STORM: The Black Sphere

It listed the academic backgrounds of each of the six scientists, their addresses in Switzerland, and, for the two British physicists, Edmund Pope and David Wickett, the name of their MI6 contact.

Project FIREball was an international effort. Run, at least officially, from the European Union headquarters in Brussels. The funding also came from the EU. And the results of the research—if there were any—were to belong, at least notionally, to the same body.

The primary aim of the project was to free Europe from financial and political obligations to oil companies and oil-rich nations, Barrington read. To create a cheap, plentiful, locally available source of power. Once the technology had been perfected, the EU would release it to anyone who wanted it, for a nominal license fee.

Such was the sensitivity of the project that it had been classified Alpha, which meant the detail was known in the UK only to three people: the prime minister, the minister of defense, and the chief of MI6, C.

Pope and Wickett had been told not to reveal anything about FIREball to their MI6 contact—who, in theory, had no knowledge of the actual aim of the project. But this officer, code-named Thatcher, was to be alerted if they had any concerns about their own safety, or if they feared the project had been compromised in any way.

Impatiently, Barrington clicked on the second document, which obviously had been put together by Spicer, whose technological dexterity in even obtaining the information on FIREball deserved a bloody medal, Barrington thought.

It seemed to be a brief biography of Thatcher. And it included dates and times of contact with Pope and Wickett.

Codename: Thatcher
Name: Ian Birch
Date of birth: 19 February, 1971
Strengths: Fluent French, German and Mandarin.
Firearms, Level 10. Kung fu: Jinlong (Golden
Dragon—highest level). Proficient in Korean
swordsmanship.

He flicked through the notes, until he got to the contacts record, which was asterisked and marked by Spicer: Alpha-classified .

Pope’s name appeared seven times. He’d had one meeting with Thatcher in April, then five toward the end of June. Neither the reasons for these meetings nor the outcomes were recorded.

But just as Barrington was about to close the document, he saw that he hadn’t come quite to the end. Frowning, he brushed his cursor down over the scroll bar. A single line on the final page appeared.

Because if Wickett had met Thatcher, surely Thatcher would have taken the scientist straight to a safe house. So why were MI6 field officers still scouring the countryside looking for him? And why was Barrington operating the damned temperamental Eagle?

He had to call Spicer at once. An envelope icon suddenly appeared at the bottom of his computer screen. He had mail. And if he had mail on this computer, it had to have come from Spicer.

At once, Barrington brought up the e-mail software. He found a single item, titled STASIS Training Results.

The lines immediately resolved into something meaningful. In fact, the meaning was so astonishingly stupendous that at first Barrington’s brain did not take it in. It was so unlikely. It was impossible.

Spicer had to be wrong. He absolutely had to be. In his technological meanderings, he’d messed up. Got the decryption key wrong. Anything. Anything but this.

Blood rushed in Barrington’s ears. He dialed Spicer’s number and did his best to muster a relaxed, vacation tone. He failed miserably.

“Spicer, just had a thought. That, er, budget you sent me. Are you absolutely sure that’s the bottom line?”

“I see. Well, thank you, Spicer. I should get back to the fish. Just couldn’t get that budget out of my head.”

Barrington stood up and began to stride around the bare floorboards of his room. He couldn’t think in here.

Now, apart from Spicer, there was only one other person Barrington could ask for help. But his phone wasn’t safe. Barrington rifled through the pockets of his jacket and found two pound coins. He grabbed his door key, then ran along the hallway and down the stairs. There was a public pay phone in the corridor between the restaurant and the restrooms. He’d use that. He’d just have to hope the mobile phone he wanted to call wasn’t being monitored by someone using ECHELON.

Barrington dashed back up to his room. He ran to the computer and typed an e-mail: I need you to get ECHELON deaf to Knight’s mobile. If you can’t do it within two minutes, call me.

Knight’s was a civilian phone. Spicer was a technological whiz, and an MI6 employee. He should be able to do it.

Barrington encrypted the e-mail, using Spicer’s key. Then entered Spicer’s e-mail address and hit SEND.

Barrington made a decision. It wouldn’t immediately solve anything, but it might help later. In an ideal world, he’d leave for Switzerland, but Spicer was a good deal closer. Plus, there were two aircraft stationed in the STASIS hangar.

Go directly to Interlaken. Take all necessary computer equipment. If anyone asks, say you’re needed to fix problems with the Eagle. Call as soon as you arrive. Leave everything else to me. I have a plan.

Barrington sighed hard. A “plan” implied a carefully considered procedure for achieving a goal. Did he have that? No. But these were desperate times—and his desperate, lunatic idea would have to do.