by Ben Mezrich
“I mean, a hundred thousand dollars, it’s a hell of a lot of money. The things you and I could do with that money—we could go to Africa, and you could study the plant life there. We could put the money toward starting our own lab, so we wouldn’t need to compete for a grant or wait until we were old enough. We could start right away, doing all the things that we’ve talked about doing. But the money, it’s only part of it.”
He kept expecting her to interrupt. He fully expected her to shake her head, glare at him like he was crazy, talk him out of it. He expected her to tell him that it sounded exciting, but of course he shouldn’t do it, that he would be risking everything, that he would get in huge trouble, that it was a really bad idea. But still she remained silent, letting him finish the thought that had been building since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her.
“Rebecca, I want to give you the moon. I mean, a piece of the moon. Like the astronauts we just watched in that movie, the cowboys who took that crazy chance, all to set foot where only a couple of people have ever been—I want to give you that. I want to give you the moon.”
Thad realized that his eyes were watering. It sounded so crazy, so stupid, and—well, he didn’t really know how it sounded. But he did know that he actually meant it.
The kitchen was dead silent, the scene frozen like a photo in an album. Then Rebecca’s eyes lit up, and she was grinning.
“That sounds so romantic. Let’s do it.”
And in that instant, Thad knew that he’d been correct; Rebecca was his catalyst. His instant, passionate, consuming love for her had shattered the glass wall in his mind that separated fantasy from reality. The fracturing that had begun long ago was now complete, and the mental game he had been playing had gone from a thought experiment to a project, no different from any of the projects he had worked on at NASA, no less real than the Space Shuttle Simulator or the space station that was sunk into that six-million-gallon pool.
Without another word, Thad leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. Slowly at first, then gaining in intensity. To Rebecca, he was everything he’d ever wanted to be: exciting, adventurous, James Bond. He didn’t know if anyone had ever promised her the moon before—but he was the one guy who was going to deliver.
She was his catalyst.
And now it was only a matter of time.
26
Nothing got the old heart pumping like the shrill, piercing wail of a telephone cutting through the dead, still heat of a summer morning. It wasn’t particularly early, but Axel had been dozing pretty deeply, his rounded form splayed out comfortably across the small couch that ran along one wall of his living room. The TV was still on a few feet away, tuned to the French murder mystery he had been watching when he’d first closed his eyes for a moment—but one more metallic ring reverberating through his head, and he knew for sure that the sound wasn’t coming from some faraway sound studio in Paris. It was echoing off the walls of his own home in a quiet corner of Antwerp.
It had been a perfect weekend morning before the sound of the ringer had ruined it; perfect, because the kids were locked up in the kitchen frantically studying for their exams, and because Christel was out having breakfast with a friend. Which meant that Axel was able to enjoy some quality time with his favorite couch cushions. Since he still hadn’t been sleeping that well at night—his mind locked into the drama he imagined was unfolding far across the ocean—the minutes alone with the couch were as valuable as polished topaz.
Ten days without any contact from either the FBI or Orb Robinson had certainly taken its toll on Axel’s psyche. It was kind of like watching the French murder mystery, but with the sound off. He could only fantasize about what was really going on. For all he knew, the whole thing had fizzled and disappeared. The hoaxer might have finally grown bored with the game, moved on to something else. Maybe he was now sending out e-mails, posing as a Nigerian banker, or the cousin of a deposed prince. Just send a cashier’s check, and my fortune will be yours.
But as soon as Axel heard his son, Sven, answer the phone through the door that separated his living room from the kitchen, as soon as he registered the shocked tone of the fifteen-year-old’s voice, he had a feeling that his wait was suddenly over. He sat straight up, shaking the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes, just in time to see his son stick his head out through the kitchen door, the phone cupped against his chest.
“Dad, I think it’s for you. It’s an American.”
Sven looked like he had seen a monster, and that got Axel’s heart pumping even faster. He indicated with his hand that he was going to pick up the receiver in the living room, and that his son should hang up once he was on the line. Then he rose, flattening the wrinkles out of his slacks with his palms, and crossed to the computer desk in the corner of the room. He didn’t know why, but for some reason he wanted to look presentable—even though he was only going to be talking over the phone. It wasn’t often that he got calls from America. Actually, it wasn’t ever.
He cleared his throat, then picked up the receiver.
“This is Axel Emmermann.”
The American on the other end of the line quickly introduced himself as Special Agent Nick Nance of the FBI. Axel felt his shoulders pulling back, his chest sticking out as he heard the words. E-mails were one thing, but now he was talking to a real-life FBI agent. His superhero status was quickly rising.
Very rapidly, the official-sounding man on the other end of the line brought him up-to-date. Even though Axel hadn’t heard anything for the past week and a half, it turned out that the FBI had been quite busy. Agents posing as Axel’s brother and sister-in-law had continued to lead Orb Robinson along, getting him to the point where they seemed actually ready to enact an exchange. They were in the process of setting up a face-to-face meeting. Robinson still didn’t seem to have the actual items in his possession, but he was moving forward as if he could get them at any moment.
Agent Nance explained that “Lynn and Kurt” had confirmed receipt of the hundred thousand dollars, and had e-mailed Robinson, telling him that they trusted him, that they believed his claims were truthful and were ready to buy what he was selling.
Axel had to fight the urge to start jumping around the living room. The French murder movie seemed like such a trifle now, compared with the real mystery that he was an integral part of. He was actually talking to the FBI, and they were going to meet with this hoaxer. He couldn’t wait until his wife got home so he could tell her what was about to happen. And then Nance added something to the conversation—something Christel wouldn’t find quite as enthralling.
“Now, there’s a chance this Robinson might try and call you directly. I don’t think it would be that hard for him to find out where you live, and get your phone number. So we’re thinking about installing a recording device so if this happens, we can listen in.”
Axel swallowed, focusing on the comment that Robinson wouldn’t have much trouble figuring out where he lived. He immediately pictured his kids in the kitchen, huddled over their schoolbooks. It was a terrifying thought. Certainly, this bit of information he would leave out of the upcoming conversation with Christel.
“And if this actually goes down,” Agent Nance continued, “if we do arrest this Orb Robinson—we need to ask—would you be willing to testify? We’d bring you here to the U.S. and put you up in a hotel for the length of the trial, if we deemed it was necessary. Is this something that you would be willing to do?”
Hearing this, Axel had to sit down in the chair in front of his computer. That he could be asked to take part in bringing this criminal to justice—not just being the middleman in an e-mail investigation, but actually taking physical part, becoming a player in the drama—wow.
“I would be honored to take part in your judicial system.”
Axel Emmermann the superhero, becoming Emmermann the star witness. It certainly would beat an afternoon at the popinjay field.
But sitting in the chair—looking at the computer wher
e this had all started—Axel began to have a thought. The way Nance was talking, it was beginning to sound like this might somehow be a little more than a hoax. If they were thinking of bringing Axel all the way to America … well, it wouldn’t be because someone was trying simply to make money on the Internet.
“Special Agent Nance, are you beginning to suspect that this Robinson might be trying to sell authentic moon rocks?”
There was a long pause. For a brief moment, Axel could hear the buzz of the international phone line.
And then: “It’s not impossible.”
With that, the FBI agent thanked him again for his time and then gratefully hung up. As Axel replaced the receiver, the words continued to reverberate through his mind. It’s not impossible.
Christ; what, exactly, had he stumbled into?
…
Axel was still sitting in front of the computer—mulling over what he had just learned, waiting for the sounds of his wife’s heels on the front steps so that he could relay the developments he’d just learned of, and sure, brag a little bit about the possibility that he could soon be racing halfway around the world to bring a master criminal to justice—when an icon appeared on his computer screen indicating that he had a new e-mail. One click later, and he saw that it was once again from the FBI, the same Special Agent Nance:
Mr. Emmermann.
It was nice to talk to you this morning. I neglected to ask you for your help in putting together some questions that should be asked by Lynn. Since my knowledge of lunar materials is limited at best, I was hoping you could provide questions to via e-mail that will lend to my/our credibility. Any help would be greatly appreciated …
At first, Axel was quite puzzled by this new e-mail, which was accompanied by an even longer explanation of what Nance was looking for. It seemed the FBI was asking for Axel’s help in explaining how their agent could best recognize real moon rocks—and furthermore, how she would be able to tell the difference between moon rocks that had actually come, by hand, from the moon, and ones that had fallen to Earth as meteorites. Wouldn’t the FBI have their own specialists who could assuredly do a better job of explaining this than an amateur rock collector such as himself?
But as Axel worked it out in his head, he realized that the FBI’s request made sense. Orb Robinson had written that the moon rocks were not currently in his possession—which meant that he intended to steal them.
There was only one place on Earth from which he would be able to steal the amount of moon rocks he was talking about: the Johnson Space Center in Houston. If the FBI had wanted to talk to specialists who could help identify real moon rocks … well, the place they would normally go was also where Robinson’s crime would take place—the JSC.
So obviously, the FBI couldn’t go there for information; they couldn’t yet know who Orb Robinson really was, and had to suspect anyone with access to the Apollo rocks. It was hard for Axel to believe that someone who worked at NASA was planning to steal moon rocks; not just because they were national treasures, but if you were lucky enough to work at NASA—in the same hallowed buildings where the Apollo program had taken place—how could you throw it all away for a hundred thousand dollars?
In any event, Axel was more than happy to continue to help the FBI. After his first contact with Robinson, he had done a fair amount of research into moon rocks. With the help of his notes, he began to compose his response to Agent Nance.
Moon rocks were usually light in weight and color, made up mostly of basalt, with a mix of pyroxene and feldspar within, easily recognizable by a geologist using a magnifying glass. But this information wasn’t going to be all that helpful to an agent during a sting operation. Especially an agent posing as a rock collector—and not a professional geologist.
But there was a much simpler way to recognize a moon rock—and especially to distinguish a moon rock that had actually been picked up by hand—by an astronaut on the moon—from a meteorite that might have been stolen from a museum.
As most people were aware, the moon had no atmosphere. Which meant that anything that hit the surface of the moon—from a giant asteroid to a tiny grain of sand—hit the ground somewhere between ten thousand and eight thousand kilometers per hour. On Earth, such objects burned up in the atmosphere because of air friction, but because the moon had no atmosphere, dust and sand were continually raining down to the surface, at these immense speeds.
So any rock from the moon would be covered in tiny impact craters. These craters were called “zap pits,” ranging from a few microns in size to as big as a few millimeters. They would be easily recognized, even without a microscope: a tiny black-glass center surrounded by a halo of concentric circles, much like the large craters you could see through a telescope when you looked at the surface of the moon.
As Axel sent the new e-mail off to Agent Nance, part of him wished he could follow that little electronic packet of information around the curve of the Earth. He wished that he could walk into that meeting place, with a suitcase full of cash, and sit down across from this master criminal, this person who would dare to steal a national treasure. He wished that he could look this man in the face and tell him, It was me who brought you down. It was Axel Emmermann who caught you.
And then he remembered how he had felt when Nance had told him that this Robinson could easily figure out where he lived. And he quickly changed his mind.
Axel was the kind of superhero who was happy to bring justice to the world, from the comfort and security of his cozy Antwerp lair.
27
Ten. Nine. Eight …
Friday morning, a little after seven A.M., and Thad was moving quickly down the central hallway that bisected the fourth floor of Building 31, counting under his breath as he kept one eye on the deserted territory up ahead and the other pinned to the rotating security camera jutting from a storklike metal strut embedded next to one of the ceiling’s fluorescent lighting panels. As he had predicted, so far his progress through the life sciences complex had been uninterrupted; any self-respecting scientist who would show up to work this early in the laid-back atmosphere that dominated life sciences at NASA would either be too new to think twice about seeing a co-op wandering the halls or so caught up in a brain-consuming project, he wouldn’t notice Thad at all.
And even if someone cognizant did happen across Thad—in his blue NASA polo shirt and khaki pants—the only unusual thing about his demeanor was that his gait seemed a little off center; in fact, if anyone looked closely, they might have noticed that he was moving so near to one side of the hallway that his right shoulder brushed against the concrete. His face, however, was perfectly calm, his expression muted—even as he suddenly shifted to the other side of the hallway, his left shoulder now kissing concrete.
Another flick of his eyes confirmed what he already knew: he’d now moved out of range of the first rotating ceiling camera and only had to avoid the final one, planted all the way at the far end of the hallway. It, too, had begun its own innocuous arc—filming the area where Thad had just been.
As easy as that, Thad thought to himself. A little dance step, a shuffle to the left, and he was a ghost. Of course, for the moment it was easy to play calm; he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was just walking undetected through the building where he had worked for two semesters as a co-op. If, by some odd twist of fate, he did run into someone he knew, there were a dozen explanations for why he might be there on an early Friday morning. The only people in the world who knew the real reason he was back in Building 31 were his two pretty accomplices, his new girlfriend and his confidante—neither one a hundred pounds soaking wet.
Fighting back a smile as he pictured Rebecca and Sandra, both waiting in his apartment for the phone call that would let them know that Phase One was complete, he slowed his pace, finally stopping as he reached a closed door located near the center of the long hallway. Bare inches away, midway up the door’s frame, was one of the electronic cipher locks Thad had grown so accustomed to in his
years at the JSC. In fact, he had even watched this particular cipher lock be opened a handful of times. He had never gotten close enough to look over anyone’s shoulder to even attempt to guess at the five-number combination—but that would have made what he was planning to do way too simple, and now that he was determined to see it through, he relished the idea that nothing was going to be easy. As it was for any good scientist, it was the complicated, sophisticated projects that got his juices flowing. Maybe even more than the money, this was now about the thrill of doing the impossible.
Thad pressed his back against the concrete wall, checking the long hallway again to make sure no one was nearby. Then he quickly reached into his left pocket and retrieved a small plastic makeup compact; originally, it had been Rebecca’s, a shade of blush that really brought out the contrast between her porcelain cheeks and her bright blue eyes. The thing no longer contained blush. When he opened the compact with a flick of his left thumb, the powder inside—a unique concoction of his own creation—glistened a bit in the high fluorescent lighting, and Thad wondered for a moment if he’d gotten the concentration wrong. But when he gently shook the compact, evening the powder out, the glistening abated, and he exhaled. This would work. This had to work.
Carefully, he removed a small brush from his other pocket and dabbed it into the powder. Then he began to apply the brush to the keypad of the cipher lock, making sure to completely cover each numbered key with the powdery substance. Leaning close, he blew off the excess powder—then stepped back a few inches to survey his work. Even from just a few feet away, there was no real visible trace of what he had just done. Satisfied, he closed the compact and jammed it back into his pocket, along with the little brush. Then he calmly continued down the hallway. As he reached the next corner—passing right beneath the rotating security camera—he fought the urge to glance back one last time at his handiwork. Under his breath, he was no longer counting off the seconds; instead, he was humming to himself—the theme from the movie Mission: Impossible. Earlier, when he’d been alone in his old lab a few floors away, it had been the music from the James Bond franchise that rumbled out of his throat as he carefully mixed the compound—equal parts fluorite, gypsum, and talcum. All had been easy to find in the chemical cabinets at NASA, but even so, he couldn’t help but feel like a spy or an action hero as he’d prepared the ingenious concoction. Even the name he and the girls had given this portion of their preparation—Phase One—made Thad feel like he was part of something epic, an adventure he’d one day tell his grandchildren about.
