Frank turned his head. Maggie stood by the opposite wall. She covered her mouth with both hands, staring at the dead Batford. The gun lay at her feet.
From behind the door came shouting and the stomping of many feet. As he scrambled upright, Frank tried to speak to Maggie but could only manage a croak. The pain in his larynx made him hiss; he swallowed, grabbed a chair and dragged it to the entrance.
He barred the door with it and tried it. A chair was no barrier for one or two fit men, but all Frank wanted was to play for time.
He looked back. A recovered Maggie leaned over the coach under the wide window. Tears flooded her face. She was whispering something that sounded like a prayer.
Frank ran up to them and knelt next to his coach looking into his eyes. The man was dying. Max couldn’t see his student, but he moved his bloodied lips trying to say something. But nothing came out.
“Frank,” Maggie called. “Frank, do something. Please.”
Frank bent down to his face.
“Sir? It’s me, Frank Shelby. We don’t have much time.”
The door shattered, followed by loud demands to open it.
“You can hear me, can’t you?” Frank went on. “I know you can. Maggie and I are all right. You wanted to tell us something. I knew you did when you asked the leaders about the mind lock. I knew you’d sussed it out…”
“Pe…ople,” the coach uttered, very softly, and started to rattle. He grabbed Frank’s shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he breathed out, “People!”
His head dropped to one side. He died.
A droning sound added to the thumping at the door. Window panes rattled. Frank turned and faced a black helicopter hovering over the lawn, the orange flower of Memoria on its side. More armed men sat inside.
Frank grabbed Maggie’s hand. The windows shattered. Tear gas grenades filled the room with their rancid smoke and acrid stench. Frank’s eyes watered. Black masked figures slid down ropes and appeared in the windows amid the breaking of glass. One of them raised a strange-looking rifle loaded with four red things that looked like bowling pins.
The shot sounded like a balloon bursting. Frank stepped out, shielding Maggie, when he realized that the four pin-like things weren’t the threat. They flew apart unfolding a net between them. Strong nylon cord hit Frank’s face. It entrapped their shoulders and legs and clung to the screaming Maggie. Rifle butts sent both onto the floor. The shooter jumped off the window sill, moved the rifle behind his back and pulled his cord out of the window. Kneeling next to them, he looped the end of the cord around their feet, drew it tight, clasped a safety hook to it and pulled the cord.
Frank wasn’t prepared for being jerked out. His head hit the window sill, and he found himself hanging feet up over the lawn. Over his ear, Maggie screamed, petrified. The drone of the choppers filled his other ear. One of the helicopters hovered over the lawn, the other above the Keating Hall. He and Maggie were being pulled up into it. Max’s last word echoed in Frank’s head. Blood rushed to his face, pulsating in his agonizing temples. The lawn swam before his eyes. Frank collapsed.
Chapter Eighteen. The Bent Cop
The day was nearly over but Bud Jessup stayed put at the former Yankee stadium with the rest of his police squad. He hoped for some news from his man in the camp, but he didn’t answer the captain’s calls and code messages.
From his seat, Jessup turned to the young radio operator at his station in the corner of the HQ room. The staff duty officer next to him caught his glance and shook his head. The camp frequencies were silent. One would think all migrants had left the Bronx. However, the satellite picture that detected personal bracelet signals showed otherwise. Apparently, the migrants had switched off their cell phones and gathered in Fordham.
Jessup fiddled with his phone and dialed his informant’s number again. For the hundredth time, he heard a raspy signal followed by a synthesized female voice telling him that the number he’d dialed was not available. He slid the phone back into his pocket and rose.
“Keep on trying,” Jessup ordered as he walked out into the hallway.
Behind the open doors, his men were busy working, their voices subdued, radio receivers crackling with white noise. The captain took the steps to the upper floor and stood by the window. Not a single light showed amid the trees, not a single whiff of smoke, not a spark escaped the chimneys. Buildings loomed in the growing darkness outside, vacated by their inhabitants who’d even taken their children along.
“Permission to speak, sir?” Gizbo’s soft voice said behind his back.
Jessup knew why he came.
“No need to, Lieutenant,” he shook his head.
“But why, sir? Just a quick recce is all we—”
“We don’t trespass the perimeter, period. These are the regs. Dismissed.”
“But sir…”
“I said dismissed, Lieutenant.” Jessup clenched his teeth and turned back to the window.
Memoria’s choppers had left four hours ago. He still didn’t know what had happened in the camp. Had Memoria’s men seized Shelby? Why did Gautier show no response to the attack? Why was there no response from their council? They had the right to protest and demand explanations from the administration, but they didn’t.
Behind his back, Gizbo sniffed showing no intention of leaving. Jessup could yell at him all he wanted, he could suspend him, but he knew that they both wanted the same thing. And other department workers who’d assisted in their covert investigation wanted it, too, even though they wisely kept it to themselves. Uncertainty and the lack of action are a detective’s worst enemies.
“Come on now,” Jessup hurried down the steps. He knew what to do. “Tell Salem to double-check all the reports for the last forty-eight hours. You will form four groups. Two will surveil Memoria’s HQ and the surrounding area. Tell them to watch all the exits, intercept all the phone calls and make a video record of everything they observe. No radio contact between groups. Tell them to use plastic bottles if they need to take a leak. If they have something worth reporting, they must use our cell phone numbers, yours or mine.” He glanced back.
“Yes, sir,” Gizbo nodded.
“No one leaves their surveillance positions.”
Judging by the events of the last two days, someone listened to their classified frequencies and even sent their own messages. Jessup didn’t want to risk the lives of the people he was now sending on an unauthorized surveillance operation.
“The third group will watch Binelli. Exercise caution and use your imagination. Sign up for all the equipment you may need and explain the objective well so that our people know what they’re getting into.”
“You can count on them, sir.”
Jessup stopped on the landing to give way to two sergeants hurrying upstairs. Having watched them pass, he motioned Gizbo to approach.
“Now listen to me, Lieutenant,” Jessup whispered. “It’s twenty-six years I’ve been with the police: ten as an operative, eight as Chief of Homicide, three more as a chief of this base, plus three more as a deputy head of internal investigations. I’ve been head of New York police for the last two years. I’ve seen a lot. I’ve seen corrupted patrol cops and trigger-happy detectives,” Jessup paused. “One thing I’ve never seen is a mole in the department. To think that one of my own men channels classified information to Memoria…”
“Rooting him out won’t be easy,” Gizbo said softly.
“That I know. But you,” Jessup poked Gizbo’s chest, “you’ve got to be a hundred percent sure your people won’t let you down. It’s not that we have a prosecution warrant.”
“I understand, sir.”