Gautier reached the checkpoint and looked back. Her tough lips curved, distorting her face into a grimace of contempt. Jessup expected her to give him one of those pieces of her mind that, together with her unbending will and fearlessness for authorities, had earned her the Steel Lady moniker. She was never short of criticism for the powers that be whenever migrants’ interests were at stake. She couldn’t care less what the media wrote about her, let alone what society would think about her. As far as she was concerned, the New York police chief — whose job it was to make sure the migrants stayed guarded in their camps, well locked up at night and under control during daytime — could shove his opinion where the sun didn’t shine.
“So we’re under arrest, then?” she said in her deep low voice, her eyes piercing him.
The captain shook his head.
“Just curious how the Memoria talks went.”
Her eyes glistened with amazement. She looked puzzled, then thoughtful, contempt replaced by surprise. The next moment, her political expertise suppressed all emotion.
She looked up at him, “Don’t you know yet?”
“Know what, exactly?”
Her stare stopped at something behind his back. Jessup turned. The Memoria fighters and the agent by the station entrance had disappeared, replaced by three patrol cops. Gizbo and the sergeant stood nearby together with the other migrants’ leaders.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he said.
Both the lieutenant’s and the sergeant’s radios sprang to life. The stadium staff duty officer demanded to speak to the police chief.
“You might be looking for a new job,” she dropped heading for the turnstiles. “Sooner than you think.”
“Pardon me?” Jessup said.
“Make sure you watch the evening news,” she said without looking back.
Lionel Batford and Nicholas Floyd walked past, Floyd pushing him out of his way.
“Shall I detain him, sir?” a guard shouted coming out of the checkpoint.
Jessup gestured them to be let through. Gizbo stepped toward him, holding out the radio. The captain took it.
“Captain Jessup,” he said into the microphone.
“Staff duty officer here, sir.”
“What is it?”
“You’d better come here yourself, sir. You’ve got to see this.”
“What do you mean, officer?”
“You need to come to the staff office, sir. Frank Shelby has been sighted by the perimeter, accompanied by two unidentified civilians. I’ve already sent a patrol to intercept them.”
“Don’t shoot!” Jessup barked into the radio. “We need them alive!”
He threw the radio back to Gizbo and ran toward the stadium. When he ran past the choppers, his cell phone rang. Out of breath, Jessup slowed down. The phone showed a number he didn’t know. He hesitated, then answered.
“Jessup here.”
“Captain?” an unknown voice said.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Serge Gillan. I’m an independent reporter.”
“Who gave you this number?”
“Later,” the voice in the receiver, too, was out of breath, as if the caller had just run a hundred meters. “My life’s in danger. I’m afraid that—”
Jessup covered the receiver and turned to Gizbo, about to ask him to detect the caller’s ID. But the words in the phone made him jump. He listened to the voice, called the lieutenant and dictated him an address.
Chapter Sixteen. The Migrants’ Camp
Specked with the midday sun, the Harlem’s dark waters splashed against the iron drainway. The river breathed with coolness. Max stood inside the sewage tunnel. Behind his broad back, Frank could see the clear sky and part of the steep bank opposite. Underfoot, brown foam flowed into the river.
Frank held the attaché case tight in one hand and supported Maggie with the other, preventing the girl from collapsing into the effluent. Nauseous and giddy, she didn’t seem to care any more. On their way, she’d very nearly fainted with the stench and exhaustion.
Frank couldn’t think straight himself. He didn’t smell anything, his nose senseless ever since the start of their underground journey. Still, he felt like shit, which was appropriate, and didn’t want to throw up when least needed, like the coach had done.
As if hearing his name, Max turned back, nodded to them and jumped into the river. It was only chest deep. Frank led Maggie to the edge of the drain and stood behind her back.
“Catch her,” he pushed the doll-like body into Max’s arms.
She was too tired even to cry out. Max grabbed her in his powerful arms, not to let her go underwater, then turned the girl onto her back and swam to the bank, pushing her along.
Frank looked out. Encased in a concrete foundation, the tunnel hung over the river. Overhead, tree tops rustled over a high barbed-wire fence. Further on, the river meandered preventing him from seeing how far the fence stretched along the bank slopes.
He looked in the opposite direction and still couldn’t work out how far the 151th Street station platform was with its stadium and the checkpoint.
“Jump!” the coach called out as he helped Maggie to get out of the river.
Frank lifted the attaché case overhead and stepped out. Cold dirty water enveloped him, his feet bogged down in the silt. He pulled one out, lay on his chest and struck out with one arm to free the other foot.
“Hurry up!” the coach looked up, worried.
Next to him, Maggie on all fours puked bile onto the concrete. Max couldn’t help her. He turned to the approaching Frank in the water, “Where are you!”
Max grabbed the attaché case before Frank could get out and opened it, producing a gun. He snapped the safety catch, pulled the bolt back in the breech and peered into the barrel where a cartridge glistened in the sun. He shoved the gun under his belt and pulled his shirt out of his trousers to cover the hand grip.
“Grab my hand,” he reached for Frank. “Maggie? You think you can walk?”
“Sure,” she wheezed, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
“Come on, then,” Max dragged Frank up onto the concrete. “We’ve got to get to the fence. The sooner we get inside the perimeter, the better it’ll be for all of us.”
They helped Maggie back on her feet and supported her up the hill. The concrete wall overhead, about three body lengths tall, was covered with old cracks, wide and deep enough to scramble up. Numerous deep crevices made the potential climb a child’s game.
The coach glanced around and turned his pale sunken face to Frank. “You go first.”
Frank looked up and noticed, only a few feet over the wall, a security camera pointing at the Bronx.
“What if they see us,” he said.
“Don’t waste our time,” the coach snapped. “Just climb the fucking wall. I’ll help Maggie from my side, and you drag her up. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Frank paused, racking his brains for the best way to negotiate the barbed wire on top of the wall.
Once again he fixed the attaché case with his trouser belt, wiped the palms of his hands and started the climb, his fingers grasping at the cracks, his toes pressing into the crevices. Soon he approached the tight coils of barbed wire. Disregarding their sharp ends, he lifted the coils with his elbow, grabbed the wall’s edge and pushed himself up. A few seconds later, he managed to force his leg over the other side and straddled the wall, the barbed wire on one side digging into his ribs.
First thing, he reached for the attaché case, opened it and rummaged through the tool box for some wire cutters. He cut the wire in two places making enough space for Maggie, and called out to the coach. Max was already waiting with the girl standing on his shoulders. Frank grabbed Maggie’s outstretched arms and pulled her up onto the ledge. He wanted to help her hook her leg over the wall when a sharp pain in his side blurred his vision. For a few seconds, Frank sat on the top open-mouthed, unable to move, and when the pain subsided, the girl wasn’t on the wall any more.