Thank you," a strange male voice dismissed her.

Jessup raised his head. A tall ginger-haired man stood before his desk. Dressed in a cream-colored trench coat, he had a long face and a slightly aquiline nose. His eyes seemed to pierce everything he looked at. He glanced over the office and fixed his gaze on the Shelby file in front of Jessup.

"Sir," the secretary gave him a guilty look.

"You can go, Melanie. I'll fetch some tissues myself later."

When she closed the door behind her, the man showed Jessup his ID.

"Agent Archer."

Without further ado he reached for a spare chair, turned it around and straddled it back to front.

Jessup moved aside. Behind the glass partition, several of Archer's agents crowded in the hall staring at their boss.

"Let's get straight down to business," he said.

"As you wish," Archer pointed at the file. "You give me and my men whatever you've got on Shelby and Baker, and we'll leave."

Jessup paused, then nodded. Leaning against the back of the chair, the agent rose and walked to the door.

"Oh," he said. "One last thing. The President's arriving tomorrow. Make sure there's no rioting. Keep the migrants under control. The Mayor has already given them the afternoon off, so make sure they're back in their camps by thirteen hundred.

Jessup ground his teeth but kept himself under control.

"How about the President's safety?"

"The standard procedure," Archer reached for the door handle. "Your people will assist my agents with on-site inspection. They will be responsible for cordoning off the possible cortege routes."

He opened the door and added out loud,

"It's the President's request to have no police inside the Memoria building. Their security will take over there. Make sure you control the adjacent streets and the airport. The air gate over Manhattan is also their responsibility. No police choppers."

Jessup didn't speak. He wished he could hurl his unfinished coffee into the agent's smug face. How dared he humiliate the entire police force, all those people who'd sacrificed their lives to protecting each and every New Yorker. But even here Memoria had to have its pound of flesh. He was out of it now, and as for speaking directly to the President, he now had a slimmer chance than a snowball in hell.

Without looking away, Jessup moved to the desk and pressed an intercom key.

"Melanie. I want you to ask Lieutenants Salem and Gizbo to see me now. Tell them to bring everything they have on the Shelby case."

Before Jessup heard the secretary's "Yes, sir," Agent Archer closed the door behind him. He went to his men still crowding in the hall and spoke to them glancing back at Jessup through the glass.

Jessup drummed his fingers on the desk and opened the file. He'd have loved to have known two things. First, what kind of item had Shelby collected at the post office. And secondly, what the man planned to do next.

The Captain wasn't going to abort the investigation.

* * *

They woke Barney up before lunch. He drove them away from the kitchen table and started cooking. In jeans and T-shirt, he opened the fridge and produced a large cut of neck for a stew.

"Migrants' meat," he said.

"Pardon?" Frank perked up.

"They raise cattle in those camps," Barney threw the meat onto the table and reached for the biggest knife on the rack. "Without them, New York would have starved a long time ago."

Max moved his laptop onto the window sill. Frank collected their notes covered in diagrams and question marks. He moved closer to the fridge and to Barney in order to tell him their brainstorm results.

Barney sliced the meat on the board, his enormous shoulders unmoving. He listened carefully, nodding whenever Max asked if he understood what Frank was saying. When Frank came to the shootout, Barney forgot his meat and turned to him, listening. Once Frank finished, Barney gave the coach a meaningful glance.

"Same people," the coach summed up. He ran his hand through his crew cut. "All bald, mind you. Any idea why?"

"Experiment volunteers," Barney suggested. "Same as Claney."

"Yeah, right," said Frank. "Children volunteers."

Barney stared at him.

"You do the math," Frank said. "Claney is the same age as you two. When Baker was testing his technology, he was the same age as I am now. Afterward, they solved the hair loss problem. Now think. The attackers are all my age. All have hair loss. Why?"

Barney stuck out a quizzical chin. Frank went on,

"Let's assume they were subjected to Baker's experiments while still children. Kathleen found out and wanted to go public and report Memoria's child abuse. You think it's serious enough?"

The two men nodded.

"Until now, it seems to add up," Frank glanced at the sheets of paper in his hand, sat back and crossed his legs. "One thing I don't understand is their military training. What's that got to do with Baker's experiments? Another thing. Those who attacked me at the post office couldn't speak clearly. They didn't seem to be able to form complete sentences. Could that be a side effect of the experiments? If so, how does Claney tie into the picture? He can talk the legs off a chair, that one. We've just heard him do it."

"Barney? What do you think?" Max adjusted his glasses. The laptop started sliding off his lap. He caught it by the monitor just in time. "Any ideas?"

Barney took the cutting board and used the knife to sweep the chopped meat into a large pan.

"Well," he mused, picking his teeth with the knife. "I'm not a hundred percent sure, but it's possible they were specially trained. They wanted to use them whenever need be." He looked at Max. "Did I make myself clear?"

"More or less," Max shut the laptop. "Are you implying that their volunteers were intended to perform secret missions, just like I used to do for Hopper?"

"You got it," Barney picked up a lid and covered the pan.

"Right," Frank butted in, "but why them and not somebody else? What makes them special? All this fantasizing may not do us any favors."

"Sometimes fantasizing is the best way to find a solution," Max said.

"Yeah, right," Barney shrugged, put the knife down and lifted the pan. "I'll never forget how you sank that U-boat in the Gulf of Mexico. And they didn't believe you then, either!"

"Leave it," the coach said. "We'd better try to find a connection between Claney and the baldheaded attackers. And if there is one, then what exactly is it? So let's have a think and then a meal, and then Frank can finally go get some rest."

Without answering, Barney put the pan onto the stove and opened the fridge, looking for some vegetables. Max set the laptop aside. He dragged the bag from under the table, took out an assault rifle and began taking it to bits, placing each part onto the window sill.

"And what if-" Frank stopped himself.

The veterans turned to him.

"No, sorry," Frank waved them aside. "Won't work."

"Spill it out, boy," Barney pointed his knife at him. "It's for us to decide whether it'll work or not."

"Exactly," Max glanced at the clock over the fridge. "Hurry up."

"Right," Frank rummaged through the pile of notes and pulled out a sheet. He turned it to the veterans so they could see a diagram with a few questions jotted down underneath. "What would you say if the migrants were supposed to start a war in New York? Only they don't know about it yet?"

"In which respect?" Barney munched on a carrot.

The coach lowered the rifle onto his lap.

"Easy," Frank shrugged. "They'll make them do it."

"How exactly?" Max asked. "You just can't let go of this migrant theory, can you?"

"First, a question," Frank said. "Do you agree that there is a connection between Claney and the baldies? I think it's pretty obvious."

"I only saw Claney. And he was on TV," said Barney finishing his carrot.

"I do," Max nodded to Frank. "Their skin is too smooth to be natural, I have to agree."

"Accepted," Barney flicked the carrot end into the bin and reached into a bag for a new one.

"Good," Frank glanced at the paper. "Kathleen told me something once that I dismissed as irrelevant. At the time, I thought she'd dreamt it all up. It was something about transplanting one person's memories into another. I didn't know then that she worked for Memoria, did I?"

Barney choked and burst out coughing. The coach reached out and tapped his back.

"I'm — agrh! — sorry," Barney twisted his arm and pointed his thumb at his shoulder blades. Max slapped him as hard as he could. "Much better now."

Barney cheered up and spoke louder,

"I'm sorry about that. For a second, I imagined Max's memories being transplanted into my head. And his and mine, into Maggie's."

"This is exactly what I mean," Frank said. "What if the idea behind the Vaccination is to prep the migrants for a war? The talks start. The President arrives. And then the shit hits the fan. A previously trained group acts first and the others join in."

"So you think," Max patted the rifle butt, "that they want to kill the President and blame it on the migrants?"

"Exactly. Now, Gautier has somehow heard about the Vaccination project. Alternatively, somebody leaked the information on purpose, in order to provoke our Steel Lady."

"We digress," Max said.

Frank paused, searching for the right words.

"This is what Kathleen came up with. By transplanting the required," he raised his finger, "I said, the required memories, you can give society a perfect professional force. Thousands of brain surgeons, architects, engineers and researchers..."

"And well-trained soldiers," Barney butted in. The coach nodded.

"And soldiers," Frank said. "It's plain irresistible, don't you think? Thousands of people gaining access to skills they didn't have before. Just like that," he snapped his fingers.

Barney screwed up his face.

"Provided they pay," the coach mumbled. Frank dismissed the remark and went on,

"And once these soldiers acquire certain combat skills — say, in an urban environment, — then they can confront the police. They can trigger rioting..."

"Wait a sec," in one practiced motion, the coach pushed the bolt into the breech, fitted the recoil spring and snapped the breech frame cover shut. Then he cocked the firing mechanism and inspected the rifle. "Do you really think that Claney's fighters are migrants?"

He aimed the barrel at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked. The coach leaned the rifle against the window sill.

"Now that sounds closer to the truth," Barney deftly chopped the carrots and peeled the onions. "This way nothing leads back to him. He's got them to pull his chestnuts out of the fire."

"I think so, too," Frank went on. "It's not so easy to arrange for a normal citizen to disappear. Now migrants are different. No one gives a damn about them. There's an entire new generation grown up behind the camp's fence. Okay. Let's assume they did plan some organized rioting, but..."

It hurt him to speak of Kathleen impersonally, as if she was just a missing link to the past events. But he forced himself to go on,

"...but Kathleen could have found out about it. She must have tried to throw a monkey wrench in the works. Then Memoria had to cover up their tracks and changed their plans."

"At the moment, this is nothing but a theory," Barney pointed out. "As is the killing of the President and of their lab babies."

"Actually, they work very well together," said Max.

"Let's start with the Vaccination, then," squinting, Barney turned away from the table and wiped away his onion tears. "What's so special about it? Who does it threaten and how?"

"We've already worked out a thing or two about it," the coach said. "If what Frank's said is true, then after the press conference people will line up for the Vaccination from here to hell."

Barney and Frank nodded.

"This program threatens the migrants and their current situation. They feed New York. They provide electricity and drinking water. Their waste disposal sites work overtime. If you think about it, it's the same everywhere. Migrant camps all over the country are responsible for the cities' sustenance. Migrants are everywhere. They clear the debris, they work at construction sites, they clean the streets..."

"They don't have oil," Barney interrupted him.

"So what?" Max smirked. "The government is obliged to give it to them. If camps decide to stop supplying food, water and electricity, cities will starve and face epidemics."

"That's crisis," Frank said. "Administrative crisis."

"Created by Memoria's forcing everyone to have their memories erased. What we have now is a generation of brainwashed wooses, too used to their fake joy and prosperity and running to the nearest Memoria branch at the first sight of trouble."

"So you think that now they want to rectify the situation?" Barney lifted his hands in dismay. "That doesn't sum up. Too much too soon."

"What did you want?" Max stepped toward him. "That's a conspiracy for you. Why would they traumatize the population? Those with blue and green bracelet lights couldn't care less, anyway. And veterans like ourselves... we're getting old. We've lost our grip on the situation. We've lost our gut feeling," he glanced at his rifle.

"I'm not talking about it," Barney waved his knife in Max's direction. "What I want to know is who is supposed to start the war? Logically, it should be the migrants. Right?"

Frank nodded.

"Claney said that their leaders — of which there are quite a few — would be the first to try the Vaccination. Which means," Barney threw the knife onto the table, scooped up a handful of chopped carrots and showed it to Max, "They'll be offered one thing and given quite the opposite." He threw the carrots back and picked up the knife. "Then they'll have the upper hand. Hundreds of thousands, ready for war, flooding the streets. Drowning New York in blood."

"How do you suggest they do it?" the coach asked nonchalantly. "How are they supposed to keep those hundreds of thousands under control? This isn't a minor group of street fighters. They must have a clear objective. How can they program it in?"

"Easy!" Barney stuck the knife into the cutting board and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Think of the personality correction program they use in prisons. I don't think the Vaccination is going to be much different."

"Well," the coach glanced at Frank and his eyes glistened behind the glasses. "Probably not. But how can you force thousands of migrants to assault the rest of the population and the President himself? The personality correction program is not that easy. The initial session takes Memoria workers several hours. Then their patients need several repeat sessions so that the encoding affects their conscious mind, as well. The technology in itself is too expensive. Then you need several teams of expert mnemotechs. Using it is justified in a limited amount of very specific unique cases. Serial killers, repeat offenders and sexual predators are few and far between, and as for the rest, then obligatory Memoria visits have obliterated all other crimes. Yesterday's murder was the first in New York in five years."

"What do you imply?" Barney asked warily.

Frank realized that there were some hidden reefs they hadn't considered.

The coach placed the rifle onto the window sill and opened the laptop. His fingers flitted over the keyboard.

"There are thirty Memoria branches in New York," he said without taking his eyes off the screen. "Curiously, five of them opened last week. Five more will be opened tomorrow."

"Same in DC," Frank said. "Lots of new branches there."

"Yeah," the coach nodded. "But in New York, they also have two large centers. One serves the police department and deals, mind you, with personality correction. It's also their job to make sure that the citizens abide by the obligatory law on memory clean-ups. The other one is a research center. I'd love to have a look at it. Unfortunately, time is the issue."

"This center is probably nothing but a smoke screen," Barney placed the frying pan onto the stove and turned to Frank. "You don't hide your secrets in places like this. You shove them where the sun doesn't shine: like, behind the polar circle or on the Moon."

"Possible," Max agreed. "So this is what we have. To organize simultaneous personality correction sessions for a thousand migrants — let's assume that every Memoria branch in New York will be doing just that, including their research centers... let's see... a person per hour... ten per hour in research centers... that'll be..." he turned his laptop to show them his calculations. "Sixteen and a half hours to perform primary personality correction for a thousand people. One thousand, mind you. And we're talking hundreds of thousands in New York alone. Millions, if you count the whole country. How much time will that take?"

The question was pretty rhetorical. Frank didn't know what to say to it. Barney stared out of the window and moved his lips doing his own calculations.

The coach removed his glasses and once again rubbed his tired eyes.

"So Frank, your idea is interesting. It could be a powerful move. Unfortunately, it's also pretty pointless. They just won't have the time."

"But what if Kathleen came up with a new technology? What if now it takes much less time?" Frank didn't want to give up. "Therefore the name, Vaccination."

"Why not," Barney pulled the knife out of the cutting board and stabbed the air. "They pump them full with chemicals, and-"

The coach shook his head.

"No way. They could, in theory. But injecting them all at once... Imagine that, Barney: a hundred thousand asses and a hundred thousand needles. You don't seem to understand. According to Frank's idea, you need to convince thousands of people to act simultaneously. They have to obey. And that's impossible. In theory, yes. But in practice... such rioting would be curbed before it even started. The police will shoot the instigators and isolate the rest. Plus they'll accuse Memoria of conspiracy against the authorities." He shook his head. "There's something else here. But what? Memoria must have a reason to open all those new branches. They were preparing for the Vaccination all right. But we don't yet know what it's all about." The coach took the rifle, loaded the magazine and put a round up the spout.

Frank looked at Barney. He hadn't expected his support. Before, it looked as if all Barney could do was growl and find fault with him. Maggie definitely had something to do with it. Admittedly, Frank had come to like her. She was different. Not the same kind of different as Kathleen had been, but still. He felt at ease around her. Both girls seemed to have the same effect on him. Maggie didn't look a bit like Kathleen, but the two seemed to share the same character traits. Maggie, too, was decisive and fearless. She had hurried to help him before she knew enough to make a weighed decision.

"Right," Barney scratched his elbow. "Max, what if you move to my room for a bit? That's the best place to handle firearms. Hurry up before some Peeping Tom with a telescope catches you out through the window with that rifle."

The coach lowered his laptop onto the window sill and jumped off. He scooped up the weapons and left the kitchen.

"He's done us, man." The cutting board in hand, Barney rose from the table. He threw the chopped vegetables onto the heated skillet and looked into the pan. An appetizing smell of cooking floated in the kitchen. Frank swallowed. He reached for the notes and stacked them up neatly on the window sill.

"I have to admit I like this scenario," behind Frank's back, Barney was stirring the sizzling carrots and onions. "To smoke the President and raze New York to the ground, then blame the migrants! Sick motherfuckers they are, really. Claney will kill two birds with one stone: he'll get rid of the camp and three hundred thousand pains in the ass with it, and he'll be in the White House before his people finish the migrant cleansing."

He stepped toward Frank. "But that doesn't mean," Frank felt droplets of the man's spit on his face, "that you can ogle Maggie once she's back. She's not your girlfriend! Understood?"

Frank just blinked, cornered between the table and the window. He had his work cut out for him, staying on friendly terms with Maggie's father. He'd ask Maggie a few inconspicuous questions about his past. There had to be a clue to his being so protective of her.

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.

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.

Chapter Thirteen. Rappelling into Hell

The open space around him took his breath away. All of Manhattan lay below. On the horizon, the ocean glistened under the clear blue skies. The sun blazed away, reflected by the upper stories' windows.

The line was unwinding at five feet per second. Not too fast, but enough to reach the first floor in under three minutes without getting hurt when it finally stopped. After that, there were two scenarios available. They could either run across the flat roof of an adjacent T-shaped annex, then use the fire escape to get down to the street. Alternatively, they could go back into the building and use one of the elevators to reach the underground parking where Max was waiting in the limo. They didn't have contact with him: portable radios didn't reach the parking lot without a signal amplifier, but installing one in the building would have taken too much time and jeopardized the whole mission. Besides, Memoria's security scanned all frequencies which allowed their workers to detect and blanket out all talks. That's why Max was supposed to neutralize the guards and keep the parking exits and the cameras under control for an agreed length of time. In case of the others' failure, he had to leave the building alone.

The rasping of metal against metal made Frank writhe around in order to look up. He didn't see the end of the rubberized tube overhead. The line had slid off the roller and was now grating against a window ledge above. Frank's shoulder grazed a buttress, turning him away from the building. He hit the back of his head against a window ledge. His jacket slid up and snapped apart. Between clinching Maggie and gripping the attaché case, he couldn't kick himself away from the wall for fear of swinging back and smashing their own butts against the window ledges.

Their descent stopped.

They hung opposite a window, rotating on the end of the cord. Frank looked up wondering if the malfunction had triggered the emergency brake or the spool had simply jammed in the rollers.

Three stories above, Barney looked out of the broken window. The wind tore off his hat and blew it away.

"It's jammed!" Frank shouted.

Barney disappeared. Shots followed.

"Dad!" Maggie screamed.

Frank looked down at her. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Let's swing," he held the attaché case with both hands, turned his face to the window and propped his feet against it. "Kick when I count to three. One — two — three!"

They kicked together. Maggie broke a stiletto heel.

They didn't have enough momentum.

"Again! Bring your knees up!" Frank shouted. "Then use the nail gun!"

He kicked as hard as he could hoping that the side wind would take them a bit further away this time. Maggie raised the nail gun and pressed the trigger under the handle. With a clatter, nails hit the window covering it with a web of cracks.

They swung into the window. Frank held out the attaché case and shielded the girl with his body as best he could. In a shower of shattered glass, they burst inside.

His fingers bleeding, Frank undid the clasps and let go of the girl. He looked around.

"Where are we?" he grabbed her elbow helping her to get up. "Maggie? Do you know this room?"

A large desk with several intercoms on it stood in the middle, surrounded with chairs. Plasma screens covered the walls overhead.

"It's the conference room."

"You know how to get out of here?" Frank removed his battered jacket and the harness, listening for any sounds from above.

He couldn't hear any shooting.

"You think we can reach the elevators without being noticed?"

"We're trapped," Maggie's voice shook. She stood up clenching the nail gun with both hands. "The elevators are along the hallway to our right. To our left, the conference hall. It's all packed out with security."

"And if we leave through the conference hall?"

"There's another staircase there."

"Let's go, then," Frank pulled her hand.

Maggie kicked off her shoes. With one heel broken, they would only hinder their escape.

The door to the room began to open. Frank backed to the wall, covering Maggie. The door opened, concealing them in a narrow niche.

"There's a broken window down here," said a voice in the hallway. "I'm going in."

First, a swaying gun barrel appeared, followed by the hand that held it. A well-built man entered the conference room. He held his left hand up to his face, reporting over the microphone in his sleeve.

A scream echoed from above. A body flashed past the window.

"Damn!" the agent backed up. "He's fallen out! Someone's fallen out the building!"

Maggie squeaked. Frank didn't wait for the agent to turn round. He smashed the attaché case over his shoulder and kicked him in the hip, pushing the man to the desk. He ran out into the hallway, about to turn left, when he realized he'd done so too soon. Another security agent stood to his right. The gun in his hand jerked and banged.

Frank stuck out the attaché case to protect his ribs. One of the bullets tore through his shirt and stung his shoulder. The others clanged as they smashed into the attaché case's steel lid without piercing it. Luckily, Frank stood with his side to the agent. His elbow joint snapped and his fingers let go of the attaché case handle. Frank released it and turned to face the gun.

His old street fighting skills saved him. He ducked under the gun and his left arm shot up, the fist hitting the opponent's elbow. Frank stood up and leaned forward, butting the man upwards, his forehead breaking the bridge of the man's nose.

The agent jerked. His eyes rolled and he fell backwards. Frank exhaled, his fingers feeling his shoulder and collarbone under the red spot spreading on his shirt. His awkward fingers tore the shirt open. Just a deep scratch.

He bent down to pick up the attaché case and received a kick to his stomach. His sight darkened. His breath was paralyzed by a new assailant attacking the unprepared Frank from the conference room.

The next kick sent him sprawling to the floor. Frank pulled his knees up to his stomach and covered his chest with his elbows and knees from the pointing gun. The agent stepped out into the hallway and turned to face Frank, the weapon in his outstretched hand.

Frank heard dry snapping coming from the room.

The hand holding the gun jerked to the wall and stayed there, the agent wailing in agony. Nail heads showed through his forearm. Several more had pierced his open hand; one had entered between his fingers immobilizing the trigger.

Maggie appeared in the doorway. Pale, she threw the spent nail gun on the floor and recoiled from it. Her scream flooded the hallway when she saw the man's arm — his blood splattering the wall, dripping from the many nail holes.

It gave Frank enough time to roll aside, grab the attaché case and with a swing slam it into the agent's legs. The man cried out but stayed on his feet. Dazed, he stepped forward and tried to kick Frank in the shoulder but screamed with pain from his nailed arm. Frank got to his feet and wacked the attaché case against the small of his back.

"Run," he croaked and, holding his stomach, staggered toward the conference hall.

Maggie didn't move. She stood there staring at the man sliding down the wall. Frank came back and grabbed her.

"Run! Now!" Suddenly he stopped and bent over the other shooter lying in the doorway. He pulled at the motionless man's shoulder turning him face down. "Help me," he started pulling off the man's jacket.

The right arm slid out of the sleeve easily. The left one got stuck but Maggie promptly helped him release it.

Behind their backs, voices mixed with the growing tramping of many feet.

"Now run."

The jacket was biggish. As he ran, Frank pulled the tie off his neck and slid one hand into the loop. Wincing with the pain in his stomach and cuts on his fingers, he wound the attaché case handle to his wrist with the tie. Now he wouldn't lose it.

"There!" Maggie grabbed his hand, pushed a door and dragged him into a room.

"Lock it, quick."

The lock clicked. Maggie led Frank through a maze of desks to an adjacent office behind a glass partition. It looked as if it could lead them to the other side of the hallway they'd just left.

Maggie stopped by the door and pulled the handle.

"It's locked."

"Step aside," he motioned her away from the door and stepped back to take a kick at it. Then he changed his mind. There could be more security there. "Where does this door lead to?"

"To the other wing. There's a utility hallway behind the conference hall."

"And then?"

"If we turn right, we'll come across the service elevator. We can use it to go down to the parking lot."

"That'll do," Frank pressed his ear against the door.

He could barely hear voices. And they came from the right, of all places. Not good. He crouched and opened the attaché case. Before starting for Memoria, Barney had packed it with everything he needed: the camera, the chargers, the leads, and also a tool box. Frank found a flathead screwdriver, placed it against the lock and slapped his hand against the handle. The flat head sank about an inch deep between the frame and the lock. He slapped it again burying the screwdriver in the hole exactly halfway through and jerked it to prise the steel tongue of the lock open. The hinges creaked. The plastic around the keyhole burst and the door opened.

Frank peered into the crack. At the far end of the hallway stood four men and two women. Their clothes didn't give a hint as to who they were, although one of them in a dark business suit looked like a security agent. He stood with his back to the door. Two of the men had cameras hanging from their necks. Reporters. How did they get here? Were they late for the press conference?

Frank turned to Maggie sizing her up and down. She had no shoes, but if he went first with her behind him, this fact might go unnoticed. As long as they made it to the elevator.

"How do I look?" he asked.

Maggie buttoned up his jacket, took his hand in hers covering the cuts with her fingers, and nodded.

"You walk behind me," Frank said. "There are six people at the end of the hallway, six journalists, but one of them is wearing a dark suit. He could be a Fed.

"But what if he-" Maggie didn't finish.

Someone jerked the door handle in the adjacent room, then knocked; someone else shouted a few words, their meaning perfectly clear. They were about to break the door down.

Frank took a deep breath and walked out into the hallway.

"What's going on?" he started as he strode toward the reporters. "Did you hear the shots?"

The man in the dark suit looked back at him.

"We were busy working," Frank chattered not allowing him time to find his bearings. "And then it all started..."

He came close to the group. To demonstrate his fear, he swallowed and opened his eyes wide, looking about. Around the corner he saw a spacious hall with large automatic doors — apparently, leading to the conference hall, — shut close. Opposite it was the service elevator. The screen over the call button displayed the number 60: the elevator was about ten stories below.

"We hid under the desks when it all started," Frank flapped his hand to show his excitement. "And now it seems to be quiet..."

"Stand here by the wall, sir," the agent pointed him to some free space to his left. "Try to calm down. Are you hurt?"

"I'm not," Frank shook his head. "Nor is my secretary. We just want-"

"Sir? Can I see your bracelet, please? Stand by the wall and give me your name."

The agent reached under his clothes for his gun, and Frank buried his knee into his crotch. The reporters winced. Frank lowered his fist onto the doubled-up agent's head. A woman screamed.

"Stay where you are!" Frank shouted to them. He grabbed Maggie's hand and dragged her to the elevator.

The seconds of waiting turned into minutes. It felt as if the elevator would never come.

"That is Shelby," he heard a worried whisper.

"Who?"

"Frank Shelby," a bearded reporter said, readying his camera.

"No way!" the first one answered. "Are you sure?"

"It can't be," a woman flapped.

"I tell you!" the bearded man raised his camera.

Behind Frank's back, the elevator's steel doors opened with a groan.

"Don't move!" he stuck out his hand, sheltering himself from the lens. Then he knew what he had to tell them. "I didn't kill Kathleen Baker," he lowered his hand.

Maggie pressed the button for the parking level. The doors started to close. Cameras flashed, filling the hallway with loud voices and the hurried footsteps of his chasers.

"I didn't kill her!" Frank lifted the attaché case. "Here's the evidence!"

With a judder, the cabin moved down. Overhead, the hoist machines hummed.

"You think they believed me?" Frank turned to Maggie.

She was looking at the ceiling. On the display over her shoulder, the numbers of the floors went down.

"Hello?"

She motioned him to wait. Frank glanced at the display: the elevator had reached the 40th floor. The light overhead blinked and went out. Something clicked, then they heard a bang. With a screech, the cabin shook and stopped.

"They've blocked us," Frank pressed button after button, but nothing happened. The display read, Emergency Stop.

He walked into the corner under the ceiling hatch, jumped up and pushed the hatch open.

"Frank Shelby! Don't try to escape!" a voice rattled. "Stay where you are."

"Get lost!" It took Frank a second to realize the voice was coming out of the elevator's intercom.

"Otherwise we'll be forced to shoot. Stay where you are."

He loosened the loop on his wrist, placed the attaché case onto the floor, pulled himself up and squeezed his body through the hatch. The fresh injuries reminded him of themselves. His muscles and ribs started aching. Frank spat, annoyed. He leaned down into the hatch and held out his hand,

"Give me the attaché case."

Maggie did.

"Get up here," Frank commanded.

"But I..." After a brief hesitation, the girl reached out. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her out onto the roof. Then he shut the hatch close, annoyed with the mumbling in the speakers.

He looked up. Some of the floors overhead didn't have elevator doors.

"The service elevator doesn't stop at every level, does it?"

Maggie shook her head.

"Then we just might make it to the parking lot."

He stepped toward the rough wall, barely visible in the pale emergency lighting. "We'll climb down."

Maggie came closer and peered down.

"You can do it," Frank pulled off his jacket. "We're at an advantage at the moment. We can escape before they get to us. Come on, let's go."

"On one condition. I'll go first."

Frank turned and looked into her huge eyes, filled with determination.

"Why?"

His throat went dry. He couldn't let her go first. Too risky for her.

"Because you have the attaché case," she stepped toward him. "Come on now."

Before squeezing himself between the wall and the cabin, Frank pulled the handle on the elevator's roof, blocking the hoist mechanism.

"To make sure they don't squash us... accidentally," he explained. "The temptation might be too much."

They could descend by one of two routes. They could either use the slapdash steel ladders welded into the beams. Alternatively, they could use the cables. Not the elevator cables but those that snaked along the shaft walls providing seismic reinforcement. This was a much faster way but also much more dangerous.

Below, not every story had elevator doors. Frank peered into the dark void. He couldn't care less why some levels didn't have elevator access. They had to act fast, that was all that mattered.

He chose the latter escape route. He ripped the sleeves out of his jacket and wound them around Maggie's wrists. For a second he wondered if letting her go first was a good idea. But she was right: if she needed help, then for him to climb up, attaché case in hand, would prove much harder than to descend toward her.

This time he didn't use his tie to secure the attaché case handle onto his wrist. Instead, he drew his trouser belt tight and attached the attaché case to it. The belt dug into his waist. Frank passed the end of his tie under the belt and secured the ends around his neck. This way it was more secure, but also easier to breathe.

"Ready?" Not waiting for her to answer, he grasped Maggie's shoulders and helped her to get hold of one of the cables. "If you need to stop, squeeze your legs around it."

"Okay," slowly, the girl started to descend.

Frank looped the remains of his jacket-turned-waistcoat around the cable. He wrapped the loose ends around his wrists, breathed out and followed Maggie.

He feared that they would switch off the emergency lighting in the shaft. That would prevent them from seeing the large painted floor numbers on the walls and, basically, would stop the descent. But the light stayed on. Their chasers only appeared in the shaft several minutes later. By that time, Frank and Maggie were far below.

The girl got the hang of it and was sliding down confidently, paying no attention to the voices overhead. Frank slowed down to glance at the torch beams cutting through the dark above, and whispered breathlessly,

"How much left?"

"Fifteen stories," Maggie answered without stopping.

The pain in his left leg grew. After yesterday's fight, his ribs ached. The trouser belt dug into his stomach. If only he could loosen it up, let go of the weight and grab a breath of air.

"Stop," Maggie whispered and froze.

A cramp shot through Frank's hip. He swore under his breath and clasped the cable tight just over the girl's head. They'd stopped opposite the elevator doors, and he didn't like it.

"Why did you stop?" he winced with pain. "We only have a few floors left..."

"There's somebody down there."

Frank pulled himself to the wall and lowered his body onto a steel beam circling the shaft. "I can't see anyone."

"I assure you. I heard someone speak."

He looked at the doors. They could open at any moment. Then they couldn't escape their pursuers any longer.

"We have no other way," Frank said. "We've got to move." But he didn't really believe he could do it. He had no energy left.

"We could get out here and use a normal elevator," underneath, Maggie placed a foot onto a beam and, pressing her back to the wall, moved closer to the doors.

A powerful beam of light hit them.

"There they are!" a voice growled.

"Everyone to level three!" another one ordered.

Hadn't Maggie said they still had fifteen floors to cover? What did the voice mean, then? Or did they mean by levels the distances between those floors where the service elevator stopped?

The girl pulled a lever overhead.

"Help me!" she snapped.

Frank managed to get down. Together they prised the doors open and fell into the opening.

"Get up," Maggie croaked in his ear. "They'll be here in a minute."

Frank rolled over to his side and opened his eyes. The hallway swam before him. The pain in his leg rose and filled his ribs, stabbing his lungs.

"Get up," Maggie pulled his elbow.

Frank undid the trouser belt, picked up the attaché case and finally breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hold on to me," Maggie offered him her shoulder. Leaning on her arm, he limped along the corridor.

"Now," she glanced back, "why are we lower than I thought we were?"

"Don't... know," Still exhausted from his sliding down the cable, Frank gasped for air. He clenched his teeth and forced his feet to walk, hoping against hope that Max was still waiting for them.

"There," Maggie pushed a door to their right. They found themselves in a stairwell. "Hurry up. There are only two flights left."

"Go find Max," Frank grabbed at the railing.

The girl hurried ahead.

When Frank reached the parking, he nearly walked under the speeding limo. It braked. Max leaned from his driver's seat and opened the passenger's door for him. Maggie jumped out from the back seat and helped him into the car. As soon as she got back in, Max turned on the headlights, drove to the ramp exit at the back of the building and stepped on the gas.

The Maybach gained momentum on the slope and sped out into the deserted street flooded with light. For a split second all four wheels lost traction with the ground. The front bumper smashed the lowered barrier into pieces. In the back, Maggie tumbled off her seat and screamed. Yet unbuckled, Frank hit his head hard against the roof, then jarred his jaw on the dashboard before momentum pushed him back into his seat. Without slowing down, Max locked the wheel to the right manipulating the gas and brakes until the car stopped skidding and sped away from the corporation building.

'Buckle up!" Max yelled. "It's not over yet!"

Finally, Frank located the safety belt buckle above his right shoulder, pulled it across his chest and buckled up. He looked back. Maggie had scrambled back into her seat and was now desperately pushing the clasp inside the lock.

"Wrong lock!" Max glanced at the flashing buckle-up pictogram on the dashboard. "The left one!" He sent the car to the left. With a scream, Maggie tumbled over her seat. "Buckle up!" Max growled.

Frank heard a click in the back. The pictogram turned to green.

"Where're we going?" Frank stared in front of him, the breakneck speed making him forget the pain in his legs and ribs.

The coach didn't yet answer when a massive shadow covered the sun. A chopper whirred over the Maybach, turned around over an intersection ahead and froze, descending and blocking the way. Masked armed men in black uniforms and helmets sat in the cargo bay. Memoria's orange flower marked the chopper's side.

Without hesitation, the coach turned the car onto the empty sidewalk, clear of people and cars because of the President's arrival. The limo smashed into a shop window and crossed the store knocking over a few mannequins inside. The car's left wing hit the side of an enormous display wardrobe, collapsed the sales counter and rammed through the opposite glass wall into the adjacent street.

Frank glanced behind his shoulder. The chopper whirred over the intersection, turning. It raised its tail boom, gained speed and started to catch up.

"They're coming!" Frank shouted.

"I know," the coach said looking in the mirror.

At the next intersection, he took a sharp turn and rammed a patrol car. The massive Maybach threw it backwards, squashing the patrol car's hood: its windscreen cracked and the light bar went tumbling off the car roof. The patrol car jumped the curb, hit the wall of a building, then rolled out into the street blocking the way.

Max locked the wheel and stepped on the gas in order to avoid it when the low-flying helicopter advanced from behind another building. To avoid a collision, Max jumped on the brakes. The chopper pilot tried to maneuver his way around but miscalculated. The chopper's rotor hit a building and tore through its side, smashing the tiled wall. Unheard in the roar of the engines, the windows started bursting. Banking to the right, the helicopter sped forward, overtook the limo and turned around, swaying mid-air over the smashed police vehicle. Black smoke belched from its sparkling rotor.

"Hold tight!" the coach pressed his thumb against the handbrake button. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor and let go of the brake.

The tires screamed. The speedometer hit red. The limo shot forward like a catapulted missile. It rammed the patrol car pushing it aside. The pilot tried to raise the damaged chopper higher but not high enough. Its chassis hit the roof of the police vehicle. The chopper banked again, straightened up and swayed aside. The cabin door opened. The pilot jumped onto the road, followed by the men in the cargo bay. The cabin went nose up. The tail boom clattered along the tarmac and broke off, the impact causing the turning rotor to collapse. A flash blinded Frank.

'Get down!" Max pushed a button on the dashboard. A set of metal blinds shuttered the windows.

The interior went dark. An explosion followed. Debris showered the car.

"Get out!"

Frank thought he misunderstood his coach. His ears were ringing from the blast. Max had already opened his door and left the car, rifle in hand.

"Follow me, quickly!" his voice resounded loud and clear as if Frank's ears were unplugged.

Attaché case in hand, Frank scrambled out of the car. The flames burned his face. He shielded it with his elbow. The coach was advancing to a nearby house. Rifle at the ready, he had the chopper in his sights.

"Frank! The door won't open!" he heard Maggie's voice from inside the car.

"I'm coming!"

Rancid smoke clouded the street. His eyes running, Frank pulled the back door handle. Nothing. Squinting from the smoke, he looked inside through the front door.

"How about the other side?"

"It's jammed, too!"

"Come out here!"

He grabbed her arm and helped her to squeeze herself between the seats and through the front door. The moment she stepped onto the ground, shots rang out from their left. Max was firing at a large black-clad figure that had appeared from the stinking smoke. The man didn't stand a chance and collapsed without even raising his weapon. Another scrambled out of the smoke. Engulfed in flames, the already silent man wobbled to the car, stumbled over the first man's body and slumped down on top.

"Here, quick!" the coach ran past the bodies. Frank and Maggie ran up to him.

"Open it!" Max kicked the side of a manhole cover, forcing it to jump its seating. The rifle in one hand, his eyes not leaving the burning chopper, he handed Frank a knife.

They must have driven quite a distance away from the Presidential route: this manhole wasn't sealed as the security regulations demanded. Frank slid the edge of the knife under the lid and moved it to one side.

"You first," he turned to Maggie wishing her to finally escape to safety.

"No," the coach said. "You go first, Frank."

He obeyed and sat on the edge, his dangling feet feeling the rungs beneath. Maggie handed him the attaché case. Shots snapped again, but Frank didn't see who Max was shooting at this time. He was climbing down.

The shaft ended. Frank jumped down onto the sewer bottom. Here, the damp air was warm; it clung to his teary eyes worse than the smoke had. But at least he could breathe and no one was shooting yet.

Judging by the sound of the running water, the sewer had to be near. Either that, or there was a leak somewhere.

Maggie jumped off the ladder. Frank helped her to get up. He wanted to look around but the coach on the ladder overhead moved the lid back into place. Darkness filled the shaft.

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.

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.

Chapter Sixteen. The Migrants' Camp

Specked with the midday sun, the Harlem's dark waters splashed against the iron drainway. The river breathed with coolness. Max stood inside the sewage tunnel. Behind his broad back, Frank could see the clear sky and part of the steep bank opposite. Underfoot, brown foam flowed into the river.

Frank held the attaché case tight in one hand and supported Maggie with the other, preventing the girl from collapsing into the effluent. Nauseous and giddy, she didn't seem to care any more. On their way, she'd very nearly fainted with the stench and exhaustion.

Frank couldn't think straight himself. He didn't smell anything, his nose senseless ever since the start of their underground journey. Still, he felt like shit, which was appropriate, and didn't want to throw up when least needed, like the coach had done.

As if hearing his name, Max turned back, nodded to them and jumped into the river. It was only chest deep. Frank led Maggie to the edge of the drain and stood behind her back.

"Catch her," he pushed the doll-like body into Max's arms.

She was too tired even to cry out. Max grabbed her in his powerful arms, not to let her go underwater, then turned the girl onto her back and swam to the bank, pushing her along.

Frank looked out. Encased in a concrete foundation, the tunnel hung over the river. Overhead, tree tops rustled over a high barbed-wire fence. Further on, the river meandered preventing him from seeing how far the fence stretched along the bank slopes.

He looked in the opposite direction and still couldn't work out how far the 151th Street station platform was with its stadium and the checkpoint.

"Jump!" the coach called out as he helped Maggie to get out of the river.

Frank lifted the attaché case overhead and stepped out. Cold dirty water enveloped him, his feet bogged down in the silt. He pulled one out, lay on his chest and struck out with one arm to free the other foot.

"Hurry up!" the coach looked up, worried.

Next to him, Maggie on all fours puked bile onto the concrete. Max couldn't help her. He turned to the approaching Frank in the water, "Where are you!"

Max grabbed the attaché case before Frank could get out and opened it, producing a gun. He snapped the safety catch, pulled the bolt back in the breech and peered into the barrel where a cartridge glistened in the sun. He shoved the gun under his belt and pulled his shirt out of his trousers to cover the hand grip.

"Grab my hand," he reached for Frank. "Maggie? You think you can walk?"

"Sure," she wheezed, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

"Come on, then," Max dragged Frank up onto the concrete. "We've got to get to the fence. The sooner we get inside the perimeter, the better it'll be for all of us."

They helped Maggie back on her feet and supported her up the hill. The concrete wall overhead, about three body lengths tall, was covered with old cracks, wide and deep enough to scramble up. Numerous deep crevices made the potential climb a child's game.

The coach glanced around and turned his pale sunken face to Frank. "You go first."

Frank looked up and noticed, only a few feet over the wall, a security camera pointing at the Bronx.

"What if they see us," he said.

"Don't waste our time," the coach snapped. "Just climb the fucking wall. I'll help Maggie from my side, and you drag her up. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Frank paused, racking his brains for the best way to negotiate the barbed wire on top of the wall.

Once again he fixed the attaché case with his trouser belt, wiped the palms of his hands and started the climb, his fingers grasping at the cracks, his toes pressing into the crevices. Soon he approached the tight coils of barbed wire. Disregarding their sharp ends, he lifted the coils with his elbow, grabbed the wall's edge and pushed himself up. A few seconds later, he managed to force his leg over the other side and straddled the wall, the barbed wire on one side digging into his ribs.

First thing, he reached for the attaché case, opened it and rummaged through the tool box for some wire cutters. He cut the wire in two places making enough space for Maggie, and called out to the coach. Max was already waiting with the girl standing on his shoulders. Frank grabbed Maggie's outstretched arms and pulled her up onto the ledge. He wanted to help her hook her leg over the wall when a sharp pain in his side blurred his vision. For a few seconds, Frank sat on the top open-mouthed, unable to move, and when the pain subsided, the girl wasn't on the wall any more.

"Follow her!" the coach shouted from below.

Frank blinked, unable to see where she was gone, and finally noticed her body lying in the mud at the base of the wall. She lay face down, her arms spread wide, as if worshipping the camp ground. Frank turned, preparing to jump, when he heard an approaching motor.

"Hurry!" the coach shouted.

On the road outside, two police SUVs sped toward them, a machine gun mounted on the roof of the closest one. Frank pushed himself away from the wall, expecting to fall. Instead, he stayed put. He heard the ripping of fabric, followed by what felt like a knife cutting into his ribs. His back writhed in agony, Frank tumbled down from a height of several meters.

He fell and cried out from the agonizing pain in his side. Turning face up, he saw the coach straddle the wall next to a dislodged coil of barbed wire.

Now everything fell into place. When he'd helped Maggie, tossing his body this way and that, his belt had caught on the wire which ripped through his side as he jumped.

"Quit lazing about and help her!" the coach shouted.

By the time Frank scrambled back on his feet, Max was already standing next to him. Together, they picked up the girl, and, with her arms over their shoulders, carried her across the overgrown railway tracks.

Behind the wall, tires screeched, motors idled and voices came from the patrol cars.

"Upstairs," barked the coach when they'd dragged Maggie into the building.

"Wait up," Frank turned his head this way and that in the dark stairwell, blinded by the lack of the bright midday sun they'd left outside. He didn't see the stairs and lagged behind.

"What's up," the coach stopped.

"It's all right now," Frank blinked the darkness from his eyes and took the first step. "Come on, then."

"Mind your step. Make sure you don't drop her."

"I can carry her on my own, if you want."

"No, I don't. This way she's secure."

They lugged her all the way up to the third floor and lay the girl down by the wall.

"Stick your head out the window and get our bearings," Max commanded and bent over the girl, his hands gingerly feeling her neck and arms for fractures.

Frank unbuckled the attaché case and walked to the window opening on the south side of the building. There, he could get a glimpse of the concrete wall with the cops behind it, the overgrown tracks and, far off, the squat remains of what used to be either the rail yard or some derelict warehouses.

"What can you see?" the coach asked.

"Not much," Frank winced and felt his ribs. Moving clockwise, he headed for another window. What he saw made his heart jump. The street to this side, too, was overgrown to the point where the trees and shrubbery ripped the tarmac open concealing the remains of what used to be blocks of flats. In the desolation bursting with green and wild flowers, a few old jalopies rusted in front of the house like large spots of sunlight. Instead of the missing wheels, their frames rested on neatly stacked bricks. The cars had been taken to bits neatly and meticulously — no missing parts lying around and no junk — as if the men who'd left them there planned on coming back to restore everything to its working order.

So this is what the Bronx was like? Frank could hardly take it all in. He was so used to living in his noisy, glass-and-concrete metropolis that at first, he couldn't work out what had moved him so much.

Silence. A deafening, strange silence pressing against his ears.

"Frank? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he shook it off and walked to the east window. "You can't see jack shit there. Everything's overgrown. I had no idea the Bronx was so green."

The coach patted Maggie's cheeks. Her eyelids twitched, and she opened her eyes.

"Did we... make it?"

Frank paused by the window. He could barely hear her voice.

"We did," the coach said. "You all right? Nothing hurts? Try to move your arms and legs, but easy."

Slowly, Maggie raised her arms and bent her elbows. She then attempted to scramble back onto her feet, and almost succeeded, but immediately slid down the wall onto the floor strewn with shattered bricks.

"Take it easy," Max told her.

Frank turned back to the window and froze. The stadium rose up behind the trees, not even a mile away.

"Sir," he said without looking at his coach. "Climbing that wall saved our guts. That was really good timing. We couldn't have escaped them faster even if we'd tried." Hearing Max's steps behind his back, he moved aside.

Max took his place, his powerful fists resting on the chipped window sill.

"You can say that again," he finally said. "We've been lucky indeed."

"What happened?" Maggie asked. They turned to her.

"You fell off the wall," Frank lowered his guilty eyes. "I failed to hang on to you properly."

"You know you have blood on your shirt?"

Ah, so that's what she was going on about. The girl was worried about him.

"Just a scratch from that wire."

Max grabbed Frank's shoulders and inspected his back. "Does it hurt a lot?"

Frank waved it off.

"Now," the coach stepped to the middle of the room, arms akimbo. "What we now need is a good wash, something to lick our wounds with and each a set of decent clothes. Then we can go and look for that Council of theirs. Frank? You're the migrant expert."

"I don't know that much," Frank shrugged and winced with the sharp pain in his side. "I was present at the talks, true, but I've never been to the Bronx."

"But you must remember something, surely? What do they do here? Anything at all."

"Ah! Water. They supply New York with purified water. So they must have hydrants on the streets," he paused, remembering, "if I'm not mistaken."

"Good," Max concluded. "If we don't find a functional hydrant, we'll knock at a door and ask for some water. Come on, then."

"But how about the police?" Maggie looked at them. "Won't they hand us over to the cops?"

"Let's hope not," the coach hesitated and checked the gun in his belt.

They went back downstairs. Max walked first, followed by Frank who grasped the attaché case in one hand and supported Maggie with the other. A breeze rustled in the tree tops and sent fallen leaves back into the air. Warm sunrays touched their faces.

"So quiet here," Maggie whispered.

"It is, isn't it?" Frank said. "Very unusual."

Max stopped. "We can discuss the unusual later," he gave both a meaningful stare and stole through the waist-high grass, leaving in his wake a trail of disturbed green. Instinctively the other two ducked and followed. They soon passed the rusty car skeletons, skirted a thicket and found themselves on a deserted tree-shaded street.

Frank had missed the moment when the coach pulled out his gun. Something had alerted him, a distant sound had made him stop. In front, in the opening between decaying houses overgrown with wild ivy, another street lay. It looked totally different.

A clean pavement, the curb painted white, fronted a neat little house with cheerful curtains in its windows. It had an almost antique feel.

"Let's go," the coach said.

Without saying a word, Frank and Maggie followed him. A few minutes later, they stood at a small intersection looking at a white signpost with blue pointed street signs.

"Where to now?" the coach said, rather to himself.

To their north stretched Nelson Avenue. To their east and west, 167th Street. The house they'd just seen stood on its corner, its front door ajar.

Max looked around them and opened his mouth to speak when a little black boy ran out from behind the building. He was laughing, trying to escape a tall girl who was chasing him. He wore light-colored shorts, a tank top and a pair of dusty, worn-out shoes; the girl had a summer dress on. She nearly caught up with him and raised her hand to give his backside a hearty slap, but the boy escaped, darted for the front door and froze, his large eyes staring at the strange adults.

The girl didn't notice them. She raised her hand again and rushed at the boy, but he screamed out, pointing at the filthy Maggie, Max and Frank. Her hand slowed in mid-air and although the boy did get his comeuppance, the slap was too weak and unenthusiastic.

For a moment she didn't move, studying them. Her intelligent eyes glistened. She hugged the little urchin, trying to cover him, and stole a worried glance at the front door.

Maggie was the first to come to her senses.

"You don't need to be afraid of us," she said. "We won't hurt you. All we need is a wash and a place to clean ourselves up a bit."

She stepped forward. Frank squinted at the coach. The gun in his hands was gone. He definitely knew how to handle firearms.

"My name is Maggie, Maggie Douggan. I'm from Brooklyn. We are looking for the camp- eh, the Bronx leaders. Your administration. You think you can take us there?"

The boy still stared at them, fear in his eyes. The girl gave them an analyzing adult look.

"You got to go to Fordham," she waived her hand pointing in the direction of the north east. "Over there, see? The Council House." She hugged the boy's shoulders.

"What's your name?" Maggie stepped closer.

"I'm Lynda. Lynda Nelson."

"Oh! You have the same name as the street!" Maggie nodded at the signpost.

"I do," the girl said, pride in her voice. "This is our custom. We're all Nelsons here on this street. We're one big family."

Frank and Max looked at each other. The coach murmured, "I wonder what kind of names they have on the numbered streets!"

"And your friend? What's his name?" A step closer, and Maggie was crouching in front of the kids.

"He's my little brother," Lynda smiled and ruffled the boy's curly hair. "Tom Nelson."

"Nice to meet you two," Maggie stood up. "And these are my friends. This is Frank and that's Uncle Max."

"He's not an uncle," Tom babbled bravely. "He's too old."

Everybody smiled at the boy's artless insight.

"You're a good judge of character, man," the coach said.

"Why are you so dirty?" the boy said. "You stink like... like..." he looked up searching for a word. Lynda shook his shoulder reproachfully and whispered in his ear.

"We," Maggie looked back at the men, "we managed to fall into the cesspit by the wall. Maybe you could tell us where we could clean ourselves up? Or if you call an adult, they could probably direct us, too."

A middle-aged, broad-faced black woman looked out of a window over the front door. Her large head was tied with a scarf above a thick neck. Under a white apron she wore a dress with a faded pink print.

"Lynda, Tom! Lunch time!" she yelled. Then she noticed the strangers and hung out of the window, clutching a flour-covered rolling pin in her plump hand. "Now who would you be?" She glanced over the street and looked back at them.

"Gran, they fell in the shit hole!" Tom shouted, beating everyone to it. "They're going to Fordham!"

Later they found out the woman's name was Oprah. She sent the kids back in the house for their lunch and allowed Maggie to follow them inside, leaving Frank and Max waiting by the door. Shortly, she reappeared, carrying an empty washbasin, a couple of towels and some soap and told them to use the garden hose in the back yard.

They promptly found it lying on a garden patch next to a scarecrow. Frank hung the towels around the scarecrow's neck, pulled off his clothes, turned the water on and splashed some on his head and chest, snorting happily. He then directed a jet of water onto the disrobed coach and, as he lathered himself, stood under the cold shower enjoying its clean freshness. After a few minutes, he washed the lather off Max, handed him the hose and reached for the soap.

"I had no idea I'd enjoy a cold shower so much," the coach said as he hosed Frank up and down. "Life's little pleasures."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," Max gave an indifferent wave with his free hand. "Just remembering the war. The missions we went on. The trenches. Never mind."

To get the coach's mind off it, Frank said,

"Did you know that, apart from water supplies, the Bronx is also known for its cell networks?"

Max raised a surprised eyebrow.

"Yes, it's — ouch!" Frank had disturbed the deep scratch on his side. He'd completely forgotten about it.

"Wait, let me clean it," Max took the remaining soap and started washing the wound. "In the meantime, tell me what else is interesting here."

Wincing from the stinging in his side, Frank drew in some air through his teeth and continued,

"Where the Zoo used to be," he turned his head to get his bearings, then waved his hand to the North, "they have a farm where they raise cattle. A bit further on, by Van Cortlandt Lake, they work the land and saw oats, corn and wheat."

"You said you didn't know much," the coach pointed out.

"Thanks. But this is only general knowledge," Frank pulled the towels off the scarecrow's neck, handed one to the coach and started rubbing himself with the other. "You know as well as I do that the migrants provide New York with its running water and much of its food supply, too. Remember you spoke about it when we were in your apartment? You mentioned the electricity, too. They have wind turbines working all along the East Coast, and a tidal power station on the East River Split."

Frank threw the towel round his neck, smoothed his wet hair and added, "Nothing prevents them from selling the excess energy as far as New Jersey."

"Do they have enough?"

"They do, and Gautier suggested that the Mayor spoke to their administration. It didn't go through for some reason. Most likely, the Mayor backpedalled thinking New York could use all the energy it could get."

"Someone could suggest he did," Max mumbled.

"Do you suspect our Mayor of corruption?"

"Not at all. Just thinking aloud."

They wrapped the towels around their waists, washed their shoes, then filled the washbasin with water and started washing their clothes. Frank's shirt fell apart in his hands, and he discarded it, but at least his trousers were still serviceable.

A few minutes later, Oprah came out. She gave Max a funny look, took their wet clothes and went back in with a promise to iron them.

Max and Frank watched her go. They sat down on the ground by the scarecrow sensing a slight change in the woman. Frank opened his mouth to speak but Max motioned him to stop and pointed at an open window. Its curtain moved out of synch with the rest. It could be Tom or Lynda, but it could also be an adult who had a reason not to let the strangers know he was there. After all, they hadn't asked Oprah if there was somebody else in the house.

Maggie came out with their clothes. Her eyes sparkled. She looked fresh and rested. Frank smiled back, unable to take his eyes off her. Maggie handed him his trousers and a large checkered shirt.

"Whose is this?" he asked as he unfolded it.

"No idea," Maggie shrugged. "Oprah gave it to me for you. Don't forget to thank her."

"I won't," Frank looked down. "Are these her sandals you're wearing?"

"They are," the girl turned away. The two men hurried to put their clothes on.

Then all three came over to the front door where Oprah was waiting for them. Lynda and Tom looked out of the first-floor window. Maggie waived to them, and they returned her farewell.

"Thanks a lot for the shirt," Frank said.

"You've been a great help," Max nodded at the children in the window. "Lynda said the Council was in Fordham. Is that correct?"

"That's right," Oprah took one step down.

"It's that way, isn't it?" Frank motioned in the direction of North Nelson Avenue.

"I shouldn't hurry if I were you," Oprah grabbed the banisters and glared at the coach, her corpulent body filling the stairway.

Max didn't move. A car was approaching along 167th. Maggie cowered behind the men's backs.

A few seconds later, an off-road pickup truck pulled up at the house: light gray with deep-treaded wide wheels. Three fit young men jumped out of the back. Two more men emerged from the cab.

"Lionel!" Frank recognized the one with high cheekbones as one of the camp's leaders. "You're Lionel Batford. Don't you remember me? I was-"

"Which one?" the man cut him off and looked at Oprah. "Which one is it?"

She pointed at Max.

"I would ask you to surrender your gun, sir," Lionel looked over Maggie and Frank and stepped toward Max. "You and your friends don't need problems, do you?"

The men stepped forward surrounding them.

Chapter Seventeen. No Justice

Frank stood by a wide window in the Keating Hall. The tower's shadow lay across the neat lawn below: the sun was setting, darkening the grass with the barely recognizable outline of the upper-story turrets. All around the former University building, heavy treetops barely moved in the breeze letting but a few soft sunrays fall through their thick foliage. Through the shafts of dust playing in the sunbeams, Frank, Maggie and Max had been shepherded up the granite stairs and into the building.

The coach and Maggie now sat at the long table with their backs to the window. Lionel Batford and Nicholas Floyd faced them. Frank watched their reflections in the window pane. Lionel, indifferent, studied the gun he'd taken from Max.

On the table between them lay the attaché case, buffed to its former silvery shine, its lid deformed by the bullets. Next to it stood the camera on its tripod connected to the monitor. The damaged battery hadn't stood up to the pressure, so that the camp engineers, having fiddled with the contacts, had decided not to bother and connected it to the mains with a transformer. But it didn't do much good, either. After a few minutes' discussion, the engineers had said they were sure they could fix it if they could get it to the workshop. And so they had left under Max's morose glare.

Frank looked down at the granite steps under the windows. He couldn't read the names from that height, but some of them he remembered from school: Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Mary Robinson, Harry Truman. The rest of the names he'd seen for the first time as he climbed those steps a few minutes ago. But if someone had bothered to immortalize those names in the stone worn by centuries of footsteps, then their bearers must have deserved being remembered.

It felt almost like a symbol: could it be why the Council presided here in the gothic edifice of Fordham?

He thought against asking those present, and only turned round when a door creaked, to meet Anna Gautier's morose stare. She entered; Frank stepped to the table. The bored Floyd rose and pulled a chair up for her. Lionel Batford put the gun aside, placed his cell phone on the table next to him and sat up straight. Frank nodded to Max, looked at the restless Maggie and stood with his hands on the back of his chair, watching the Steel Lady.

"So," her sharp contralto echoed off the walls. She glared at Max. "You've entered the Bronx bearing arms." Her stare shifted to Frank. "You're wanted by the authorities. You're accused of murder and a terrorist attempt!" Gautier raised her voice high at the end of the sentence as if to underline it.

Frank held her stare. "You're absolutely right. I am indeed accused of everything you've just said. God knows," he sighed and looked at his coach, "I didn't want my friends to get involved. Especially my new friends," he looked at Maggie suppressing the desire to touch her shoulder. "I definitely didn't plan on seeking help from you. Or from any migrants, for that matter. But," Frank clasped the back of the chair hearing his fingers crack. "But I do have evidence of my innocence. This tape was made by Kathleen Baker and decoded using Joe Binelli's workstation. This evidence, if only the public learns about it, will be Memoria's undoing. Isn't it what you want? You, of all people, need to get the authorities off your back. Didn't you speak to Memoria's bosses only this morning? What did they propose?"

Opposite him, Nicholas Floyd shifted in his chair. Lionel Batford's hand slid under the table. Frank heard a click — could be the safety lock of a gun.

Gautier stared at him, her thin lips pursed. A web of deep lines crumpled her bony face, shriveling her forehead. Her eyes, encircled by a pair of crow's feet, reflected the bright lights high above, as if her very glare was on fire. Would it destroy him and his friends? Only time could tell.

"Young man," Gautier's lips formed a bitter grin, "don't you know you're playing with fire? Who told you Memoria bosses us around? Who told you they are the authority? Could be the other way round, you know."

She waited for him to answer. The future of Frank's and his friends' now depended on his right choice of words.

"But you are going to check the tape," he allowed himself a passing grin, "of that I'm sure."

Gautier nodded.

"Very well, then," Frank breathed a sigh of relief. "The administration's dependency on the Bronx camp and its business activities makes the migrants their number one enemy. They can't control you. And no government can afford that. Especially if some members of the said government have a generous share in Memoria's dividends. Russell Jefferson Claney is running for the Presidency. Doesn't it make the administration one with Memoria? Did you get some of the answers you expected?"

She nodded. "Almost."

Frank chose to ignore her sarcasm. "But this is only one side of the coin. Let's turn it the other way up. Let's presume that the migrants' camp in DC has ceased to exist. There're too many strategic objects in DC, aren't there? The White House, the Pentagon, to name a few. So let's presume, for the sake of argument, that the DC migrants," Frank looked first at Max, then at Batford and Floyd, "have been relocated to smaller towns and communities. Let's presume that there exists a secret agreement between the administration and the migrants' Presiding Council that does just that..."

"Is it true?" Floyd rose, his bulk overpowering Gautier. She didn't flinch, her morose stare fixed on Frank. "So it is, then. But how... How could you?"

Batford, as more cool-headed, pulled Floyd's arm, forcing him to sit back down. Frank went on,

"It would only be a temporary measure, wouldn't it? A compromise. Just another deal."

The Steel Lady glared as if she wanted to burn a hole in him.

"We all want to live," Frank mused. "No matter how old we are. We all want to live a long comfortable life. Back to DC, though. Theirs wasn't a large camp: just over twenty thousand people. Many other smaller camps have disappeared off the map in a similar way," he started unfolding his fingers, "one in Oklahoma, another in Montana, the West Coast..."

"Wait a bit, Frank," Max nodded at Gautier. "Do you imply they paid her to do it?"

"Enough!" the Steel Lady slapped her hand on the table.

The door creaked, letting one of the young men in who'd taken Frank and his friends to Fordham in the pickup truck. Gautier waved him away, and the man disappeared.

"All of us in the Presiding Council were promised freedom of movement," she started, looking out of the window. "We hoped that by sacrificing little we could obtain more. As we surrendered our territories we increased the population of the larger ones, thus ensuring greater efficiency of our ventures. By doing that, the population of larger cities came to count on and respect us. That included their administration..."

The coach raised his eyebrows. "Which became dependent on your ventures," he summed up. "But it doesn't explain your reaction a minute ago. Am I the only one who's dumb here?" he lifted his hands in dismay. "That gives you and the migrants the highest advantage ever."

"Let Shelby explain," Gautier looked down at her wrinkled hands.

"Easy," said Frank. "Freedom of movement in exchange for lands and all the assets. With one reservation," he glanced over at all who were present, "The program is planned for twenty-five years. The Presiding Council and the administration come to a secret agreement..." He turned to Max. "I'm sorry, sir. I meant to tell you all about it while still in the boxing club, but then Barney came and I never-"

"You mean, another twenty-five years, and the reservations will disappear," Max crossed his arms on his chest. "All thanks to an agreement between a handful of people."

It was Max's turn to shake his head in disbelief. "That's the way to do it," he glanced at Maggie next to him, "without as little as asking anyone if they wanted it or not. Then again, the powers that be never bother."

The girl stared down at the table, quiet and reserved. She was rather like a fifth wheel in their company. Too many things had been said not meant for her ears, and everyone seemed to realize that, Frank included. But once started, the argument couldn't be stopped.

Max turned to the Steel Lady. "You hoped to keep the agreement a secret. Easy enough to do, considering not so many people knew about it in the first place. A lawyer from each state, the heads of government, possibly, the President, plus a couple dozen camp leaders... a hundred, hundred and fifty in total. Not many, considering the stakes: twenty-five years of change for the better, restoring the migrants' position in society... Twenty-five years is a figure to be reckoned with. You've nearly made it, too."

He paused. "The problem was, Memoria had a plan of its own. And most likely, your secret agreement was part of it. They only made it in order to lull you into a false sense of security while Memoria was getting their Vaccination up and running. You must have a mole or two nosing about. Memoria's people have studied you well, each of you."

Silence fell. Frank held his breath watching the others. Nicholas Floyd stared in front of him, drooped and crestfallen. The news of the agreement between Gautier and the government seemed to have shaken him to the bone. Lionel Batford, one hand still under the table, squinted at his cell phone, tapping a number in.

The gray-haired Steel Lady seemed to have aged another ten years in the past half-hour. Her hands shook. The flame in her eyes had faded.

"Frank, with your permission?" Max looked up at him. "I've got something else to say."

"If you wish."

"You should have told us about the secret agreement when you met us yesterday. We'll leave it for the moment. But before we see the tape and learn more about the Vaccination project, there's something else I need to know. Have any of you — of the camp leaders or their entourage — have any of you ever heard of mind locks and mnemocapsules? Were they mentioned at all during those talks yesterday at Memoria? Have you heard these names before?"

Gautier raised her sunken face at him and shook her head. There was nothing left of the Steel Lady in her.

"Put your phone away, Lionel," she gnarled. "Nicholas, go find out what's taking the engineers so long."

The phone beeped acknowledging a text reception. A gun shot resounded from under the table. Maggie cried out. Blood trickled out of Gautier's open mouth onto her chin. She tumbled off the chair clasping the wound in her stomach. The coach jumped up.

Lionel Batford did the same, the gun in his hand trained at Floyd. Before Floyd could move, Batford shot him twice.

Max rushed to the girl to shield her from the shots. A bullet hit his chest. Frank lunged forward and slammed the chair on Batford's hand holding the gun. Batford cried out and dropped the weapon. Frank buried his fist in the man's face, and Batford collapsed on the floor.

Frank picked up his gun and ran past the table to the door. It swung open, people bursting in.

"He did it!" Wiping the blood over his face, Batford crawled to the wall. "He shot us! He's got a gun!"

Several people grabbed Frank's shoulders forcing him down. He knee-kicked one of them. The attacker yelped and released his grip. Another one tried to take the gun away. Frank jabbed his left elbow into the man's chest and received a hearty hook to his jaw in return. The blow made his head reel, letting out hundreds of stars before his darkening stare. He growled as he struck out at the attacker's ribs, all the while feeling someone trying to wriggle the gun out of his hand. Finally, he managed to get up, throwing the attacker down onto the floor.

The gun lay under his feet. Frank's right arm didn't obey, its hand burning in agony, its forearm stiff as if it had been fitted with a steel rod. Familiar sensation: many years ago, this had been the kind of injury that had got him out of the ring for good. A couple of fingers broken, probably — not that it mattered any more. He kicked the gun under the table, avoided somebody's lunge and parried another one's left hook to his jaw, simultaneously kicking somebody behind his back.

"Frank!" Maggie screamed.

He was too busy to answer. He couldn't even turn to take a look. He had to get to the door and lock it, whatever it took. Then he'd deal with these people, and then — he didn't know what would happen then. He didn't care. He clenched his teeth and kept fighting. This was what he'd learned from his coach, now bleeding to death somewhere under the table.

He finally realized he'd been fighting three people in total: the three young men in the gray pickup truck who'd brought them there from Oprah's house. The driver wasn't with them — he must have stayed with the truck. One of the three writhed on the floor clutching at his stomach after Frank's knee kick to his solar plexus. Another one didn't move at all, unconscious after the hook to his jaw. The third one leaned against the table edge trying to get up. Frank stepped forward and punched the man in the temple knocking him out.

"Behind you!" Maggie screamed.

Too late. A chair crushed against Frank's back and disintegrated. Frank collapsed on top of his injured arm, yelped with pain and tried to kick the attacking Batford's leg. The man stepped aside, two loose chair legs still in his hands, and took a swing at Frank. A chair leg hit Frank's throat, stopping him breathing.

Batford grasped the other chair leg with both hands and raised it over his head aiming its sharp splintery end at Frank's chest.

A gunshot shook the room. Batford doubled up. His eyes, full of surprise, froze on Frank's face. He dropped the chair leg and started to turn around. A dark spot grew on his back. He stepped to the door, teetered and collapsed. On the other side of the room, something heavy clanged against the floor.

Frank turned his head. Maggie stood by the opposite wall. She covered her mouth with both hands, staring at the dead Batford. The gun lay at her feet.

From behind the door came shouting and the stomping of many feet. As he scrambled upright, Frank tried to speak to Maggie but could only manage a croak. The pain in his larynx made him hiss; he swallowed, grabbed a chair and dragged it to the entrance.

He barred the door with it and tried it. A chair was no barrier for one or two fit men, but all Frank wanted was to play for time.

He looked back. A recovered Maggie leaned over the coach under the wide window. Tears flooded her face. She was whispering something that sounded like a prayer.

Frank ran up to them and knelt next to his coach looking into his eyes. The man was dying. Max couldn't see his student, but he moved his bloodied lips trying to say something. But nothing came out.

"Frank," Maggie called. "Frank, do something. Please."

Frank bent down to his face.

"Sir? It's me, Frank Shelby. We don't have much time."

The door shattered, followed by loud demands to open it.

"You can hear me, can't you?" Frank went on. "I know you can. Maggie and I are all right. You wanted to tell us something. I knew you did when you asked the leaders about the mind lock. I knew you'd sussed it out..."

"Pe...ople," the coach uttered, very softly, and started to rattle. He grabbed Frank's shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he breathed out, "People!"

His head dropped to one side. He died.

A droning sound added to the thumping at the door. Window panes rattled. Frank turned and faced a black helicopter hovering over the lawn, the orange flower of Memoria on its side. More armed men sat inside.

Frank grabbed Maggie's hand. The windows shattered. Tear gas grenades filled the room with their rancid smoke and acrid stench. Frank's eyes watered. Black masked figures slid down ropes and appeared in the windows amid the breaking of glass. One of them raised a strange-looking rifle loaded with four red things that looked like bowling pins.

The shot sounded like a balloon bursting. Frank stepped out, shielding Maggie, when he realized that the four pin-like things weren't the threat. They flew apart unfolding a net between them. Strong nylon cord hit Frank's face. It entrapped their shoulders and legs and clung to the screaming Maggie. Rifle butts sent both onto the floor. The shooter jumped off the window sill, moved the rifle behind his back and pulled his cord out of the window. Kneeling next to them, he looped the end of the cord around their feet, drew it tight, clasped a safety hook to it and pulled the cord.

Frank wasn't prepared for being jerked out. His head hit the window sill, and he found himself hanging feet up over the lawn. Over his ear, Maggie screamed, petrified. The drone of the choppers filled his other ear. One of the helicopters hovered over the lawn, the other above the Keating Hall. He and Maggie were being pulled up into it. Max's last word echoed in Frank's head. Blood rushed to his face, pulsating in his agonizing temples. The lawn swam before his eyes. Frank collapsed.

Chapter Eighteen. The Bent Cop

The day was nearly over but Bud Jessup stayed put at the former Yankee stadium with the rest of his police squad. He hoped for some news from his man in the camp, but he didn't answer the captain's calls and code messages.

From his seat, Jessup turned to the young radio operator at his station in the corner of the HQ room. The staff duty officer next to him caught his glance and shook his head. The camp frequencies were silent. One would think all migrants had left the Bronx. However, the satellite picture that detected personal bracelet signals showed otherwise. Apparently, the migrants had switched off their cell phones and gathered in Fordham.

Jessup fiddled with his phone and dialed his informant's number again. For the hundredth time, he heard a raspy signal followed by a synthesized female voice telling him that the number he'd dialed was not available. He slid the phone back into his pocket and rose.

"Keep on trying," Jessup ordered as he walked out into the hallway.

Behind the open doors, his men were busy working, their voices subdued, radio receivers crackling with white noise. The captain took the steps to the upper floor and stood by the window. Not a single light showed amid the trees, not a single whiff of smoke, not a spark escaped the chimneys. Buildings loomed in the growing darkness outside, vacated by their inhabitants who'd even taken their children along.

"Permission to speak, sir?" Gizbo's soft voice said behind his back.

Jessup knew why he came.

"No need to, Lieutenant," he shook his head.

"But why, sir? Just a quick recce is all we-"

"We don't trespass the perimeter, period. These are the regs. Dismissed."

"But sir..."

"I said dismissed, Lieutenant." Jessup clenched his teeth and turned back to the window.

Memoria's choppers had left four hours ago. He still didn't know what had happened in the camp. Had Memoria's men seized Shelby? Why did Gautier show no response to the attack? Why was there no response from their council? They had the right to protest and demand explanations from the administration, but they didn't.

Behind his back, Gizbo sniffed showing no intention of leaving. Jessup could yell at him all he wanted, he could suspend him, but he knew that they both wanted the same thing. And other department workers who'd assisted in their covert investigation wanted it, too, even though they wisely kept it to themselves. Uncertainty and the lack of action are a detective's worst enemies.

"Come on now," Jessup hurried down the steps. He knew what to do. "Tell Salem to double-check all the reports for the last forty-eight hours. You will form four groups. Two will surveil Memoria's HQ and the surrounding area. Tell them to watch all the exits, intercept all the phone calls and make a video record of everything they observe. No radio contact between groups. Tell them to use plastic bottles if they need to take a leak. If they have something worth reporting, they must use our cell phone numbers, yours or mine." He glanced back.

"Yes, sir," Gizbo nodded.

"No one leaves their surveillance positions."

Judging by the events of the last two days, someone listened to their classified frequencies and even sent their own messages. Jessup didn't want to risk the lives of the people he was now sending on an unauthorized surveillance operation.

"The third group will watch Binelli. Exercise caution and use your imagination. Sign up for all the equipment you may need and explain the objective well so that our people know what they're getting into."

"You can count on them, sir."

Jessup stopped on the landing to give way to two sergeants hurrying upstairs. Having watched them pass, he motioned Gizbo to approach.

"Now listen to me, Lieutenant," Jessup whispered. "It's twenty-six years I've been with the police: ten as an operative, eight as Chief of Homicide, three more as a chief of this base, plus three more as a deputy head of internal investigations. I've been head of New York police for the last two years. I've seen a lot. I've seen corrupted patrol cops and trigger-happy detectives," Jessup paused. "One thing I've never seen is a mole in the department. To think that one of my own men channels classified information to Memoria..."

"Rooting him out won't be easy," Gizbo said softly.

"That I know. But you," Jessup poked Gizbo's chest, "you've got to be a hundred percent sure your people won't let you down. It's not that we have a prosecution warrant."

"I understand, sir."

They continued their descent.

"You yourself will take the fourth group. You'll penetrate the perimeter and find out what the fuck's going on in the camp. I need to know why Shelby had to go there, of all places. Also, what's making the migrants assemble in Fordham. Come back and report to me," Jessup stopped and looked into the man's eyes. "Make sure they don't suss you out."

"I will, sir."

Jessup looked up to the sound of hurried footsteps and lowered his voice. "You've got to find out what Shelby had in his attaché case — if he had something there at all. Just find that out, Lieutenant, and make sure you don't get caught. I'll give you my contact in the camp. His name is-"

"Captain Bud Jessup?" he heard from above.

"Here!"

Footsteps clattered overhead. The next moment, the chubby dark-skinned Lieutenant Salem appeared on the landing.

"Finally I've found you, sir," he managed, out of breath.

"Don't tell me you've got radio contact with the camp," Jessup gasped in anticipation.

"No, sir... You've got to listen to the news, sir... They've just made a statement..."

"Who has?"

"Memoria, sir. It's breaking news, sir."

Jessup slapped his forehead. Hadn't Gautier told them to watch the evening news? How could he forget?

All three ran out into the ground-floor hallway. Jessup was the first to reach the fishbowl of the watchman's booth by the building exit. His men rose, alarmed.

"Turn on the TV," panting, Jessup dropped onto a chair pulled up by Gizbo. A gray-haired sergeant — he had to be as old as Jessup himself — reached for the remote and pressed the "on" button pointing at an ancient valve TV set resting on top of a dusty filing cabinet in the corner.

"Put it up! Where's the sound?" Jessup ordered.

The sergeant obeyed. The anchor's confident voice filled the room. With his every word, the tension grew. Jessup didn't move. His men held their breath as they listened. Occasional footsteps and voices behind the glass partition died straight away. No one noticed them: all eyes and ears were on the screen. On the breaking news.

It lasted three minutes and started again without a commercial break. Jessup stared at the wall unable to speak. It all sounded like the ravings of a madman, but now Gautier's words finally made sense. He looked back onto the screen when Gizbo stood between him and the TV.

"Sir?" the lieutenant, worried, shook Jessup by the shoulder looking into his face. "Sir, we've got DC on the line."

The duty staff officer passed Gizbo the receiver. He handed it to the captain.

Jessup rose. It took him some time to realize he was the center of attention. Several dozen policemen crowded in the hall watching him through the glass partition. They'd all seen the news; those at the back whispered their explanations to newcomers. Relief officers streamed in filling the stairs and the hallway. Jessup looked out of the window. Reserves were already lining up on the drill grounds in front of the building.

"They're waiting, sir," Gizbo reminded him.

Slowly, Jessup took the receiver, weighed it in his hand as if to throw it back on top of the scrambled army telephone set, then brought it to his ear.

"Captain Jessup speaking."

Secretary of Homeland Security was on the line.

First, he asked Jessup if he'd watched the news. To the affirmative, the Secretary demanded that law and order were maintained by whatever means necessary. He wanted Jessup to coordinate his actions with the Feds who were now busy in New York. He finished by demanding Jessup to hand Agent Archer the independent reporter detained earlier.

"Who do you mean?" Jessup asked, perplexed.

After a pause, the Secretary gave him the name. Serge Gillan.

Then he remembered. The reporter was among those who had covered the morning's talks at Memoria's. The problem was, only two people knew about it: Jessup himself and Lieutenant Gizbo who'd taken the detained reporter to the station. Gillan had told them nothing of interest, apart from the fact that Shelby had an attaché case which, he'd claimed, contained some evidence of his innocence. Most likely, the Secretary himself didn't know that. It was some Memoria rat again, trying to kill two birds with one stone: get Jessup out of the way and deal with the reporter at the same time. It still didn't explain how the secretary had got hold of the man's name in the first place.

The clock kept ticking but Jessup didn't know how to react. He had no reason not to trust Gizbo. In fact he'd just warned him, ten minutes previous, that they had a mole in the department. No way Gizbo was the one. Jessup could believe anything but that.

"Yes, sir," he finally mumbled into the phone. "I'll do as you say." He handed the receiver back to the duty officer and sat still staring at the control panel behind the glass partition.

"Sir?" Gizbo said. "You sure you're all right?"

Jessup heard him but lingered, unwilling to speak. He didn't want to jump the gun. There was too much at stake. He knew of a few cases when old staff buffers like himself had failed to see the obvious. He chuckled. Did he really think he was immune to treachery? Having said that, Gizbo probably didn't even realize he was being used. And now it was too late, anyway. Now Jessup had only two ways of action left to him: either keep playing the predetermined losing party or admit his failure.

Jessup smoothed his hair, rubbed his neck which was numb with tension and froze. How was he supposed to deal with Archer now? The Secretary made his order clear. Jessup's stare scrutinized the officers waiting in the hall. His people wouldn't let the Feds have the detained reporter. Competition was rife between the two offices, and the top brass would be happy to sink their teeth into a new scandal. They all thrived on being at each other's throats: the FBI and the CIA, the army and the secret service, but until now, Memoria had played no part in it. This last incident was too much like a post-war gangland act.

"Lieutenant Gizbo," Jessup said looking him straight in the eye, "you're under arrest on suspicion of treason. Surrender your gun and badge."

Everyone stared at their chief.

"Sergeant, what are you waiting for? Take him into custody."

With those words Jessup began to turn away from Gizbo. Reaching for his gun, the lieutenant lunged for the file cabinet with the TV set. Salem and a few other officers grabbed his hands before the traitor had a chance to pull the trigger.

Jessup walked out of the room. The men in the hall fell quiet. They'd been watching the incident through the glass and were now expecting an explanation. Watching their stern faces, Jessup decided on a third course of action. He told them the truth.

He had little doubt now that Shelby had evidence against Memoria in that attaché case of his. And the corporation was bending over backwards trying to get it back and destroy it. Apparently, their arrival at the camp hadn't gone as planned. That's why Gizbo had tried to talk Jessup into infiltrating the perimeter. Possibly, that was why they tried to pull strings in order to make Jessup hand the reporter over to them. More than likely, Kathleen's killers would then clean up the reporter's memory, the way they'd already done with the other witnesses. Either that, or get rid of him permanently.

He looked over the room again. His men were waiting. Time to act, time to give orders.

Fighting off his emotions, Jessup spoke, slowly and clearly, making sure everyone heard every word and understood what was going on. They had to believe him. In less than an hour, enormous queues would start snaking around Memoria's offices, like on Black Friday sales. Only now human memories were the discounted merchandise. Jessup hadn't expected a move like that.

His mind kept replaying the words of the TV anchor reading from the prompt screen. Everyone who made it to a Memoria branch before midnight could try their new service for free. Everyone could choose to have any skill he wanted downloaded into their minds. The list of professions offered was long: after all, the corporation database had amassed quite a few files over the last years.

Now Jessup understood why Memoria had been so active in the last several months, opening new branches all over the country. Its directors were busy working on the project of the century, willing to give everyone happiness and prosperity and to revitalize the nation — something that their pushy motto had been promising for the last three decades.

He knew well that this objective was only a smoke screen for a much more important goal: to amass as much money and power as possible. Those were the only two things Memoria cared about. With the exception of Jesus, no one had ever given people bread for free. Very soon, he and his men would be history. Professional skills would be a dime a dozen, and army veterans like himself would become the new cannon fodder: Memoria would still need their minds, but only in order to extract the memories they needed, digitize their professional experience, then compress the resulting files to the desired size and sell them like hot cakes. Another week or a month, and new professionals would arrive to replace them: bright-eyed and chock-full of competences, who would pass any employee rating with flying colors — and who would probably teach Jessup how to do his job.

That's why he hurried to explain to his men what the Vaccination could mean to them. He shared his reasons behind Gizbo's arrest and told them about the reporter who'd seen and heard Frank Shelby in Memoria's tower. After that, he started setting new objectives for his unit commanders.

Chapter Nineteen. Personality Correction

The light was so bright it penetrated his tightly shut eyelids. Frank sensed the heat from the lamp — or lamps, all directed at his face. He was afraid of opening his eyes: the excruciating pain at the back of his head made his brain feel as if it was about to explode, splattering grayish-bloody goo out of his ears, nostrils and his agonizing mouth.

He half-sat with his back bent, his buttocks and thighs touching the hard surface. What could it be — some kind of a hospital bed or an operating chair? The pain in his head started to subside. The lamps' warm glow distracted him from feeling the blood pulsate in his temples and the back of his head.

Frank tried to move his hand and failed. Something prevented it from moving. He tried to shift his legs and sit up — also in vain. He lay bound; his chest, shoulders, elbows, hands, legs and feet all strapped with what felt like leather belts. Before he forced himself to open his eyes and investigate, he heard a voice to one side,

"He's coming to."

"Finally!" another voice said. "Thank God for that."

The second voice sounded familiar. Frank had definitely heard it before — from a distance, and slightly distorted. Who could it have been, and where?

"Can you dim the lights, Bow? Even my eyes are hurting. It must be hell for him."

"Yes, sir."

The warmth and the light subsided, making Frank's eyelids twitch. Thousands of colored stars whirled before his eyes, bringing the pain back. Blood pulsated, burning through the skull.

"You think he can hear me?" the familiar voice said.

A man's breath and a whiff of an expensive aftershave brushed Frank's face as the speaker walked around his bed and approached it from the right.

"I think so, sir. I'd suggest you wait a little. Don't try and speak to him. Combined with memory retrieval, the selective memory scan may take a lot of time and can be quite painful. We can expect a temporary cerebral dysfunction followed by a nervous breakdown. The subject needs time to recover."

"I don't have the time. Can't you give him a painkiller?"

"Out of the question. It may trigger a seizure. Then it would be impossible to-"

"Bow, I thought I made it perfectly clear. In an hour, I'm meeting with the Mayor. Then I'm flying to DC."

Where is he, for Christ's sake? Frank barely felt the touch of the needle to his neck. What had happened to him?

Another minute, and the pain subsided, leaving him free to think. His head cleared a little. But almost immediately, his lids became heavy. Now he felt drowsy and tired and had to force himself to resist sleep and open his eyes.

He lay on a low bed in his trousers and shoes, about three feet above the floor. His body was bound with leather straps. Frank tried to move. His limbs were seriously numb. He started flexing his muscles, clenched his fists and moved his feet, trying to get the blood going.

"Ah," the voice resounded above his ear. "Nothing like exercise, eh?"

Frank craned his neck to look to his right. Russell Jefferson Claney stood next to his bed, easily recognizable by his smooth scalp pulled tight over his skull. The Congressman gave him a smug smile.

Frank turned away and looked to his left. A gaunt man in a lab coat stood there, his fair hair tousled, his hands going through surgical tools in steel sterilization boxes on the table. He did it with the ease of a trained professional who knew what belonged where. Without even looking, the man opened a medicine cabinet by the table and took a plastic box from the upper shelf.

Sensing Frank's stare, the man turned round. Now Frank remembered him. The man looked tired now, and the winsome smile was gone from his face, but he looked the same as when he'd stood next to Claney on the screen of Max's army laptop...

His coach. His last words.

Frank's throat went dry. He couldn't breathe. His heart thumped. Frank closed his eyes remembering all the events of the last few days, and wanted to scream with his own weakness.

"You've made me worried, Shelby," Claney said. "And wait, too. Wait longer than I could afford. I'd love to pay you in kind but-"

Frank looked up, disdain in his eyes.

"What-" he had to clear his throat and start again, "What stops you?" He didn't recognize his voice, distant and trembling, the voice of an old man. He could barely move his lips. His throat rasped.

"I'm glad to see you in good cheer. That's my boy. You and I, we know what we want and how to go about it. You're just like your father. I remember him well; you're a chip off the old block. Your ambition, your ability to plan in advance and act accordingly — it must run in the family, you know. But as I said, I'm too pressed for time to play mind games with you. Frank," Claney shook his head, "I have to admit I'm disappointed. You didn't see the tape. You couldn't appreciate our scope. We've tried so hard..." He sighed. "In any case, you didn't even need the tape. You've worked it all out yourself without it. Well, almost."

He glanced at Frank, checking his reaction.

"There was a moment, you know, when I very nearly offered you a position on our team. Imagine the possibility for promotion!" He bent over him. "One year, and you're a sector manager, another, and you're on the directors' board. But — I've changed my mind. Thinking of you was a weakness."

Frank squinted at Bow, wincing from the ache in the back of his head. Three paces away from the bed was a white door with some machines to its left, and also a cabinet and a water cooler. Next to them stood a table where the researcher was still fiddling with his stuff.

The room looked like an operating theater, with its light tiled walls and powerful lamps under the ceiling, framed in stainless steel. Only one lamp worked, dimmed to half power.

"Why?" Frank unglued his lips.

"Why what?" Claney stooped close to him. "You mean, all this? This is to make sure that the likes of you don't break the law. Never!" His hand chopped the air. "The law is the same for everyone. And you, sir, have neglected your duty to visit Memoria already for a year while you should have been there three more times by now. As it is, you're in breach of state law and must answer for it."

"But," a cough choked him, "what about Kathleen?"

"Kathleen!" Claney threw his hands in the air. "We will never forget her. I'm sorry it had to come to this. It's this Bow here, he didn't want to help her. He did the right thing, our Bow, he let us know about her plans just in time. By stealing the data, she signed her own death warrant."

"Just like her father had done before her, hadn't he?"

"Oh. Bow, did you hear that?" Claney crossed his arms on his chest and turned to the table. "You'd better check the matrix for something we've missed."

Frank heard the fingers tapping on the keyboard. A monitor screen came up on one of the machines. Diagrams flashed on it, replaced by lines of decrypted information. Bow stepped up to the machine, his back concealing the screen.

"No, sir," he said after a minute's pause. "There are no memories of John Baker on the file, apart from general knowledge."

"I bet there aren't," Frank managed a crooked smile. Instead of laughter, his throat made a gargling noise.

He'd blurted the first thing that came to mind. If he was right and Claney had something to do with Kathleen's death... In a moment, his bluff paid off.

"You piece of shit!" Claney lashed out. "You think you're so smart you can catch me? You can't, mister, not Russell Claney!" He slapped Frank in the face. The copper band on Frank's head fell to his chest. Claney pulled some of the cables attached to the band, and Frank's headache disappeared.

William Bow, nonplussed, tried to catch the band but Claney yanked the rest of the cables loose. The copper band jumped up in the air and hit the table with a jingle as it fell among the stainless steel boxes.

"Sir, please! The equipment... the records... The subject.."

Once again Claney raised his fist. A signet ring flashed on his finger. The Congressman's mouth curved in a sinister grin. He lowered his hand and spoke,

"John didn't fit the mould and paid for it. He wanted everyone to have their free lunch. He didn't know people. You offer them a finger and they'll bite off your whole arm, then they will come back to swallow the rest of you."

"So you decided to swallow the Baker family? Who's next on your list, then? The migrants? All of us?"

"So!" Claney craned his head to one side and gave Frank a hateful glare. "I was right about your ability to plan in advance. Like teacher, like student. Wonder if I should reconsider and offer you a job at Memoria again? What would you answer to that?"

"Do you need to ask? Can't you just make me obey you against my will?"

"You idiot!" Claney raised his fist.

The door swung open behind his back. A tall blond man appeared in the doorway, his eyes cold.

"You all right here?" the man looked around.

Claney didn't answer. He still glared at Frank rearranging the loose ring on his finger.

"Sir?" the blond man touched his shoulder.

"Everything's fine, Dickens," Claney shook his hand off. "What you've got?"

"The first stage is terminated."

"It took you some time."

"We had trouble. Chief Bud Jessup put Binelli and the HQ under surveillance.

"He what?" Claney threw back his head. "Get me Agent Archer!"

William Bow, suddenly perplexed, dropped the copper band he'd picked up off the floor. It clanged on the tiles.

"Do your job, Bow," Claney waved him away. "Make sure the equipment is up and running. Dickens? You still here?"

"I've already contacted Archer," the man nodded. "He told me Jessup was out of reach. Without him, his officers refused to obey the Feds' orders."

"Oh, did they now?"

"They did."

"And that reporter," Claney peered into the man's face. A shadow of fear flashed through his countenance.

"Jessup still has him."

"And the tape?"

"Our man in the camp is dead. Migrants have cut off all contact, their cell phones are off, their radio station is dead. I'm afraid I don't have enough information on the Bronx situation. The police are none the wiser."

"Not enough information? Then go and get it!" Claney snapped. "Plug in the Mayor. Get Binelli to call him or send a delegation..."

"I spoke to Binelli, sir. He got the Mayor on the line, but the latter failed to find Jessup. Binelli is now trying to get an appointment with the Attorney General to stop Jessup's indiscretion."

"How much do you think he's found out?"

"Nothing, sir. But this behavior shouldn't be tolerated. Jessup has to answer for his actions."

"He will indeed." Claney paused. "That's strange. When we arrived at the Bronx this morning, the police couldn't care less. Jessup didn't prevent us from entering the camp. He didn't attempt to report the situation, let alone complain about it."

"He was under pressure from Archer and DC. Now Jessup has severed all contact with them, and ordered his men to do the same. He's on the loose, sir."

"You think?" Claney looked at Dickens, thinking. "Okay. I'll speak to the Mayor myself. I'll give the Secretary a ring, too. You need to find out the reporter's location. ."

"Yes, sir."

"Is that it? Are you sure? This tape worries me now. Bow has performed a selective memory scan on him," Claney nodded at Frank who hung on his every word, "and what's her name now — Maggie Douggan. According to it, both camera and the memory card containing the video file had been damaged. The card was handed to some migrant engineers after which your men arrived at Fordham. You confiscated the attaché case, the hard disk and the guns, but not the recording. You've failed to retrieve it, Dickens."

"Do you want us to go back to the camp?"

"Not you. Let your man in the police department do it." Claney's stare turned to Bow, still busy with the copper band by the table. "The most important thing to do now is this reporter. And as for the tape..." He glanced at Frank and grinned, "Bow can always make a new one."

"Yes, sir," Dickens said.

"Absolutely," the researcher echoed absent-mindedly.

Claney lingered, thinking, then turned to Dickens. "How many are already vaccinated in New York?"

"About ninety-three thousand, according to my sources, sir."

"Not bad. And the country totals?"

"They differ from one city to the next, sir. Preliminary figures are in the region of a few million."

"We're still on schedule," Claney mused. "Everywhere, by the looks of it." He looked up at Dickens. "Anything up?"

"The cops," Dickens looked at the door opened a crack and slammed it shut.

"What now?"

"All this tailing and wiretapping, Jessup and his men being funny..." Dickens looked at Frank and frowned.

"And? What's the matter with you, Dickens? Can't you answer a simple question? Yesterday you didn't seem so — so insecure."

The blond man raised his head. "I have a funny feeling the police know Shelby's whereabouts. If so, they may also know what we need him for."

"What a lot of bullshit," Claney cringed. "How sure are you?"

Dickens shrugged.

"Let Jessup make as many mistakes as he can," Claney continued. "Very soon we'll hand him over a new and reformed Frank Shelby. Shelby the exposer, Shelby the champion of justice. He will hand the reporters the new tape and tell the world how he used the information he'd received from Kathleen Baker in order to change the world by messing up the original Vaccination model. How he tweaked the program installed in the mnemocapsules."

Claney's eyes glistened. "So when the gullible Kathleen found out, she wanted to stop him, and then Shelby strangled her in his own house. It was a strangulation you did, wasn't it, Dickens?"

"Indeed it was, sir," the man answered, his face unmoved. "But first, I stunned her and removed her clothing in order to create the impression of her expecting a man."

"Good," Claney grinned. "I do appreciate details. Our friend is now busy remembering them..."

Frank clenched his fists and shut his eyes. He couldn't get to Claney. He couldn't wring Dickens' neck. He racked his brains for a way to escape his bonds once the two left the room. He wouldn't have long to wait: Claney had a plane to catch leaving Dickens with too many things on his plate — the Vaccination, the police and some reporter they kept talking about.

"The man is easily excited," Claney pointed at Frank. "So excited he even tried to attempt his father's failed plan to murder the President. For that purpose, he infiltrated Memoria's HQ with several accomplices. When his plan failed, he sought refuge in the Bronx camp. But Anna Gautier, even though a migrant herself, didn't even want to hear them out. Then Shelby massacred the whole Council, one by one, and lost one of his accomplices in their desperate self-defense. By the way — Bow, what did you say happened to his other associates?

Frank tensed at the sight of the pale researcher. Bow averted his eyes.

"Maggie Douggan," he started in a soft and reluctant voice, "is now being prepared for the second stage of the personality correction program. The brain of Barney Douggan has collapsed during the mnemocapsule decompression rendering him in a trance-like state, a bit like a coma. Trying to resuscitate him is not recommended. His system has been weakened by the procedure and such resuscitation may be dangerous to..."

Flexing his muscles one by one, Frank searched Bow's table for some kind of sharp object. He had to get out of there. He had to save Maggie, find Barney and prevent the disaster from happening. He had no idea how the mnemocapsules worked, let alone what they contained. But now he was certain that the vaccinated would somehow obey Claney's orders. The chemical mind lock could have something to do with it, too. Possibly, the two devices were programmed to work together to advance the mad Congressman's plans. He had to find out when and how they would be activated. He needed to know Claney's main target.

"Does that mean that you can't apply correction to Douggan?" Claney glanced at Dickens.

"Not enough time," he answered.

"Currently, Douggan responds to basic voice commands," Bow said. "We gave him a false memories matrix, reinserted the capsule and submerged him into a trance. If we bring him to now, memory fusion may occur rendering the subject's behavior unpredictable."

"Rendering what?" Claney frowned.

"A new matrix needs time to root. At least twenty-four hours."

"Shame," Claney sighed. "I'm sorry about it. He would complete our motley crew," Claney nodded at Frank and turned back to Dickens, "Can't think of another name for them."

"How about traitors," the blond man suggested.

"Sounds good. Let it be traitors, then," Claney glanced at his watch. "Bow? When can I expect the new tape for our traitors?"

"About forty minutes. Are you going to take a look?"

"No. Let Dickens watch it. I've got to go."

He headed for the door. Now or never.

"Wait," Frank croaked. "Can I have a glass of water?"

Claney stopped. "You asking me?"

"I need to ask you something. But I can't speak. Throat's too dry."

"Bow," Claney jerked his chin pointing at Frank.

Obediently, the researcher filled a plastic cup from the water cooler and put it to Frank's lips.

"Thank you," Frank said.

It was a strange feeling, moving his head when the rest of his body was strapped to the bed. Drinking allowed him to glance around the room. Frank noticed a scalpel in the heap of surgical tools on the table. He still had to get hold of it somehow, then cut the straps...

"Well?" Claney lost patience. "Didn't you want to ask me about something?"

"Yes, of course," Frank swallowed. "When will it all start?"

Claney looked at Dickens, then at Bow, then back at Frank.

"It already has. This morning."

Frank pursed his lips to conceal his feelings. He still couldn't work out how it was possible that thousands of people had already been "vaccinated". And how was Claney going to make them obey his orders all at once? As he'd just said it should take at least twenty-four hours. But by then they couldn't hide their game any more.

Back at Barney's place, Max had explained to them why you couldn't make a large crowd obey all at once. It had to happen in stages, at perfectly choreographed and mutually exclusive moments.

"Well," said Claney, "I'll be off, then."

"Shall I get the chopper ready?" Dickens asked.

"You don't need to. I'll take a car to the Town Hall and then to the airport. Bow, you finish with Shelby here. Tell the other techs to get the girl ready as soon as they can. Make sure you supervise their every step."

"They won't start on her without me," the researcher said.

"Good. Oh, and try to bring Douggan to. I want all three to make a full confession in front of the media tomorrow morning." Claney looked back ay Dickens. "Start feeding the camp leaders' massacre into the Net. After that, start the main phase. The roof equipment works fine, I hope? No more monkey wrenches in our works?"

"No, sir. I've double-checked everything I could. Even if they cut the power to the building, we'll still have enough energy for the transmission."

"You sure you have enough men?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wait for my plane to take off and then commence. Do make sure there're no more setbacks, will you? And keep an eye on what the police are up to."

Claney glanced at Frank and walked out. Dickens lingered, staring at Frank with those pale cold eyes of his as if trying to read his thoughts. Then he nodded to Bow and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Twenty. Things Fall into Place

William Bow stood by Frank's bed smoothing out the cables he'd connected back on the headband.

"Are you going to put it on?" Frank said.

The researcher didn't answer. His fingers twitched. He fiddled over every connection and stepped back to the equipment stand. He bent over the console and tapped the keyboard, looking up at the monitor.

"What was Claney going on about?" Frank raised his head studying the objects on the table. "What's going to happen in the morning?"

The researcher didn't answer. In sterilization boxes to his left was the scalpel Frank had already seen plus a pair of surgical scissors and three syringes marked with fluorescent yellow stickers and filled with a cloudy greenish liquid. There were other tools whose purpose was hard to define.

"Dickens will kill you," Frank dropped as nonchalantly as he could manage. He lowered his head onto the headrest. "Memoria bosses couldn't care less whether you live or die. All they're interested in is the result they want, and they'll do whatever necessary to get it. Then they'll get rid of those who worked on it for them. Bow, can you hear me? I'm sorry to say, but your type is dispensable."

Bow looked at him, fear and hate in his reddened eyes. That's better, Frank thought. He had to mix threats and insult to push the researcher's buttons.

He thrashed in his bonds, and again...

"Don't do it!" Bow shouted. "You shouldn't strain yourself! It'll kill you!"

"And they will kill you," Frank's lips curved in disdain. "Oh yes, they will! You've already betrayed Kathleen and her cause. Once a traitor, always a traitor. You-"

"Stop it!" Bow clenched his fists.

"You're a nerd and a woos, you wire-fucker!"

Bow grabbed the scalpel and hissed, his eyes glistening,

"You'd better shut up — now."

"Or what? Come on now, show me how you do it! If you think you can. The sight of blood scares you more than your employers do!"

"Shut up!" Bow screamed and jumped toward the bed. The blade in his fist glistened under the lamp.

"What — can't you take some tough love? Kathleen was right when she said-"

Bow pressed his elbow on Frank's chest and brought the scalpel up to his face. At that time Frank rolled his eyes and shuddered, his mouth wide open and drooling.

"Shit!" Bow recoiled. "Didn't I tell you!"

Frank hissed and rattled, foaming at the mouth, acting out a fit. Bow's thin fingers grabbed his chin. The researcher turned the scalpel's blade toward himself and pushed the handle into his captive's mouth trying to unlock his jaw and release the tongue. Frank clenched his teeth and headbutted him. The scalpel cut Bow's eyebrow open.

When Bow's fingers snapped in Frank's teeth, the researcher went white. His eyes bulging, he tried to pull his fingers free. The scalpel now clenched in his teeth, Frank headbutted him again. The blade brushed Bow's cheek and fell onto the bed.

Bow recoiled, groaning. He stumbled to the table and, clutching at the cuts with one hand, groped for a weapon with the other. The tools and steel boxes clanged onto the floor.

Frank squinted to look at his chest. The scalpel lay on his stomach. He jerked, leaning to the left, and pushed it off into his outstretched hand. He had to hold it by the blade in order to turn the end toward the strap.

Disregarding pain from the cuts, he concentrated on keeping the blade in his hand slippery with blood. He flexed his wrist until he managed to make an incision in the strap. His hand could move more freely now. Twice more the blade slid across the leather until only a thin strip remained intact.

By that time, Bow had stopped groaning and picked up one of the syringes filled with the greenish liquid.

The strap snapped. Frank's fist holding the scalpel shot forward. At the same time, he jerked his head to one side. The syringe pierced the headrest. The scalpel, Bow's chest.

William Bow's eyes opened wide. He hiccupped, let go of the syringe and collapsed to the floor.

Frank was already unstrapping himself, hurrying to get up and lock the door. He sat up, dangling his feet. The room swayed and swam before his eyes. His body refusing to obey, he couldn't grab at the armrest. Nauseous and feverish, Frank started shaking...

When he came to he was lying on the floor. The wounded Bow whimpered next to him. Frank managed to get on all fours and forced his limbs to carry him to the door. Locking it was almost beyond him. His head spun; his fingers kept sliding off the thumb lock. He tried and failed to scramble to his feet. This had to be the painkiller's side effects Bow had warned Claney about.

He finally locked the door and stretched out under it, breathing deeply. It was essential he got some rest. Getting himself into an adrenaline-powered frenzy wouldn't do him any good. He had to hurry, though: somebody could walk in any minute, either a tech or Dickens himself.

He crawled over to Bow. Grabbing his shoulders, he sat the researcher up and leaned his back against the equipment stand. Bow's head fell onto his chest. Blood oozed over the lab coat, the scalpel's thin handle showing in its folds. Frank took a couple of deep breaths and patted the man's cheek. His hands didn't obey him, but it was enough for Bow to perk up. He groaned and moved his hand trying to reach for the scalpel.

"Where's Maggie?" Frank croaked, grabbing his wrist. "Where do you keep her father?"

Nausea overcame him. He couldn't suppress it any more and opened his mouth almost instinctively throwing up onto Bow's lab coat. Frank wiped his mouth and felt much better. Leaning against Bow's shoulder, he got up and repeated his question.

Bow grinned and snorted.

"You can't get out," he spat out a blood clot. "No good trying." He grinned again, glancing at the syringe under the bed, its needle bent.

Frank turned, taking in several round plastic gates that looked like tomography scanners. He bent down, grabbed the man's shoulders and jerked him up.

The researcher groaned. Frank pushed him onto the bed and started strapping him in.

"Once I pull the scalpel out, you'll bleed to death," he spat out the bile. "But if you tell me where they keep Maggie, I'll leave you here. I won't hurt you any more. I promise."

Bow's eyes glistened under the lamp. Frank bent down to pick up the remaining syringes and showed them to the researcher.

"Something tells me it's not saline. I can inject both and I'll take my time doing it. I'm sure you'll like it."

Bow was now staring at him, his eyes wide. Looked like Frank found the right tool.

"Where's the girl and her father?" He shoved one of the syringes into his pocket and removed the needle top off the other.

"They're... not far from here."

Bow's left arm wasn't strapped in completely as Frank had cut one of the belts. The researcher bent his elbow pressing his hand to his chest.

"Don't!" Frank didn't want him to disturb the scalpel in his chest. Maybe that was what Bow counted on, hoping to terminate his ordeal. The blade must have gone through the lung close to the heart. Another inch, and he'd have already been dead. "Where are they?"

"The girl's at the end of the hallway..." Bow's hand fell onto the armrest. "Her father next to her. There's," he glanced at the wall to his right, "there's nobody in his room now. They're busy with the girl." He had trouble speaking. Every quick breath between phrases brought blood up to his lips.

Frank dropped the syringe. Without taking his eyes off Bow, he reached inside the only steel box left on the table. He groped inside for a square of muslin and pulled it out to wipe Bow's face. Red spots covered the muslin. For a second, he stared at his hand. He'd completely forgotten he'd cut his fingers with the blade.

He wiped Bow's face, tore a strip of fabric off the hem of his lab coat and wrapped it around his bleeding hand. The researcher breathed in fits, his throat seething. His eyes were closed. Frank didn't know much about medicine but he remembered the coach telling him that with a perforated lung, you should plug the wound straight away otherwise the lung would curl up and collapse. Apparently the blade didn't block it completely allowing for a slight stream of air to seep through. That could alter the pressure in the chest cavity and then...

Frank rummaged through the table looking for something to block the wound with. Nothing. Bow could die at any moment leaving him none the wiser.

"I'll help you, I promise," Frank said. "If you can tell me how." Was he really going to save the life of this cowardly asshole? After him betraying Kathleen and torturing Barney? He who knew what his bosses were about to do to Maggie and thousands of people...

Bow hissed and open his tearful eyes, glistening with the fear of death.

"The medicine cabinet..." he managed. "The first aid kit."

He tried to raise his left hand, pointing. Frank stepped into the far corner and opened the cabinet. One half of it was a locker with lab coats on hangers. The other had many shelves. Frank found the first-aid kit on top of the upper one.

He opened a sterile packet and folded a square of gauze to form a swab. Then he picked up some antiseptic and a box of plasters and went back to the bed. There, nausea overcame him. He closed his eyes trying to concentrate and stop his head from spinning. Then he walked over to Bow and ripped open the chest of his shirt. He cut the plaster into strips and had the antiseptic bottle open and ready. Then he pulled out the scalpel. Immediately he poured some antiseptic onto the wound, pressed the compress down and secured it with plaster strips all around.

Bow jerked twice. When Frank had pulled out the scalpel, his eyes rolled up and he coughed out a clot of blood. When Frank pressed the bandage down hard securing it, more blood came out.

It had taken but a couple seconds. The pale researcher's breathing became more even, and the seething in his throat calmed down.

"What did Claney mean?" Frank asked. "What signal was he talking about? Tell me."

He licked his lips, dry with anxiety, and glanced at the door. Did he hear voices? He waited, then took another gauze square out of the first-aid kit, drenched it in water and wiped Bow's face. He repeated his question.

The researcher opened his eyes and croaked,

"Dickens will turn on the transmitter... The signal goes to the satellite... then back to the bracelets..."

"What for?"

"To activate... the capsules..."

"Which capsules?" Frank closed his eyes. Too complicated. Claney was too smart for him. Too many questions to ask and answers to hear. He didn't have the time.

"The capsules... introduced during the Vaccination. The vaccinated subjects will obey Claney's orders."

The researcher closed his eyes again. A spasm shook his body. Had he not been strapped, he'd have fallen off the bed.

"Talk!" Frank squeezed the man's sharp chin. "Can you hear me? What's the objective behind the Vaccination?"

"Destroy... the migrants. Make civilians into puppet soldiers. And then..." he stopped.

"Then what? Use the capsules to give them fighting skills? To attack the camp? And then what?"

Bow didn't answer. His body slumped.

"Bow?" Frank patted his cheek. "Wake up!"

Someone pulled the doorknob and knocked. Frank looked around.

"Bow? We're ready," a voice said. "We're waiting for you."

"Coming!" Frank gave a loud cough, waited and pressed his ear to the door.

Footsteps, barely heard, proceeded along the hallway to the left. Frank glanced at Bow. He seemed to be out for quite a while. Frank looked himself over and opened the cabinet. In less than a minute, he had on a clean T-shirt: shoulders too narrow, but when he draped a lab coat over it, he looked like one of their mnemotechs.

He still needed to get himself an electronic bracelet. Without it, he couldn't get out of the building.

Frank picked the syringe up off the floor and removed the bent needle. He came close to Bow and took his hand. Turning it palm upward to expose the bracelet, he placed the end of the needle into a barely visible slot, just like Barney had taught him. It clicked. Frank pressed the titanium links one by one, and the bracelet opened.

Using the same method, he locked the bracelet on his own hand. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to give Bow a body search. The only thing he found in his pockets was a crumpled piece of paper. But on his neck hung a small round key on a silver chain looking very much like one of those used to unblock a computer. Frank had a funny feeling it might come in handy. He hung the key around his own neck and gave the place one final check. He had a bad feeling about something, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. Only when he stepped to the door and raised his hand to unlock it, he noticed the bloodied cloth. Too conspicuous. He had to redress it.

Frank removed the dirty cloth, rinsed his hand with water and reached for some plaster out of the first-aid kit. The hand was still damp, but the plaster held. Then he walked back to the door and unlocked it.

Before he could step out, a tall dark-haired man in a lab coat stepped in, nearly knocking him over.

"Who the hell are you?" the man said.

"I'm the new intern," Frank bluffed.

"The new what?" the man frowned.

Frank punched him in the stomach. The man doubled up. Frank grabbed the tech and dragged him inside. After two more knee kicks to the face, he hurled the man onto the floor and locked the door behind him.

Shit. If this was one of the tech team, the others would soon start looking for him.

Frank quickly replayed everything he'd heard within the last hour. Claney had told Bow to finish here and get busy with the girl. The researcher had replied that the team was ready to start the moment he arrived. Which meant the techs were all waiting for him now.

The man on the floor groaned and stirred. Frank turned him around, grabbed his lapels and jerked him up into a sitting position with his back to the wall.

"How many techs in the team?" he gave him a good shake. "How many of you are there?"

"Three," the man froze, open-mouth, staring at the bed behind Frank's back.

Admittedly, Bow's bloodied frame lying on the bed meant for his victims would have scared anyone. Even that fish-eyed blond bastard. Frank gave the tech another shake.

"Take me first to the girl. Next, to Barney.

"To whom?"

"The old boy in the intensive care. Understood?" Frank hissed into the tech's face.

"Yes!" he nodded readily.

"If you try to fuck me," Frank produced the syringe out of his pocket, "you'll get a dose of this."

The man's eyes opened wide. He groaned. Frank rose pulling him up by the collar.

"Come on, then. And no tricks." He was dying to find out what that was in the syringe that scared the techs shitless. But he had a hunch not to ask now.

"And..." the man started, his eyes fixed on Bow.

"Don't worry about him," Frank opened the door and pushed the tech out. "I've given him first aid."

He had to flaunt the syringe in front of the man's nose before the tech could concentrate on his orders. Finally, he worked out what Frank wanted and walked along the right side of the hallway. There was only one door in that direction.

"Is the girl in there?" Frank glanced behind his back. There, next to the surgery he'd just left, was another door, and after another ten paces or so, two glass panels. On the wall next to them, an electronic lock flashed a red light. Above them, a semisphere of a security camera clung to the ceiling.

Frank stood up straight and followed the tech trying to walk as naturally as he could. They had only two meters left to cover when the door in the end of the hallway opened, letting out another lab coat.

Chapter Twenty-One. Chasing Tails

Bud Jessup hurried to board the chopper waiting on its landing pad in front of the stadium. He could use some rest. He'd never thought that one day he'd have to choose between honor and duty. Still, Salem needed him in town where he and his men tried to stay in control. The radio in his hand didn't stop. Reports were coming in from all over New York. Long queues were already lining up at Memoria's branches, getting longer with every minute. The "skill sale" had begun.

Its first hour had been the hardest for Jessup. Memoria's security had uncovered his team who'd had to abort the surveillance of Binelli. Listening to their frequencies hadn't given him much, either. He had the Feds and the Secretary of Homeland Security on his back, but Jessup chose to ignore their calls knowing it would cost him his job. Probably, already had.

The chopper pilot saw him, reached up and started flipping switches overhead. The ignition went on. The motor pulsated. Slowly, the rotor blades started turning.

The reporter sat in the back. He hunched up in his seat, too scared to move, afraid of whoever might be watching. Jessup shared his anxiety. He didn't want to let the reporter out of his sight. It was unlikely Memoria would go so far as to kill them both together, but still. Gizbo might not be the only mole in his department. That would explain Memoria's quick reactions to their HQ surveillance as well as their switching to scrambled messages. Jessup didn't want to lose his only trump card, albeit insignificant. He knew they would do whatever was necessary to seize the reporter.

"Captain, sir?" he thought he heard to his left.

A sentry on the guardhouse balcony waved and shouted, his words drowned out by the chopper drone. Another couple of seconds, and he wouldn't have heard him.

"Would you come over here, sir?"

Jessup stopped. He glanced at the helicopter and crossed his arms in front of him, signaling to the pilot to kill the motor. Then he hurried to the guard house. Could they have received a message from the camp? The leaders could have complained about Memoria's invasion on the radio. They could have sent a messenger to the guard house. Also not unlikely, some of the migrants could express their desire to leave the perimeter in order to participate in Memoria's "skill sale". He could tell Jessup what was going on in the camp.

"What's up?" the rotor noise had almost stopped by the time Jessup reached the turnstiles.

"Come quick, sir! He's wounded!"

"Who now?" Jessup flung the staff room door open. On the bench by the wall lay Nicholas Floyd. Jessup's long-time camp informer.

The duty officer leaned over him, the opened first-aid kit by his feet on the floor. Floyd's neck and chest were dressed with bloodied bandages. The duty officer pulled the syringe out of Floyd's shoulder and turned his wide weather-worn face to Jessup.

"Not good. Got two bullets to the neck and heart area, sir. He could barely speak."

"What did he say?"

Floyd lay with his eyes closed.

"He brought you this, sir," The duty officer handed Jessup an opaque plastic container one-tenth of an inch thick. "He wanted you to have it."

"What for? What is it?" Jessup opened the container. Inside was a memory chip. "Call the meds!" he looked at the door. "Get him into the chopper!"

He lifted the transmitter and contacted the police clinic for an emergency surgery.

Floyd opened his eyes and gave him a weak smile. Then he started gasping.

"His heart might stop!" the duty officer shouted. "Get the defibrillator!"

One of the cops was already running to the bench with a plastic box in his hands. He pushed the lid open and brought out the electrodes.

The duty officer grabbed a knife and cut through the bandages. But Floyd had already stopped breathing. His eyes glazed over.

"Charge?" the cop placed the electrodes onto Floyd's chest.

"Full charge," the duty officer said.

"Clear!"

The defibrillator clicked. Floyd's body jerked with the electric pulse.

"CPR and heart massage."

Well-trained, they acted in unison, trying to bring the man back from the other side. But Floyd's eyes remained dead.

"Again," the cop placed the electrodes onto his chest. "Clear!"

Another click. The body jumped.

"CPR!"

Jessup stepped to the wall and leaned his heavy body against it watching Floyd. He didn't look as if he could make it.

"Pointless," he finally said.

The duty officer looked up at him,

"Blood loss too serious, sir."

"I can see that." Jessup sighed. "Did he say anything at all? What's going on in the camp?"

"He just gave us your name, sir, and this container."

A car braked by the guard house. A door slammed. Several voices spoke at once. The radio in Jessup's hand sprung to life, giving him a bad feeling. He put the sound up to hear Salem's voice through the gremlins.

"No!" he exclaimed, disbelieving. "When?"

"This afternoon," Agent Archer said entering the room. "Anna Gautier and two more leaders have been killed in the Council building. I need all the men you can spare in the Bronx before the migrants cut the electricity and water from the city. We can't afford that to happen."

"Salem? I'll call you back later." Jessup lowered the radio. At the same time, he slipped the container into his raincoat pocket. "Why haven't they reported it earlier? Who made the statement?"

"Memoria's Press Secretary." Archer's long face grew even longer as he stared at Floyd's body on the bench. He kept speaking on automatic pilot, looking confused. "They've made a full scan of the killer's memory. The mnemotechs' report has already been posted online."

"Who killed him?"

Archer blinked, staring at Floyd's body.

"Who was it?" Jessup repeated louder.

"Shelby... Frank Shelby."

* * *

"Frank Shelby!" the tall tech shouted. A shove to his back sent him sprawling through the doorway into his co-worker arms.

Both tumbled onto the surgery floor. Inside, Maggie Douggan lay in her underwear strapped to the tomography bed. Frank lunged inside and slammed the door shut praying that the security guard who watched the hallway through the security cameras had turned away from his screens for a second.

The tall tech had told him the truth. The team numbered three people. The third tech stood by the equipment stand to Frank's right. Frank stepped closer and took a swing to punch him on the chin when one of the two on the floor grabbed his leg. Instead of a punch, Frank's fingers brushed the tech's nose; he dropped the syringe and came down.

The team's resistance surprised him. These were supposed to be laboratory wooses, but they reacted with pitbull-like fortitude. Leaning on his elbows, Frank pulled his leg out, turned around and kicked the stranger's face red with excitement. His head jerked, blood pouring out of a smashed nose.

"Finish him off, Sam!" the tall one shouted as he tried to scramble back onto his feet.

Sam — apparently the one who'd just escaped the punch on the chin — didn't move. His hesitation gave Frank the chance to get up and an advantage. Jumping up, he punched Sam in the chest and stomach. The tech doubled up, and Frank rabbit-punched him to the neck. One down. Frank turned around. The tall tech had by then forced himself up on one knee. A broken jaw later, the man was back on the floor. His co-worker, though, proved to be difficult: he crawled under the table, kicking and screaming his head off.

At first, Frank tried to grab him by the foot to drag him out. No luck. Snarling with anger, he tried to lift the heavy steel table and pushed it over the tech. Boxfuls of surgical tools, laid out on the table for an operation, clattered all over the floor. The tech screamed out — then fell silent.

Agitated by the fight and shouting, Frank stepped back to the door. He breathed fast. His heart beat wildly, unable to slow down. Two men lay unconscious in the middle of the room. The third one, pinned to the floor by the table, wheezed and jerked, his legs twitching.

Frank didn't check on him. The man's chest could be smashed. A syringe needle could have gone into his eye. Whatever it was, the man was never going to get up. Frank picked up the syringe filled with the opaque greenish liquid and went over to the girl. His fingers shaking with exertion, he started undoing the straps.

"Mag, you okay? What have they done to you?"

She started at him, her eyes wide open, as if seeing him for the first time.

"Mag, do you remember me? I'm Frank Shelby. You're Maggie Douggan, daughter of Barney Douggan. He's somewhere here too. Your dad's here, Mag."

He finished unstrapping her, gingerly removed the copper band with wires from her head and hurried to the locker in the corner. The furniture here was identical to Bow's surgery that he'd just left. Frank took a lab coat off a hanger. He helped Maggie to sit up and put the coat on.

"Do you remember me?" he asked again.

She gave him a weak nod.

"They must have given you a memory scan," Frank explained. "A selective one, not complete. They must be preparing you for a personality correction session. This is what Bow has just said — Kathleen's researcher."

"Now I remember," her gaze slid over the room. "They wanted to know where we'd hidden the tape."

"Maggie," Frank glanced at the tech squashed under the table. He was quiet now. Frank took Maggie's hand. "Are you sure you remember me?"

"I am... we were in the camp together."

"And your father, do you remember him?"

Anguish showed in her eyes. Her gaze focused. With a startle, the girl looked around.

"What- what happened here?" Her breathing quickened and her gestures became jerky. She stared at Frank.

He put his arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear,

"I've taken care of them... they wanted to change you... change us, but I didn't let them. Maggie, we've got to go. We'll find your dad and get out of here. You think you can walk?"

"I can. Where's Dad?" Not looking at the unconscious men amid the trashed surgery, Maggie sat up and tried to stand. Immediately, she winced and lost her balance.

Frank caught her.

"I'm sick... my head just goes round..." Maggie sounded surprised. She tried not to throw up and couldn't, vomiting on the floor.

Frank let her catch her breath and poured her some water from the water cooler.

"It'll be over in a minute," he handed her the plastic cup. "Drink it. Try not to make any sudden movements."

When she emptied the cup, Frank helped her sit back on the bed and buttoned up her lab coat.

"Take deep breaths," he told her.

"Where's Dad?"

"He's in the room next door. There's nobody else there. We'll go there now..."

"Frank," her eyes glistened but she held back the tears. "You're not telling me everything. What's wrong with Dad?"

"I'm not sure. It looks like they tried to give him a memory scan, too, or a personality correction, but something went wrong. Barney's in a trance right now."

Leaning on his shoulder, she forced herself up. "Come on, let's go."

"Wait," he opened the door a crack and peered out.

The hallway was empty. At its far end, the red light kept flashing on the wall by the glass panels. The camera on the ceiling focused its black eye on the door.

"The hallway's under surveillance," Frank explained. "We'll come out and walk naturally, as if we're discussing a job problem. Second door to the right. Got it?"

Maggie nodded. She smoothed out her hair and, businesslike, shoved her hands into her lab coat pockets. Frank stepped aside, letting her through the door. He left the surgery and closed the door behind him.

Maggie lingered outside, waiting for him.

"I've never been here," she turned and walked along the hallway, trying to keep slightly ahead of him.

They passed Bow's surgery and approached the room where, according to him, his techs kept Barney. Maggie pushed the door but it didn't open.

"Let me try," Frank motioned her aside.

Under the door handle, he saw the small rectangle of a scanning device.

"We should have taken one of their bracelets," Maggie snapped. "You can't get in without one."

Frank pulled up his sleeve and pressed his bracelet against the scanner. Something clicked inside the door. In less than two seconds, they found themselves inside the intensive care unit.

It differed a lot from the other two surgeries. No lockers, no steel tables, no tomography equipment. Barney lay on a hard wide bed of thick plastic. His head was entangled in a net of wires. A thick bandage, spotted with red, covered his leg above the knee. Above him shelves hung with equipment and monitors. Machines hummed in large slide-out boxes under the bed. Barney's broad chest heaved with his powerful breathing, as if he just lay down for a nap.

"Dad," Maggie knelt next to him and touched his face, black and blue from a beating, "Dad, can you hear me? It's me, your teddy bear. Wake up, Dad..."

Frank peered at the monitors trying to work out their readings and purpose. On one, shiny green graphs rose and fell showing his heart activity. Figures appeared in its right upper corner. They appeared to reflect heart performance.

Franks studied the other monitors. He hadn't a clue what all those colored diagrams and readings were supposed to mean. He needed Bow or one of the techs. Frank glanced at the door. Maggie rose and pressed a button on one of the monitors. It went out.

"Are you mad?" Frank recoiled. "What if-"

"Nothing's gonna happen,'" Maggie said, her voice dry and detached.

"But-"

"I've turned the biocurrent off." She pointed at another monitor. "Look at the neurons activity graph. It's moving up."

Frank stared at the rising graph. "How the hell do you know?"

Maggie turned her emotionless face to him, her eyes vacant. She blinked, as if coming to.

"What's wrong with me?" She touched her forehead, her fingers tracing her temple. "It just came up... I've no idea how... What was that button?" She looked up at the monitors looking for it. "What have I done?"

"You said you'd turned off the biocurrent. I didn't see which button but this monitor went off when you did it," he pointed. "Then you kind of came out of it."

"Frank," she started to shake, "Frank, I'm scared. I must have hurt Dad! Frank, I don't remember what I was doing! What's wrong with me, Frank?"

He took her by the hand and led her to the door looking into her face and trying to guess what could have happened.

"Do you remember what they were doing to you in that room?"

She shook her head. Frank stared at the wall trying to remember the conversation between Claney, Dickens and Bow.

"They wanted to submit us to a personality correction." Slowly, he turned back to her. "He said you'd undergone the first phase and they were now prepping you for the second one. Then I came and knocked the techs out..."

Frank looked into the girl's eyes filled with fear.

"They wanted to set us up. Claney and the others, I mean. They wanted to install new memories after the personality correction. Their story is, we tried to sabotage the Vaccination. It's already in force. Millions are about to enroll. Claney targets them... and the migrants."

Frank paused, musing over Claney's every word.

"Claney doesn't have the tape. It's still in the camp. But he..."

Frank stopped. Blood pounded in his temples. The back of his head echoed with a dull ache. The painkillers must have stopped working.

"Claney told Bow to forge a new tape," he said. "The three of us — you, me and Barney — were supposed to give ourselves up and confess to the crimes we hadn't committed. To make it more convincing, we'd have the tape which would show how we'd doctored the mnemocapsule vaccine."

"What are you talking about?" Maggie's eyes widened. "I don't understand."

"Don't worry. It's not good for you. We'll take Barney and get the hell out of here. Now try to remember which button we should press to wake him up."

"I can't!" Maggie clenched her fists in desperation. "I don't remember!"

She stomped her foot. At that moment, a loud snorting came from behind her. Her eyes opened wider. Frank turned around.

Barney sat up on the bed dangling his feet. His glazed stare fixed on his daughter.

"Jeez," Frank said.

"I am the one who helped you," Barney moved his bloodied lips. He pointed his fat finger at Maggie. "You are the one who changed the program."

He looked at Frank. "You are the one who killed Kathleen Baker."

Chapter Twenty-Two. A Friend or a Murderer?

"He is the one who killed Kathleen Baker," Claney looked into the Mayor's little pig eyes. "Then six hours ago he massacred the camp leaders. Anna Gautier is dead. Even before that, Shelby coerced another Memoria worker, Maggie Douggan, into cooperation. Her father Barney Douggan and his friend Max — both former special-force types — are responsible for the Manhattan shootout. Then they helped Shelby to get inside Memoria's building in order to kill the President. We have casualties among security staff and secret service agents."

The Mayor tapped his fingers on the desk. He jerked his chin and looked up at Claney. "And you want me to present it as the official version of events?"

"Exactly," Claney rose and headed for the exit.

"But this doesn't agree with the already-"

"Yes it does!" Claney swung round. "Don't forget to let the nation know that Captain Jessup was a panic monger and a double agent. Let the world know the truth about him."

"But isn't there supposed to be an official investigation first? I'm not an Attorney General. I can't-"

"You can, and you will," Claney lowered his head. His icy stare pierced the Mayor. "Or you might regret you got involved with the project."

The Mayor shrank, his eyes on the Congressman. Cold sweat ran down his fat face. He nodded vigorously.

"Try not to leave your office until it's over," Claney added. "I might need you again."

He walked out into the reception, glanced at his watch and hurried to the elevator, accompanied by his secretary and bodyguard. Both were bald, just like Claney himself.

When Claney reached the ground floor, his secretary's phone rang.

"Who is it?" Claney reached for the phone.

"Dickens," the secretary whispered placing the mobile into his hand.

"Speaking. They what?" Claney froze. "You-" The words stuck in his throat. He pulled at his tie, loosening up the knot. "You-" He regained his voice and yelled, "Start now! Don't you dare let them go!"

* * *

"Don't you dare let them go!" Kirk Dickens barked into the microphone in his sleeve and ran down a wide gray hallway toward the stairs. Beyond them, lay the roof of Memoria's HQ. "Seal off the elevators and the exits in the building! Block off all levels!"

He sent the reserve group downstairs and lunged to the narrow doorway. Pressing his bracelet to the scanner lock, he pushed the door open.

It felt as if he'd crashed into a RV vehicle at full speed. A sledgehammer punch stopped him in his tracks. Dickens almost heard the Kevlar plates of his bulletproof vest crack under his shirt.

For a moment, his heart and his breathing stopped. He was hurled backward, blood seeping out of his mouth. Paralyzed by the pain in his chest, he tried to scramble back to his feet when a huge human shape loomed out of the dark behind the doorway. A lamp light fell onto a broken nose and a broad face disfigured by torture. Barney Douggan.

"You-" Dickens gasped. The only way the outlaws could get to the roof before them was by using the VIP elevator. The only person who had the key to it was William Bow. He'd always kept it on a silver chain on his neck.

Dickens didn't have time to give orders. Barney lunged forward, about to stomp on his stomach. A floor tile crashed with a clatter as Barney's foot rammed into the floor. Dickens rolled off, pulling the gun out of its holster. Before he could shoot, his hand was squashed in a vice-like grip. Dickens cried out as his fingers snapped. His gun smashed against the wall.

Dickens managed to half-rise and jerked his head to escape another heavy punch. He attempted an uppercut but failed to keep his balance, dragged to the floor in Barney's bear hug. The radio on his belt bleeped and stopped, smashed against the tiles.

Dickens stuck his remaining good fingers into Barney's face going for his eyes, but missed and hit his nose instead. Barney growled like a wounded bear. His arm shot up to slam Dickens in the face. Once again, Dickens jerked his head aside and Barney's palm brushed his face, his nails grazing Dickens' cheek. Immediately, Dickens' return punch to Barney's throat made the boxer wheeze and let go of his prey. Dickens managed to retrieve his wounded hand; he rolled away and got back to his feet.

The gun lay between Barney and himself, and the boxer had much better chances of getting to it in time.

Snorting heavily through his broken nose, Barney rose to one knee and looked up at Dickens. In the lamplight, the remaining eye glistened in his bloodied face smashed to pulp. He reached out to grasp the gun.

"Total control," Dickens forced out the trigger command as loud as he could.

Barney froze. His stare glazed over.

"Up," Dickens ordered.

The boxer rose. His powerful shoulders stooped. His gorilla-like arms hung weakly. Dickens waited a few more seconds and reached for the gun.

* * *

"There's nothing here, Frank!" Standing at the center of the helipad, Maggie looked about. "Nothing that looks like a transmitter!"

The cold wind grasped at her words, taking them into the night sky that enveloped the city's illuminated skyline.

"You hear me? There's nothing here! You must be wrong!" Maggie shouted. "We should have tried to get out of the building instead. We should have gone to the police to tell them about the secret labs."

Desperate, she sat down on the hard mesh with a large H painted white in the center.

Frank stood on the pad's edge, several paces away from the girl, and grasped the long handle of a fire axe he'd taken from the fire precautions point by the elevators. Apart from several enormous fan blowers with their blades rotating slowly behind safety grills, sending the air down the building's aircon system, there were no other machines on top of the roof. Nothing that looked like an equipment booth or a satellite dish that could send or receive signals. Only a squat concrete platform in the middle of the roof on top of which the helipad was mounted, flat with slightly raised edges.

How on earth was Dickens going to transmit the signal? Frank gripped the axe and ran back to the stairs. Now where would the antennas be? Could there be another door they hadn't yet noticed? There were two ways of accessing the roof. Barney was now watching the service exit that faced south on the floor below. The entry by elevator — its cabin still frozen midway to the roof — was now blocked as Frank had broken the little silver key in the exit lock to make sure no one could use it.

He'd only picked up the axe in case he had to demolish the transmitter or sever the cables. Maggie seemed to be right, though. He could have misunderstood Claney's words in the surgery. Possibly, Dickens had hidden the transmitter somewhere deep below, like the underground labs they'd just escaped from. On their way to the elevators, Frank had discovered that the building was chock full of secret rooms and passages. His head pulsated with the thought that, while he was rushing around the roof like a headless chicken, Claney and Dickens were happily bringing their evil plans to fruition.

"Frank!" he heard overhead. "Frank, where are you?"

"Here!" he stopped and raised his head. "The north side!"

A few moments later, Maggie peered down over the platform edge.

"I think I heard something," she waved her hand toward the south side of the building. "Some noise where we left Dad."

"Stay where you are!" Frank swore under his breath and ran to the service exit.

He'd stopped caring about his aches and pains a long time ago. His bruised body stung, the dislocated fingers could barely hold the axe; he could hardly move. But if he wanted to stop Claney from messing up the lives of millions, he had to keep looking for whatever had been mentioned in the surgery. Max had died for whatever it was. Barney and Maggie were risking their lives for it. He had to stop Dickens from using the transmitter.

When Frank finally got to the service exit door, he found it open. Could Barney be looking for them because of something he'd found?

Frank stepped inside and peered into the stairwell. It was bright and quiet.

Bright? Why? He grasped the axe and stepped back, looking up. A stifled cry came from the landing pad. Without thinking, Frank ran up the steps to the platform and froze, stopped by Dickens' cold stare.

Dickens held Maggie by the neck pressing her against himself. The fingers of one hand deformed and dislocated, he held a gun in his other hand pointing it at the girl's temple. Barney stood nearby, his arms hanging down, his head turned to Frank. His bruised face was covered with some fresh blood.

"Kill him," Dickens ordered.

Barney trundled toward Frank.

Chapter Twenty-Three. The Final Combat

Agent Archer radioed Jessup when his helicopter passed over the Harlem's sleeping waters. According to Archer, Claney had avoided arrest in the Town Hall by swapping bracelets with his secretary.

"I told you so," Jessup rearranged his headphones. "You shouldn't have fallen for that. Claney's sensed we're after him. He'll try to leave New York now."

"We control all outgoing traffic."

"He knows everyone everywhere. Bet someone's helping him to get out of town right now."

"Jessup? Where are you?"

"Approaching Central Park. Will soon be in view of Memoria tower.

"How's it going there?"

"Our assault group has taken the ground floor. There are casualties. Memoria's security force have put up a fierce resistance. Taking it might take time."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Find Claney. Use all your men available."

"Will do."

"Over."

Jessup looked straight ahead where Memoria's tower studded the Manhattan skyline with lights. Somewhere there was the transmitter. Its signal would turn thousands of people into zombified soldiers. The Captain raised his face to the stars and tried to discern amid their pale glow the bright dots of army satellites on their city-bound geostationary orbits. In outer space overhead, their mirrors were now turning, ready to receive Memoria's signal and bounce it back to the electronic bracelets of all the "vaccinated" people. Vaccinated with a mnemocapsule which contained the mind lock. Once activated, the mind lock would block their will and critical thinking. A program would then decompress itself forcing its host to follow the installed procedure and obey external orders. The bracelet would start to receive and transmit information creating a weak electromagnetic field which in turn would ensure that the host's mind and body remained an obedient tool in the puppeteer's hands.

All this was on the tape Jessup had got from the dying Floyd. And not only that. In the end, Kathleen Baker addressed the nation. She accused Claney of his crimes and spoke of her father. She didn't want his and her invention to become a money-making machine detrimental to humankind. She insisted that everyone had the right to make use of their own skills and talents.

Agent Archer had seen the tape, too, and offered to find and arrest Claney. Jessup had his hands full with Memoria. He still had to negotiate with the migrants who'd already cut off the city's energy supplies. The corporation, though, had to have their own energy reserves. Manhattan had submerged into darkness, pierced by the sparkling needle of Memoria's tower.

A new countdown started ticking in Jessup's head. This time though it wasn't about the investigation, nor his dismissal even. Now time itself was the issue, and he knew he might not make it. Claney had to have strong supporters in the Pentagon. He had to have the military on his side to use a whole cluster of satellites for his project.

Claney must have started plotting this conspiracy a long time ago. It entangled many politicians, generals and scientists that Jessup had no desire of getting involved with. It was the Feds' job, let them do it. As it was, the national security and secret service couldn't react in time. By the time they kicked in, Claney and his generals would have done it. Their obedient soldiers would raze camps to the ground. Could be thousands of casualties, could be more. That meant war. That meant havoc. In the mayhem, no one would seek answers and the puppeteer would keep pulling the strings while he had the chance, making even more new fighters.

"Turn the beam on," Jessup told the pilot. A powerful shaft of light sliced the darkness in front of the chopper. "What's the ETA on our objective?"

"Three minutes, sir," the headphones answered.

Jessup looked around at four special-forces men behind his back and showed three fingers to their officer. He nodded. The sniper put the encased rifle onto his lap to take it out.

* * *

Frank didn't move, hoping that Barney would turn around and lunge at Dickens who'd raised his gun toward the stairs. But the boxer kept walking to the edge of the landing pad. His one remaining eye glistened. He didn't seem to feel pain in his injured leg. He didn't seem to notice Maggie — a hostage in Dickens' grasp.

He kept walking.

"Barney, wait!" Frank shouted.

The boxer kept going. His wide shoulders blocked out Dickens and the girl who'd moved to the platform's center.

"Wait!" Frank took a better grip of the axe, its blade facing the boxer. "It's me, Frank Shelby! Remember?"

The boxer now behaved similarly to how he had when they'd found him in the lab. There, he'd been strange too, until they unplugged all the machines and pulled out all the cables. He'd spoken as if he was under hypnosis. After that, some sick kind of split personality disorder must have kicked in. The boxer had punched Frank in the shoulder and stared at his own hand, looking surprised. He'd recognized Maggie and even tried to get off the bed, but winced and sat back, grasping his wounded leg.

Now he kept walking.

Frank climbed the steps toward him.

"Dad!" Maggie screamed behind his back.

A deadbolt clanged, metal against metal. Frank craned his neck to see Dickens better.

The girl wasn't on the platform. Dickens was climbing down into an open hatch.

The boxer kept walking. Three more steps, and Frank would be within his reach.

Frank lunged forward, turning the axe handle up, and used it to poke the boxer's chest.

In a smooth and well-practiced motion, Barney avoided the blow and grabbed Frank's arm. His other hand slapped Frank against the face, knocking him down.

Frank hit the platform edge, hurting his back and nearly falling off onto the roof from a height of four meters. He was lucky the edges curled inwards. Frank rolled over, avoiding the boxer's kick, jumped up and bolted for the open hatch. Barney lunged forward blocking his way.

Now Frank could see the landing site for what it truly was. The platform was the satellite dish; the room below, the transmitter. Dickens had gone down to activate it.

"Barney, they've been messing with your head! They-"

The boxer didn't let him finish. He advanced, raising his hands as he walked. Frank turned the axe blade forward hoping it would discourage him for a second giving him a chance to explain. As he walked, Barney threw one arm forward and grabbed the axe handle. Frank blocked his other hand, forcing his elbow into the boxer's chest. He let go of the handle and jumped aside.

He couldn't possibly overcome Barney in a hand-to-hand. He could also see that words failed to bring him out of his trance. Somehow he kept following Dickens' orders. When the transmitter started working, millions of people would be like Barney, puppets in Claney's hands.

Frank hurried to the hatch and collapsed, his feet giving way, his mind blinded by the pain and the fear that Barney had used the blade. He sat up and looked at his feet. Both were still there. He looked up and dodged as the blade whizzed through the air.

The axe sunk into the mesh, striking sparks, and bounced back over Barney's head. The only eye on his mask-like face glistened. He clenched his bloodied teeth and drew in air, lowering his swing, when fear and desperation flashed in his glare. Barney shuddered, burying the blade in the platform next to Frank's feet. Then he brought his knee up under Frank's chin, throwing him onto his back.

"You've remembered!" Frank didn't care about the pain. Blood from his bitten tongue filled his mouth. Barney took another swing.

"Remember Maggie!"

Barney froze. He struck.

* * *

Dickens scrambled down the stairs into the utility room and hurled the girl in the far corner, out of the way. His right hand and fingers were broken so he had to use the left one. He shoved the gun in his belt and stepped up to the steel equipment cabinet with Memoria's phosphorescent logo glimmering on its side.

Dickens brought the bracelet up to the lock, opened the cabinet doors and reached for the master switch.

He cried out from a blow to the small of his back. After a moment's bewilderment, his reflexes kicked in. He ducked, turning, and thrust his left fist toward the opponent. The attacking girl ducked to one side, screamed in pain and attempted another blow.

Against his will, he appreciated her stance. She'd apparently picked up a couple of simple moves from either Max or her father. He blocked her hand with his forearm, then missed her slight motion in the dark and suppressed a scream when her nails dug into his cheek.

No more Mr. Nice Guy. Dickens kicked the girl back into the corner, then felt his burning cheek and winced. He licked his bloodied fingers and bared his teeth peering into the dark for her unmoving body. His hand reached for the gun and stopped. No good killing the hostage. He might still need her.

He turned back to the cabinet and was just reaching for the switch when he heard the drone of an approaching helicopter.

* * *

At the last moment, the axe turned in Barney's hands, hitting Frank with the flat of the blade. He saw stars: one apparently bigger than the others, reached out its blinding beam to the tower, droning.

He had to be still alive, otherwise he wouldn't feel the pain. Barney must have restrained himself, or even the flat blow should have smashed his skull.

Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away from the platform. A broad bloodied face blocked out the light. Barney's lips shook as he raised his fist, his eye twitching toward the hatch.

"Maggie's there," Frank croaked. "Your girl's there. Save her."

The boxer opened his mouth. Then he shut his eye, shaking his head.

"Do you remember her? Your teddy bear? She needs our help!"

His face writhing, Barney unclenched his fist.

"Go," he gasped and pushed Frank's shoulder. "Now!"

Barney's voice hardened. "Take the axe!" He bent down to grab it, lost his footing and collapsed onto the platform, snorting. Frank picked up the axe and ran to the hatch.

The opening was wide enough for him to jump down. Not thinking about the depth, Frank landed on the floor almost opposite Dickens. His hand on the master switch, the man turned his head.

Space and time didn't allow for a good swing. Frank just stood up and lunged, the axe in his grasp.

Timing was crucial. If Dickens stepped back, he would miss the blade. If he flipped the switch, he would lose his hand but turn on the transmitter.

Self-preservation forced Dickens to snatch his hand back. The wide blade tore through the switchboard and smashed the circuit breaker. It crackled and hissed, sending blue and white sparks flying across the room. It turned as bright as day. The room filled with the helicopter's whirring descent. On the switchboard, lights started flashing. The stench of burned plastic filled nostrils.

Frank pulled the axe out of the switchboard, but Dickens impeded his swing in mid-air. His fist dug into Frank's ribs, knocking the air out of him. Frank's fingers loosened, letting go of the axe.

Dickens pulled out a gun. Frank sniffed, bending his head and shoulders, and rammed his opponent in the stomach until he pinned Dickens to the wall.

Dickens pistol-whipped him on his back and head. Stars exploded in Frank's eyes. He collapsed into a dark void.

* * *

The cold air and whirring of the rotors filled the helicopter's cabin through the open door. The headphones didn't block the noise out, and Jessup had to shout commands to the pilot. The sniper moved closer to the opening and raised his rifle. Two special-force men on the other side lowered their lines, hooked themselves up and stood motionless on the chopper's wide chassis bar. Their squad leader stayed inside waiting for Jessup's command.

The beam found the wide platform on the dark roof. On it, two men were fighting.

Jessup craned his neck to look over the pilot's shoulder, ordering him to descend and hover over the platform. He had no idea who they were and why they fought, but he picked up the mike, about to issue a warning through the speakers when one of the fighters collapsed. The other picked up a large firefighters' axe, lunged for an open hatch in the middle of the platform and jumped inside.

Jessup raised his hand. The squad leader touched the sniper's shoulder. Jessup didn't want to give the order to shoot until he had the whole picture. He didn't yet know which side they were on.

"Closer!" he shouted to the pilot.

The helicopter swayed, descending a few feet. The burly man on the platform turned his face, torn and bloodied, toward the beam. He knelt and raised his hands, shouting; Jessup couldn't discern the words above the roar. The man wavered and fell onto the platform.

The next moment, a blond man scrambled out of the hatch and pulled out a girl. Grabbing her neck, he took cover under her, turned to the chopper and raised a gun.

The squad leader removed his hand from the sniper's shoulder. The two men readied to descend onto the roof. The helicopter shook and swayed, preventing the sniper from taking aim for fear of hitting the girl.

"Abort!" Jessup shouted.

The strong hand returned to the sniper's shoulder.

The blond man scurried to the edge of the platform when the other man emerged from the hatch. Now Jessup could see who he was. He'd seen him two days ago, in the interrogation room just before the attack on the police station. Yesterday afternoon he'd had a chance to intercept him by the camp perimeter. Finally, he'd caught up with Frank Shelby.

Jessup could see he could barely walk, clutching at the firefighters' axe and trying to catch up with the blond man who couldn't hear his steps above the helicopter's roar.

"Action stations!" Jessup waved to the fighters ready at their lines.

The squad leader raised a clenched fist.

The blond must have sensed the approaching threat. He started to turn, relaxing his grasp. The girl bit his arm. He cried out; she fought herself free and pushed him away.

Frank Shelby took a swing-

"Go, go, go!" Jessup shouted.

The squad leader unclenched his fist. The soldiers slid down the lines.

Frank lowered the axe. The man fell on his back. A barely audible gunshot resounded.

The sniper's rifle snapped. Frank Shelby fell, too.

"Hold your fire!" Jessup yelled. "Hold your fire!"

The squad leader squeezed the sniper's shoulder.

"Land," Jessup ordered the pilot and grabbed the radio calling Lieutenant Salem who was in charge of taking over the building.

By the time the helicopter landed, one of the fighters stood over the burly man who lay face down on the concrete. The other was helping the girl. The squad leader had his rifle trained on Frank who sat squeezing his bleeding shoulder.

His service revolver in his hand, Jessup ran to them, followed by the sniper. The blond man lay still. His hair bristled on the temples.

Jessup remembered the masked attackers on 161st by the subway entrance. Judging by his height and build, the blond could have easily been in charge of the men who'd hunted Shelby. Once again his recognition skills had served Jessup well.

"The girl and the veteran," Frank nodded at the burly man by the platform edge, "they helped me. We're not guilty. Claney and Dickens are the ones to blame..." he stopped and pointed at the blond man.

"Search the roof," Jessup ordered. "Keep all exits under your control and contact our guys inside." He turned to Shelby. "I need to know about the transmitter."

Frank shook his head.

"Dickens couldn't turn the equipment on. I stopped him transmitting..." his gaze shifted to the girl who'd crossed the platform once the fighters had left it.

She hauled the large man over onto his back, placed her hands on his disfigured face and spoke, but the rotating helicopter blades beat the air drowning out her words.

"Please help," Shelby held out his hand.

Jessup squeezed it, pulled it toward himself and caught a glimpse of a movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Watch out!" Frank lunged forward.

The blond man sat up raising a gun. His shirt was torn on his chest revealing a Kevlar vest split by the axe blow.

A shot rang out.

Shelby froze for a second. He looked back. Jessup lowered his gun. He stepped toward the man, who was now lying on his back, and kicked the gun aside.

"His name is Dickens, then?" he nodded at the dead man — now dead for real. The pale eyes stared into the starry sky. Blood seeped from the bullet hole in his forehead.

"Yes. He and his men tried to run me down on Claney's orders. I'll give you the details..."

"Later." Jessup holstered his gun.

"Do you have Claney?"

"No. He's flown the coop." Jessup looked at Shelby. "Any idea where he could be heading? We've blocked off the roads and the airport."

"He said he'd go to the airfield."

"The airfield?" Jessup frowned. Airfield, he thought. Airfield... but of course! The flyboys. Their base is the only remaining strip from which he could take off unhindered.

He swung his arm, ordering the pilot to prepare for take-off. More special-forces men appeared on the roof, among them a civilian. Short and thickset, with sharp features, he ran up to Jessup. He glanced at the dead man, then at Shelby.

"Salem! Speak up," Jessup shouted.

"We've suppressed their resistance, now we're mopping up in the building."

"Very good. Take care of the witnesses and whip up some help for the wounded," Jessup pointed at the girl and the big man. "Get Archer on the line and tell him to go to the airdrome. I'm going straight there."

"I'll come with you," he heard.

Salem stared at Frank who'd dared to interrupt them.

"You're wounded," Jessup sized him up, surprised.

"That's nothing," Frank winced. "You and I, we've got something to talk about."

"All right," the captain nodded and waved to the drop team leader. "Take off in one minute!"

He gave Salem a few last-minute instructions and ran to the helicopter. Frank followed. The team was already piling on board.

They didn't have a chance to talk in flight. First Frank had his wounds dressed, then Jessup had to keep the Feds posted on the radio. Soon the chopper started to snake over the river. A long chain of lights came up from the right marking the landing strip where a charter jet was just taxiing onto the runway.

"We've arrived!" the captain shouted. "The Feds are at their gates. But they have access problems. We'll have to break through from the air."

The drop team leader nodded. His fighters started checking their weapons and equipment.

"We'll hover over the strip to prevent the plane from taking off," Jessup said. "The group will then rappel down and take over the jet. We need Claney alive."

"Yes, sir," the fighter said.

"Shelby," Jessup turned to Frank, "we're staying in the chopper."

Frank paused. "I'll go with them."

"No, you won't," Jessup snapped turning away from him.

Frank glanced at the team preparing for the descent. He shuddered, raised his collar and put his hand into his pocket. His fingers found a sharp object. He pulled it out and stared, disbelieving, at the syringe he'd picked up in Bow's lab.

Maggie had already told him a little about the capsules and the way they were programmed in the elevator on their way to the tower roof. She'd seemed to have another one of her revelations like when she'd switched off the biocurrent machine in the lab. Her personality correction procedure hadn't been finalized. They'd only managed to download the data into her brain so that she could share it at the press conference flawlessly, confessing to the crime she hadn't committed.

Frank looked at Jessup's back and put the syringe away. No points for guessing what it contained. The opaque greenish solution held the mnemocapsule, and the liquid itself had to be the chemical mind lock he kept hearing about. The transmitter's signal had to activate both, provided the vaccinated subject had his electronic bracelet on. That's why Bow and his techs had been scared shitless at the sight of the needle.

One question remained unanswered for Frank: how had Dickens managed to get Barney under his control? Without the transmitter signal and without Barney's bracelet...

"Get ready!" the captain shouted distracting Frank from his ponderings.

The chopper banked to one side hovering over the runway. The team slid the doors open, hung their backs to the wind and dropped the ropes.

"Go! Go!" Jessup ordered.

The men rapped down and disappeared under the helicopter. Frank stared at the long shape that was rapidly looming up toward them. Headlights shone on the jet's wings, blinding him. The plane put its nose down. Clouds of smoke billowed from around its undercarriage.

"Put her down!" the captain ordered the pilot.

Sluggishly, the chopper descended. The plane swerved, ending up on the grass. Its wing tips flapping, the plane shuddered over the uneven ground. The drop team ran toward it.

By the time Frank and Jessup left the chopper, the aircraft had come to a stop. A hatch opened in the fuselage letting out a baldheaded man with a gun. Shots resounded. Bullets ripped holes in the jet's skin around the door. The man convulsed and fell out onto the grass.

"Shit!" the captain cursed as he ran.

"This isn't Claney!" Frank shouted behind him. He'd already recognized the corpse.

He felt a total wreck. He could barely move, the bullet wound in his shoulder hurt like hell, his ribs ached so much that he had difficulty breathing. He couldn't catch up with the captain.

"Who is it, then?" Jessup reached the body first and turned it over toward him.

Frank stopped next to him, gasping.

"This guy is a cab driver," he collapsed onto the grass. "You see this scar? He gave me a lift. I remember him..."

More shots rang out, this time inside the plane. Three of them, then all went quiet.

"What cab driver?" Jessup looked up clutching the revolver.

"From La Guardia. This was Dickens' plan A. He killed Kathleen in my apartment, and his people had to kidnap me from the airport... exactly what he planned to do after that, I don't know."

A soldier stuck his head out of the hatch.

"Clear!" he reported and jumped out onto the grass.

"What about Claney?" the captain asked.

The team pushed the handcuffed Congressman out of the plane, then jumped out themselves. One of them had his helmet split, his bulletproof vest dented, but he stood up with confidence.

"No casualties on our side," the leader reported.

Sirens wailed from the airfield. Everybody turned their heads to the sound. Frank scrambled to his feet. Several army Jeeps sped to the plane followed by patrol cars, their lights flashing.

"That's Archer," the captain grinned. He looked at Frank and explained, "The Federal agent who took your case from me."

"Do you trust him?"

"I'm afraid I don't have much choice under the circumstances. I had to show him the tape you got from Memoria and then lost in the camp."

They turned to Claney. Frank stepped toward him and was stopped in his tracks by his disdainful glare.

"One of these days you'll be the next one," Claney smirked.

Frank looked into his face, silent. He didn't have enough strength to continue the exchange. He turned away and shuffled off to the chopper on the strip. Behind his back, Jessup started reading Claney his rights.

Epilogue. The Lull Before the Storm

The day promised to be warm. By midday, thick clouds hung over the city. Frank wished he'd brought a raincoat with him. He stood on the granite steps in front of the police department building and looked up at the gloomy sky thinking of everything that had happened three weeks earlier.

It didn't sound like a long time, but despite all the offices involved in the investigation, too many questions remained unanswered. Possibly, for good.

Passersby streamed toward the pedestrian crossing opposite the building, some in a hurry overtaking the rest. Cars bustled and honked. The wailing of an ambulance or a police car resounded from a neighboring block, on their way to help someone. Or could it be the fire brigade? Frank glanced at his watch. Barney was taking his time.

He shifted from one foot to the other, about to start up the stairs, when a cab pulled up by the pedestrian crossing. A young dark driver jumped out of the car, ran around it and opened the door, helping his passenger out.

Barney hadn't lost any muscle. His face, though, was hard to recognize. Blood blisters still showed in a couple of places, but they were nothing, as were the bruises and grazes. The veteran had gone completely bald. His massive forehead glistened in the sun that's forced its way through the clouds. His skull was unnaturally smooth. Nothing suggested the thick head of dark hair he once used to boast.

"Thanks," Barney grumbled. "I'll manage."

He leaned on his stick and hobbled heavily through the crowd toward the steps, gloomy as a cloud and large as a bear.

Frank hurried toward him.

"I'll manage," without looking up, Barney stepped onto the staircase and stopped. "Have you been waiting here long?" He glanced at the street. For some reason, he avoided Frank's gaze.

"Everything all right?" Frank looked in the same direction but saw nothing but houses, cars and passersby crossing the street at the green light. Nothing special.

"You didn't answer my question," Barney said without changing his posture.

Frank smiled weakly,

"Nervous, sir?"

"Fuck you!" Barney turned his broad face to him. "Since when do you call me sir?"

Frank looked at him without saying a word.

"You'll be calling me Mr. Douggan next. What are you smiling at?" Barney was obviously in a mood. But at least he was the same old Barney, strong, stern and focused. "You think I don't know Maggie ran off to see you?"

Frank's smile faded. He squinted at the sidewalk and rubbed his chin not knowing how to answer.

"All right," Barney rattled and coughed into his fist. "Let's go. Help me up."

His strong arm lay over Frank's shoulder. Together, they took the steps to the doors.

In the department, they were met by Lieutenant Salem who took them to the elevators. Together they went up one floor. Salem led them through the pool to the Captain's office and left without saying a word.

"Take a seat," Jessup left his desk, shook their hands and pointed to the chairs. "Coffee?"

"Water," the veteran mumbled. Groaning, he lowered himself into a chair and stretched out his leg wounded during the taking of Memoria.

"I wouldn't mind a coffee," Frank nodded, "no sugar."

The captain buzzed the secretary through the intercom, asked her to bring up some drinks and returned to his place.

"So?" he rested his hands on his desk looking at Barney. "How's health? How's the leg?"

"It's okay," Barney shifted in his chair for a more comfortable position.

The secretary appeared in the doorway. She nodded to the visitors, placed the tray on the desk and left.

"Help yourselves," the captain sighed and sat back.

Barney poured the water down his broad mouth. Frank took a sip of his coffee and placed the cup back on its saucer.

"Let's get down to business, Cap," the veteran said. "We've made statements at just about every office in the country," he looked at Frank and turned back to Jessup. "That's not why you've asked us to come, is it?"

"It's not."

A tense silence set in. You could feel that Barney was still mad although the reason was now different: he didn't like being there. That was probably why he was late, deciding whether to come or let Frank go without him.

"You do know, don't you," Jessup clasped his fingers together, "that the Memoria case is a Federal one?"

"Why are we here?" Barney asked.

The Captain splayed his shoulders and rose. The visitors looked up at him.

"I wanted to say good-bye. And thank you." He buttoned up his jacket and smoothed his gray hair. "I've been transferred to DC. Thank you all," he extended his hand to Barney.

"Is that it?" he chuckled. Leaning on his stick, he got up. "You should have said so from the start."

Frank shook his head, speechless.

"Congratulations," Barney grumbled and added over his shoulder, "I'll wait for you by the elevator."

Frank gave Jessup a guilty look but didn't dare stop Barney, for fear of one of his angry outbursts when the veteran could explode like an overheated boiler.

The veteran left. Jessup eased himself back into his chair.

"Forgive him, sir," Frank hurried to smooth over the embarrassment. "Barney has an awful temper."

"I've noticed," Jessup's face remained detached. "It's all right."

"Where are they transferring you to?" Frank asked.

"What? Ah, that," The captain perked up. "To the Justice Department."

"My congratulations, sir."

Jessup thanked him and added something along the lines of new times and trends. But Frank missed most of it, his ears still burning from Barney's outburst. He decided to leave, too.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again," he said rising from his chair.

"Wait," the captain gestured him to stop, his face now serious and decisive. "Two minutes. I've got something to tell you."

* * *

When Frank left the office and rejoined Barney by the elevator, they nearly quarreled. Frank tried to explain that Jessup had suspected Memoria's bosses from the start and conducted a secret investigation of his own. He had risked his job and his rank doing so, he'd broken the rules and regs, but ultimately, he'd been right and earned his promotion. It wasn't his fault that the case had now been handed over to the Feds for further inquiry, and it definitely wasn't his problem. He'd already done more than he could.

"He's got a promotion," Barney tapped his stick on the elevator floor in indignation. "And Max got his place in the graveyard. As did lots of other people."

"You," Frank very nearly prodded him with his finger, "you-" he turned away to the doors. "We could have learned what happened to Bow. Whether they found him or not. He could have told us what it was in those capsules and why you've lost your hair. Jessup was about to share some information. He won't do it now."

"Never mind. You'll learn it all in DC." When the elevator doors opened, he shouldered him aside and walked out into the spacious lobby.

Frank stepped out after him and stopped looking at his broad back as the veteran headed for the doors. What an asshole. How did he learn about Frank's DC trip? It was classified. Only a few people knew about the new talks with the migrants. Frank hadn't spoken to anyone about it, not even Maggie.

He caught up with Barney by the exit.

"Wait."

The veteran swung around. Frank looked into his eyes as he searched for the right words.

"Well?" the veteran drawled.

"I don't want to argue with you," suddenly, Frank realized that he had to accept this huge angry man standing in front of him as he was. Barney Douggan had been around the block a few times. He remembered a lot. Frank still had a lot to experience.

Barney's expression changed. His face softened good-naturedly.

"Forget it. Out with whatever the Captain told you."

Frank looked up at him and said in a quiet voice,

"He warned us about Claney. According to him, he's only a puppet. There're much more powerful forces behind him, and he doesn't yet know what they are."

"That's pretty obvious."

"Don't interrupt me," Frank shook his head. "Just like you, Claney was under control. His body was literally studded with mnemocapsules." He fell silent waiting for two civilians to walk past. One had a detective's ID pinned to his lapel.

"All right," Barney mumbled, perplexed. "What now, then?"

"The Captain is asking you to leave New York. He suggests you lie low for a while. You know how to remove the bracelet so disappearing off their radars won't be a problem. Know what I mean?"

Out of habit, Barney touched the bare skin under his nose where his fat mustache used to be. Frank could guess what he was thinking.

"Let's go," Barney said. Then he added, agitated, "Maggie's waiting for us. I've made some stew. Took me all morning. Did my best for you two. That's why I was late." He wanted to add something else, waved it off and started limping down the steps.

Frank overtook him. He had no doubts what the veteran wanted to talk to them about during the meal. He opened the back door of the cab waiting by the curb, threw one last glance at the department windows and stepped inside after Barney.

"Where to?" the dark young driver turned in his seat.

"Home," the two said in unison and looked at each other.

"Oh well," the driver raised his eyebrows and started the engine.

About the Author

Alex (Aleksei) Bobl is a Russia-based science fiction writer, author of 11 novels. An ex-paratrooper, he used his military knowledge and experience to write his debut novels for S.T.A.L.K.E.R., a bestselling science fiction action adventure series set in a post-apocalyptic Chernobyl.

After his initial success, Alex Bobl teamed up with his friend and S.T.A.L.K.E.R. co-author Andrei Levitski to create a SF project of their own. Entitled TechnoTma: The Dark Times, this action adventure series is set in a post-apocalyptic future where the Black Sea has dried out and the Crimea has become a major desert. The eight books of TechnoTma had a total print run of over 250,000 copies and have been translated into German and Spanish. Talks are now under way about translating TechnoTma into English.

Memoria. A Corporation of Lies is Alex's last science fiction novel to date - a hard-boiled men's adventure set in a dystopian New York. Alex Bobl lives in Moscow with his wife and two boys and is currently working on his next science fiction novel, The Continent Anomalous. You can follow its progress in Alex's blog, Obviously Incredible, as well as on Twitter and Facebook.