Global Conspiracy

by David Shomron

  “Have you considered that the commissaire may interpret your shenanigans as admitting that you have something to hide? That you’re truly up to something illegal?”

  Anne thought a bit.

  “Frankly, no,” she admitted. “Probably poor judgment on my part. I hope my behavior looked innocent and natural. But I had to take evasive action when I went to meet with Boulanger.”

  “Of course. That was different.”

  Anne gave Boulanger’s DVD to the admiral. She described her initial plans for the experiment—the location along the orbit, the questions for Sir Cedric, the motor to be beamed, etc.

  “We’ll probably need to register another commercial company as our cover for the test. And it will be your job to supervise the team running it.”

  “I’ll look into it. As you know, I have my sources of information. But I can tell you that a desert region will not be suitable because of the lack of buildings. And even if we did find one, we’d have a hard time explaining what we Westerners are doing there. We could, of course, make another movie. We’d still need to explain why we’re putting a lorry or bulldozer into the building.”

  “So?”

  “So be patient while I do my background research. It seems likely that we’ll need to send out preliminary expeditions to the best candidate locations along Boulanger’s itinerary. I’ll consult with Martin—he should be back from Korea any day now.”

  “Well,” Anne said, getting to her feet, “It’s your baby now. I need to get to my children and parents, and catch up on my rest.”

  She felt relieved. Some of the onus of responsibility had been lifted off her shoulders.

  The children were upstairs in bed. Professor Cooper also felt he should retire early that evening. Anne and her mother chatted in the kitchen.

  “You know, Annie,” Mrs. Cooper said, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you for some time, now.”

  “No, mum, I’m not getting married again,” Anne said lightheartedly. “Every few months you ask me the same question.”

  “And you always give me the same answer,” her mother smiled. “But no, Annie. I wanted to ask something else. I’m worried about you.”

  Anne was on the alert immediately. Was she that transparent?

  “Whatever makes you say that?” she asked.

  “I’m your mother, Annie. Your being a grown woman with children does nothing to change that fact. You know as well as I do that mothers have an acute sensitivity about anything concerning their children. And I can clearly see that something has come over you. You’re different from what you used to be, and you’ve told me nothing of your own volition. So I’m asking you outright—what’s the matter with you?”

  Anne made a feeble attempt to brush her mother off.

  “It’s nothing important, mum. I’m just tired …”

  “Stop that, Annie. You don’t fool me one bit. At first, I thought you were in love. Then I got the impression that it was something else. Am I wrong?”

  Anne dropped her gaze. She couldn’t hide anything from her mother.

  “No, mum, you’re very observant,” she said. Then, as carefully as she could, she confessed. “I met someone. I stupidly thought that I had found happiness again. I was mistaken. It still smarts, mum, and I would rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.”

  There followed a long pause.

  “And?” Mrs. Cooper prodded.

  Anne was about to say “and nothing,” but instead sighed and said:

  “Yes, there’s more. A pig-headed French police officer is giving me no rest. He believes that I am somehow involved in Tanya’s murder. He has a detective outside my house who follows my every move. It’s awful. Naturally, I look different, though I’m doing my utmost to ignore that aspect of my life.”

  Mrs. Cooper’s face revealed that Anne’s answer did not satisfy her, but she said nothing. There’d be time enough to catch up on this issue later.

  “I think I’ll go to bed now,” Anne said, kissed her mother goodnight and went upstairs.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Martin and Spencer had returned from Seoul, pleased with their achievements. Martin set up a meeting with the admiral, and they met in the latter’s office. After toasting Martin’s return with a shot of whisky, Admiral Stone listened carefully to his report.

  “Spencer and I sincerely believe,” Martin concluded, “that Sing is a loyal and trustworthy partner. Despite his being a smuggler, he is also a devoted patriot, and he would do anything to topple the North Korean tyrant.”

  Martin went on to describe the methods they employed for the shipping of the materials and the training of their use—which shouldn’t take more than three or four days.

  “Quite a nice job you did there,” the admiral said admiringly. “Frankly, I believed it would take much longer. Have you seen John yet?”

  “I got a very short report from him over the phone, on the Iranian dissidents’ situation. I’ve fixed a debriefing meeting with him for tomorrow.”

  “We have a new mission on our hands now—testing ‘wasp.’ I mean Sir Cedric’s laser beam inside Boulanger’s satellite. It’s orbiting us as we speak, and we need to set up an experiment to see that it works as designed.”

  “And that, if I remember correctly, is to neutralize machinery by beaming them with the laser. Preferably a nuclear reactor.”

  “Right. Boulanger met with Anne in Lyon and gave her this DVD with all the information we need on the satellite’s orbit.”

  “Shouldn’t pose much of a problem,” Martin said, taking the envelope.

  The admiral laughed.

  “You’ll change your mind when you look at the geography involved. We’ll need to find a suitable location somewhere along a path several thousand kilometers long, crossing all of Africa and Asia.”

  Martin whistled.

  “Let’s assume for now that we have a suitable location,” he said. “How do we simulate a nuclear reactor there?”

  “Well, that’s for Sir Cedric to advise. But I believe that if we have any kind of building it could serve as a bunker. We could add extra layers of concrete if Sir Cedric thinks it necessary.”

  “And the machinery itself?”

  “Again—that’s Sir Cedric’s call. I think any old vehicle will do. As long as it runs. What we need to do now is plot out the itinerary of the satellite on the map. I’ll get some up-to-date maps, geological data, and satellite photography from the admiralty. It’ll be your team’s job to find an isolated place along this path for the experiment.”

  “What do you want geological maps for?” Martin wondered.

  “Who knows? They’re available, and we might find something interesting there. Now go and get updated on the Iranian front. I’m off to the admiralty.”

  Anne’s routine work continued as usual. All her activities with the association took place when she had no other academic obligations, such as lectures and exams. None of her university colleagues had the least suspicion that she was occupied with anything outside her normal, scholarly life. Yet this supplementary work amounted to just regular board meeting, two meetings with Boulanger, one with Dodson, and several hours of intense thinking.

  Over the past weeks, she felt somewhat idle—the association’s matters were now in the hands of the good Admiral Stone, and thanks to Duval’s pestering, she was doing less of her regular routine. In retrospect, before becoming involved with the association and the police, this was her life! And she had not considered herself bored at the time—on the contrary, she thought she was a very busy woman.

  Apparently, with the right incentive, you could do much more than you imagined you could. And all this had started about a year ago with a simple challenge by a student in one of my classes. It reminded her of a Till Eulenspiegel story in which a windborne feather hits the right place and pandemonium ensues.

  Anne hadn’t seen Inspecteur Marnier outside her house for a couple of days now. Had the commissaire conclude
d that she could not lead to the solution of his problem? Or that she wasn’t worth the while and effort? Perhaps he had more important and urgent cases to attend? And did that mean she was off the hook? Could she now return to “active duty” with the association? Maybe that was exactly what that crafty Duval wanted her to think? So that he could apprehend her when her guard was down? Apprehend her for what? Did he think she would lead him to Allier’s killer?

  What a lot of question! she thought. All speculations! Better wait a bit and see. But having ‘nothing’ to do is really tiresome.

  Nothing? Tanya’s murderer is still out there somewhere. The police have totally abandoned the case. The only lead I have is that the killer’s girlfriend works in rue Saint-Denis. So, that’s where I’m going, too. But I can’t go looking like this—I have to dress differently. How about as a man? Forget it, everyone would see right through the disguise. How about an elderly woman: a lawyer or a social worker? Hmm, could work. Still, I need different clothes for the role. So—let’s go shopping!

  A hop to the Galeries Lafayette took care of her needs. Back at home she surveyed her “harvest”—a grey suit with a skirt below the knees, a masculine shirt and tie, low-heeled leather shoes, glasses with thick, dark rims, a tough, plastic briefcase suitable for carrying under her armpit very businesslike, she thought, and, for security’s sake, a stun gun.

  Donning her new outfit, Anne looked at herself in the mirror. Too new-looking, she thought. She took off her shirt and skirt, deliberately crumpled them a bit, and put them on again. There—that’s better. Next came a heavy layer of face cream, covered by lots of face powder—the way older women attempt to hide their wrinkles. She put on the glasses and faced the mirror again. Not bad, not bad. The hair isn’t okay, though. Anne coiled her hair into a bun and used several hairpins to keep it in place. She slipped the stun gun into her waistband, where it would be concealed by the suit jacket.

  Next, she transferred her cellular phone from her bag into a pocket of her jacket. Over her objections, Martin had bought one for her a few months ago. You don’t have to use it, he had said. I promise never to call you on it, either, or give anyone the number. But I insist you have a method of summoning assistance in an emergency. Here, look. Martin coded it so that a long press on the digit 9 would dial the police. That’s all, he said. Keep it charged at night, and carry it with you wherever you go. I put it on silent, so you won’t hear it if it rings. It would be a wrong number anyway.

  Anne summoned a taxi, stuck out her tongue at her image in the mirror, and went downstairs. As she was leaving the building, her next-door neighbor was making her way in. They both nodded to each other politely, as total strangers do under these circumstances, banal mutterings of “Madame,” “Madame,” and Anne was outside, rejoicing. Her disguise had worked!

  Anne instructed the taxi driver to take her to Place Pompidou. As she walked toward the famous red-light district, her resolution began to falter. She bit her lip and forced herself to approach one of the dimly lit hotel doorways.

  “Excuse me, where can I find Mademoiselle Ninette, please?” Anne asked the first girl she encountered. “The blonde?”

  The prostitute looked her up and down scornfully.

  “There,” she said, and waved toward a hotel diagonally opposite the street.

  With her heart in her mouth, Anne walked across the street in the direction of the hotel. She had no intention of going inside or of questioning anyone again. To keep up appearances she walked past the hotel, then hastened her steps, intent on leaving the area as fast as she could. But she had memorized the hotel’s location.

  At a nearby bar, she downed a glass of cognac to soothe her nerves. Then she took a taxi back home.

  John and Patricia visited three other Iranian restaurants. Though they exchanged a word or two with some of the waiters, they had never managed to strike up a conversation with any of the other diners. They decided to return to their first restaurant, Bita, where they already knew the waiter.

  Farhad recognized them and welcomed them warmly. He led them to a table and set two menus on it.

  “But perhaps you would like to trust me again with the dishes,” he said. “Like last time.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” said John. “Jolly good job you did then.”

  “I wonder,” said Patricia, smiling at the waiter, “if you could clear something up for me, Farhad. I have already told you I was on a trip to Iran. However, I discovered there that people were not very open to conversation. Was I wrong? I mean, it seemed that they were only repeating things they were permitted to, and I never got an honest personal opinion about anything.”

  “You are very observant, Miss Patricia.”

  “We would like to invite you to dine with us on one of the evenings you’re not working. Perhaps we could hear things from you that I couldn’t hear in Iran?”

  Farhad was embarrassed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “What could I possibly tell you? I haven’t been to Iran for several years.”

  “Everything! The truth!”

  He hesitated. His eyes darted around—Patricia couldn’t tell whether he was looking for assistance or making sure he was not being overheard.

  “You are very nice people,” he said hoarsely, “and I am reluctant to refuse you. I am free only on Fridays. But I really don’t think I can tell you anything more about Iran.”

  Patricia giggled.

  “We don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” she said. “We’ll just ask questions. If you want to, you can answer them.”

  “All right,” he said finally.

  “Next Friday then,” John boomed. “Now bring us your best meal, my friend.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Martin and Admiral Stone met once again to finalize the details of the satellite experiment. This time they were joined by Sir Cedric, who had earlier been given the outlines of Boulanger’s specifications.

  “What have you made of Boulanger’s DVD?” the admiral asked.

  “Very impressive,” Martin responded. “I won’t bore you with the technical details—I don’t understand all of them myself. Basically, given accurate coordinates, he can aim Sir Cedric’s laser to that location with amazing precision. When that target is ‘in view’—about every two hours or a little more—Boulanger can activate the laser to shine on that location.”

  “Did you have enough data to find an area for the experiment?”

  “Oh, more than enough. We’ve rejected anywhere east of the Red Sea—access is just too inconvenient. That leaves Africa. We have excluded all the countries with totalitarian regimes—their security measures are very tight and we would not be free to move about. That leaves only Morocco and Mauritania. Of these, Mauritania is far more attractive for our purposes. I have requested George to set up a five-day trip covering the northern area of that country. Naturally, if we find a suitable place sooner, we’ll cancel the other visits.”

  “You’ve set your criteria wisely,” Sir Cedric spoke for the first time that evening. “But you need to know more in order to make certain that you have the proper site.”

  “Yes, indeed, Sir Cedric,” Martin said. “That is why we need your presence here. What, exactly, should we be looking for?”

  “Keep in mind,” Sir Cedric said, “that we are, in principle, attempting to simulate how we think a nuclear reactor could be built. It would probably be several meters underground, and enclosed in concrete. Access would be through a main tunnel, entering either horizontally from far away, or vertically through shafts drilled into the ground. There would be electrical systems, water systems, fuel systems, transportation systems, conveyance systems—almost anything you can think of to sustain uninterrupted work underground.”

  “Good thing we don’t want to blow one up,” muttered the admiral.

  “That’s the whole point,” Sir Cedric said. “Neutralizing without blowing up! Most of these systems are there to afford mobility. Mobility is obtained
by motors, whether fuel or electrically operated—we can dismiss wind and solar energy sources. The metallic mechanical moving parts of these motors are what my laser beams damage—or, at least, that’s the idea.”

  “How on earth can we simulate an underground bunker?” the admiral mused.

  There was a short silence.

  “We’ll need to find an abandoned building and try to extemporize as best we can,” Martin offered.

  “You may need to add additional shielding,” Sir Cedric said. “Cover it with more concrete, for example.”

  “I’ll need to think about it,” Martin said. “What ‘metallic mechanical moving parts’ would be most suitable?”

  “Oh, almost any old thing,” Sir Cedric said. “Just have it large enough. A large car motor would be fine. Or a tractor. A windmill would do just as well, but you’d find it hard to pour concrete over it, eh?” He found his joke funny enough to laugh at it repeatedly.

  “Anything else?” the admiral asked, rolling his eyes upward. “Good. Then we’re adjourned.”

  Martin assembled all the scraps of information about Mauritania that he could get his hands on. The Internet, naturally, supplied volumes, but a lot was repetitious. Once he got the hang of what a tourist could expect—assisted by brochures from several travel agencies—he narrowed his scrutiny to the largest city in northern Mauritania: Zouérat. Right in the path of the satellite orbit. It was just over six hundred meters above sea level, and it was the capital of the iron-mining region. An active railroad connected Zouérat to Nouadhibou, the second largest city in Mauritania after its capital, Nouakchott, and also its largest port. This train, probably the longest in the world, sometimes it reached a length of three kilometers, carried iron ore from Zouérat and nearby Fdérik, to this port on the Atlantic Ocean. Two carriages on the train also carried passengers.