For a moment, Max’s face appeared in the weak fluorescent light from his wristwatch. “An hour,” he said. “Maggie? You all right?”
The girl didn’t answer.
“Maggie?” Frank took her hand. She startled.
“I’ve been thinking about Dad,” she said.
“Barney’s all right,” clattering his gun and rustling his clothes, Max sat next to the girl. “They can’t kill him. Memoria needs him as a hostage against us. I don’t think they’re going to kill any of us until they make sure that we have the recording and there are no other copies of it around.”
“Oh, great,” Frank murmured.
He realized too well, as did the coach, that the corporation could always scan Barney’s memory and use their personality correction facilities. They must have done so already.
“We should have taken Binelli as hostage, too,” Frank ventured. “It was stupid to leave him in the garage. We could have—”
“Dragged him with us underground?” the coach chuckled.
Frank didn’t say anything. You couldn’t go anywhere far with a morbidly obese pig like Binelli in tow.
“Where are we now?” he leaned forward listening for New York street noises.
“We must be around the Central Park area,” the coach understood him. “It’s too quiet here.”
“Will they find us?” Maggie asked bravely, her voice tired.
“We’re still one step ahead,” the coach answered. Frank realized he was simply trying to humor her. Things had to be worse than that. “It doesn’t mean though that they’re too slow to catch us if we give them half a chance. So,” the coach glanced at his watch, “three more minutes, and we’re out of here.”
“I suggest we watch the recording,” Frank patted the attaché case by his side.
“Bad move,” Max said. “We don’t have time to wade through gigs of files looking for the one we need. We’ve got to find shelter first. Then we’ll go through the files at our leisure.”
“But it could change lots of things!” the girl said.
Frank didn’t expect Maggie to back him up.
“It could,” Frank nodded forgetting that Max couldn’t see him in the dark. “If the recording is any good we could take it to the media-” he stopped sensing Max’s hand on his shoulder.
“Too early to speak to the media,” Max said. “We’ve no idea what stories they’ve been fed.”
“I got a few reporters film Maggie and myself back in the building. I told them I hadn’t killed Kathleen. I showed them the attaché case. I told them it contained evidence of my innocence.”
The coach sighed. For a few seconds, he sat in silence.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s have a quick look.”
Frank placed the attaché case on his lap, unclasped the locks and lifted the lid. The coach turned the flashlight on.
“Why are there bullet holes in the lid? Look here under the handle. One went right through.”
“I was shot at,” Frank took out the camera. The battery had a deep scratch in the back, but he turned the camera on anyway. “The cord got stuck three floors under Binelli’s office. We had to break the window and fight our way to the service elevator.” He flipped the switch into video mode and pushed open a small LCD screen. “You have to thank Maggie for saving me.” Frank turned to her and held out his hand. The girl gave him a faint smile and a remarkably strong handshake.
“Turn it on,” Max said.
A blurred picture appeared on the screen, followed by some illegible text. Frank fingered the knobs, adjusting the settings. Now they could read the words — which said nothing to them. It discussed mnemocapsules and the various ways of delivering them — where to, it didn’t say. A scheme replaced the text of either a capsule or a phial. Its purpose was as clear as mud.
“Move it forward a bit,” the coach said.
Frank pressed the FF button. The picture jumped. For a few seconds, schemes flashed one after another.
“Stop it there,” Max said.
Frank released the button. Immediately, a new text — or rather, a title — read: Chemical Mind Lock.
“A mind lock?” Frank glanced at the coach who hissed him quiet.
The title was replaced by another scheme, this time of short-term memory structure, complete with pictures of brain lobes, followed by some charts showing the results of animal tests. Then the screen went blank.
“What’s going on?” Frank pressed every button but the camera didn’t come back to life. “Switch on, damn it!”
“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 extract the memory card out of the powerless camera, “hopefully, the recording is intact.”
The coach placed 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 locked 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.
“Actually,” 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. That’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 shoulders 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 shelter by the migrants’,” Frank glanced 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?”