“Oh, I think you might have to do a bit of homework, Colonel Bertin! Pandora was sent by Jupiter, the King of the Gods, to unleash misery on man, because he was so angry that Prometheus had championed mankind and undermined their authority! Do you see any connection?!”
Henri did. “Merde!” he said.
“Yes! Loads of it! Now, go and do your homework and explain to me why an apparently ethnically motivated murder would be qualified with a thinly veiled threat to the entire mission!”
Henri rose and left.
12
Bad Salad
“Tell me about this spat you had with Kazarov, Major Ghorashian.” Arlette was watching her rather nervous visitor carefully.
“Oh, I was irritated with his intuitive approach to crisis simulation and let off some steam. He fired back. Neither of us allowed the Armenian crisis to get in the way, as I am sure you have seen from the video record. I am saddened and terribly shocked that he is dead, but I cannot seriously believe that our disagreement had anything to do with it.”
“Did you have any interaction with Kazarov before this mission?” asked Arlette.
“I never worked with him before, but we met seven years ago at an astronauts’ ball in Houston. I thought him terribly arrogant and told him so. He was not polite to me either and we had, well, quite a loud altercation.”
“Anything physical?” asked Arlette.
Sanam glared at her.
“No; I mean, did you hit each other?”
Sanam laughed. “Yes, I slapped him. He deserved it. But we never spoke again until we met in Shanghai for this mission.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“No,” replied Sanam. “Our interaction on this mission has been completely professional. I am genuinely sorry to lose a valued team-mate.”
At 10.00 a.m. Arlette made an announcement to the crew of Prometheus.
“Good morning, fellow crew members. It is with profound regret that I have to announce the untimely death of Major Dimitri Kazarov from heart failure. His condition was undetected until his body was discovered this morning. A post-mortem examination has been carried out. To all of you who knew him, as I did, he was a man of great professional skill, integrity and humility. He will be greatly missed as a valuable member of this crew. His next of kin have been informed and have given their permission for his body to be consigned to permanent orbit around the sun. The ceremony will take place tomorrow at 11.00 a.m. Thank you.”
‘Well,’ thought Henri, ‘those who don’t know any more need not know any more, and those that do are going to keep it quiet.’ He stood up and gazed at the universe for a moment, contemplating how little he really knew. Then Julia strode in.
“So, what’s your explanation?” she demanded.
“Feelings run deep when there’s ethnic conflict,” said Henri with a shrug.
“You know that’s bullshit, Colonel Bertin!” said Julia. “Ethnic conflict my arse! A highly decorated Iranian pilot has a sophisticated back-up team on board to murder a colleague because he’s Russian and she dislikes what the Russians are doing in Armenia? Please!”
“Has the Commander talked to you?” asked Henri warily.
“Of course she has! And of course she has told me about the Pandora note. I am one of her closest personal advisors and this is not a cops and robbers exercise – it suggests extremely sinister intent by somebody or something that we have not identified.”
“Alright Julia,” said Henri. “You have security clearance; let’s do this together. Kazarov was one of four pilots on board. What does his death do to the mission?”
“Nothing decisive,” Julia responded. “But it tells us just one thing. Someone on board has an agenda and the capacity to kill and to use sophisticated methods to avoid detection. If he, or she, can do this once, he can murder again or cause some other form of mayhem.”
“So why would he show his hand now with an act that draws our attention to him, but is not decisive?”
“He wouldn’t,” said Julia, “not if he’s as sophisticated as he must be to have avoided detection. Something must have forced his hand. Perhaps Kazarov discovered him, or just got in the way somehow.”
“Well, Julia, that leaves us with a malevolent presence on board which could disrupt the mission. Is it trying to get us to turn back, and if so, why?”
“Possibly. We don’t know whether Mission Control received any threats before the mission left. Perhaps they did but decided to press on because of the political urgency. If so, they will have some idea of the level of the threat. What have they told you so far?”
“Assume ethnic conflict and deal with it,” said Henri, “while our investigations continue.”
“I don’t like that,” said Julia. “It sounds like politically looking the other way.”
“No, you are underestimating the intelligence community. To me it sounds like ‘we know who they are and we’re going to eliminate them’.” Henri was deadly serious.
“So, that would leave us chickens up here to deal with a ruthless murderer on board, who can hack into our security systems and God knows what else!”
“Careful who you’re calling a chicken. That’s my job you’re talking about.”
“Well, Colonel Bertin, I most sincerely hope you are up to it!” said Julia.
“I am,” said Henri, “but you had better be prepared for a bit more spilt blood.”
Julia stared at him. “OK,” she said.
* * *
“Jafar, we’ve had a murder on board!” Hannah was visibly shaken as she made video contact.
“Tell me,” said Jafar calmly, as both of them adjusted to the transmission delay.
“One of the pilots, a Russian, was delivered to me for autopsy yesterday. He had been found dead in the simulator, stabbed cleanly through the heart. Nobody seems to know by whom or why, but I’ve been instructed to report heart failure.”
“Stabbed with what?” Jafar asked.
“Clearly a very sharp blade,” said Hannah. “There was no contusion on the surface. Who would have such a thing on board and why?”
“Anterior or posterior entry?”
“Anterior. Why?”
“Because it means that the murderer was probably a colleague who he had no reason to fear,” said Jafar.
“Well, that could be anyone,” said Hannah. “Bertin is baffled, I can see that. He mentioned the possibility of an ethnic dispute over the Armenian crisis but he doesn’t really believe it.”
“Well, given he’s a Russian, I would bet it’s over some Mafia-related dispute,” said Jafar.
“What interest could the Mafia have in a mission like this?” Hannah’s brow was deeply furrowed.
“Power. Influence. Revenge. Who knows? Let’s hope that the score is settled now.”
“Yes, let’s hope so,” said Hannah uncertainly. Then, as an afterthought, “Does the Mafia have much influence on international affairs?”
“Huge,” said Jafar. “They are into everything related to human misery. Drugs, the black market, protection rackets, political murder. There’s always money to be made when there’s social upheaval. The entire city council of Shenzhen was assassinated last week, apparently because of their generous welfare policy. The press suspects the Mafia, and there was an article in the Jerusalem Post yesterday to the effect that the Mafia has become the best run international organisation of all time.”
Hannah frowned. “As if we didn’t already have enough to worry about on this mission.”
“Don’t fret, Hanna-le,” said Jafar. “You are probably safer there than here, but do be careful. You are in the midst of a very big deal. Your intuition about people is usually excellent. Don’t ignore it.”
* * *
Within three weeks of the death of Major Kazarov, a clandestine squad of nineteen crew members had been formed who could be transformed into malevolent automatons with blind obedience to their leader upon his command, but their demeanour during periods of
duty and recreation was unremarkable, because they remembered nothing when not under his control. There were no ideologues, no religious or political convictions. It was not necessary or relevant, since the changes in their brains that were receptive to specific triggers were caused by a viral infection, not by psychological manipulation.
They were trained in martial arts and the use of assault weaponry, and fed with a stream of visual violence, for which it seems that they had an insatiable appetite. The entrance to their training quarters was through an unmarked door in one of many similar corridors, but in this case the records of the nearest monitoring camera were programmed to revert to showing an empty corridor automatically by the opening and closing of the door.
The design strength of the squad was to be twenty-four plus their leader. That meant five more ‘infections’ would be required, and, shortly afterwards, five new recruits would need to be tested. This process was not particularly arduous – a chance meeting, a slap on the back or a bit of friendly joshing, a 24-hour incubation period, and then an ‘initiation’. The candidates had been chosen based on their profiles, and particularly their DNA, which would make them susceptible to the virus that would be injected into them.
One such candidate, Brekhna Khan, a towering, warrior-like woman and a maintenance engineer, found herself to be the subject of just such attention as she was helping herself to a plate of salad in the canteen. A squeeze on the arm from one of her crew-mates, for whom she had developed quite a fondness, took her by surprise. She turned sharply and found herself practically in his arms as he said, “Hi, Brekhna!”
However, perhaps because she was left-handed, the direction of her turn was exactly the reverse of what he had expected, and the micro-syringe in his palm slipped away and disappeared into one of several large bowls of salad behind her. Cursing soundlessly through his grin, he just had to hope that the object in question would not be noticed before it was flushed away with the garbage. Apparently unperturbed, both he and Brekhna made their way onwards and enjoyed a boisterous conversation over their meal together.
Three coincidences conspired to make these events rather more significant than they were already. The first was that Brekhna was wearing a bangle under her uniform sleeve which had deflected the syringe needle, so that the contents had discharged themselves harmlessly into the material of her jacket. The second was that Julia Rogers arrived at the salad bar just in time to take the last spoonful from the bowl into which the micro-syringe had fallen, and the third was that she was in the company of Henri Bertin.
Three minutes later, as she was just about to put a forkful of salad into her mouth, Henri reached out and took it from her. “I don’t think I’d eat that if I were you,” he said, looking quizzically at the contents of the fork. “Who could possibly be using something like that on this ship?”
They stared at each other for a long moment.
“If I let my imagination loose on this, it goes open-ended,” said Julia.
Henri nodded slowly. “I think I’ll take it up to the farmyard,” he said. “They have analytical equipment there that should give us an idea of what was in there.”
“Perhaps you should check the crew medical records first – you don’t want to go too large if it turns out to be someone’s personal medication.” The look on Julia’s face as she was talking said volumes about how her mind was racing, but she kept her comments low-key. She said, “I seem to have gone off my food. Shall we go to the farmyard together?”
They got up without a word, and Henri was already speaking soundlessly by CTT to Medical Records as they left the room. He grunted. “MR has nothing,” he said to Julia perfunctorily.
They were joined in the lift by Genes Clayton. “Well,” he drawled, looking them up and down with a big grin. “An unlikely couple if ever I saw one. Does PR need security or does Security need PR?”
“Perhaps it’s a bit of both, Genes,” said Julia. He was gone with a wave at the next stop.
As the doors of the lift opened at the top section of the ship, they were met by Helmut Schindler, the chief biochemist. “Welcome to the farmyard!” he boomed. “We don’t get many distinguished visitors up here.” His offer of a quick tour was waved away with a brief smile. Henri glanced around. “We have some confidential business,” he said in a low voice.
Schindler guided them into his office, and Henri produced a napkin from his pocket, which he opened to show him the micro-syringe. “Could you please tell us what this contains?”
Schindler stared at the object before him with obvious distaste, then lifted it gingerly into a glass dish with a pair of tweezers. He was going to ask Henri where he had got it, but decided he didn’t want to know. “I expect you have already realised that this is an item not used in normal medical practice,” he said. “It’s used to deliver very small quantities of materials which are potentially very toxic. It is also used by the criminal classes – clandestinely,” he added.
“I want to know what it contained,” said Henri levelly, “and I want no one else to know of its existence besides us three.” He did not elaborate.
Schindler nodded slowly. “I’m not equipped for forensic work,” he said, “and the syringe has been mostly discharged, but I can probably classify the contents for you. If you need more detail I can do a molecular scan and transmit the data back to home-base for further analysis.”
“No, do the scan first and let me have the data. How long will the analysis take?”
“The molecular scan can be done in half an hour. The analysis will take four to six hours. Less if I could get my whole team on it.”
“No!” said Henri sharply. “It has to remain between just us three. I’ll wait here for the results of the scan, then you can do the analysis.”
Schindler raised his eyebrows quizzically and then thought better of it. He sighed. “It’s going to be a long night,” he said. He took the dish and left.
Henri made a call to one of his military detail. “Brady, you are to report to Dr Schindler’s office in the farmyard in thirty minutes, armed and ready to stand guard at the doctor’s lab.”
Brady arrived twenty minutes later. He was ordered to wait outside Schindler’s office.
Schindler returned a few minutes later and handed Henri a data stick. “I can’t tell anything from the data on there as it stands, but I’ll give you a call as soon as I have finished my analysis.”
Henri nodded and opened the door to leave. “Brady, accompany Dr Schindler to his lab and ensure that no one interferes with his work, and call Koh for back-up if you need to.”
The two of them maintained a studied silence as they descended in the lift and headed for Henri’s office. “So, now what do you think that micro-syringe was doing in the salad bowl?” asked Julia as Henri closed the door behind her.
“It had been used, or mostly used, possibly without the agreement or knowledge of the recipient. That means we have a victim somewhere, either in the kitchen or perhaps in the meal queue. If the intention was malevolent, we will know pretty soon. If not then the implications are much more complex, because it may mean that the intention was to disable someone or” – he turned the thought over in his mind – “influence somebody.”
Julia studied him. “What would be the motive for such a pre-meditated act – and it would have to have been planned for that micro-syringe to have been on board in the first place – during this mission? It could hardly be just to settle an old score; the perpetrator would know that the fallout would be to throw the sustainability of the mission into question. I think that we have a conspiracy here, and my intuition tells me that there is a link with Pandora.”
“Well, who would want to disrupt the mission?” mused Henri.
“Oh, you know that better than I do! Political enemies! Big business interests! Most of the world does not share our ideological goals unless there is something in it for them!” Her indignation was boiling over.
“Whoa, Julia, we have only found an unident
ified bit of medical detritus. It probably just contains insulin. We need Schindler’s data before we can take any sort of direction.”
“I think Dr Schindler would have taken a different tack if he had thought it was insulin, or was it that he was so impressed that it was our CIA man who had brought it to him?” She looked at him with a rather crooked smile, but Henri remained dead serious.
“No, I think he probably knows a lot about the nefarious uses of micro-syringes,” was his reply.
“And do you?” she asked.
He shrugged and she got up to leave. “Julia…”
“Yes?”
“Be careful. I’ll call you as soon as I have news from Schindler.”
She leaned towards him across his desk, her face inches from his. “Keep me well and truly in the loop, big man,” she said with real authority. He grinned, sat back, arched his eyebrows and gave her an appreciative look-over. Julia frowned, turned on her heel, and left.
Four hours later Henri was woken from a little reverie by his phone alarm. He yawned, stretched and checked his phone. Nothing yet. He called Brady.
There was no reply. He frowned. A breach of discipline was unexpected and worrisome. He called Dr Schindler. No reply. Henri stood up and stared at the wall in front of him. Then he called Koh. “Had any contact with Brady?”
“No, sir,” came the reply.
“Wake Sergeant Kropnik and get to my office immediately, in combat readiness!”
His men were there in four minutes. “Brady was left on guard duty with Dr Schindler at 21.05,” barked Henri, “and he failed to answer a call from me just now.” Both men looked incredulous.
“Let’s go!”
Dr Schindler’s office was deserted. It was eerily quiet and the laboratory lights were off. Henri waved his men in to search with infra-red vision. It took barely two minutes, and then a whisper from Kropnik: “Man down!”
“Check for any other presence!” Henri himself was scanning every detail of the laboratory.
“It’s clear!” whispered Kropnik. Henri switched on the lights.
Omnipotence: Book I: Odyssey Page 8