Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (35 page)

Abbey Hennessy, wearing a black trouser suit and carrying an electronic tablet device, stepped through the half-open door. Preoccupied with information on the small screen she briefly smiled at Rothschild. “Good afternoon Brian, sorry to keep you waiting . . . Peter, I’ve managed to get Agents Smith and Perram on a flight to Washington from Paris Orly. There’s nothing leaving the UK for another two weeks or so. I’ve requested a military helicopter to take them to France. They will leave from the VIP Cityport at nine o’clock this evening – best I could do for them I’m afraid; there are very few direct flights to North or South America now.”

“Very well,” replied Rothschild, pulling another chair towards his desk. “I expect to be in Strasbourg by then, so please give them my regards and thank them for their time. An interesting if not a rather extraordinary exercise, Abbey; it’s a pity they couldn’t do more for us – certainly a novel approach to bear in mind for future operations, what?” He returned a brief if not slightly sarcastic smile. “Now, more pressing matters . . . what about Spheron?”

“I’m told everything is in place, Peter. As soon as the last employee leaves the building and night security takes over, they will move. Estimated to be at 19:00 hours Local, but that remains fluid. You will meet your French counterpart at 21:00 in the computer centre. I hope we find the proof we need.”

“Oh we will; I’m certain of that,” declared Rothschild. He looked at Brian Grant. “Brian has an appointment with the PM and the Energy Secretary among others; he’s agreed to brief us on the situation prior to their meeting . . . Over to you Brian.”

“Yes. Well, it is bad news I’m afraid, but it was expected, wasn’t it? The first images of Io started to come in this morning. Not the best quality I have to say, due to the heavy electromagnetic interference in that region, but we knew that too. We will have to wait a few more weeks for the highest definition images – when the probe clears Jupiter’s influence you understand.”

“And where is the probe, exactly?” enquired Rothschild.

“The
Arius
is close enough now to photograph the surface of Io. We can see what’s going on there fairly well. Sadly, we have identified the wreckage of the
Hera
. Hell of a mess – made a trench more than two kilometres long. Any crew surviving the nuclear blast in space will have perished during re-entry; it will have all been over relatively quickly.”

Rothschild nodded. “And the crew members on the surface?” he asked.

“We can see the landing vehicle with the ascent stage still in place on top and we think we can see the buggy, as there is an image intensifier aboard that vehicle, but the clarity is not good enough for more than that at the moment.”

“So our hopes for another consignment of crystals are dashed – the repercussions to that are immense.”

“There’s still an opportunity!” Grant’s expression lifted.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve seen another landing vehicle on the surface – well, part of one anyway – close to the crystal deposit coordinates. What we found interesting and very surprising at first was the lack of respiration gas residuals. The spectrograph aboard the
Arius
cannot identify any residual oxygen, nitrous oxide or water molecules in its vicinity. We don’t think that any life support systems are present on the vehicle, none that support oxygen breathing anyway. There is a dense cloud of debris in orbit too, as one would expect from an explosion. However, diametrically opposite, on the other side of the moon and at a reduced orbital concentricity, we have identified a cloud of Sion gas, and there’s hydrogen, nitrogen tetroxide and hydrazine present too – all are used for rocket propellants and none, except hydrogen, are naturally occurring. Further, we would not expect free hydrogen to be present in orbit. We think the Sion remnants are from a long-range Ion drive and the other gases are from conventional rockets used for manoeuvring . . . retrorockets.” Brian Grant paused and looked at Abbey and then at Rothschild. “We think that highly advanced cyber-systems have been used to do what we sent the
Hera
to do . . . extract and retrieve a consignment of Kalahari crystals. That’s what I’m passing on from the ISSF to the British Government. We think that a consignment is on its way back to Earth, and the ship is either remotely piloted or, more likely, controlled by robots.”

“Is that possible?”

“Epsilon Rio originally produced the Humatron system to perform such duties, relieving a ship’s crew of menial tasks during long journeys, particularly to the outlying planets. The Level Seven HU40 model was developed several years ago and its production banned more than five years ago. If Epsilon Rio continued with development in secret, I would say that it is quite likely that they have a new and even more capable model by now. It would also explain how an autonomous ship was able to manoeuvre close enough to the
Hera
– sacrificing a few robots would not be a problem . . . would it?” Grant looked grave. “Fearing that advanced cyber-systems would become dangerous to humans was one of the reasons for banning all such development. Essentially, and with only a few exceptions, all such research and development was stopped. I think we will find that we, the ISSF and governments around the world are well behind the conglomerates in such automation. I think we have a problem.”

“What about the crystal consignment – could it be intercepted?” Rothschild asked.

Grant shrugged. “We are looking into it, but it’s a needle in a haystack scenario.”

“We are going into the Spheron Headquarters today. They have stepped out of line on a number of issues – pharmaceuticals are just the tip of the iceberg,” said Abbey. “Perhaps it’s time to take a much closer look at Epsilon Rio.”

Rothschild sighed. “Forced inspections of production facilities are significantly different to raiding a company’s headquarters, Abbey,” he said. “It’s taken weeks and a good deal of political pressure on the European Democratic Republic to grant today’s operation, and the rules are different in Brazil.”

At that moment there was a knock on the door. Rothschild looked up. “Yes, what is it?”

Laura Bellingham opened the door promptly and leaned inside. “The call to Commander Reece, Peter, it’s through . . . Line One is open, if you could pick-up?”

“Good . . . thank you, Laura. Hello, Rothschild here.” He made a selection on his control panel and fed the reply through the speaker.

The door closed.

“Hello Peter, Richard Reece, at your service.”

“Richard, where are you exactly?”

It was a clear line.

“I’m sitting behind the pilot in his Typhoon fighter.”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant where are you – geographically?” Rothschild shook his head. “What’s your ETA, Richard?”

“Okay, Peter. Crete. In that area, anyway. Another couple of hours to go.”

“Why did you miss the pickup? You are late and a number of people require your presence, not least the Lunar Senate. They want you back at your desk.”

“I’m late because of your biotronic friend if the truth be known, but I’m okay, thank you.”

“Where is Thomas, Richard? Is there a problem?”

“He’s jammed in a freight pod beneath our right wing. Best place for him. There wasn’t an alternative at the Egyptian base. I wanted to leave him there, but Lieutenant Quarrie did some negotiating. The pod isn’t really compatible with this aeroplane and so it was a botch job to secure it. That’s why we are subsonic and relatively low. Arrival at the Orbitalport is in two hours and twenty-seven minutes.”

Rothschild appeared to be in two minds: he did not know whether to be pleased at Richard’s safe return or annoyed at his apparent disregard for orders. Abbey shook her head at his cavalier attitude.

“Understood,” Rothschild said, removing the edge from his tone. “Listen . . . there are definitely problems on the Moon – unspecified at the moment, but something to do with security. We think it is serious. The Lunar Senate is being cagey as usual – as I said to you previously, it’s their damned isolationist policies. Anyway, they need you back immediately to command your squadron. They are sending a fighter to pick you up. I delayed it until I heard from you. I will not be in London when you arrive – business elsewhere I’m afraid – but Abbey will meet you. There’ll be enough time for a debrief and then you will need to go.”

“That’s all well and good, Peter, but I need to follow my lead on Madame Vallogia; she
has
been abducted, as has Asharf Makkoum. Their lives are in danger, I know it.”

“So you know where they are?”

“Not exactly . . . I need your help.”

“I’m not sure we have time for this, Richard, there are some critical . . .”

“I’m not going back to Andromeda without finding Madame Vallogia, Peter. You can forget it! You brokered the secondment, you can make the excuses. You help me to find her and I’m on my way back full of praise for MI9 – it’s your call.”

Rothschild turned the microphone off. “This damned man . . .” he muttered, full of frustration.

“Madame Vallogia may well be important to us, Peter,” Abbey interjected, in a conciliatory way, “and particularly if another consignment of crystals is forthcoming. Consider the recent Mitchell report on their believed origin. The basis of it is Richard’s discovery of the Ark of the Light in Venice. Two years to compile, it was supposed to be the consultative document when
Hera
’s consignment was put into service. It stated Madame Vallogia’s role as ‘a very knowledgeable historian’ but it also mentioned her hereditary line. She has knowledge of the cultures that first used the crystals, Peter – should anyone stop to listen.”

Rothschild drew a deep breath and nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, but the Senate will not be happy.” He flipped the switch again. “I’m going to try to buy you some more time, Richard. I’ll try for tomorrow morning . . . So how can I help?”

“Thank you. Go on the World Net, will you? Open up a travel programme or holiday guide – or perhaps a city guide. Asharf was taken from Cairo in a small plane, probably a private jet. He says he experienced frequent bumpiness and so they were probably at or below the tropopause. That probably puts them in a subsonic regime. Say a top speed of Mach 0.95. He says the flight was about three hours. That gives a circle with an approximate radius of two thousand miles based on Cairo. Madame Vallogia is with him; she was driven there from Paris. It was a couple of hours apparently, maybe a little more, and there was a holdup on the road, too, so that puts them near Europe somewhere, perhaps still in France, maybe Germany or Holland. She recalls hearing noises of jet engines and an aeroplane passed low overhead as she was led into a building, so they are probably close to an airport. They were both blindfolded for the duration but Madame Vallogia managed to glimpse two street names and a park name on her way; she said she had a cold and needed to blow her nose – she could convince you of anything.” Richard paused with that thought. “Peter,” he went on, “please feed these street names into the travel programme and see what it comes up with.”

“Alright, go ahead with the names.”

“The park was called Parc de la Meinau, spelt with a
c
. The streets are the Rue de Figeac and then she turned left into Rue Louis Braille. After that, her head was covered again, but she was driven for only another ten minutes before they reached the building. What have you got – anything?”

After typing in the final word, Rothschild stabbed the enter key on his illuminated panel. Almost immediately the programme responded and a place name appeared on his computer screen. For a moment he simply stared. “I don’t believe it,” he voiced in a whisper, and then he looked up at Abbey with widening eyes. “It’s Strasbourg,” he uttered. “Richard!” he called, in a loud voice. “It’s Strasbourg! Those places are all in Strasbourg! And only a short distance from the Aérodrome de Strasbourg-Neuhof.”

“Of course! That’s it! That’s where they are! Spheron! Spheron . . . they are being held captive in their bloody headquarters building.” There was a pause of realisation. “They want information from her regarding the crystals. That’s got to be the reason – but she doesn’t know anything, not consciously anyway. Peter, I’m going there. I need to find her . . . and Asharf.”

“That’s not possible, Richard. There’s a Federation security operation tonight; we are raiding that building. I’m due there myself after it has been secured in order to help coordinate an investigation with the French authorities. No to that request Richard, I’m sorry – too many complications.”

“I want to be there before the shooting starts, Peter. Don’t you see? They will not give up a prize asset eas—”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“Oh really, and you are going to guarantee Madame Vallogia’s life are you? I would say that the Spheron Corporation has a lot to hide and they are not going to give it up without a fight.” There was a moment of silence and the radio crackled and then Richard was heard to say to his pilot: “Make a call to Air Traffic Control, Chris; we are diverting to Strasbourg. ETA . . . 16:30 GMT; that’s 17:30 Local.” And then Richard’s voice became clearer. “What is the planned time for this raid? And what’s the address?”

Rothschild knew that he was on a hiding to nothing. “I want you to be careful with this, Richard. Do you understand? No diplomatic incidents . . .” It was a stern voice that offered no compromise.

“Of course . . . you have my word on it. I’m into the building . . . I find them . . . and I’m out. Who would I contact? Who’s in charge of the operation?”

“Ask for Monsieur Pierre Marquenie. He is my opposite number in the French Secret Service. The raid is due to start at 19:00 Local. Be there at 18:30 but not before – just down the street from the main entrance. I’ll have the address sent through to your telephonic pager. There will be enough police vehicles to attract your attention. One other thing . . . you’re unlikely to find any local taxis – there’s no fuel on general sale over there. I’ll get a message to the airport manager and get our department driver out for you.”

“Copied.”