Sex on the Moon (11 page)

Axel was disappointed in himself for being late, because it certainly wasn’t like him to be late. But tonight, just as it had done for the past two nights, dinner with his wife had led to a discussion about the strange e-mail—which he was now convinced was a window into some sort of crime in the making. Not an argument, exactly, because he and Christel never argued. But certainly a hashing out of opinions.

Over the past forty-eight hours, Axel had become convinced that he had to do something. But Christel, for her part, didn’t like the idea of him sticking his nose into something that might end up being dangerous. If this
was
some sort of hoax, then the danger would be minor. But if somehow this person was selling a real moon rock—Axel might be getting himself involved with a dangerous character.

Axel had explained to his wife that it wasn’t in his nature to just sit back and watch a crime in progress. What sort of person could stand by and see something they knew was wrong, and do nothing about it? But his wife wasn’t buying any of it; she had responded by saying that despite his noble explanation, the real reason he wanted to get involved was that he thought it would be fun. Another entertainment, another hobby. Like rock collecting itself. Or “popinjay,” another of Axel’s passions—a strange little archery game that involved shooting a wooden bird off the top of a ninety-five-foot pole. Sometimes with a crossbow. In front of an audience.

Axel knew there was some truth in what she was saying, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of winning the discussion. It might be a puzzle he intended to solve, but damn it, solving the puzzle would redress a wrong.

“Mr. Emmermann,” one of the bearded men hovering over a nearby tackle box filled with gemstones exclaimed, causing most of the men around him to look up and smile. “We were worried you might have fallen into the river. Or, at the very least, gotten your foot stuck in a pilsner glass on the way out of your house.”

Axel grinned at the man, then made a big show of bending over the rim of the tackle box, peering at the contents.

“Actually, we’re having a little issue with the foundation of our chimney. But I knew I could count on you to bring me a little worthless rubble to fill the gaps.”

The bearded man feigned indignation, placing a hand over his heart. He was the club secretary—in his mid-sixties, among the oldest members of the mineral group; a postman by day, he was one of the most respected rock hounds in Antwerp—and he also knew how to run the slide projector.

“But why would you have come all the way here to buy my rubble when we all know you could have easily used your wife’s stew. One spoonful in between the bricks, and your chimney would have lasted a hundred years.”

Axel laughed, because he couldn’t argue with the man’s point. Before he could think of something witty in response, a bushy-haired, portly amateur geologist shouted over from a table to the left.

“Or maybe he’s late because he was busy buying moon rocks.”

Axel’s ears perked up as he stood frozen over the tackle box of mildly precious gemstones. He looked toward the bushy-haired, portly man. Alfred Schnermeyer was one of the handful of Ph.D.s in the group, and for the past three years he had been the editor of the club’s newsletter. Axel looked from him to the other rock hounds nearby and saw that they were all smiling, as if in on the same joke.

“Don’t look so surprised,” the club secretary exclaimed, giving Axel’s shoulder a squeeze. “We were just discussing it before you got here.”

“You all got the e-mail as well?”

“Everyone on the club’s main Web page. This Orb Robinson is a very persistent fruitcake. He wrote the president, the vice president, all of us here, even a couple of the visiting speakers. I wish one of us had printed out the e-mail so that we could put it in the opening slide. But everyone deleted it, immediately.”

Axel was about to say something, let them know that he, in fact, hadn’t deleted the e-mail—but he could see from the looks in his fellow hobbyists’ eyes that they were convinced that it was a hoax, and not worth their time.

Axel decided to keep his suspicions to himself. Most likely, he was the one who was overreacting, and his friends were correct—it was some nutcase, a fruitcake, a waste of everyone’s time. But in Axel’s mind, no matter how you looked at it, this was wrong. If the person behind the e-mail actually had moon rocks, he had to have stolen them. If he didn’t, then he was trying to commit a fraud.

“A shame,” Axel finally joked back. “We could have used the offer as the front page of our next newsletter. Maybe entice a few new members, one of whom might bring over a collection that doesn’t look like something I could use to pave my driveway.”

They all had a good laugh as Schnermeyer moved toward the slide projector, preparing to get the meeting started. The other members of the Antwerp Mineral Club had already forgotten about the e-mail, and the nutcase who called himself Orb Robinson.

But Axel Emmermann still had images of moon rocks dancing in his head.

…

When Axel finally returned home from the youth center, the house was already dark. He let himself in as quietly as he could so as not to disturb his wife and kids. A second late night in a single week was incredibly unusual for him, but he had a feeling this was just the beginning of unusual things. He briefly considered waking Christel to tell her exactly what he was going to do—but he didn’t want to reopen that can of worms. Besides, he really didn’t think what he was about to do could be dangerous. Although he couldn’t be sure, he guessed there was an entire ocean between him and Orb Robinson.

He crept through the house as carefully as he could and made his way to the darkened living room. He didn’t even sit at the desk; he just stood in front of the computer in the corner of the room and began to type. When it was done, he stood back from the computer. Bathed in the warm, pixelated glow from the desktop monitor, he felt his cheeks flushing red.

Everything in its place, everything in its way
.

His hand was trembling as he reached forward and hit the send key.

18

I might be interested if the price is right
…

Have you any proof that the goods are what you say they are?

Thad hunched over his laptop as he sat on the edge of his and Sonya’s bed, trying to convince himself that he should just hit the delete key, send the little packet of electronic information into the black hole of nonexistence, forget that he’d ever gotten the response, forget about the whole mental game he was playing, forget about the lunar vault and that little door that led to the safe filled with lunar “trash.” Because now it was beginning to feel less like a game and more like something real. Here, in front of him, was a response—from some guy in Belgium, a mineral collector, a rock hound, with the Hollywood-ready name of Axel Emmermann. Axel Emmermann seemed ready and eager to commit what he had to know was a crime—purchasing an illegal “multicarat” moon rock from a stranger on the Internet. Thad was still playing a game, but this Axel Emmermann wasn’t; he was really looking to buy a piece of the moon.

Thad ran a hand through his flop of curly auburn hair. He was wearing only a bathing suit, having just come back from a day of scuba instruction at the local Y. His hair was still damp, and he could feel the goose bumps rising across his naked chest and back. He was in no rush to get dressed, even though he was supposed to be getting ready for dinner. He really had no interest in going out with Sonya and her friends tonight—even before he’d gotten the e-mail from the Belgian gem collector, he had contemplated telling Sonya that he wasn’t feeling well.

There was a peal of sudden laughter from the direction of the living room, and Thad glanced up at the closed bedroom door. He didn’t know how many of Sonya’s model buddies were gathered out there—when he’d come home from the pool, he’d counted at least four buffed and polished specimens, as well as at least three already opened bottles of red wine—but he didn’t think he could handle another evening of mindless conversation in some loud, overpriced, overly trendy restaurant. And now, looking at this e-mail, he knew there was no way he would even be able to fake his way through the ordeal.

I might be interested if the price is right. …

Thad shivered. He hadn’t really thought about price yet, even in the context of a mental game, because in truth, he hadn’t any idea how one would actually manage to pull off the heist. The lunar vault was unbelievably secure, from the keypad that got you over from Building 31 to the monitored entrance that led on through. Then there was the clean room and, of course, the huge steel vault door itself. The “trash” safe held about seventeen pounds of lunar rocks, but Thad didn’t think it would be possible to smuggle that much rock back through the clean room or past the security cameras. Which is why, in the original e-mail he had sent out to the dozens of foreign collectors, he had specified only a single “multicarat moon rock.”

Working from that thought, he tried to figure out what kind of money he could ask for—how much imaginary cash he’d be demanding in return for his imaginary moon rock. Even though he remembered a single gram of lunar material was once put on the market for $5 million—and even if that number seemed ridiculous, he had read somewhere else that at a Sotheby’s auction, a gram of lunar material once went for $400,000—Thad didn’t intend to be anywhere near that greedy. He wanted this to be quick and easy, the kind of transaction that wouldn’t draw any attention. A Belgian gem collector couldn’t possibly have that kind of money, anyway; Thad needed to come up with a number that was both achievable and high enough to make it worth his while.

Make it worth your while
, he repeated to himself, incredulous at his own thoughts. Breaking into a NASA building, stealing the most valuable thing on Earth, endangering his chances of ever becoming an astronaut—Thad shook his head. That was only one way of looking at the mental game. NASA had designated those rocks as trash, unusable. Thad could use the money to make himself a better scientist, a better candidate for the astronaut training program. He’d be out of debt; he’d have money to pay for schooling, research, whatever he needed. And if he became an astronaut, he might one day help NASA in its quest to get to Mars—which meant, in a way, this theft would be a good thing for the institution. He had to continue to think about the heist in those terms—because in those terms it was more than palatable, it was heroic and noble. Thad thought of himself as a scientist, and he would use whatever he earned from the heist to advance science. To advance himself, within the realm of science.

And besides, you couldn’t get arrested for pulling off an imaginary heist, could you?

Thad dried his damp hands on the blanket beneath him and looked at his e-mail account. He dashed off a quick message to Gordon, asking him to investigate this Axel Emmermann, to compile whatever he could find via the Internet and whatever other means he had at his disposal. Thad wanted to know whom he was dealing with before he took the next step.

Meanwhile, he began to compose the response he would eventually send to the Belgian rock hound. He didn’t even notice when Sonya and her friends exited the house, trailing laughter, mindless banter, the cacophony of clinking wineglasses. He didn’t even notice as his green Toyota Tercel started up in the driveway, the tires spitting gravel as the group headed to the restaurant without him. Sonya hadn’t even remembered that he was supposed to be going to dinner with them—but Thad didn’t notice, and truthfully, if he had, he wouldn’t have cared.

19

Up in the air. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s Emmermann …

Axel grinned as he pictured himself flying circles around the sparkling blue sky over Antwerp, his charming potbelly struggling mightily to break free of a bright red spandex costume, a silken cape billowing behind him as the warm spring air whizzed about his aerodynamically bald forehead. He saw himself winding low above the sixteenth-century churches and castles, the tourists waving and applauding as he showered them with moon dust …

His grin became an outright guffaw.
Axel Emmermann, superhero
. At the moment, Axel the superhero was on his knees in the little patch of dirt beneath the window of his living room, his face bright red as he fought a particularly villainous species of weed. He was using both hands in a patented throttle motion, pulling with all his strength as he attempted to dislodge the shock of bright green—a botanical brute that was strangling his wife’s parsley at the root. The damn thing was hanging on for dear life, and it felt as if the nasty plant’s tendrils were gripped around the very core of the Earth.

He wished Christel could see him now, on his hands and knees in the mud, at the mercy of a brainless twist of plant. She would have seen for herself how amusing the label she had given him was. He was as far from a superhero as a forty-nine—soon to be fifty—year-old rock collector could be. But Christel was gone; she’d stormed off to the market right after Axel had sent his latest e-mail, leaving him alone in the house to face the nefarious weeds.

Christel wasn’t really angry; it was more a mix of frustration, and maybe a little fear. Because many days had passed since Axel had sent his first response to Orb Robinson, Christel had assumed that the matter had been dropped. And rightly so. The other members of the mineral club had long forgotten the foolish hoax. But Axel was a different breed, and even after a week he couldn’t seem to let the matter go. Maybe he was more like a weed than a superhero.

That very morning, he had decided to take action. No spandex was involved. Just himself, in his gardening shorts, knee-high boots, and short-sleeve shirt, alone at his computer, just hours ago.

It hadn’t been very hard to Google his way to the Web site for the Tampa, Florida, division of the FBI. He didn’t know for sure if Orb Robinson really resided in Tampa, but he couldn’t think of any better place to start. Certainly, the Belgian police force would not have gotten involved in a case of fraud like this. And he doubted that Interpol even had a Web site. Moon rocks were a uniquely American treasure, so if anyone should be investigating this, it was probably the FBI.

Axel had crafted the e-mail carefully. His only mistake was to show it to his wife before he sent it:

I am a mineral collector who lives in Belgium. Some weeks ago I was contacted via e-mail by a person, Orb Robinson, who claims to have some lunar rocks from NASA for sale. He also advertises on “the Virtual Quarry” of our Web site with the following ad: “Priceless Moon Rocks Now Available!!! …”

I seriously think that this person is trying to swindle unsuspecting people out of a lot of money. I have answered his e-mails indicating that I would be interested in a buy if the price was right. If you want, I can forward these e-mails to you. I realize that this probably is a low-priority event, but nevertheless I would like to report it.

Best Regards, Axel Emmermann

Thinking back to Christel’s highly vocal response to the e-mail when he’d told her about it, Axel finally got a good grip on the weed and heaved his not so insignificant bulk backward; the weed finally came loose, nearly sending him tumbling back into the mud. He caught himself at the last minute and tossed the weed into a garbage pail. Then he rose heavily, his aging knees creaking with the motion. He shook the dirt from his bare legs and pulled off his muddied gloves. Then he headed back into the house.

As he approached the computer in the corner of the living room, he wondered if Christel was right. Not about him being a superhero, or about the danger of getting involved, but her observation that this really wasn’t about right and wrong, that Axel couldn’t let this rest because this, to him, was fun. It was a game, another hobby. Like popinjay, except instead of shooting arrows at a wooden bird affixed to a pole, he was casting e-mails at an invisible foe.

It was true, he wasn’t working at the moment, having taken a short disability leave from the polyethylene plant where he was a quality control supervisor, due to a recurring injury, and rock collecting could only take up so many hours during the day. Archery filled most weekends—but maybe fighting crime would make up the difference.

No doubt he felt a surge of adrenaline as he sat down in front of the computer. He wasn’t really expecting the FBI to answer him so quickly, but he had a feeling he’d be checking the computer more than a few times each day. Sooner or later, he would get a response.

To his surprise, the minute he opened his account, he saw that there was a new message in his in-box—but not from the Tampa division of the FBI. Quite coincidentally, the e-mail was from Orb Robinson:

Yes, valid proof will be provided. What is the approximate range of $/gram that you consider “right”? Let’s discuss your possible interest and see if we make a great business partnership. If you are truly interested then, I will provide you with more detailed information.

Sincerely, Orb Robinson

Axel couldn’t believe what he was reading. After more than a week, and directly after he had contacted the authorities—now this Robinson had finally answered him. Like the weed in his garden, the nutcase hadn’t just given up and gone away.

Looking more carefully at the new e-mail, Axel immediately noticed something. Robinson was no longer talking about carats; now he was talking about dollars per gram. To a rock collector like Emmermann, it was a significant difference. Exactly how many moon rocks did this character have? Did he really think that a mineral expert would believe he had in his possession many grams of the rarest substance on earth?

Axel knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to wait for Christel to get back from the market to craft his response.

He quickly came up with some numbers, almost off the top of his head. He was playing the role of an interested buyer, so he had to keep it believable.

Hi Orb,

If you can provide valid proof that these rocks are really lunar samples, I would be willing to buy if the price does not exceed 800$/ gram for rocks under 10 grams and 600$/gram for larger specimens.

Axel Emmermann

…

It wasn’t until the next day that Robinson responded. At around nine in the morning, Axel was shuttling back and forth between the kitchen, where Christel was serving his son and daughter oversized waffles painted in more butter than was nutritionally safe, and the computer, checking his e-mail again and again—and then, there it was. Axel no longer even attempted to hide the burst of excitement that exploded across his face as he saw the new message:

Axel Emmermann,

Your prices are just fine; in fact I can do better than that, but I have minimum mass requirements. To give you an idea of my mass range, I would prefer to stay around 1 kilogram. The following is the breakdown of the varying price range …

$500/g (.5–.64 kg)

$400/g (.65–.85 kg)

$300/g (.86–1.5 kg)

Of course, verification will be provided before you purchase, I think that if you are seriously interested then we should meet and confirm this deal in person. Please let me know what you think.

Sincerely, Orb Robinson

Axel leaned back in his chair. Carats had become grams, and now grams had become kilos. Christ, this hoaxer was brazen. Axel quickly did the calculations in his head. At the prices Orb Robinson was quoting, one kilogram of moon rock would cost around $300,000. It was nowhere near what real moon rocks were worth—but it was an enormous amount of money to a man like Axel. Even talking about trading that kind of money for an illegal specimen caused his crime-fighting hackles to rise. This wasn’t a little hoax—it was significant.

Reading the e-mail again, Axel began to think that maybe he had taken this as far as he could go. He now had this hoaxer quoting prices, and the only thing left was for him to fill a suitcase, hop on a plane, and head to Tampa. Of course, he was never going to do that. In forty-nine years, he had never been far outside of Belgium. Certainly not to the United States. And he had no interest in buying what was most likely a huge chunk of fake moon rock. If this was going to go any further, someone else was going to have to take charge.

…

Two days later, Emmermann was back at the computer when the cavalry finally came riding in. He clicked open the e-mail as soon as he saw the header—from the Tampa division of the FBI.

Mr. Emmermann:

First, thank you for forwarding this information to me. You have piqued my interest.

Second, I’m afraid I am somewhat less than familiar with the laws surrounding the sale and/or possession of moon rocks. I assume—based on the letter from Robinson—that it is probably illegal. In fact, I would guess that Mr. Robinson is either in possession of contraband or is misrepresenting (in an effort to defraud someone) a more mundane mineral, i.e. he is violating the law in one way or another. Could you please let me know if my assumptions are correct?

Last, if we do initiate an investigation into this matter, would you be willing to introduce an investigator to Robinson as your representative in the States? Since Robinson has contacted you already, your credibility with him must be sufficient to quell any concerns he may have in conducting an illegal transaction with a complete stranger.

Again, thank you for your alerting the FBI to this matter.

SA Lawrence A. Wolfenden, Tampa Div’n

Axel was initially surprised that the agent from the FBI seemed to be relying on his interpretation of the situation—that he was basically asking Axel for advice on whether this was something that was worth involving the FBI. At the same time, Axel felt a huge gush of pride. The FBI was contacting him from all the way across the world. His wife might make jokes, but he really was doing something real, putting something back in its proper place. If she wanted to call him a superhero, well, now he had something to show her. But before he printed out the e-mail to run around the house with, he crafted his response.

Mr. Wolfenden,

I believe that your assumptions are indeed correct. The chance that Mr. Robinson has lawfully acquired real samples of lunar rock from NASA is, in my opinion, next to impossible. Therefore he must be in violation of at least a few laws. The tone of his message also suggests to me that this is not his first attempt to swindle some gullible overseas buyer. I may be ahead of things but I wanted to see where this would lead to.

I would be more than willing to introduce an investigator to him if you are willing to investigate this further. In my opinion it would be better that you draft a reply since you’re much more experienced in dealing with these kind of people. A real mineral collector (I’m not sure you have one of those on your team
) would express at least some concern about the verification. Of course, if I really was so gullible as to believe Mr. Robinson, I would be easily persuaded to buy if “my brother-in-law” was allowed to “take a look” at the rocks before buying. Since he already dove under my suggested price per gram, but his “multicarat” rocks have evolved to boulders of a half kilo and more. This would be my reply if I was really an interested buyer …

At this point in the e-mail, Axel drafted what he might say to Robinson if he was really going to go through with the transaction—but in a way to allow someone from the FBI to take over the situation, pretending to be his brother-in-law. Axel was really enjoying the creative aspect of this; it was as if he were a member of the FBI, plotting to bring down a master criminal. Of course, he didn’t really think Orb Robinson was a master criminal, just a nutcase trying to pull off a hoax. Nonetheless, it was gratifying work.

Again to his surprise, the first response he got, later that day, wasn’t from the FBI. It seemed that Orb Robinson was getting impatient.

Axel,

Please indicate if you are interested and/or able to purchase a rare lunar piece. Timing for me is sensitive, so I won’t waste any of yours. We both know that you would be getting a great deal, and if you are still worried that I am trying to sell you a fake, good, I don’t want you to just take my word for it. Please let me address your voiced concerns. Just let me know what they are. Acquiring this specimen is a sensitive matter for me, as you can imagine, and that is why I have the minimum mass requirement. It is more a minimum financial barrier that makes this transaction worthwhile for me and my group. So if you are skeptical about the validity of the origins of the rock, good, I shall provide you with convincing evidence, when I believe that you are serious. If you are concerned that you cannot afford this transaction, I understand. Perhaps you could find a significant number of customers that would be interested in purchasing pieces of your lunar sample and then would have the incentive to make such an investment. Either way, even if you are no longer interested, please indicate it to me.