Memoria (8 page)

"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 no
r the police can read it
."

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

"I want you to find Shelby," he looked up at
Dickens'
face. "Tomorrow morning I
'm
meet
ing 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 wav
e of his hand,
Claney
dismissed him.
Mechanically, B
inelli 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 sni
gg
ered 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 peop
le? 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 sq
ueezing 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, drunk
en
gait
. Mike must have told him the truth abo
ut the curfew: all Bronx camp dwellers
seemed in a hurry to leave Manhattan.

Frank stole a
glance
at his watch: very soon the streets wou
ld be deserted. A patrol car app
eared 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
o
n. 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 c
ash 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 J
ack had knocked Rudy Novak out i
n 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 o
f 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 swa
ye
d, 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 to
ward
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 i
n 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 ent
ered 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 lega
l 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
honk
ed 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 h
e used his thinking as a weapon. He should
ask his coach for a word
of advice and fi
nd Kathleen's killer.

Frank stopped opposite a dark lane. The club's squat building
loom
ed
at
the
other end. Frank looked around.
A woman hurried along the other side of the road, wrapping her coat around her
self
. 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
i
n 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."