Memoria (19 page)

Barney
rested
his elbows on the table
and turned away to face the window. He
clutched one hand with the other and
burie
d
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 buildi
ng. 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.
H
e
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 f
ifteen minutes. There, a Fifth
Precinct patrol stopped him. A
ll approaches to
Memoria
's
HQ were blocked and
the police performed ID checks. The cops asked his driv
er to open the trunk, glanced at the interior
and
waved him on.

Binelli looked at his massive gold wrist
watch 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
42
nd
.
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
glanc
ing 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
yank
ed 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 manho
les on the Presidential route
on
the police chief's order
s
.

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
deto
u
r
. 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
re
d and blue
lights flashing.
He waved them to stop and swe
rved
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
prescrib
ed
.

"Everything all righ
t
, 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 rump
ling 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 la
id
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 alre
ady lost several patrolmen
, a whole station had been razed to the ground, and now the
Fed
s 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 ordere
d, then added under his breath,
"Get this
motherfucker's
badge
number
, and I expect him out of the department by this time tomorrow."

H
is order distracted the bodyguard.
It took him a split second longer to get out of the car and open Binelli's door.
The bod
y
guard
never made it.
He shrieked and co
llapsed 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
hunc
hed
up
in the front.

The
traffic cop
pull
ed his
helmet off
exposing
a gray
crew cut
. He pee
led 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. The
y
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?" t
he 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 tho
se
things." The driver's seat slid to
ward
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,
peer
ing
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 t
he bike and
turned the steering wheel all the way to the
right
. The
tire
s 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
brush
ed 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
i
n
to
the seat
,
the
hard hat saving
his head from hitting the door.
Someone jerked him back up.

"
T
ake 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.