Alex Bobl - Memoria

“You’d like to gain access to the building tomorrow, wouldn’t you?” she asked Max.

“If I possibly could,” he answered. “Preferably, before the press conference starts.”

“I think I can arrange it. But I can only take one person,” Maggie looked at Frank.

“Him? Why on earth-” Barney switched his gaze between his daughter and Frank.

“There’s a guy at our legal department who looks a bit like him. He’s on sick leave. So I had a copy of his pass card made by one of our secretaries.”

“Max,” Barney turned to the coach. “Say something. No, don’t. Maggie isn’t going there tomorrow. Not with him, anyway. Forget it. If anyone has to go, it’s me and nobody else.”

He fell silent at Max’s glare. Silence hung in the kitchen. The sounds of footsteps and voices on the street filled the air through the half-opened window.

“Oh, well,” the coach smiled. “Now that’s a thought.”

“You can’t be serious!” Maggie shook her head.

“Absolutely.”

“But,” she looked first at him, then at her father.

“You’ll go there, all three of you,” Max said.

Now it was their turn to stare at him in surprise. Barney’s face clouded like a Manhattan sky before a storm.

“And how do you suggest we do it?”

Max took the laptop from the window sill, did a quick search for a file and turned the screen toward them.

“You think there’s a likeness there?” he smiled to Barney. “I think there is.”

“Don’t even think! I-” Barney’s finger very nearly poked a hole in the screen. “We have nothing in common!.. Just look — Maggie, and you, man, you tell him!”

“With a bit of makeup, provided you shave your mustache off…” the coach said.

Barney froze, open-mouthed.

“He’s the spitting image of Binelli, eh?” the coach winked to Maggie.

She cocked her head to one side, studying the screen.

“You know what, Uncle Max? I think you’re right.”

“Sure,” Frank added.

“Never!” Barney jumped off his stool. “Never, ever, not in a million years!”

“Sit down!” Max shut the laptop close.

Maggie moved closer to Frank, away from the two men who were now yelling at each other. Barney wheezed, his reddened eyes glaring down at the coach. His lips and mustache moved as he swore under his breath.

“Sit down,” Max repeated. When Barney lowered his bulk onto the stool, the coach went on, “Their manager is the same height and body type as you are. We can use this fact to our advantage. And please, don’t let me raise my voice at you when your daughter’s around.”

Barney rested his elbows on the table and turned away to face the window. He clutched one hand with the other and buried his chin in a powerful fist.

“The mustache will grow back,” the coach said. “Unlike your head. Now that’s something you might lose if we don’t get hold of the hard disk data.”

Barney grabbed the device off the desk, as if about to throw it out of the window. Then he put it back.

“Can we go on now?” Max stared at his friend as if nothing had happened.

“If you wish,” he mumbled.

“Fine.”

“Questions,” Frank said. “Apparently,” he glanced at Maggie, “I have a pass into the building. But what am I supposed to do about the electronic bracelet?”

“That’s the least of your problems,” Barney grumbled.

“Fine. So tomorrow,” Frank looked at Barney, “there’ll be two Binellis at Memoria. But gaining entry into the building is only half the job. We still need to either read the disk or copy it onto something. After that, we need to leave the building. How are we supposed to do that?”

“I’ll tell you now,” Max’s eyes glistened with triumph.

When the limousine pulled away from Joe Binelli’s mansion, the sky over Long Island was bright and clear. The sun had just come up flooding the coast with its soft light that didn’t yet hurt the eye.

The executive always left for work at the exact same time. His bodyguard sat next to the driver in front. The glass partition was lowered. Binelli virtually never used it: he had nothing to conceal from his staff. He never used his vintage armored Maybach for business discussions. The car took him from A to B, and that was how he liked it.

Speeding up through the still-empty streets, the limo reached Manhattan in under fifteen minutes. There, a Fifth Precinct patrol stopped him. All approaches to Memoria’s HQ were blocked and the police performed ID checks. The cops asked his driver to open the trunk, glanced at the interior and waved him on.

Binelli looked at his massive gold wristwatch and asked the driver if he thought he could catch up the lost time. Pleased by his affirmative answer, he relaxed. He hated to change his morning ritual. He buttoned up his coat, put on his hat and waited for the driver to stop at the corner of Broadway and 42nd. Accompanied by his bodyguard, he got out of the car and bought a fresh issue of the New York Times at a newsstand. As he walked back, he opened the newspaper glancing through the news. The driver opened the door, and Binelli lowered his weight onto the custom-made leather cushions. The bodyguard returned to his seat, the driver yanked the steering wheel to the left and the car pulled away from the curb.

The limo had no problem moving into the right lane. It continued for another block and was about to enter an intersection when the driver slammed on the brakes.

The road in front was blocked for some maintenance works. Rotating warning lights flashed orange. A single tall worker in a yellow hard hat and a reflective jacket bent over a manhole. Next to him stood a welding machine. Cables ran from it to a minivan covered with road maintenance service logos.

The worker looked up at the approaching limo. He pushed his hard hat back, lifted the mask from his face and shouted to the driver, waving with the electrode in his hand. Apparently, he was busy sealing manholes on the Presidential route on the police chief’s orders.

Binelli looked out of the window but didn’t see any police. Weren’t they supposed to supervise the works?

The driver and the bodyguard started discussing the best detour. Listening to them, Binelli glanced at the watch, then at the blocked road. He had plenty of time. He could refresh his speech and look through the legal paperwork at his leisure.

But the moment the driver backed up, a police alarm sounded and then died away behind them. A cop on a motorbike sped onto the street, his red and blue lights flashing. He waved them to stop and swerved behind the car blocking their retreat.

The bodyguard looked back. Not at Binelli: he wanted to see what the cop was doing. The policeman pulled the bike on its stand, adjusted his large goggles and walked to the Maybach. The driver rolled his window down a crack as the security instructions prescribed.

“Everything all right, officer? We’ve had our IDs checked already,”

“Sorry, but you’re in violation,” the cop pointed back in the direction of Broadway. “You’ve stopped under the ‘no-stopping’ sign.”

He bent down and peered inside. He saw Binelli, nodded and reached into his pocket for a receipt book.

“I want you to cut the engine and step out of the car,” Binelli heard as he went back to his newspaper. He lowered it rumpling the paper to attract the cop’s attention.

“I’m afraid I’m pressed for time, officer,” he said, impatient. “You can follow us if you wish and write us a ticket when we arrive.”

The officer stepped back, undid his holster and laid his hand on his gun.

“Step out!” he shouted.

Binelli knew he’d overdone it. No sense arguing: the Shelby case had the police on their toes. They’d already lost several patrolmen, a whole station had been razed to the ground, and now the Feds had taken over their case. Any moment, the President would arrive, and he wasn’t going to commend them, either. Quite the opposite: heads would roll.