Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (24 page)

“When will that be?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

Rothschild nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Make your preparations for Cairo. I’ve had confirmation of your flight details – one of our own Typhoon Five fighters and a Navy Division crew member, like you. Take off at 14:00 from Northolt, three hour flight time. Destination is an Egyptian Air Force base about thirty kilometres south of the city. The pilot will wait for you. You will have a driver to take you to the museum. I’ve already informed Mubarakar’s people. Abbey and I will discuss Eritrea if there is a requirement. Now, anything else?”

Richard took a deep breath. “Um, yes. There is one other thing.” He fidgeted. “My Mother, she’s not very well, getting on a bit, you know. I need to see her, it’s been some time, and there’s been a burglary too – I should visit the house. You may recall that she lives in Somerset. Just a few hours tomorrow morning, leave at six, be back by midday. I’d like a car please, if that’s possible, or I can arrange one myself.”

“I think we can stretch to that. The alternative would be very expensive. I’ll ask Laura to arrange it.”

“Thanks, appreciated.” Richard felt Abbey’s stare. He had not mentioned this request to her.
She suspects I’m up to something,
he thought. He looked at her innocently. “Er, what do you have planned for New Year’s Eve, Abbey?” he asked, hesitantly, changing the subject.

Abbey shook her head in exasperation.

“Is there anything else, Richard?” asked Rothschild. “I’ve got a lot to do,”

Richard stood to leave. “Oh, there’s this,” he said, and reached inside his jacket. He unzipped a pocket and pulled out the transparent plastic bag that Reverend Mother Antoinette Rousseau had given to him in the convent. The sample bag’s self-sealing strip and the small white plastic box inside remained unopened.

“What is it?” Rothschild asked, taking the bag and holding it up for Abbey to see.

“Apparently it’s the dry residue from inside the Ark. Naomi will have collected it prior to the cleaning and renovation. Oxidised dust and sediment from the corners and the flaking material brushed from the walls by all accounts. She wouldn’t have missed a trick. Anyway, it might be worth a check. The residue will definitely contain carbon molecules and so accurately dating the Ark is an option and a mass spectrograph could help with an origin.”

“I see. Very well, I’ll get it over to the laboratory. Thank you, Richard. See you in a few days then, and remember our conversation regarding communication, please.”

Richard nodded his understanding and smiled briefly at Abbey. “I’ll keep you informed,” he replied.

Richard was about to leave the room when Rothschild said: “I almost forgot. I wanted to ask you something, Richard – just your opinion on something, if you don’t mind.”

Richard’s heart missed a beat. He held his breath and turned slowly on his heels.
Was it about the crystal? How could he know?
he pondered. “Delighted,” he said, raising both a half-smile and his eyebrows in anticipation.

“You know the orbital dynamics of the Moon and the set up of the Space Traffic Control there better than anyone. Do you think that a vehicle of any sorts could land – or, for that matter, anything be dropped – onto the dark side without the lunar authorities knowing about it? I mean, is it possible to evade the sensor ring?”

Richard hid his relief, but all the same he was surprised by the question. “No!” he answered emphatically. “The Lunar Colony takes its security very seriously. The space traffic situation is highly automated and controlled. It’s a procedural environment and most procedures do not allow for dark side manoeuvring. The sensor ring includes state-of-the-art submillimetre radar, secondary surveillance and solar scatter antennas. Three hundred and sixty degree coverage . . . no, it’s impossible.”

“Take a moment to think, Richard. Just to be sure. Would there ever be a situation when the sensor ring would be deactivated?”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Essential maintenance, that’s the only time. And then it would be promulgated in advance.” he replied. “The system works on a hemispherical overlay principal. If one side is switched off for rectification work – and that’s the only reason it would be – then the other side would always be functioning at optimum level. A vehicle couldn’t orbit on the dark side without being seen, or without authorisation for that matter. No, it’s impossible.”

“Okay, good, thank you . . . it was just a thought.”

Richard left the room and closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER 16

A Secret Secret

“No harm done,” Richard muttered under his breath as he considered the burglary. And how fortunate he was that his father’s old workshop had been discounted as a hiding place for such a precious item – it could have been so different. With the crystal retrieved and in the boot of the ministry vehicle – an ageing black XF Type – the stakes had been raised considerably.
I can’t pay lip service to safety any longer, nor rely on kismet to ease my progress. From here on in every risk must be calculated,
he concluded. He thought of Rachel: he would call her from the airport before his flight to Cairo. His thoughts drifted to Naomi: tomorrow was the full moon. If she didn’t arrive at the Great Pyramid of Khufu to perform her duties as High Priestess to the Temple of Osiris, his fears would be confirmed. He realised that her association with him had put her life in danger. He was responsible for her predicament, whatever that might be, and he was pessimistic.

Sitting on the back seat of the car as it sped eastwards towards London, Richard’s attention was diverted by the passing of Stonehenge. He remembered his time on Mars. And he remembered how, not long after he had discovered the Flight Log of the crashed spaceship
Star of Hope
and deciphered some of its text, he realised this ancient monument featured not as a place of religious ceremony, but as a navigation facility – the religious inference coming much later, perhaps four thousand years later. He felt the car accelerate. The driver had put his foot down as the road opened into a dual carriageway and, without another car to be seen in either direction, they could expect to arrive in an hour or so.

Richard felt his telephonic pager vibrate in his pocket. He had acquired a short, dark blue woollen coat with a convenient zipped quilted lining that doubled as a smart jacket, and the other inner breast pocket held his passport, lunar citizen’s permit and security papers. He was wearing the only other pair of trousers he had brought – a similarly coloured pair of lined cotton chinos, and also his favourite brown leather brogues with non-slip soles, having left his flying suit and boots in the office in London. He had two white cotton roll necks for use under his flying suit and the other Laura Bellingham had promised to take to the laundry. Over that was a navy blue microfibre crew neck pullover. The pager display indicated a call from Peter Rothschild –
too good to last,
he thought.

“Good morning, Peter. Everything okay, I hope?” Richard asked, holding the device to his ear.

“Yes, quite. Where are you now?”

Richard studied the passing suburban scenery. For decades public debate had centred on a third runway for the old London Airport but, contrary to long-standing government plans, not only was that runway never built, but the existing northern strip and the surrounding land had been given over to property developers twenty years earlier, and now the vicinity was a sprawling estate of low-rise housing. The new airport, London Main, with its four runways, had been built in the Thames Estuary near Whitstable in Kent.

“Just passing Heathrow Regional,” Richard replied, “about to go into the tunnel.”

“Good. Say another fifteen minutes then. I’m here to meet you.”

Crikey! That’s all I need,
thought Richard.
He’s certain to ask what’s in my holdall.
“Okay, fine, a reception committee then,” he said, and switched the device off.

The sleek XF emerged from the underground section of the A40 City Road close to the Royal Air Force base at Northolt. Richard showed his electronic identity badge at the security gate and the driver proceeded another kilometre to the terminal building. He had acquired a Diplomatic Luggage Tag from Laura Bellingham prior to leaving Whitehall – a very fortuitous forethought – and had secured the document to the handle of his beige canvas holdall. Inside the holdall was the rigid helmet box that contained his Kalahari crystal and the green, glass-like shards that surrounded and shielded it. However, with the spare clothing that he had stuffed around the box, his bag had become suspiciously bulky. Staring at it on the back seat of the car he grew nervous.

The XF drew to a halt outside the two-storey building. After climbing from the car and at the very last minute, Richard had second thoughts – more a minor panic attack. To make matters worse, he saw Peter Rothschild inside the glass-fronted terminal building awaiting his arrival. There would be little chance of hiding the contents should the bag be searched! Could he rely on diplomatic immunity? He shuddered at the thought of the crystal passing through an X-ray screening machine. It was one hell of a risk and, calculated or not, the consequences of discovery did not bear thinking about. Suddenly he made a decision and placed the holdall on the ground. He unzipped it, withdrew the helmet box, placed the box carefully on the back seat and then secured the bag again, trying all the while to keep his back towards Rothschild. Then he gave the bag to the MOD driver and asked him to take it directly to the VIP luggage facility. Richard drew a deep breath, tucked the helmet box under his arm, closed the car door and turned for the terminal’s main door. Moments later, in the low-ceiling, open foyer he was met by Rothschild.

The room and the adjacent corridors were adorned with numerous framed pictures of the airfield’s most memorable moments – scenes that dated back more than a century. As he walked past, Richard saw pictures of aircraft from the 1930s and 1940s and, on occasion, he stopped to take a closer look, only to be chivvied along by Rothschild. He tried to portray a nonchalant manner, even though his heart was pounding. After a few words to an armed security agent, Rothschild proceeded through a set of double doors and then up a flight of stairs to a private suite. Richard followed him closely.

Entering the lounge, with its plush dove-grey carpet, Richard immediately made a beeline for a large window that overlooked the apron. There he stood, somewhat nervously, waiting for a luggage trolley or similar to appear, as the only fighter jet visible on the concrete expanse was parked on the far side and the presence of a nearby fuel bowser indicated that it was being prepared for flight. Rothschild returned to the room after a brief
tête-à-tête
with the Operations Officer just as Richard saw his bag, along with some other equipment, being wheeled to the aircraft in question, although he could not see if it had been opened. Now the gamble hinged on his diplomatic status.

“Are you feeling unwell, Richard? You look quite pale,” enquired Rothschild, closing the door to the room and walking over to him.

“No, no, I’m fine, thanks. Another flight, that’s all.”

Rothschild looked at the helmet box under Richard’s arm and then he looked up. “You seem very reluctant to put the box down, Richard. Anything inside I should know about?”

“Oh, this . . . ! No. Just personal stuff, you know. I expect to be away for a few days.” Richard looked outside, trying to conceal his blush, and then he put the box on the floor and stood astride it. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re not here to say goodbye, are you?” Sensing his embarrassment fade, Richard looked directly at Rothschild.

With his suspicions appearing to subside, Rothschild shrugged. “Well, yes and no actually,” he replied. “Primarily, I came over for the ride. One has to book some way in advance for a few minutes with the Prime Minister. I needed to update him on the current Icarus situation. The forty-minute drive allowed me his undivided attention. He has just left for Beijing along with several cabinet members – a particularly pressing engagement with the Chinese Government. A NetJets Global charter, in one of their Eagles . . . a very impressive aeroplane I must say, extremely comfortable.”

Richard nodded. “Yes I know. This is a wild guess, Peter, but is that to demand some action from the Chinese over Tongsei’s dubious activities?”

“One cannot make demands on the country with the richest economy or the world’s largest standing army, Richard. One can only put one’s case as forcibly as possible. The US President, those of Russia and France, and one or two other G12 leaders have gone to do just that.”

“So it is to do with Tongsei?”

“More the Huang Hai Industrial District, actually. The initiative has been on the table for three years now, but the Chinese have never wished to discuss it because of the enormous tax revenues they receive. There are serious implications for the region and they will not take action unless they have proof . . . unequivocal proof. Nevertheless, despite what’s been said in the West, it appears that they have been concerned about the illegal activities taking place on their doorstep for some time, but wish to deal with it in their own way. There are similar industrial areas in other countries, of course. There’s a growing movement by national governments to limit the autonomy of these super-companies and in so doing limit their stranglehold on various commodities.”

“About time!”

“I can only agree with you. We will see how successful they are. Now, the other reason I’m here is to do with
your
security. I’ve decided to give you some support; you’re not going to like it, but I expect you to comply.”

“What kind of support? You mean backup . . . ? A partner?”

Rothschild shrugged. “Yes . . . a partner, if you like.”

“Preston?”

“Unfortunately, Preston is not available. He was my first choice, but he manages the protection squad for the Royal Family these days and can’t be spared.”

“So who, exactly?”

“I’m not going to beat around the bush with this, Richard; it’s a specialised system, a machine.”

“A robot! No thanks . . . absolutely not. I’m not working with a robot!”

“You are under orders, Richard.” Rothschild snapped. There was an awkward pause and then Rothschild’s expression softened. “Listen, I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I need you to have the best support possible. The situation is developing and I don’t just mean the risk posed by Rhinefeld. You were lucky in France; it could have been a very different outcome. The truth is that we were caught out; I don’t like that. It means that I am not doing my job properly.”

“A robot!” Richard just looked at him with disgust.

“Richard, you will . . .”

Rothschild seemingly bit his tongue and stared outside for a moment. Richard followed his eye line. Stores were being loaded into an under-wing pod on the fighter. Rothschild refocused his attention on Richard.

“Understand that we are facing a concerted, covert attempt to destabilise the world’s energy base and it grows day by day. Personally, I think a major conspiracy is imminent. I have threads of evidence but not enough to make a case and nobody in government will run with it for fear of calling wolf. The cyber-attack on SERON is now unprecedented. Mubarakar’s discovery and the Ark may yet provide vital information – nothing surprises me these days. That means you remain a target. I need your cooperation.”

“Okay, I understand. But don’t say a Humatron, Peter.
I hate Humatrons
.”

“No, it’s not a Humatron, not quite anyway. Originally modelled on one, it’s true, but quite different now.
Evolved,
one might say.”

“Go on, please, I need to feel better about this.”

“You might recall the Humatron body parts you left in the Safe House in Adulis a few years ago?”

Richard nodded.

“With the help of our local agent we retrieved them. Not long after, Professor Nieve and a team of specialists set about countering this system with one of their own . . . an improved model. The work was funded secretly by the Ministry.”

“Peter! You can’t trust a Level Seven robotic system! It’s been proven time and time again – there are too many anomalies in the programming. I could never turn my back on it!”

Rothschild persisted. “Listen. Unlike the Humatron series, this model is not based on a synthetic memory system. In fact, it is not graded on the Rockwell Illinois Plateau System at all.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because, well, because it utilises a human brain.”

“But that’s in contravention of the New Geneva Convention. Now you people are doing it! Such bionic integration was prohibited. There were lots of reasons for doing so.”

Rothschild raised his hands in explanation. “It’s a one-off experiment. It happened by default, because one of the scientists involved in the programme unexpectedly lost his life and he had signed over his body parts to science.”

“Oh, really, sounds very convenient.”

“He fell from the balcony of his apartment. He was misbehaving during a party; it was an accident. Unfortunately, there were metal railings below. His friends had him in hospital within twenty minutes but his chest was . . . anyway, they couldn’t save him. He had a double first from Cambridge in biomechanics, a brilliant mind – and his brain was undamaged.”

“So they went ahead and broke the rules.”

Rothschild nodded. “They kept his brain alive on a ventilation machine. Professor Nieve had the man’s specific written approval. The body was taken to the robotic research facility and they performed the operation.”