Clear Skies

  “From the money trail uncovered by the FBI’s Marseille office, we know the agreed amount must be close to two hundred and forty million euros. The Chinese must think the prize is well and truly worth the price. With that much money in play, personal greed might have tempted one of the architects of this outlandish operation to alter the plan for personal gain and bring in Chloe Harris to help.” Slade reflected on who the puppeteer might be, and his thoughts drifted again to Neil Ashton.

  “Or it was a sinister permutation of the operation planned right from the outset, non?” Roche said.

  “I agree—that’s the more likely scenario. Chloe Harris’s late appearance in the year-long game plan could be integral to the entire scheme. She might even have been the starting point, but we don’t know enough yet to speculate.”

  “By the way, I also checked local port authority files and found a voyage plan has been lodged for the Chevalier.” Roche finished the last mouthful of his Crêpe Suzette and went on. “It leaves at an undisclosed time tomorrow morning and will dock for a short time in Marseille, leave later the same day for Barcelona, and stay there through the day and overnight. From there it will sail to Lisbon, stay overnight before it leaves for Bordeaux, and tie up at London’s Canary Wharf in five days.”

  “That confirms what the fake Carol Palmer told us tonight. While she’s at sea, we’ll visit Richard Palmer at BFI—hopefully tomorrow, if the US Embassy comes through with an appointment. If Palmer believes us and realizes he’s been betrayed, he might give up everything he knows. We need significant leads and hard evidence before we can make any arrests.”

  Slade helped himself to coffee from the pot on the room service trolley and asked with an air of studied indifference, “Have you checked the download from Isa’s hard drive?”

  “As far as I can tell using the limited tools I have here, it’s pretty clean. Document files are predominantly about fashion and clothing designs. Emails as well. Once a month she sent Aculeus a short report encrypted by the code they’re using.” He went on when he saw a flicker of emotion cross Slade’s face. “The reports contained dates Isa worked at Palmer’s residence in the previous month and her work schedule for the following month. They also listed names of guests at dinner parties, as well as audio files and transcripts of the party conversations recorded on the listening devices she’d installed.”

  “Who were the guests?”

  “The same six Japanese men from two heavy industry firms, Bōei Seisaku and Tanabe Jūkō, collaborating in the aeronautics manufacturing sector enjoyed Palmer’s hospitality every time. No one from the Japanese government. Four men were senior executives, and two were engineers. Names of female guests invited for entertainment and to provide compromising circumstances were not listed. I’ll put all of this into a report and send to you later.”

  “What did they talk about at these events?”

  “According to Isa’s reports, Hewitt, or Richard Palmer on one of his rare overnight visits to Japan, would hand over sections of BFI current fighter technology. In return, they received an oral promise from the Japanese every time, guaranteeing the selection of BFI’s tender for the government-industry contract.” Roche paused to drink his coffee. “It’s a bit naïve to hand over blueprints without a written agreement, n’est-ce pas?”

  “For the Japanese, a spoken promise is just as binding as a written document. Personal honor’s involved. BFI would have known that, and in any case, I’m sure they won’t hand over the most sensitive technology before the winner of the contract is announced,” Slade said.

  “One more thing. I’ve found a small-scale onion routing network that used Isa’s computer as a link in the chain.”

  “What’s an onion routing network? I considered myself computer literate until I started hanging out with you.”

  “A computer-savvy person hacks into several layers of unrelated computers and installs software to route documents from his computer through the compromised machines until they reach a final computer used by a close conspirator. It’s usually set up to send sensitive information that he doesn’t want traced back to his own computer. Isa’s laptop was used as a link in the chain. These onion rings, as they’re called, can be difficult if not impossible to break into. Pretty incredible technology, non?”

  “But if you can break into it, can you read the messages?”

  “Non. The hacker would have passed the text through a transformation engine and ended up with unreadable encrypted text to protect the data from prying eyes while it flowed through cyberspace until it reached the person he trusts to read it. That person has a key to run the process in reverse so the text is decrypted and becomes readable again. It can’t be read without the key.”

  Roche poured the last of the coffee from the pot into his cup.

  “Carol Palmer’s computer was part of this network too, and hers seems to have served as the end terminal,” he said. “And I bet Hewitt’s computer was the origin; in all likelihood, he set it up. Tomorrow, I’ll check the hard drive I downloaded from his London office computer.”

  Roche swallowed the last of his coffee in a single gulp. “The key to decrypt the message at its final destination is not the one Aculeus used in its communications. So I think this network was set up by Hewitt to communicate with Mrs. Palmer secretly. Remember when I saw them in Palmer’s suite, they displayed a lot more affection than you’d expect between an executive assistant and his boss’s wife.”

  Slade fixed his gaze on the ceiling light over the desk where Roche sat. “If Isa has the key to this onion routing network, could she read messages while they’re transmitted through her computer?”

  “Non, the transmission would be too fast.” Roche ran his hand upwards through his hair, giving himself the appearance of standing on a bleak clifftop with his back to the wind. “But if she has the know-how, she could have set up her computer to download and save any background transmissions onto a connected external drive. And if she has the decryption key, she might be able to read the messages later.”

  “But you didn’t find any of them on her hard drive?” Slade lowered his gaze from the ceiling and smiled when he saw Roche’s hair.

  “Non. And to be frank, I doubt she has that level of communication technology skills. Her primary interest is fashion.”

  “Don’t forget she’s a clandestine operative working with dangerously smart, ambitious, and no doubt ruthless individuals, who trained her,” Slade said.

  CHAPTER 33

  (Monday Morning—London)

  Soon after the flight attendant distributed refreshments to the passengers on their flight to London, Roche handed back his tray without touching the food.

  “This sandwich was old before it was even prepared,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure the coffee will make your hair fall out. Soyez prévenue. Be warned—drink it at your own risk.”

  Roche booted up his computer and used the short flight time to sift through the data he’d downloaded from Hewitt’s computer at BFI.

  Slade swallowed the lukewarm coffee in a single gulp, tried unsuccessfully to slide his legs under the seat in front, and closed his eyes. Soon, they would land at Heathrow, and after the meeting with Palmer at BFI, they’d join Isa at the London Fashion Week venue. The anticipation of seeing her again aroused him, though his emotions excited, confused, and disturbed him in equal measure. He dozed off within five minutes and did not stir until Roche nudged him awake ten minutes before landing.

  Slade’s cell phone buzzed as they strode from the Immigration Counter to the airport’s exit.

  At the other end, Fontaine said, “One of the FBI guys in our London embassy will be waiting outside the exit with a car. You’ll find it easily enough from the diplomatic plates. He’ll take you to your hotel and pick you up again at one-thirty for your appointment at BFI. The embassy arranged a meeting with Richard Palmer at two o’clock.”

  “Thanks, Ben. Any news of Chloe Harris?” Slade asked.

  “We arr
ived at her hotel at six this morning. She was still a no-show at nine, so we checked her suite and found a hotel maid inside preparing for the next guest. Harris had long gone. The concierge said the hotel’s limousine took her and a mountain of luggage to the Chevalier at four in the morning. I called the Port Authority, and the folks there believe the yacht set off at four-thirty. Hold on a tick, Dan . . . ”

  Fontaine paused to listen to Miles speaking in the background before he continued.

  “Mark talked to the hotel driver, who saw her board, and when he drove away, he heard a car pull up beside the vessel in the spot he’d just left. Out of curiosity, he looked in his rearview mirror and thought he saw three people get out of a cab.”

  “Was he able to describe them?” Slade asked.

  “It was more of an impression than a clear view. He was accelerating away, and it was still dark, so he can’t give us an unequivocal statement about whether they were male or female, old or young. He wasn’t even one hundred percent certain they boarded the yacht after Harris.”

  “Well, at least Harris is out of the way for a while.”

  “One more thing. We can’t find any trace of Sakata’s movements. He hasn’t left France by air or train. He could still be undercover in Nice.”

  “Thanks, Ben. Call me anytime you have new information.”

  They walked out of the terminal to the pick-up area and headed to a diplomatic car with the US flag.

  The driver left them at the May Fair, the designated hotel for London Fashion Week. They checked in and persuaded the receptionist to give them early access to their rooms.

  She handed over their room keys and an envelope. “Your rooms are next to Ms. Kato’s on the third floor, and she left these entry passes to Fashion Week for you both.” She hesitated, weighing whether to continue, then said, “If you see Ms. Kato soon, could you please tell her that no one from British Fighter Industries came to pick up the envelope she left with us this morning. She said a person called Upton would come to collect it by nine-thirty at the latest.”

  “I can deliver the envelope to Ms. Upton,” Slade said. “We’ll meet her at two o’clock today at BFI before we go to Fashion Week. If she swings by here before we go, you can contact me. I’ll be in my room or at the bar having lunch until we leave at one-thirty for our meeting.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate that. Ms. Kato seemed concerned about it.” For the receptionist, it was a problem solved; for Slade, it might have been a problem about to spiral out of control.

  “No worries.” Slade took the envelope and noted the hotel’s stationery.

  They stepped into the elevator, and Slade glanced at Roche. “This could be interesting. If Isa is a courier delivering a document to BFI, her feet could be deeper in this shit than we thought,” he said.

  “You have to admit that neither a trained career operative nor a criminal would leave top-secret documents with a hotel receptionist for a secretary to collect and merely hope all went well,” Roche said in her defense.

  “You’re probably right. See you in fifteen minutes for lunch.”

  Slade, refreshed after a shower and a change of clothes, called Isa.

  “We’ve arrived,” he said, the anticipation of connecting with her in his voice. “Thanks for the entry passes. We’ve got a meeting at two, and if all goes well, we should catch up with you over there at Somerset House by two-fifty.”

  “Great. You’ll be in time for Ono’s show at three. A third of the dresses are my designs, and I’ll strut out with her on the runway at the end of the show.” Isa’s excitement was palpable. “I’ve worked on her collections before, but always behind the scenes, never in the spotlight. I have no idea what’ll happen after this,” she said. “All I know is I’m not going to let myself lose momentum.”

  The same forward-moving attitude had propelled her into the dangerous web of death and intrigue with the DIA, Aculeus, and the Harris sisters, Slade thought.

  “I look forward to seeing you again soon. Fashion is less of an interest, I have to admit.”

  “Fashion is incredibly hard work, and from the thousands of buyers at this venue, it’s also a serious business with fortunes to be made,” Isa said with the full force of her passion.

  “If fashion is looking for a rising star, you’ll fit the bill in every dimension,” Slade said. “I’m crossing my fingers for you.”

  He ended the call and sat at the desk. He checked the hotel stationery folder in the drawer and took out an envelope identical to the one Isa left with the receptionist.

  He opened Isa’s envelope with the ginger care of a trained investigator and found papers containing technical diagrams and lists of data as well as blueprints of an ultra-advanced aircraft unlike any conventional plane. From his limited technical knowledge, it looked like specifications for the epoch-changing fighter described in the Clear Skies memorandum. That document would be classified as maximum security for limited distribution within BFI, the DIA, and possibly AAC.

  If these documents had originated from BFI via Hewitt and Palmer’s presence in Monte Carlo, and based on what he knew of Clear Skies, they should only contain technical details of BFI’s current conventional fighter. Slade wondered for a second why Hewitt had specifications of the über-secret new-age aircraft with him in Monte Carlo. Then it hit him like a kick in the groin; he felt as sentient as a statue.

  If Hewitt and Palmer showed these specifications to Chinese aeronautic experts on the yacht, involvement of this group of players in the Clear Skies operation was far more sinister than he’d first believed. They were not selling redundant technology to China. They were selling out the US and its chance to achieve military supremacy of the air with an aircraft no one had envisaged before.

  And that explained why the Chinese were handing over money like they’d been given unlimited access to Bank of China funds.

  Why was Isa the one to bring the documents back to the UK? Perhaps the Aculeus goons extracted them from Hewitt’s briefcase, knew Isa was an Aculeus employee en route to London and handed them to her at the Gare de Lyon with instructions to return them to BFI. A tenuous explanation at best, he knew, but the camera surveillance frames showed her putting folders into her case at the lockers.

  He pulled out an ultrathin, high-resolution digital camera from his jacket. After photographing the pages, he placed them in the fresh envelope, wrote Jane Upton’s name on it in a similar style to Isa’s handwriting on the original envelope, and stuffed it in his briefcase.

  On his way to pick up Roche for an early lunch at the hotel’s bar, Slade passed Isa’s room, and through the partly open door, he saw a hotel maid making up the bed. He strode into the room.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but I left important documents in my bag. I won’t hold you up for long.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  He spotted Isa’s baggage at the window side of the room. Slade felt his training kick in when he saw a scarf knotted over the handle and lock of one of the suitcases. If the scarf’s position changed, Isa would know an intruder had searched the case. He checked its exterior for more markers. A properly trained agent would leave several subtle traps for anyone searching the luggage, but he found nothing more.

  He photographed the case so he could return the scarf to its original position after his search. It took Slade no more than five seconds to pick the lock and look inside. There were several layers of folded clothes he’d seen Isa wear in Monte Carlo that she probably did not plan to use in London, a deduction confirmed when he glanced at the open closet and saw several outfits hanging there.

  He felt stiff rectangular objects inside folded jeans in the bottom layer and pulled out two slim folders. One labeled Copy in Isa’s handwriting contained papers similar, if not identical, to those he’d just seen. A second folder labeled Original was empty, and Slade had a hunch the contents currently resided in his briefcase.

  He heard the maid move into the bathroom and start cleaning. He photograp
hed the pages, replaced them in the copy folder, put the folders in the jeans, and relocked the case. He examined the picture of the unopened suitcase, retied the scarf as he’d found it, and called out thanks to the maid.

  Back in his own room, Slade booted up his computer and inserted the camera’s memory card to make a cursory on-screen comparison of the documents in the envelope with the papers he’d just found in Isa’s suitcase. As far as he could tell, they were identical.

  He checked his emails and found a message from Miles with images of the technical documents he’d found last night in the hotel room of a Chinese guest from the Chevalier. They too were identical to the other photographs, confirming his suspicions about the real purpose of Clear Skies.

  He sent the three sets of pictures to Deacon in Washington with an explanatory message and asked for evaluation by one of the FBI’s aeronautics sector experts. He also sent a sitrep, including a summary of his latest theory on the identities of the corpse in Palmer’s Tokyo apartment, his theory about the lookalike posing as Richard Palmer’s wife here in Monte Carlo, and his concern about John Miller’s involvement as Isa’s handler at Aculeus.

  Slade hoped the situation report would lead Deacon’s researchers at the US end of the case to uncover the reason for the younger Harris sister’s plastic surgery before she married Richard Palmer. But his optimism was in as short supply as the clues he’d found so far to explain the series of deaths that started in Tokyo.

  Slade shut down his computer, left his room again, and put his head around the open door of Roche’s room.

  “Are you ready for lunch?”

  “Bien sûr. If you stopped a Frenchman from having lunch, even at eleven-fifty, you could start a second revolution. I was ready half an hour ago.”