Global Conspiracy

by David Shomron

  “Actually, it’s a pretty sophisticated computer that I use for all my other projects, too. I just added whatever was necessary to accommodate our little project as well. I’m sorry, Anne, but you would need a three-story building and two years’ work, not to mention several million euros, to duplicate the console anywhere else.”

  “Just a thought.” Anne smiled. “Please continue.”

  “Once I get the coordinates of the target, I feed them into the console. As the number of digits is quite large, maybe ten digits per coordinate, they need to be verified, in case a mistake has been made. One verification is by you or your representative. He or she will need to confirm the ‘readback’ of the coordinates, digit by digit. The second verification is for me—the location of the coordinates will show up on a map on my console.”

  “Why?”

  “No offense, my dear, but I must be sure that your coordinates don’t point to Paris or any other inhabited location on our planet. You could have given mistaken coordinates just as easily as I could enter them incorrectly. Both verifications need to comply with each other.”

  “You think of everything, don’t you?” Anne was inwardly very pleased that she was in the presence of such a cautious man.

  “I do my best,” Boulanger said simply. “Mind you, I do not have all the answers yet. The aiming mechanism has not been tested, and the effect of the laser on the target is still unknown, though that part is none of my business.”

  “So now you want me to tell you where the experimental target is located, right?”

  “However did you guess that?” Boulanger laughed. “Very well, here are our possibilities. Our satellite orbits the earth from southwest to northeast. It passes over the Sahara desert in southern Morocco, northern Mauritania, Algeria, Libya, northern Egypt, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, China, North Korea, northern Japan, the Pacific Ocean, Central America, the southern Atlantic and back to Morocco. The entire cycle takes one hundred and thirty two minutes.”

  Anne did some quick figuring.

  “That means that the satellite will be over the same spot about ten times a day,” she said.

  “That’s right,” Boulanger confirmed. He reached into his briefcase on the floor and took out a square envelope.

  “This DVD contains all the technical information you need. Please do not allow it to fall into unauthorized hands. Not that they would make any sense of it—but just to be on the safe side. You can easily plot the orbit of the satellite on a map of the world. It also has a built-in formula that makes a two-way calculation: feed it coordinates and a date and you’ll get back the precise hours the satellite will be above that location. And vice versa—feed it a date and time, and you’ll get the coordinates of the location directly below the satellite. Pretty straightforward, actually.”

  “This really looks fantastic,” Anne said enthusiastically. “I’ll get my people to find some deserted place along the satellite’s path to carry out the experiment. We shall need a couple of weeks for that, perhaps more. Why don’t I call you in a week and let you know where things stand?”

  “All I need are the exact GPS coordinates,” Boulanger reminded her. “I’ll do the rest.”

  Anne arrived at the Lyon railway station and called the admiral. They set up a meeting in London during the weekend.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Martin and Spencer had a good night’s sleep. Next morning they rented a car, drove around Seoul for a while and then made their way northward.

  Charlie welcomed them warmly.

  “Come in, come in,” he urged, practically pushing them into the restaurant.

  Once seated, Charlie placed cold beers in front of them.

  “When do you think we’ll be able to see Sing?” Martin asked.

  “He’ll be here for lunch,” Charlie answered.

  “That’s good. Do you have any idea what the situation in North Korea is? I mean, in regard to our project?”

  “All I can say is that there seems to be quite a healthy response over there. Sing will fill you in with all the details.”

  They whiled away the time discussing various topics. They didn’t get very far when local politics were raised.

  “South Korea is an industrialized nation with a flourishing economy,” Charlie said. “One really cannot complain. On the other hand, the social front and the integrity of our leadership leave a lot to be desired. You noticed, I am sure, that nothing came of the meeting between the North and South Korean leaders—just as I predicted.”

  It was clear that Charlie felt uncomfortable criticizing his government. Martin and Spencer both knew that South Korea was one of the most corrupt nations on the planet. They quickly changed the topic.

  Sing arrived, punctual as ever, with his usual smile from ear to ear. They toasted their reunion. Once again, Charlie led them into his house to continue their discussions.

  “Let’s get down to business, then,” Martin said. “What can you tell us, Sing?”

  “We’ve done quite a lot since last you were here,” Sing said. “Most of the people we approached in North Korea responded enthusiastically.”

  “Great,” Spencer said. “But what about those who responded negatively? They could expose us, couldn’t they?”

  “We thought about that. Before telling anyone anything of a revealing nature, we checked out his, or her, background. We use very stringent screening methods—take my word for it. You may rest assured that nobody who now knows anything will turn out to be an informer.”

  “And are any of your recruits in a position to be of operational assistance” Martin asked.

  Sing smiled.

  “Three of them are caretakers at the Pyongyang Municipality. Their job requires them to push wheelbarrows full of gardening materials and carry buckets of paint, pesticides or other liquids. They go all over the city, carrying out their regular maintenance duties. They have small sheds near the various parks and gardens where they can store their equipment.”

  “Sounds fantastic!” Martin grinned.

  “I must warn you, however, that they informed me that the day before the parade, the entire route of the procession will be swept, hosed, and scrubbed so clean you could eat off it. Anything you want placed there will be completely washed away.”

  Martin expected that. He prayed Lemke’s spray would solve this problem.

  “I see,” he said. “That probably negates the need for the fertilizer. What about military campsites?”

  It seemed Sing’s smile widened, though that was physically impossible.

  “I was coming to that. Not far from Pyongyang there is a military base in which all the parade vehicles will be gathered—trucks, armor and low loaders to tow the missiles. They’ll all arrive there a few days before the event.”

  “Did they see any fuel depots in this base?”

  “Yes, they did. They saw several huge fuel reservoirs. However, they couldn’t tell whether the vehicles were to be fueled from them, or that they arrived already tanked up.”

  “It seems, Sing, that the time has come to reveal to you another of our little tricks.”

  Martin described the fuel pellets, and enjoyed watching Sing’s expression change from that of a bridegroom to one of amazement.

  “So, Sing, we obviously need someone who could drop our little neutralizers into these reservoirs without raising suspicion.”

  Sing was beaming again.

  “This is very good,” he said. “I’ll look into it.”

  “And the vehicles themselves could also be ‘treated,’” Martin added. “One pellet in the fuel tank and the vehicle doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “Good, good,” Sing said. “Let us now fix up a more secure method of communications between us.”

  “It’s already been done. We have a commercial company in London.” Martin handed Sing a business card. “See? Name, address, phone, fax, email—all there. We’ll set up an order together—you’ll wish to purchase such and such an amount of merchandise (freely ava
ilable on the market) that resembles our stuff. You’ll prepare a Letter of Credit. We’ll ship you the materials the same way all markets operate. Everything is aboveboard.”

  “Sounds all right to me,” Sing said. “Charlie?”

  Charlie nodded. He put down two business cards of his own on the table.

  “We, too, have a legitimate trading company,” he said. “All the details are on the card.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Martin said, pocketing one card and giving the other to Spencer. “Our tranquilizing gravel.”

  “Excuse me?” Charlie said.

  “Huh?” Sing said.

  Martin told them about the soporific effect of the gas when released from the pebbles. They listened in awe.

  “We’ll add that to the order. And the audio disruptors as well.”

  “That’s quite a lot of sophisticated, unfamiliar stuff you’re dumping on us,” Sing said. “Flattering though your trust in us may be, we’ll need some time to acquaint ourselves with the various items.”

  “We wouldn’t have it any other way,” Martin laughed. “I shall be here when the shipment arrives. You’ll bring along your best men—those who can later teach others—and I shall train you all on each of the ‘various items’ you mentioned.”

  Charlie brought another round of beers.

  “Time to make out the order,” Martin said. “Charlie, you’ll have it converted to the local legal format later. Let’s see now …”

  They worked out an order for mosaic stones, that is to say, the tranquilizing gravel, and a sample of pea seeds—the fuel pellets.

  “Leave out the acoustic disruptors. We’ll add in a few as a bonus sample for your testing, with a request to return them to us if they do not meet your needs.”

  They agreed that phone calls could be made to Charlie’s restaurant, and the Koreans could leave messages at the “cowshed.”

  Anne rehearsed the preparations needed for the satellite test.

  First, find an uninhabited region on the path of the satellite’s orbit. There may be many, so they’ll need to be investigated for an abandoned building of some sort. Then we’ll need to place a machine in this building, something with a motor that works—I suppose Cedric will want to know whether or not it runs properly after the test. Martin’s boys can do all that. What else would we need to simulate a target? Ah, yes, a concrete ceiling.

  Cedric will have to answer some questions, too—how tight is the laser beam from the distance of the satellite? How much separating concrete can it penetrate? How about other shielding materials, such as earth or lead. Does the motor have to run on fuel or is an electric motor just as vulnerable?

  Oh, dear. This will probably be the most complicated experiment yet.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Patricia Welles came over to the gym to meet with John Carmichael, her old flame. John was waiting at the doorway and escorted her inside. She waved to the other members of the team, but as they were busy with customers, they just grinned and waved back.

  “How are you doing, Pat?” John felt awkward in her presence. He had never stopped loving her. When Martin offered him the assignment with her, he had hesitated at first, cursed himself for being a fool, and then consented wholeheartedly.

  Patricia was no less embarrassed. She knew she would be, but that didn’t help much when the moment of truth came.

  “I’m fine, Johnny. And you?” She was the only person he had allowed to call him by that name. She hoped he wouldn’t resent it now.

  “Can’t complain,” he said. He took a deep breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been addressed by that name and not corrected its user.”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind,” she said softly. “Now—what are we supposed to be doing on our mission?”

  John shrugged his shoulders.

  “I suppose Martin told you exactly what he told me. Make contact with Iranians in London. If we run into any trouble, contact the admiral—as Martin is away for about a week. So, in the words of the immortal Hercule Poirot, let us exercise our little grey cells.”

  “Do you know of any place where Iranians congregate?”

  “Sorry, no. But we have a computer here—let’s surf the Internet a bit.”

  They found Iranian associations, community centers, schools, bookshops—and restaurants. This seemed most attractive to them both.

  “Let’s not take one of the posh ones,” John said. “It’ll be harder to strike up a casual conversation there.”

  “So we’re looking for a more down-to-earth type restaurant. Perhaps we could tell by the size of the advertisement?”

  “Makes sense. But we’re not limited to only one restaurant. Let’s begin by visiting the one that is closest. Okay with you?”

  The Bita “genuine Iranian food” restaurant was just ten minutes’ walk away. It was quite large, with typical Iranian decorations on the walls. Blue was the dominant color throughout. Only one table was occupied: a couple eating dishes piled with a kind of steamy stew.

  They walked to an empty table and sat down. A waiter materialized beside them instantly and laid two menus on the table.

  “May I get you something to drink?” he asked.

  “Beers for both of us,” John said.

  “Yes, sir. Would you like to taste our Iranian beer?”

  “Certainly,” Patricia said. “We’re here for Iranian food, so we’ll have Iranian beer to go with it. I assume it is non-alcoholic.”

  The waiter grinned.

  “You are absolutely right, Miss. Perhaps the young lady learned this on a visit to Iran?”

  Patricia turned to take a good look at him. He was tall and thin, with slick black hair and a weak chin. He resembled a droopy scarecrow in his Iranian waiter’s uniform.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I have just returned from a glorious trip to Iran. What a marvelous country.”

  “You are very lucky. Unfortunately, I cannot return there.”

  “Really?” Patricia eyes opened innocently. “Why not? Is there a problem?”

  “It’s a good place for tourists. But for an Iranian who does not bow his head, there could be great danger. I shall fetch your drinks now, and you will choose your lunch.”

  When he had left, Patricia leaned toward John.

  “We probably won’t have to look for them, “she whispered. “They’ll come to us.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun, Patty,” John said. “Take it easy. Let’s enjoy our meal first.”

  The menu offered dishes that Patricia remembered from the restaurants she had visited in Tehran. Then she had an idea.

  “Let’s ask the waiter to recommend a typical Iranian meal,” she suggested.

  “Right you are.”

  The waiter returned with the Iranian beer.

  “What would you suggest for an authentic Iranian lunch?” John asked him.

  The waiter smiled, somewhat embarrassed.

  “You might not like it,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” John insisted. “Just make sure it’s authentic and tasty.”

  The waiter nodded and went to the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, he returned with two plates, which he placed before them. He pointed to one.

  “This is kebab koobideh. You won’t find this in many places in London. It is our specialty. And this is our best stew, khoresht fesenjan. It has pomegranates in it, also rather rare on London.”

  Patricia had tasted other stews in Iran, but not this one. She found it delicious. The kebab and the side dishes were all familiar to her. They both enjoyed their lunch heartily. The waiter served them as if they were royalty.

  Before asking for the bill, Patricia said:

  “Well, what do you say? He could be our first recruit. At least as a yardstick to compare with other candidates.”

  “We’ll leave him a large tip,” John said. “When we return here, we’ll be old friends, and we can pick up from there.” He wiggled his finger in the air at the waiter for the
bill.

  Patricia smiled dazzlingly at the waiter as he laid the saucer with the bill and two sweets on the table.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Farhad, Miss,” he answered.

  She held out her hand.

  “My name is Patricia, and this is my friend John,” she said.

  He shook both their hands warmly.

  “Do you work here every day?” Patricia asked. “We enjoyed our meal very much, and would like to return here. And we’d like you to recommend our meal to us.”

  “Every day except Friday.”

  “Evenings, too?”

  “Yes. Afternoons and evenings.”

  They left an enormous tip and went outside. They both felt they had not wasted the association’s money. This was a definite successful first attempt at making contact with an Iranian who didn’t seem to like what was going on in Iran. Of course, they had other Iranian restaurants they had to try out, too.

  Even though Anne knew that Commissaire Duval had no jurisdiction outside France, she still employed evasive measures on her way to the admiral’s office in London. It was one of those weekends she visited her family in Reading, but the meeting with the admiral was imperative.

  “Can you imagine that?” she told the admiral. “That blackguard, Duval, has even put a watch outside my house in Paris. I have lots of fun shaking him off, even when I’m on my way to the university.”