Chapter 55

 

 

0725 hrs.

 

Mason buffed his hands for warmth as he waited outside a shabby warehouse, several hundred meters from the passenger building at the Port of Dover. The blare from a departing ferry caught his ears. He breathed in the morning air, inhaling in his freedom, his face displaying a witty-smirk, a degree above gratitude. With a free hand, Mason reached under his shabby full head and scratched his scalp. A few degrees higher in temperature than he wished. A false mustache rested above his upper lip. It would draw little attention from onlookers, having been carefully selected to match the repulsive wig on his head.

He paced the little cobblestone compound. “Damn it! Where is she?”

Quiet footsteps behind him startled him. He zipped his head around and cocked a MARK 23 handgun with its suppressor toward the approaching sound. Three figures emerged from behind the building.

“You haven’t lost your touch, Mason,” said a woman’s voice.

Her tone smooth as hot caramel, she was more seductive than he remembered. Her Mid-Western accent was fortified with a melodious twang. He lowered the firearm. “You came in person. Not the kind of errand I would expect from someone of your ranking.”

She’d always made him think of a lost and wondering spirit, her narrow eyes the color of smoke, luxurious, soot-black hair worn in a style that would cause whiplash. She was tall with a curvy build he remembered well. She smiled at him with perfectly rouged lips. She took a step forward. “I had to see you.”

It was an attempt at weak affection. She winked an eye. “Make sure you were all right.”

With the speed of a terrified fly, she gripped his arm and forced a hungry kiss on his indifferent lips.

Mason succumbed to the forceful domination before he tore her away. “This is business, not pleasure.”

“Perhaps. . . I see prison has kept you as unbreakable as an obelix.”

She grinned shamelessly and zipped her head around to two armed men behind her. Embarrassed, she straightened her shearling-lined jacket. The first man handed her a small packet, which she ripped open and turned to Mason. “Okay, here’s your passport. You’re now an American citizen according to this, under the name of Aron Zeel. These documents have been authenticated, based on the photographs and specifications your aid dropped by last night. I have also organized all your tickets. Have I missed anything?”

Mason took the packet from her and rummaged his hands through the contents. He drew out a set of keys and peered behind her at a parked A3. “An Audi? Really?”

“You wanted to blend in.”

“Yes. Like a banker, not a masseuse.”

“That’s a matter of perspective.”

“Then it doesn’t look like you forgot anything.”

She held on to his arm as he pulled it away. “When will I see you again?”

Probably never, though. . .

He removed her had off his arm. “Our business is concluded. I’ve given you the access codes to the personal computers and systems of the Democratic Party. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t want more from me.”

Her distinguished face became brooding as she grabbed his collar. “I do want more.”

The two Marine Corps security guards turned their backs to them trying to allow privacy, however obstinate.

Mason frowned and turned his attention to the ferry dock. “I can’t give you anything. I never could.”

He kept to his rules. No accessories, no loose ends. He worked alone and he liked it that way. He took baggage when it suited him and only when he needed their services, like this woman. So what if they’d indulged in a trivial affair. It was never serious. She knew that.

He hid the packet in the lining of his winter coat and marched toward the Audi.

“Where are you going?” the woman asked.

“If you must know, I’m driving to Paris. From there on, I’ll take the private plane you’ve arranged for me from Orly Airport. Our agreement was you’d provide the plane. I’m my own pilot. So I think the rest is my business. Yours ends here.”

She kept pace beside him, her three-inch stilettos pinning the concrete pavement. “Mason, you need me!”

He jeered.

“Let me help you,” she said.

“I don’t need anyone.”

He dipped into the driver’s seat and rolled down the window, studying her angry face. The car angled toward the loading dock, leaving the woman scowling, her hands fisting at her sides.

 

She turned back at the two men, lit a cigarette in her shaky hands and inhaled. “You.”

The security guards scurried in her direction. “Did you plant him?”

The tallest one spoke first. “Yes ma’am. You’ll have linkup when he scans the passport at any port and when any business is conducted in the car or the plane.”

She blew the smoke in his face.

His nose twitched and his eyes shut in revulsion.

Margot Arlington, the former US Republican candidate and the US ambassador to London finished her cigarette and stamped it out. “Good. I’ll expect a report every hour.”

 

 

 

UK SPACE AGENCY (UKSA)

SWINDON, SOUTH-WEST ENGLAND

1011 hrs.

 

“So that would set off an alarm?” Jack gave the astronaut a long shrewd glance over a pair of uncomfortable spectacles he’d disguised over his face.

“Yes, it would,” said Orson Rand, head engineer at UKSA.

Jack lay a hand over the system. “May I?” he asked.

“I’m sorry Mr. Baruch but this tour is an eyes-only tour.” Incidentally, what is your interest in the UK Space Agency? You seem a little mature for the graduate groups that we usually invite here. But who am I to judge?” Orson checked his tablet. Says here you’re from McGill interested in a career in the Information Technology Center.”

“Yes, my background is in mathematics.”It was a lie, but so had his entire charade been since wandering into the UK Space Agency, after an hour and half drive west out of London to Swindon.

Orson Rand, a tall astronaut of graceful build, came from Australia, Perth to be exact, Thaddeus had explained. His slanted brown eyes were like two splotches of mud that studied Jack with heightened interest. Jack scanned the system in front of him. “Can you tell me more about the systems aboard the ARGUS-B satellite? I understand you’ve been having trouble with them.”

Orson’s burrowed eyebrows told Jack he was astounded at his knowledge of the satellite’s demise. The media hadn’t mentioned any details about satellites. The deceitful, graduate student, that Jack had effortlessly tried to pass as all afternoon, was working.

Orson shifted his feet. “You should not believe everything you read in the media. The satellite was launched as part of Europe’s Galileo, satellite navigation system. ARGUS-B carried on board the most accurate atomic clock ever flown into space. Together with ARGUS-A, it will test new technologies for future Galileo systems.”

“Hasn’t that mission now been compromised?”

“Listen.” He read Jack’s visitor’s badge. “Mr. Baruch. I know that you’re also considering a career with NASA, let me assure you your student credentials are quite impeccable and even if you seem more experienced than most graduates, I don’t want to discourage your application here. Our systems are the finest in the globe. Satellites are the foundation of the UK space industry. You’ll find that our engineers are among the world’s leading designers and builders of satellites.”

“I see. I could find lots to put my hands to here,” Jack said.

“You should know that our scientists carry a reputation for expertise in space instrumentation. You would lose nothing in being part of the team.”

“Are you trying to give me a job?”

“Mr. Baruch, I’m trying to steer your curiosity in the right direction. We receive funding for a range of technology developments.”

Jack smirked. His plan had worked and Thaddeus’ recommendation and direct access to Orson had facilitated an audience and entry into the facility. Orson was one of the Space Agency’s most experienced astronauts.

A natural talker, Jack attempted a smile. “Yes, but your systems have been down. I’m interested, if I were to choose a career here, how would one go about avoiding hacking problems in this establishment? Could I have a peek?”

Orson brought his wrist up in front of his face and stared at his watch, anxious to get to his next appointment. “All right, this way.”

Orson continued his lecture as he strolled, fascinated with Jack’s knowledge and comments about computing technology. Jack’s sharp invasion in matters Orson considered beyond his concern didn’t bother the astronaut for the moment. He stifled a grin as they walked. “Every satellite launched into space has a ‘payload’ and a ‘bus’. The payload, or carrying capacity of an aircraft, is all the equipment a satellite needs to carry out its duties,” Orson said.

“You mean the tools for the task? This can include antennas, cameras, radar and electronics.”

Orson raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. The ‘bus’ is the section of the satellite that carries the payload and all its equipment into space, such as the subsystems that drive the spacecraft, coordinate the instruments, provide electrical power and permit the satellite to communicate with Earth.”

So the bus is where the problem is. “Could I see a demonstration of the system?” Jack said.

Orson winced before leading Jack to a second room, which housed a small, microsatellite spacecraft bus. “This will normally carry six experiment payloads to low-Earth orbit,” Orson said. “Such a system would be manipulated by this panel here.” He pointed to a row of computer systems, electronic circuit boards and several monitors along one wall.

An engineer sat with headphones communicating with astronauts on the space station. Jack scrutinized every piece of technology in the room. Where’s the main frame? “Tell me, Dr. Rand, if by chance systems started failing, or such as the news reported that the last Space mission, involving three British astronauts, went quirky, how would one go about identifying the system failure?”

“That would all depend on the nature of the failure. In that particular case, the onboard systems lost power.”

He was speaking in half-truths. Orson was not about to reveal company secrets. Fair enough.

Jack tapped the end of a pencil on his chin. “Is there a possibility that there could’ve been outside interference? For example, could the systems have been hacked with a firewall bypass?”

“Impossible. Sure, any computer program is liable to hacking but not in this case.”

Liar!

“But is it possible? And if so, where would the vulnerabilities be?”

Orson stammered. “Mr. Baruch, let me assure you our systems, as I mentioned earlier, are the finest in the world. ISTF’s recommendation was—”

He moped his forehead, having said more than he intended. “I’m not sure what your interest in hacking is, our government is in full control of the recent crisis, so no need to concern yourself about that. Should you join our graduate program, I’m sure you’ll learn that we train and produce the finest here. A hack is improbable.”

“Please elaborate?”

“First, if there were a real problem, we would know. In this case, we would have known prior to takeoff.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Well for one, we have an agreement with the US that includes cooperation on Earth science and the use of ground networks. Heck, any airborne mission and space-based technology possible, we collaborate on. If a problem had existed before takeoff, we’d have been alerted.”

“What about on the UK side?”

“Our side was all clear.”

Jack’s noted Orson’s irritation at his probing. But what the heck? He knew his ANX system inside out and could isolate the problem. If only I can get a better look. “Thank you, Mr. Rand, for your time.”

“A pleasure. And rest assured. We know how to handle such rare cases. Incidentally, you didn’t tell me how you know Thaddeus, he and I trained together.”

Think! Jack, think! “Tad and I are old fishing buddies. We fished in the Indian Ocean as boys.”

Orson led Jack toward the elevators to the exit on the ground floor of the establishment. Jack had taken note of a couple of rooms where IT engineers worked feverishly. One room drew his interest, the Space Telescope Operations Control Center. A space bursting with monitors, and kept under watchful eye by a dedicated team of highly skilled engineers. He saw three men argue over a malfunction, as if deliberating the hacks.

He was certain that was the room he needed.

 

 

 

1030 hrs.

 

“Move!”

Nash’s hands rose to his shoulders. He turned slightly and glared at Chidson’s shaky grip of the weapon.

That gun could go off! Chidson’s not a good shot.

Nash considered deflecting the firearm and slamming it from Chidson’s grip. Calculating the fear in his opponent, he could swipe the gun without qualms. He bit his lip. “What’s this all about?”

“You’re under arrest, Shields. You’re on US soil now.”

Nash knew the protocol. He might as well have been in Red Bank, New Jersey. Still, he'd done nothing wrong. His chin turned slightly toward his left shoulder. “What’s the charge?”

Chidson didn’t respond. Instead, he edged the gun deeper into Nash’s temple and radioed in his mouthpiece. “He’s here.”

Who was on the other line? Must be whoever had taken his position when he left the Embassy marines close to two years ago. They’d possibly take him for questioning as he was under jurisdiction of US courts. Still, he couldn’t help concluding Chidson was out of line. He couldn’t arrest him without a formal charge. As dire as his predicament, Nash knew this was the least of his worries. His concern was the envelope in his jacket. How much had Chidson seen?

Nash slanted his head slowly away from the cold steel. “Chidson, I’m your former superior and I’m unarmed.”

“I know. We confiscated your gun at the entrance.”

“Exactly. And if you go through the standard procedure, you’ll see that it’s registered to the NSA. We’re on the same side.”

“Let’s go, Shields. You’re trying my patience.”

Chidson guided him out of Masher’s office and pointed in the direction of the main corridor. With the gun now in his back, Nash glanced over his shoulder estimating the marine’s courage. He doesn’t have the nerve.

Chidson could no nothing. He could not shoot him. This was pure power play. “Chidson—”

“Just keep moving!”

The marine led him through to the elevators by the spiral staircase. Once inside, he pressed the button for the ambassador’s floor, a tightly defended area that needed the highest security clearance, palm scan, fingerprint check, and coded doors. He should know. He’d authorized most of it himself after a few briefings with Internal Security a few years ago. The only people on that floor were the headman himself, his deputy chief of mission and the defense attaché. The executive wing.

Nash caught Chidson’s reflection in the aluminum doors. He took a deep breath and pivoted to face him. “I know you won’t shoot me. You don’t want to do this.”

The armed marine gulped, holding on steadily to his gun.

A sudden hand swipe from Nash, allowed him to distract Chidson for a second and rout his grip over the weapon.

Chidson froze his face ashen. Nash gently removed the gun from his clammy hand. He secured it and handed it back to Chidson. “I’ll face whatever I have to. There’s no need for this.”

The elevator halted and the door slid open. Nash stepped out before him. He knew these corridors like the interiors of his favorite jacket, having been responsible for the security of two ambassadors. “I assume we’re to go through Ambassador Westbrook’s security procedures?”

Chidson said nothing. When they reached the door, Marine Corps security guards stood alert on the executive wing. Chidson nodded to them and the two bulky men stepped aside. Nash’s eyebrows drew together as he tugged his collar, not recognizing the two marines.

The first security guard dragged the door open as Nash and Chidson marched into the executive room. Nash noticed a newer décor of light-colored curtains, French style chairs, desks, and Persian influences on the floor and the cabinets. Obviously, a diplomat who’d spent time in the Middle East, similar décor to those Nash had grown accustomed to while in Syria and Qatar. A person whose back was to him, spoke with an impressive affirmative voice as they faced the window. They spoke into the secure phone he’d had installed on his last assignment with the Embassy. This was a different ambassador altogether.

 

“You may leave us, Chidson.” It was a determined woman’s voice.

Chidson started for the door tossing Nash a scoured look.

Nash turned his attention to the person behind the desk. Well I’ll be damned!

“I told the gate to alert me should you ever walk through these doors again,” Margot Arlington said.

Nash drew a huge breath. What’s she doing here?

He’d not realized the ambassador had been replaced in the last seven months. Nash frowned. The last time he’d seen this woman, he’d read her rights, so to speak. She’d collaborated with the enemy, trying to buy her way to the White House. He took a step forward, as Arlington set the phone in the receiver.

“London suits you better than campaigning for a seat in the White House,” Nash said.

She swung her chair round and beamed at him. Dignified in a cashmere tweed dress, she’d not changed much, elegant clothing and incurably persuasive speech. She twiddled her fingers around an elongated metal necklace, embellished with paint-stained pearls.

Nash ambled toward the desk. “What do you want with me?”

“You’re on my territory.”

“And I’m under arrest, because?” he said loathing her playful voice.

“That was just a little gimmick to get your attention, Shields. You’re the one who personally escorted Mason Laskfell to his cell.”

Nash scratched his jaw. “Laskfell escaped prison twenty-four hours ago.”

Margot eyed him curiously. “That’s why I wanted to see you.”

 

 

 

1050 hrs.

 

Once outside the glass elevators, Orson fingered in a code. The code to this floor. Jack’s disguise glasses, armed with a microcamera in the left corner of the frame, captured the delicate details. A mini gadget he’d created himself, registered the movement. They straggled into the lift and descended to the ground floor. At the lobby turnstiles, Jack turned to Orson. “Thank you for the private tour, I’m certain this place ranks higher in my books than NASA.”

Orson nodded. “Good day, I’ll see you out, Mr. Baruch.”

Jack turned toward the turnstiles as a male receptionist reached out for his visitor’s badge. “Could I visit the men’s room before I go.”

The receptionist smiled. “Go back through. It’s to the right of the elevators.”

Jack turned to Orson. “You don’t have to see me out. This gentleman can point me in the right direction. I still have my visitor’s card here.”

“E-mail me if you have further queries,” Orson said before plodding to a side staff entrance adjacent to the elevators.

Jack hastened to the men’s room. Scampering into a cubicle, he removed his eyeglasses. He carefully locked the door and leaned against it. Using his smartphone to manipulate the microcamera in the eyeglasses, he downloaded the photographs on to the mini screen. He quickly memorized the eight digit code he’d need to get into the observation room. That had to be the room he’d seen. All he needed was to connect his tablet to the mainframe systems in just sixty seconds. Tops!

He straightened his jacket, set the faux glasses above his nose and hustled out of the restrooms. Once in the main lobby, the unmanned desk gave him the few seconds he’d calculated were necessary to return to the elevators unnoticed. Unable to control his heavy breathing, he pranced quietly through the lobby. A chatty receptionist returned to her station. He persevered, not daring to glimpse back at him. This was not his territory. Covert spying was the sort of thing Nash could do—eyes closed.

The elevator failed to respond.

Damn it!

“If anyone stops you, just act like you belong,” Nash had said. “Most people don’t know everyone who comes in and out of any building. Don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

Yeah easy for you to say, Nash!

Jack hung on to Nash’s words. He heard the receptionist’s jabber on the phone behind him, hoping their attention would not shift to him. His eyes caught the slow glass elevator descend. Empty!

Once outside the Space Telescope Operations Control Center, on the same floor where Orson had let him scrutinize their equipment, he fingered in the code. Orson must have used one code to get to the main rooms, something they’d advised at ISTF. A good, sound code it was too.

The door snapped open.

Jack poked his head through the ajar door frame. Three engineers carried on about their tasks, oblivious of his entry. The engineers worked seven days a week, 365 days a year, monitoring the telescope’s operations.

Large, and lodging several terminals along seven rows of sophisticated computers, he searched for the furthest terminal on the last row. Interred into the desk, the digital design of its mainframe and quantum computing connected to a server projecting an image on the desk before him. Clever, just as I would do it.

The device relied on ultrafast manipulation of billions of bits of information as it received data on spacecraft flight operations. Jack scrutinized the processor as it performed tasks such as indepth subsystem analysis, simulated tests, databases integration and updates to flight software. The hack must have entered via the software on this machine. He raised his head forward.

His stealth appearance remained unquestioned. A man, three rows ahead evaluated a prototype, an innovative, oxygen warning system. He had on headphones as he worked. At the far end of the room, a woman spoke on the phone.

Jack withdrew his electronic tablet and dialed into a wireless connection to the computer’s terminal. The tablet booted a black screen written in ANX that coded the space center’s aircraft management information systems. He scrolled through the various lines of programming language detailing precise, real-time aircraft operations and logistics support. He reached the security control line with its list of ANX commands. I just need to bypass the firewall imitate the program and transfer a copy to my system.

He fingered in a series of commands.

The firewall restricted his efforts.

He tried again.

Silence settled in the room. He needed to focus.

On the third try, it acknowledged his command, replicating files to his tablet. He drummed his fingers and peered up again. Thirty more seconds!

Twenty-nine seconds later, his counterfeiting progressed, nearing ninety percent.

Damn it!

He drummed his shaky fingers. Done!

Phew!

“Hey!”

Jack swiveled his head around, only to confront Orson’s irate eyes.