Global Conspiracy

by David Shomron

  He ordered one of them to use a handkerchief to unplug the power cord from the wall socket. He put in a call for “le Parquet”—the Prosecutor’s Office—and looked around, taking mental notes of what he observed.

  The office was tidy—it seemed that everything was where it ought to be. There were no signs of a fight or any other violence. Duval approached the table. All neat here, too. He bent forward and peered at the device between the professor’s hands. Possibly a dishwasher, he thought. The professor was probably handling it and got electrocuted. No matter—the autopsy would bring up the cause of death soon enough. What would the professor be doing with a dishwasher on his desk? Perhaps it was one of the inventions he was famous for. Leave that to the experts as well.

  The forensics team arrived and went about their business efficiently: gathering fingerprints, taking pictures, collecting every shred of suspicious evidence. They also took the device with them to the police laboratories. Duval stopped the coroner on his way out.

  “What can you tell me, Alphonse?”

  “Nasty business, Duval” he said. “Probably an accident. Don’t get many deliberate electrocutions nowadays—though we’ll need to prepare an official report on that. No doubt in my mind, however.”

  “Time of death?” Duval asked.

  “My guess is between twelve and eighteen hours ago,” the medical man said, and walked out.

  So he was here all night, thought the commissaire. I wonder if his family missed him.

  Two officers of Duval’s staff took statements from all the occupants in the nearby offices.

  Back in his office at 36, Quai des Orfèvres, Commissaire Duval summed up that morning’s findings with his staff. Professor Allier was known to be a pleasant and friendly person. He was punctual, dedicated to his work, a quiet family man with nothing in his past to indicate anything out of the ordinary.

  The press was beginning to assemble outside. Duval had already verified that Allier’s widow had been notified, so he felt free to address the reporters. He raised his hands for silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you may report that Professor Allier died last night in his office. The police are investigating. That’s all—I cannot give you any more information because I have no more information.”

  “Is it true that he was electrocuted?” a reporter shouted.

  “That’s what it looks like at present, but we are not certain yet. We need to examine all venues. Thank you.” The commissaire returned to his office.

  That evening the printed press reported the professor’s demise as luridly as they could—a new invention of his could possibly have electrocuted him—but they were fair enough to admit that this was all speculation. The news on radio and TV were even drier and made do with Commissaire Duval’s statement only.

  At the same time, Duval updated his two assistants with the latest information on the case.

  “The autopsy has established that death was by electrocution. The lab examining the device reported that faulty internal wiring—we don’t know yet whether it was deliberate or not—turned the contraption into a lethal hazard. There was nothing exceptional in Allier’s actual presence in his office late last evening. One of his assistants related that the professor would sometimes remain alone in his office after hours, when everyone else had left—especially if there was something urgent that needed his attention. Nobody had ever seen the appliance that was on the professor’s desk before today, and no one could say for sure what it was supposed to be. Nobody had even seen the device being delivered to the professor. In fact, for all they knew, it could have been in Allier’s office for days or weeks, stored in a closet or cupboard, and the professor had chosen that particular evening to do something with it.

  “The door to the professor’s office was not locked. Only his fingerprints were on the machine. There is one item, however, that bothers me …”

  His assistants remained silent.

  “There were no fingerprints on the plug at the end of the power cord that was inserted into the power outlet on the wall. Not even Allier’s. Why? There were no gloves found in the room. Could he have used his handkerchief or a rag or tissue to insert the plug? Why would he have done that? After all, he grasped the device with both hands uncovered and left fingerprints there. And no rags or tissues were found in the room or on the body, and Allier’s handkerchief was neatly ironed and folded in his breast pocket—obviously unused.”

  “Commissaire,” one of the assistants spoke up. “We know that Allier was a scientist through and through. He never concerned himself with anything else—no hobbies, no interest in politics, no parties—and we therefore know of no enemies he may have had. Which, with regard to the plug you have just mentioned—I cannot imagine anyone who knew that the device was dangerous would deliberately connect it to the electricity. It’s just too far-fetched.”

  Duval stood up.

  “I shall interview the widow at my earliest convenience.”

  When Anne saw the reports on Allier’s death, she became physically ill. She was overcome by nausea and vomiting. She lost her appetite.

  She took tranquilizers. She went to bed with a book. Nothing worked. She tried to console herself with rational thinking: everything was well planned. There was no way the machine could be traced to the shop where it had been purchased—and it had been modified both externally and internally at the lab. They had taken great pains not to leave any fingerprints on the final product. Once the device was taken out of the cardboard box and placed on Allier’s worktable, it had not been touched again. The box itself was removed by the couriers and destroyed. Could the police find anything—something they had overlooked?

  We had to do it. Otherwise, we couldn’t continue with our work. It’s all going to be okay.

  Anne knew she mustn’t be weak. She went to the bathroom and threw up. She returned to the bedroom a bit shaky but actually feeling better.

  If only Martin were here! He’s so smart and confident. He wouldn’t let anything shift him off a logical course he had planned. He would take me in his arms and hold me tight. He would kiss me and I would open his shirt, and we would …

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Martin opened the board meeting with a report on the tests of Hoffman’s “fuel consuming peas” conducted at the “cowshed.” The steps described earlier by Sir Cedric were followed meticulously. As a result, neither the generator nor the tested vehicle would run if fuel that was “treated” with a pea was used. There was no doubt now as to the effectiveness of Conrad Hoffman’s pellets.

  The admiral indeed had access to classified material, as insinuated by Gustav Lemke. He summed up his research:

  “North Korea poses an accessibility problem. It has no tourism, and a businessman may acquire a visa only if the authorities happen to like what the foreigner is offering. In this case, there would be no point in establishing a straw company and using it as a cover. They check every application very thoroughly. If you really want to negotiate with them, you’ll need to represent a large, well-known company. We could, of course, approach one of these large companies and propose that we represent them in North Korea. This would take a long time, I’m afraid—but it remains an option. Remember, however, that even a bona fide representative of a bona fide company will not be able to travel about freely. He will be housed in one of the deluxe hotels built by the government on an island in the middle of the river that flows through the capital, and he’d be able to leave that island only with special permission and an escort. Bottom line—using official methods will not get us anywhere in North Korea. If that is to be a target, we’ll need to think of other methods.”

  “What other methods?” Sir Cedric asked. “Clandestinely by sea or air?”

  “Or aided by smugglers,” Martin added.

  Sir Cedric’s eyes opened wide and a smile flitted on his lips.

  “Not a bad idea,” he said. “But where do you find them?”

  “You can always find smugglers,” Mar
tin said. “Especially in a country such as this. Anywhere you have hunger, smuggling becomes a thriving industry. If you like, I could take a short ‘tour’ with one of my lads along the border with South Korea. I can almost guarantee positive results.”

  Anne was worried. She had never expected one of the board members to undertake a dangerous mission such as this. Secretly, she was also very concerned for Martin’s safety. But, as usual, her sense of responsibility brought her back to reality.

  “I think it’s an excellent idea!” she said. “If there aren’t any objections, I move that we adopt this plan. But just a recon tour, and maybe making initial contact with a smuggler or two if possible. Nothing more—no operational missions, and no telling the smugglers what our real objectives are. After we hear the report we’ll make a decision.”

  Admiral Stone was impatient to get back to his report.

  “Iran,” he said, “is a different kettle of fish altogether. Iran is a tourist country and there is no difficulty in getting an entrance visa. Hotels are well developed, you can rent a car and visit historical and archeological sites at your leisure. Security forces are very active, so you need to be cautious. A recon tour will be necessary here, too.

  “Now, as to Al Qaeda and their training grounds—well, the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan is more than two thousand kilometers long! I think I might have located an area where they may have training camps. We could probably fly over this place—not during the day, they could shoot at us during daytime—and spread the ‘gravel.’ Dusk or dawn would be most suitable, I believe. We’ll need to decide where the plane takes off and where it lands.”

  Mme. Allier was still in mourning. Commissaire Duval sat opposite her in her living room and waited until she had finished serving coffee and cookies.

  “Madame, please allow me to convey my deepest condolences at the sudden passing away of your dear husband.” The commissaire recited the words he had so often needed to say before. “We believe it was a work-related accident, but it is my public duty to investigate all other possibilities.”

  The red-eyed widow adjusted the hearing aid in her right ear, and tried to put on an apologetic smile.

  “I don’t hear so well, you know,” she said.

  The commissaire dismissed this with a smile of his own. He then repeated what he had just said, taking care to raise his voice slightly.

  “Do you really think something criminal occurred?” Mme. Allier asked.

  “I did not say that. But until we have the complete picture we must keep on investigating. And indeed, there are a few open items. So please permit me to ask you a few questions that may enlighten us in our inquiries.”

  “By all means. I shall be glad to be of assistance.”

  “Mme. Allier, was your late husband in good health?”

  “Oh, yes! He was never ill.”

  “Was he particularly concerned with anything special lately? Was he working late more frequently than usual? Was he in good cheer? Or morose? Irate? Perhaps he was absent from home more than usual? In short—did you notice any change in his behavior?”

  Mme. Allier furrowed her brow in thought.

  “Now that you mention it,” she said, “I recall that he lately always seemed to be in a hurry. Not that he was ever late for anything—not at all. He attended a few ‘business lunches’—not a common event for Albert—and I even once entertained the notion that there may have been another woman. Of course, I dismissed the idea at once—after all, Albert’s daily schedule had hardly changed.”

  “Do you have any idea about who those business lunches were with? One or more people?”

  “I think he once mentioned a colleague from London. You know how these scientists love to exchange ideas.”

  “Do you happen to know who this colleague is?”

  “I’m sorry, no. But perhaps he appears in Albert’s telephone notebook.”

  Mme. Allier rose from her seat and picked up the notebook lying by the telephone. She handed it to Duval who began leafing through it.

  “Here’s a London entry,” he said. “Norton, Sir Cedric.” He glanced at her questioningly.

  “Oh, yes! That’s the one! I distinctly remember Albert mentioning his name regarding one of these ‘lunches.’”

  “Mme. Allier, do I have your permission to borrow this notebook for a day? I promise to return it to you by tomorrow.”

  “But of course, commissaire. It’s no problem.”

  Duval asked a few more routine questions about family members. The widow answered to the best of her ability.

  “And how about socializing, Madame?” he inquired. “Did you and your late husband meet with people, go to parties—you know?”

  “Frankly, commissaire, we did not go out much. Albert simply loved music and the theatre. He had several subscriptions to concert series, and attended many of these events. I did not join him on those occasions—as you see, I have a hearing impairment. While he was out on one of his cultural evenings, I played bridge at the club nearby.”

  “Just one more question, if I may, Madame. Did your late husband have any enemies? Do you know of anyone who could have wanted him dead?”

  “No, certainly not!” Mme. Allier was indignant. “He was loved and respected by everyone.”

  Commissaire Duval stood up.

  “Thank you for your time, Mme. Allier. Again—my regrets. I shall have the notebook returned to you by tomorrow.”

  At the door he suddenly turned.

  “Oh, by the way—did the professor have a life insurance policy?”

  “Just what the university provides to all its employees,” she replied. “I don’t know of any other, private insurance policy—either for him or for me.”

  “Thank you again. With your permission I shall return if any more questions arise.”

  On the way back to his office, Duval weighed the pros and cons of verbally reporting his latest interview to the Examining Magistrate. I think I’ll skip it, he thought. Probably just a waste of time, anyway. He’d only say that nowadays scientists always exchange views, otherwise science wouldn’t progress. I’ll just make a regular entry in my written report …

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Indeed, there was no progress in the Allier investigation. There was not a single shred of evidence that the death was premeditated. True, forensics had not managed to decipher the nature of the odd device that had caused the electrocution, but as it involved a scientist known for his innovative experiments, they eventually gave up the search. And Duval was not quite satisfied with the lack of explanations for the electric plug sans fingerprints and the unknown time and method of the device’s delivery to Allier’s office. But the Examining Magistrate ruled that there was no point in continuing the investigation and—given the evidence before him—death was caused by accident. Case closed.

  Commissaire Duval did not agree with this ruling. He was convinced that Professor Allier had been murdered, although outwardly he concurred with the Examining Magistrate. A man of my stature and experience should leave no stone unturned. I shall know no peace until I catch this murderer. He therefore decided to continue the investigation on his own. He had Allier’s telephone notebook photocopied and decided to begin with the ‘business lunch associate.’”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Loose ends were beginning to link together. Sir Cedric’s laser was installed in Boulanger’s satellite, and it could be aimed and operated from a console in Boulanger’s office. Now they were waiting for a launch date, which mainly depended on weather conditions. The satellite’s orbit was designed to fly over Iran and North Korea every one hundred and thirty-two minutes, at an altitude of three hundred and sixty kilometers.

  The combined satellite-laser-projector was nicknamed “wasp.” All the lab tests had been completed successfully, but simulation of the altitude distance was impossible. The intention was to disrupt the operation of a nuclear reactor, even by neutralizing external accessories only. If necessary, detonating depo
ts containing explosives, shells and missiles, could also be attempted.

  “Meanwhile,” Martin said at the next board meeting, “we’ll need to set up a test site. We need the exact coordinates of the targets in order for ‘wasp’ to succeed in its mission. Let’s leave the discussion on that for later. There is another topic I would like to raise that we have not considered before. I believe it should be relatively simple to obstruct computer communications. My meager knowledge is just enough to advise that we should look into it. I wish I could show you how it’s done—but I can’t. Is anyone here an expert on the subject?”

  All heads were shaken.

  “I didn’t think so. On the other hand,” Martin continued, “there is an abundance of computer geeks out there who could probably do what we need in a few minutes’ work. If they can break into the FBI data banks, they can do some underhanded stuff for us as well. I must warn you, though,” Martin’s face was grave, “this could be considered illegal by certain authorities.”