Memoria (20 page)

"They onl
y 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 neve
r 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 whis
pered.

"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 m
ust 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 order
s
and stayed at home.

Frank and Maggie walked out of the elevator
and
stopped
in the driveway, looking around. From afar, a motor purred. T
ires
squealed
on the tarmac.
Xenon lights sliced the
vast
dark
ness.

The next moment, an armored limo braked in the driveway.
The back door
swung open, letting out a tall stocky
man
. He wore
a
n 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.
Dou
ggan
?

"Oh. Sorry, sir. I'm so sorry.
" Maggie's stiletto
s
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
i
mpersonating. It was strange to see him without his mustache
and
wearing an expensive suit and coat.

Frank strode to
ward
the
girl and handed her the file. He nodded to Douggan
/Binelli and
glanc
ed 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
han
ded 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
lea
fing 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, dark
ened
, in a parking slot closest to the elevator. Its headlights blinked and went out.

D
espite 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
s
training his ears to hear snippets of
radio
reports.

On the roofs
of
adjacent streets,
he could make out black silhouettes of
snipers and F
ed 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
chirp
ed again.

"The media's accreditation is over. The migrant leaders have arrived.
"

Dickens
pressed the PTT switch,

"Blo
ck all accesses to the building,
"
w
ith 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 stair
s
through a narrow portal
,
and found himself in a wide cor
por
ate 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.
Heel
s clicking on the metal steps, he reached another hallway,
blocked by a glass partition. At some distance from it, he could see an
other
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
ping
ed detecting his gun.
A red alarm light flashed overhead and went out again.
The controls operator
flipped a switch, and t
he 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 c
hairs 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 di
dn'
t
fool
him.
One press of a button,
one code word uttered into a special transmitter, and these three dozen w
ell-trained, well-equipped men would
rise
from
their seats and follow his instructions.

I
n, out, and over the building
,
s
ecurity
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 read
y 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.