Memoria (27 page)

"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 ex
tract the memory card out of the powerless camera, "hopefully, the
recording
is intact."

The coa
ch pl
aced 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 lo
c
ked 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.

"Actua
lly," 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.
T
hat'
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 shoulder
s 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 she
lter by
the migrants'," Frank g
l
a
nced 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 u
s, 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, w
hat 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 conte
n
tion.
" 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
car
riage
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 155
th
, very few passengers stayed on the train.
They were appr
oaching 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 Yan
kee stadium housed the police force that guarded the New York perimeter. You c
ouldn't just get off the train there.

Max
turne
d to the others about to speak when an indifferent patrol officer on the platform pushed his hat back and approached their car
riage
.

"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.

What
ever
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.

T
he chopper
hov
ered 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, h
e ducked in from the
downdraft and ran f
or the station entrance at 161st
.

To his left, the stadium stretched its oval bowl, paralleled by a tall
barbed-wired c
oncrete 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
pac
ing 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 q
uick. To arrive
so promptly
whenever a Shelby sighting was repo
r
ted, they had to have a mole in his department.
Someone really close to him. It could
be anyone, that was the problem
—
Giz
bo, 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 car
riage
s were brightly lit,
with a guard inside each
of them
.