27 · Fiasco
MARCUS HAD managed to get an Aster to take them downtown to interrogate the employees at the Turkish restaurant. It was fruitless. Nobody admitted to know the two young men in the photographs and no delivery data were liberated without a warrant.
Monteiro, Marcus and Baraldi were at the Manilla Café near the FID central offices trying to drink their sorrows off—they all shared the sinking feeling they would be better off handling their personal chores. Marcus answered his communicator. It was nine to nine in the morning of the third day of March, 2218, and Trali was calling.
“Where’s everybody?”
“Good morning to you too, Trali. We’re at the Manilla. Get down and join us.”
“Where have you been?”
Marcus ignored his question and cut the call. They had been to The Maiden too, but the security did not allow them to check for fingerprints. Their investigation was short on warrants. The owners of the bar must have had powerful friends; Baraldi’s request to the tribunal had been solemnly denied.
Marcus was reading a popular newspaper he had picked from the counter. There were news on many crime scenes, sports, considerations on financial indexes, weather forecast predicting heavy storms; nothing on the colonization of Mars. Nothing on Aznar Reutt’s visit and the weapons deal. Not even a line about the accident at The Maiden.
There was an impressive double page tribute to Elisangela Mussume, illustrated with many pictures of the actress who had been the talk of town for many decades. The burial would take place in the Pampas. His curiosity took him to the horoscope section—he had never had interest about it before the previous night when he accidentally read the predictions for his sign at the Sibilla.
The one in the paper he was reading was almost hilarious: “Alignment of the planets, under the influence of the constellation of Libra, makes this the perfect day to catch up on personal projects. Ponder before doing anything or taking any important decision. Show your true self and get the respect of others; true friendship and comradery will follow. Today’s colour: red. Number: 3. Keyword: the search.”
Marcus took the rest of his cappuccino and Trali entered the Café.
“A party of your own? And you planned to let me out?”
Nobody answered him and he did not care. He took a seat and slapped the top of the table.
“Then?”
Baraldi pulled a dish with half a sandwich. He took it and bit it with a smile. He finished it with three more bites. Baraldi’s new communicator buzzed and he received the call. One of the beautiful girls from the commsec was shown with a serious expression.
“Shoot!”
“Francisco Manoel Francisco has just used his IDCard!”
“Where?!”
Everyone was excited.
“The post office at Suzano Airport.”
Marcus’ heart seemed to explode. He verified the time. It was sixteen after nine.
“We’re on it!”
“A 19 team will be sent as backup.”
Baraldi cut the call and picked some blue pills from one of his pockets. He handed one to each of his colleagues.
“Something to keep you up!”
They took the pills, paid the bill and left the Café. Their transporter was parked nearby. Walking up to the Aster, Marcus felt the fatigue vanish. He did not know whether for his personal concerns or for the drug he had taken.
The sun was shining bright but puddles of water were scattered all around over the pavement and the sidewalks.
When they were all inside the flyer, Baraldi excitedly spoke to Marcus.
“Let’s get outta here, huh! Show us what you got, boy!”
Marcus pressed the manacles and the turbines pushed the Aster among the tall buildings. The transporter whirred at full throttle towards the Alphaville’s main airport. The pilot could not think of anything but Satine. He heard no other sound but the one of his thumping heart.
It seemed eons had passed. The approaching glassy building of the airport was an astounding vision. The Aster landed at precisely twenty one after nine. Monteiro was almost white and Trali was enraged.
“Are you crazy? We made it in five minutes! Did you want to kill us all?”
Marcus ignored them all and ran to the building. Baraldi followed him. A traffic guard held Marcus’ arm.
“You can’t park there!”
Marcus tried to get rid of the crack but the lad was strong as a bull.
“Let go!”
“You can’t leave your Aster there!”
Baraldi grabbed the crack by the neck and Marcus was released. Baraldi dropped the young man who seemed to be in pain. He coughed.
“I’ll have this shit towed!”
Baraldi sounded menacing, checked his badge and poked his chest.
“If you touch this vehicle, you’re a dead man, Parkas?!”
Parkas gagged.
“You can’t p-park there...”
“Use your planitronic and issue a fine, but DO-NOT-TOUCH-THIS-VEHICLE, huh?!”
They turn their backs on the guard and ran to the airport. Baraldi spoke sarcastically.
“What an appropriate name, huh?”
Trali’s laugh stopped when he saw the crowd surrounding Aznar Reutt blocking the main entrance. Marcus recognized Lisandra from the I Team. Baraldi screamed.
“What’re waiting for? Let’s take the tube entrance!”
A group of 19s approached. Their leader introduced himself while running beside Baraldi.
“Agent Baraldi? I’m sergeant Miguez.”
“Welcome!”
They got inside the building through the tube access. Marcus dashed among the people who were walking the opposite way, trying to reach the tube station. He scrambled a youn man wearing a beige jacket, a hat and a pair of dark shades. He looked distracted at the man, smiled and said automatically.
“Pardonne-moi!”
The group gained the main hall and entered the post office, holding their guns.
Some co-workers were trying to calm Satine down who was having an attack, sobbing and crying her heart out. They had a shock when discovered themselves as targets of 19 officers and federal agents.
Satine recognized Marcus and jumped off her chair. He sheathed his gun and held his ugly fiancée. She did not stop murmuring.
“It was terrible… Terrible…”
Trali took the leaflets from over the screen that blinked with the official warning and shrieked.
“Fuck!”
Baraldi seemed lost and Monteiro called the central to report the escape. Miguez was precise in orienting his men to avoid the crowd of curious people to enter the office.
Marcus spoke in a low tone.
“It’s ok, now. It’s ok, dear. Du calme.”
His own heart was beating fast and he spoke as much to the mother of his child as to himself; Marcus Mondrian was trying to make some sense on all that lack of luck. He tried to convince himself he was not furiously angry at Francisco Manoel Francisco.
Ibrahim Mousmée was on the Prata Air flight 328, taking him to the Pampas to attend the services for Elisangela Mussume, comfortably reading an article in Whispers magazine where the author exposed details of a supposed colonization of Mars.
Chico Manoel was on the tube that was quickly distancing him from the airport, going downtown with his new identity of Andrea Chiunque, carrying a knapsack with a book on the allegedly presence of men on the fourth planet.
Marcus Mondrian held his sobbing fiancée, ignoring he was standing at no more than a hundred yards from the disc filled with official data that proved the red planet had been occupied for years—a flashdisc he and his team so desperately wanted to have to help his government shamelessly deny the truth.