“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.