Master of Starlight

by Keith Short

  The three men seated themselves around the circular table at the centre of the room. Malkin knew what to expect. Vladimir Chekhov possessed that uncanny ability to switch the mood of a meeting. One minute he was delighted you could be there; you were his lifelong friend. A minute later, you were Corporate Enemy Number One. He’d become accustomed to it over the years, but what was he going to be like today? And why had he been invited to a meeting with Slavic, of all people? There was no possible link between their businesses. Unless you count . . .

  ‘Last week, I had a profitable meeting with my directors of shipping and civil engineering,’ Chekhov said indifferently. ‘Profitable, that is, because it was face to face. I have regular update meetings with them over our secure video link, as I do with you two gentlemen. But our get-together in this room revealed much more than I’d previously been aware of. I was astounded by the amount of vital information that came out under the most benign questioning from me. So here we are today, gentlemen,’ he said, opening his hands in welcome. ‘Do you follow what I’m saying?’

  They nodded their agreement.

  ‘I will start with you, Slavic.’

  Roman Slavic pinned back his shoulders as if he’d received a command from a military general.

  ‘I’ve read your report. You give the impression that progress on the reactor design is moving forward at an acceptable pace. Just how close are we to our final design safety submission?’

  ‘I’d say we were about two years away from that.’

  ‘And how far are we in front of the rest of the world in coming up with a viable commercial power plant design?’

  ‘Way ahead of anyone else. The Chinese have suspended their fusion research programme and are simply waiting for our franchise. The Americans continue to take an interest in all new forms of nuclear power, of course, but it’s a case of heads in the sand with them. They pretend we don’t exist, especially as we don’t publish our work.’

  ‘Yet I understand the Americans are making good progress on their own research programme into nuclear fusion technology. Am I correct?’

  ‘There are rather a lot of scientific papers coming out of their Lawrenceville Plasma Physics Centre at the moment. All of them are published in the open literature and some may even be of value to us.’

  ‘And they have set up a new design office, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘You don’t think they are breathing down our necks, do you?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Slavic replied, ‘but you know what the Americans are like. They’d love to think of it as a race. Their politicians always make out they’re doing better than anyone else.’

  ‘And how do you know they aren’t winning this race?’

  ‘I’m confident of that. Our experts have analysed every paper they’ve published. In practice, they’re way behind our Greifswald team.’

  ‘You mean to say they would set up a top-secret billion-dollar fusion reactor design programme in Los Alamos on the basis of a few academic papers? What about the reports they don’t publish in the open literature? What do we know about them?’

  ‘Nothing – by definition.’

  The room was air conditioned, yet Slavic was starting to look hot and uncomfortable in his formal suit and institute tie. This would normally be a source of pleasure to Malkin – he’d never liked Slavic – but he was next in the firing line.

  ‘Slavic, at Goldhurst you have an experienced security team at your disposal,’ he gestured towards Malkin, ‘and you haven’t for one minute contemplated using them to find out what the Americans are doing.’

  Malkin pursed his mouth and shook his head in mock bewilderment.

  ‘That brings me to my key question. Where is their breakthrough information coming from? They don’t even have their own fusion research facility. Who else has the data to back a commercial fusion reactor design?’

  ‘We are the only ones. No one else in the world has such data.’

  ‘Do you think someone is leaking our data to them?’

  Slavic looked horrified. ‘What, you’re not suggesting that—’

  Chekhov interjected. ‘Who in Fusion has access to this information?’

  ‘Four personnel only. Myself, Dabrowski, Schroeder and Kaminsky. But since the Greifswald breakthrough we’ve followed your instructions and placed the tightest security around the data from our stellerator runs. We’ve—’

  ‘That brings me to my next point,’ Chekhov interjected again. ‘I understand that one of the four you mention has not been seen for weeks. Am I correct?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Dabrowski left work sick and didn’t return. We’ve been unable to locate him and my team has had to cover for him. I didn’t want to bother you with such personnel matters.’

  Looking exasperated, Chekhov turned towards Malkin. ‘You see what I mean about face-to-face meetings. My chief scientist has gone AWOL and the Americans are coincidentally making remarkable progress on their own reactor design,’ he pointed his thumb in Slavic’s direction, ‘and he doesn’t think it’s important enough to discuss with me.’

  At the mention of Leon Dabrowski, Malkin began to share Slavic’s discomfort. How did Chekhov find out about this? There was going to be the mother of all searches for Dabrowski – and Malkin knew where to start looking for him in the evenings. He caught a movement from the corner of his eye; the circling sharks were looking at him.

  ‘Slavic, I want to make my position clear, because you don’t seem to have any appreciation of the gravity of the situation. The reason I’m investing a billion euros in developing the world’s first nuclear fusion-based power station is because I recognised the raw talent in Dabrowski. As a result of his technical leadership, the Wendelstein-7X stellerator can now produce more power from the fusion process than it takes to operate it.’

  Slavic closed his eyes and dolefully nodded his head.

  Chekhov leaned forward and calmly asked, ‘Why do you think I appointed you as my CEO?’

  The question obviously surprised Slavic. ‘I’m grateful for your confidence in me, Mr Chekhov. I’ve served you well and the company has thrived under my management, I’ve supported—’

  ‘No, Slavic, you haven’t done any of that. You are a conduit between me and my technical team, as simple as that. As a former public schoolboy, Oxford graduate, president of an academic institution and God knows what else, you provide my London-based company with a suitable figurehead. If I placed one of my compatriots in such a position, he would never command the same respect and credibility. Despite your Russian parentage and your bilingual capability, you are the archetypal English gentleman and, more importantly, you are a yes man. You do not question my instructions or my decisions.’

  Malkin chortled to himself as he watched Slavic deflate like a balloon. Oh, this is really good. I’m enjoying this.

  Chekhov continued. ‘I do hope you appreciate my other senior appointments to Fusion. I’ve provided you with the dream team when it comes to technical specialists. Kaminsky is an outstanding and dedicated IT engineer and Schroeder and Dabrowski are both world class physicists. Dabrowski – ah, yes, the fugitive. Well, he is one of the few people currently alive who you could truly refer to as brilliant. And he works for you, Slavic. For God’s sake, man, why didn’t you look after him?’

  He’s going to get the bullet.

  ‘Think yourself lucky I’m not going to sack you on the spot. Believe it or not, I don’t wish to dismantle the company’s technical lead team while we are on the edge of this precipice. God knows what you would all get up to if I set you loose on the world. Listen carefully, both of you. This is what I intend to do about the unfortunate position we find ourselves in.’ To Malkin’s surprise, Chekhov turned towards him. ‘Malkin, you will arrange for a formal investigation into the efficacy of Fusion’s data security procedures.’ Turning hi
s attention to Slavic, he said, ‘I want you to look into every possibility for accelerating the programme. Finish your design safety reports. When you have them, let me know and I’ll see what I can have done regarding corner cutting in the government’s safety assessment process. You may leave us now.’

  Ignoring Slavic, as if he’d already left the room, Chekhov turned again to Malkin. ‘Now, I want to review the overall current security arrangements at Goldhurst . . .’

  Red-faced, Slavic stuffed his papers into his briefcase and skulked off towards the elevator.

  ‘You see, there is a possibility that Dabrowski has defected,’ Chekhov continued. ‘He may already be working for the Americans, helping them to develop their own design of fusion reactor. Personally, I don’t believe he’s the sort of person to do such a thing, but we need to find out why he’s gone missing at such a crucial stage of the programme. Without Dabrowski, our project could grind to a halt. You have to find him and bring him back in, Malkin. Don’t let me down.’

  Malkin felt the sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Oh, God! This is the worst thing that could have happened to me. I’m in charge of tracking down Chekhov’s son for the second time in my life.

  Flashing images of Vladimir Chekhov putting a fatherly arm around him, a cold knife sliding into his stomach, a last glimpse of Chekhov’s smile . . . falling. Malkin tried to stand. The seat belt pulled at his waist and claustrophobia overcame him. He started to hyperventilate and the sweat poured from his forehead.

  ‘How did you sleep, Mr Malkin?’

  ‘Whaa . . .?’

  It was coming back. He’d struggled with them until one of them held down his arm while the other administered an injection to the back of his hand. He could see them again, clicking his safety belt into place and reclining his seat before they disappeared into the swirling mist. He must have slept all the way across the Atlantic.

  ‘Mr Malkin?’

  There was no choice about this flight. Chekhov had insisted it had to be face to face.

  ‘Mr Malkin, we’ve landed,’ the stewardess said. ‘It’s a beautiful morning out there.’

  ‘Get me out of this can, for God’s sake!’

  As he walked away from the airport Arrivals hall, Malkin breathed in the warm dry air with its hint of desert dust. He looked up to the empty sky and embraced its open space as if he’d just left a dark windowless prison cell. The Buick pulled away from the terminal and started to lap up the sixty miles from Albuquerque airport to his destination – distancing him by the minute from that heartless flying tube he’d just stepped out of. He felt a profound sense of relief, yet logic told him he was now travelling at higher risk than on the plane.

  The bar on the outskirts of Downtown Los Alamos looked quiet, with only two cars in the parking lot. Malkin gave the chauffeur his instructions to return within thirty minutes and cast a glance in both highway directions before strutting across to the entrance. The front-of-house pool room was almost deserted, as he’d hoped. The main source of light was the canopy over the single pool table, which was occupied by two middle-aged men in corduroys and braces. Focused on their game, they paid him little attention as he headed for the dark corner of the bar towards the only other customer in the room.

  He barely recognised Karl Fenner. Early twenties, dressed in jeans and T-shirt and sporting a red baseball cap, it was the first time Malkin had seen Fenner without a suit. ‘You fancy a Bud?’ he asked.

  ‘No, mine’s a Coke.’

  The coded greeting confirmed, Malkin ordered from the barmaid and returned to the table with iced water, another signal that meant all was well and the transfer could safely take place.

  ‘OK, Fenner, we have to be quick. We can never be sure if either of us has been followed. Those men at the table?’ He tilted his head back over his shoulder without turning.

  ‘I’ve been watching them. They’re not interested and we’re out of earshot anyway.’

  ‘OK, give it to me straight.’

  Fenner leaned forward across the drinks, his voice hardly above a whisper. ‘The data we’re getting definitely don’t belong to Los Alamos. And I should know cos I’m bang up to date with the input from all the contributing US research teams. This stuff comes from outside the USA and it’s potentially shit hot, like the Holy Grail for us fusion scientists – but only if we can see their source data. From my Cambridge days, I know what’s generally going on around the world and I’d say this lot comes from Greifswald. I can’t be one hundred per cent sure, of course. As you know, their output’s now classified as secret.’

  ‘What are the Los Alamos teams doing with this information?’

  ‘The project director partitions the data and sends me what I need for my own work. I have to tell him it’s not enough to help our design calcs and he’s getting pretty pissed off about it. I’ve managed to download a section of the data I’ve been asked to review. Here.’ Fenner discreetly palmed a wafer-zip across the table. ‘It’s the only copy. I’d lose my job if they found out. You can have it checked against Fusion’s original data if you know someone who has access. Their physicists would be able to tell if the information belongs to them.’

  Malkin turned his head to check that the pool players and the barmaid weren’t looking and slipped the button-like object into his jacket pocket.

  ‘You’ve done well, Fenner. I’m very grateful.’

  ‘I’m the one who has to be grateful, Mr Malkin. The job Mr Chekhov got me is out of this world and it pays twice as much as I would have earned in London.’

  ‘He only just managed to steal you from under the Fusion interview panel’s noses, you realise that?’ Malkin smirked to himself. Slavic’s loss. ‘Mr Chekhov will no doubt thank you personally one day for what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Well, thanks again, Mr Malkin. I hope it’s what you want and been worth the trip over. Have a nice flight back to London.’

  The meeting had gone well until that moment. Malkin’s stomach churned at the prospect of getting back into that tiny jet.

  Malkin wiped his sweating palms on his thighs and squirmed in discomfort. Since his return from Los Alamos there’d been little time for him to make progress with his investigations at Goldhurst, and now he faced Chekhov in a video meeting that was rapidly becoming the mother of all reprimands. Chekhov should have been pleased with his progress, shouldn’t he? He’d confirmed that the Americans were in possession of Fusion data. Yet Chekhov only seemed to be interested in talking about Leon Dabrowski.

  ‘Still no sign of him? What have you been doing, Malkin?’

  ‘I’m sure Dabrowski is still in the capital, sir. We’re trawling London on a daily basis but it looks like he’s gone to ground. We’re doing our best.’

  ‘Then your best isn’t good enough,’ Chekhov growled. ‘I can wait no longer. I’m sending across a cohort of my own security guards and they will find him.’

  Malkin shuddered. Chekhov must no longer be interested in restoring Dabrowski to his position in the Fusion technical team. This was about avenging treachery – just like his father used to do. And there was no doubt about the nature of the beast that Chekhov was about to unleash. Trained killers, ex-special forces, they’d track Dabrowski down like hunting dogs and eliminate him. That would solve his own problem, of course, but they weren’t chasing the right man. Dabrowski wasn’t interested in the project, he was preoccupied with finding his girlfriend.

  ‘Sir, I’ll provide your men with whatever support they may need.’

  ‘You do that, Malkin. Chekhov out.’

  ‘Is there anyone else you would like me to call, Mr Malkin?’ said the Melomet.

  ‘No!’ he shouted, his cheeks burning like hot coals. ‘Malkin out.’

  He leaned forward on his elbows and cradled his head in despair. If he finds him but doesn’t kill him, he’ll discover the truth about what happened
to his son. He’d have to step up his efforts to find Dabrowski before Chekhov’s thugs got to him. And he feared that this race would be over quickly. Where is Dabrowski hiding?

  CHAPTER 27

  The London Metro-tube was at its busiest this time in the evening. To the annoyance of the suited city slicker who’d boarded the train ahead of him, Leon managed to grab the last available seat in the carriage. Although he was exhausted, he’d spent a worthwhile afternoon shadowing one of Schumann’s reconnaissance teams and was finally getting to grips with their work at ground level. The data they were gathering on individual brothels would supplement his own satellite surveillance results; he’d start preparing for his weekly briefing with Pavel as soon as he got back to his apartment. He settled back to make the weary return journey, but not before he checked out his fellow travellers. A small group of Classicos acknowledged him as they passed down the carriage – no one suspicious among them. He took a final look around, leaned back in his seat and waited for the next stop.

  The train left Euston Square station and the new passengers completed their jostling for the vacated seats. As he did at every station, Leon carried out a meticulous survey – could anyone be following him? He noticed a hooded figure at the end of the carriage dressed in black, holding on to an overhead support strap and facing towards the engine – Leon couldn’t see his face. Could be a she, even? He’d keep an eye on this one.

  Passenger exchanges were becoming more frenzied; many had to stand in the aisle where they continually squeezed and shuffled to minimise their personal discomfort. But the figure at the front of the carriage remained rooted to the spot throughout the journey – no discernible movement, part of the carriage’s structure, like the Statue of Liberty holding high her torch. Who is it? The train was almost at Leon’s destination. He should be feeling relieved at this stage of the journey, yet as he waited by the exit door the anxiety wouldn’t leave him. And neither did the hooded passenger, who got off the train at the same stop.