From behind the steering wheel, Max handed 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 leafing 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, darkened, in a parking slot closest to the elevator. Its headlights blinked and went out.
Chapter Twelve. Code Red
Despite 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 straining his ears to hear snippets of radio reports.
On the roofs of adjacent streets, he could make out black silhouettes of snipers and Fed 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 chirped again.
“The media’s accreditation is over. The migrant leaders have arrived.”
Dickens pressed the PTT switch,
“Block all accesses to the building,” with 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 stairs through a narrow portal, and found himself in a wide corporate 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. Heels clicking on the metal steps, he reached another hallway, blocked by a glass partition. At some distance from it, he could see another 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 pinged detecting his gun. A red alarm light flashed overhead and went out again. The controls operator flipped a switch, and the 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 chairs 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 didn’t fool him. One press of a button, one code word uttered into a special transmitter, and these three dozen well-trained, well-equipped men would rise from their seats and follow his instructions.
In, out, and over the building, security 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 ready 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.
“Mr. Binelli’s office,” a female voice answered.
“Dickens here. Give me your boss.”
“Mr. Binelli is busy at the moment, sir. Can I help you?”
“The President’s chopper is approaching,” the other controller reported. “ETA in seven minutes.”
“What the hell! I don’t mean you,” Dickens turned from the controller to the microphone, “I need to speak to Binelli — now.”
“But-” the girl halted.
“Shut up and do it!”
He hadn’t yet finished when the speaker beeped with the hung-up signal. Puzzled, Dickens turned to the screens.
“Give me Binelli stream.”
He had a bad feeling. Once again he reached for the intercom, reconsidered and turned to a screen showing the chief executive’s spacious office.
The miniature camera was hidden in a wooden panel right under the ceiling and looked like a knot in the wood. The picture’s inferior quality didn’t matter much considering the audacity of installing a camera in one of Memoria’s main offices.
Binelli, in a hat and coat, sat at his desk with his back to the camera. Dickens frowned. The man looked… fitter? Stronger and slimmer, even. Why was he wearing a hat? And the glasses, what did he need them for?
Another man stood in the far corner of the room looking out of the window. He was lean and tall — apparently, young.
“You think you can point the camera at him,” without taking his eyes off the screen, Dickens said to the controller, “and make the picture better?”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. This is the best angle and resolution we have.”
“They seem to be talking. Can you stream the sound through his intercom?”
Binelli moved his lips. His hands lay on the keyboard. The monitor was turned sideways. In front of it stood a portable camera on a tripod, wires stretching from it to an open attaché case on the desk.
“What the hell is he doing?” Dickens whispered. “Make the picture bigger. I want to have a better look at the computer panel. I said, I wanted the sound!”