by Ben Mezrich
“You can play lookout. Stand outside the door, keep an eye on all the other rooms and the parking lot outside. If you see something, shout.”
Sandra seemed all too happy to step outside, shutting the door behind her. They were all on edge—a mixture of excitement, but also a little fear, because now it was here with them in this room, a great monolith that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the air. Thad could only guess how long it had sat in that corner of Gibson’s lab. How many times the old man had opened that door, lovingly placing specimens inside. Well, Thad only intended to open that door once.
He crossed to the tools laid out to the side of the safe and found what he needed. A large, handheld Skil saw with a specialized blade. Looking at it, he knew immediately that the blade was too thick for what he intended to do—so it was going to take some time. Worse yet, it was also going to make some noise. A lot of noise.
“Rebecca, the TV.”
“You want to watch TV?”
He shook his head.
“Just make sure it’s something loud.”
She blushed, understanding. She quickly rushed over to the set and turned it on, found some sitcom on one of the major stations. She turned the volume all the way up as Thad approached the safe.
Carefully, Thad placed the saw blade against the crack at the edge of the locked safe door and began drawing it back and forth—first slowly, to make sure he didn’t slip, and then faster, each stroke grinding away at the blade, sending up little wisps of metal and smoke. Grinding, grinding, grinding, the sound of metal against metal a near screech in the small room, just barely covered by the inane babble from the television. He went for about fifteen minutes straight, then stopped, his arm burning, sweat running freely down his back. He signaled Rebecca, who muted the TV. Then he looked back over his shoulder toward the door.
“Anything?” he called out, in a loud whisper.
Sandra, who was standing right outside, called back.
“Nope, keep going.”
And then he was back at it. The TV up, the saw a blur of motion. Grinding, grinding, grinding. Another fifteen minutes, then pause. The TV down, the room gone silent.
“Now? Still okay?”
“Still good. This place is deserted. I don’t think anyone is on this floor.”
Thad grinned through his growing exhaustion, then went back at the safe. Grinding, grinding, grinding. He could see that it was working, that the saw blade was slowly thinning—soon it would fit all the way into the crack, and then he’d be able to go to work on the pins that held the lock in place. Thad knew from research on the Internet that a safe this size would have four pins. He had no idea how hard it would be to get through them—but he’d bought a good half-dozen different blades, just in case. Hopefully, they’d be done before dawn, when assuredly someone, maybe a maid or a hotel manager, might wander by. Until then, he assumed it was going to go like this for a while—fifteen-minute intervals of work, a few minutes to pause and see if anyone had overheard, then back to work.
But his assumption turned out to be incorrect; just one more break, and one minute into the back-and-forth with the saw, and there was a sudden, loud metallic pop. Thad froze, looking up at Rebecca. She quickly shut off the TV, and both of them moved close to the safe, peering into the crack.
“Holy shit. The pin—it’s aluminum! It just popped like a fucking bottle cap!”
Rebecca clapped her hands. Thad quickly motioned her back to the TV and switched position, moving the saw to where he assumed the next pin would be. And again—pop!—just like that, he was halfway done. Within another five minutes, he’d gotten all four pins. He carefully removed the saw and placed it on the sheet, next to the other tools he wouldn’t be needing. The safe hadn’t been anywhere near as difficult as he had expected.
Rebecca turned off the television, and they called out to Sandra, inviting her back inside. After she’d locked the door behind her, they went to the duffel and grabbed the materials they would need. First, they all redonned their latex gloves. Then they positioned a tackle box next to the safe—oversized, metal, the kind of thing a professional fisherman might use—ready for the samples they were going to sell. Next to the tackle box they placed a small suitcase that Rebecca had brought over to the motel earlier in the day, which would be for the paperwork and anything else that might be needed to go along with the tackle box. And then next to the suitcase they unfolded the large packing box. The address was already written out on top of the box: it was a general NASA administration address, which meant it would take a few days for anyone there to process—but eventually, they would get the package and find whatever Thad and the girls sent back. Thad intended to return everything they weren’t going to sell, or anything that he didn’t consider trash—no matter what NASA or Gibson might have labeled it.
Finally, Rebecca retrieved a notepad and a pen. She was going to be the secretary of the event, logging and recording everything they found inside the safe, keeping everything cataloged exactly as they found it—weights, amounts, position in the safe—recording everything, just in case. They were, after all, scientists, and they were going to treat the samples with a scientist’s respect.
In solemn fashion, Thad approached the safe door. He gave one last look at Rebecca, then reached for the edge and slowly pulled it open.
As he remembered, there were five drawers inside, most of them containing small containers, capsules, and Teflon-sealed bags of material. Carefully, he reached for the closest drawer, and with his gloved hands picked up the nearest container.
“Sample 167106.88. From Apollo 16. Light, clean. The lunar highlands.”
He heard the sound of the pen scratching against the notepad. His mind was swirling. He was holding a vial that contained a tiny sample that had been retrieved by the astronauts of Apollo 16. It was almost unbelievable. He carefully placed the sample in the tackle box, then moved on to the next one. This was in a bag, dust with some pebble-sized pieces mixed in. It had a reddish hue.
“Vial 17422.20. Apollo 17. Brought back by astronaut Jack Schmitt—the only official geologist to ever step on the moon. The infamous orange soil. Volcanic in nature.”
He placed the bag in its own compartment within the tackle box, then returned to the safe. His eyes immediately moved to one of the containers in the next drawer down, because the catalog number jumped out at him. He realized, as he read it to himself, that it was from the very first Apollo mission. It had been collected by Neil Armstrong—the first man on the moon.
Thad lifted the little container out, but he couldn’t get the words to come out of his mouth. Rebecca and Sandra were both looking at him. Finally, he cleared his throat.
“This one I’m keeping.”
“Thad—”
“We have more than enough to sell.”
And then he had an even better idea. He was going to keep a little bit from each sample—just some dust, a pebble or two. Even after selling what they sold, he’d have the best rock collection in the world. He placed the container with Neil Armstrong’s sample aside and went back to the safe.
Painstakingly, over the next hour and a half, he went through the entire top four drawers. Slowly, as he went, it began to dawn on him—and by the time he finished, he knew for sure—that in that safe, they had samples from every single moon landing in human history. Some were tiny, little more than dust. Some were bigger, but none was particularly large. Altogether, in total, the weight of the samples added up to 101.5 grams. A little less than four ounces. It was far less than Thad had thought would be inside—but it was still an incredible haul. Although the deal he had made with the Belgian was for a hundred thousand dollars’ worth, if he actually wanted to calculate the full street value of what he had taken … well, it would have varied depending on what numbers he used—but he knew the range could be anywhere from $400,000 a gram to $5 million for the same amount. That put the value of 101.5 grams of the rocks at somewhere between $40 million … and half a billio
n.
It took Thad another thirty minutes to carefully parcel out a little bit from each sample to a separate container, which he intended to keep. It really would be the ultimate rock collection—a sample from every single moon landing there ever was, and maybe ever would be. Whatever the street value, it was actually quite priceless. Then he turned back to the safe and reached for the bottom drawer.
He recognized a few desiccators from his work back in the life sciences building, and knew from their appearance that they contained meteor fragments. Most of these, he had Rebecca put into the packing box, to send back to NASA. Toward the back of the drawer, he saw a desiccator that seemed slightly larger than the rest. Curious, he retrieved it, holding it close to his eyes as he read the label.
To his utter shock, he recognized the call letters immediately.
“ALH 84001.”
He stood there, staring at the little fragment inside.
“What’s that?” Sandra asked. “Another moon rock?”
Thad shook his head. Not a moon rock. It was even more valuable. It was the Mars sample—a fragment of the meteor that Everett Gibson had used to prove that there had once been life on Mars. The one that had been recovered from the ice in Antarctica in 1984.
“This one is from Mars.”
“Mars? You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. Then he carefully placed it in the tackle box.
“Why are you putting it there? Are we gonna sell it, too?”
“Maybe,” he responded, though he didn’t think he ever could. But for some reason, he wanted to take it with them as well. God knew how much it was worth to a collector like the Belgian; truthfully, Thad didn’t know if any amount of money would persuade him to let that one go. The idea that he now owned a piece of Mars was hard to get past.
“Okay, now for the paperwork.”
Beneath the bottom drawer, Thad found the curatorial forms—the actual NASA log of all the samples they now had in the tackle box. It was the best receipt—and written proof of the samples’ authenticity—that they could ask for. Thad carefully placed the forms into the suitcase, along with everything else that looked important still within the safe—a few loose papers, a vial or two—and was about to go about the process of reorganizing the tackle box by mission, in sequential order, when he noticed that Rebecca was still focused on the bottom drawer of the safe.
“Thad, what about that? That dust?”
Thad peered into the safe and saw what she was pointing toward. In one corner of the bottom drawer, there was a tiny bit of reddish-white powder. He realized that sometime during the process of moving the safe on and off the dolly, one of the sample bags must have leaked a little bit. It was really just a tiny amount—less than a gram, a very fine layer in just one little corner of the safe—but it was still from the moon. Thad stood there, thinking about it for a few more seconds—and then he did the only thing that came to mind.
He took his finger and slid it through the dust, then placed it into his mouth. Swallowing, he then grinned back at Rebecca.
“Now I’ll have a bit of the moon inside me.”
Without waiting for her reaction, he sealed the tackle box, closed the suitcase, and began cleaning up the rest of their staging area. He loaded the tools into the now-empty safe and then retrieved the dolly from where they had left it, near the bureau with the TV. The exhaustion was really starting to hit him, but he knew they still had a lot of work to do before the night was done.
As Sandra helped him work the safe back onto the dolly, Rebecca carefully folded up the sheets, then gathered the tackle box, suitcase, and the package addressed to NASA, and followed them toward the door. Thad and Sandra fought to work the still immensely heavy beast over the door frame. Meanwhile, Rebecca couldn’t help but ask the question that was on both girls’ minds.
“So how did it taste?”
Thad grunted as the safe lurched over the door frame, then inched its way outside.
“Salty, actually.”
He realized as he went that he was probably the only person on Earth who could say that with authority.
…
“I think I’ll have the Grand Slam Breakfast. In fact, we’ll all have the Grand Slam Breakfast. Grand Slam Breakfasts all around!”
Thad knew he sounded ridiculous, but he couldn’t help himself. Besides, if you couldn’t sound ridiculous in a deserted Denny’s situated on a lonely stretch of highway somewhere in the middle of bum-fuck Texas, then where could a guy, his girlfriend, and his confidante go to let off steam? And besides, it was really late—he wasn’t even sure what time, just that it was really freaking late—and he was beyond tired, so punch-drunk from living off that adrenaline high for so long that for the first time that he could remember, he had limited control of his faculties.
The girls didn’t seem much better off. Rebecca, for her part, had turned twice as bubbly as usual, and she was downing diet Coke after diet Coke as she counted—out loud—the rare headlights that flashed by on the highway outside the large picture window behind them. Sandra’s eyes were half shut, and she was slouched over at the banquette-style table, halfway between awake and asleep. Every now and then, Rebecca kicked her under the table just to make sure she was still conscious.
Hell, it had been a long night. But as far as Thad could see, they had done everything perfectly, and had taken every precaution. After leaving the hotel room, they had first taken to disposing of the safe. Driving to a small town called Alvin, Texas—a good forty minutes from the outskirts of Houston—they had wandered around until they’d found the perfect Dumpster, in a deserted alley next to an oversized car park. They’d chosen a separate Dumpster, another town away, for the rest of their trash, including the safe door, which they’d removed in the back of the car—since it had only been hanging on by one of the twisted pins by that point—just for good measure. Then they drove back to the old car that Thad had taken the license plate from, returning it to its rightful owner.
And then they had done the only thing they could think of to cool down: they had gone for breakfast. Denny’s was the only restaurant open that late, so Grand Slams it would have to be. And as tired as they all were, they knew that things would be even rougher over the next twenty-four hours as they completed their plan.
As the final part of their alibi, Thad had arranged to shepherd a group of co-ops to a famous Texan water park the next day. It was going to take a true force of will to make it through the excursion—not just because of their exhaustion, but because of the secret they now shared, the secret that was so fantastic, so unbelievable, it was going to be a real feat to keep inside.
And after tomorrow, well, there would be an entire five days of business as usual, all of them back at their routines. Thad had made the final arrangements with Lynn Briley the day before via e-mail; he would be meeting the Belgian’s sister-in-law in Florida the following Saturday, five days away. Instead of Tampa, they had agreed on Orlando, because Briley had suggested it. Thad had never been to Orlando, but he didn’t think he’d have much trouble finding the meeting place—a restaurant on International Drive called Italliani. The drive down to Florida would be more of a strain; but at least then, he and the girls would be able to talk about what they had just done, as much as they wanted.
Although, to be truthful, Thad liked the fact that for the moment, in public, it had to remain unspoken, this incredible secret. Leaning back against the banquette, he smiled at Rebecca, who twirled her straw at him, smiling back. He knew the secret of the moon rocks would bond them forever. Long after they sold them, and mailed back the excess to NASA, they would have the experience they had just gone through—something they would cherish, remember, and dwell on forever. He loved her with all of his heart, and he felt certain she loved him back.
In less than a week, they would have enough money to go away together, maybe to really start a life with each other. In his mind, Sonya was the past; Utah was the past; his family, Mormonism, even Everett G
ibson—the past.
Rebecca was his future. A hundred thousand dollars in a briefcase was his future. And a little fragment of the planet Mars.
All of this was his future—and the future was fucking beautiful.
30
Eyes closed, head down, Thad braced his hands against the sides of the glowing white cubicle and let the superheated jets of water pummel his naked shoulders, neck, and back as the steam from the nozzles embedded in the floor beneath his feet billowed upward in glistening, amorphous clouds, filling his nostrils, mouth, and lungs. More jets on either side spat powerful streams of even hotter water at his sides and chest, the angry rivulets tearing at his skin like white-hot needles, carving a grimace onto his lips and a wince into the edges of his eyes. But still, he didn’t move, letting the computer that controlled the space-age shower’s temperature and water pressure continue along the brutal preprogrammed cycle, hotter and hotter still—until there was a near scream working upward through his throat.
And just then, thankfully—when he knew he wouldn’t be able to take it anymore—the water suddenly shot off, the steam whirling upward into the vented grates that lined the brightly lit ceiling panels. Thad stood there, naked and dripping steaming beads of nearly gaseous HO, gasping for the cooler air that now made its way into the shower cubicle. Christ, that had been intense—but it was exactly what he had needed. Not only to work the knots out of his strained muscles, but also to clear the nearly constant state of tension from his brain. Even though it had been two days since the heist, his entire being still felt clenched, like a steel spring compressed so tight and flat that he was liable to explode. Luckily, it was only going to be another few days—the exchange with the Belgian rock hound’s sister-in-law had been confirmed, and Friday afternoon he would begin the long drive down to Orlando, Florida.
Which meant he only needed to blunder his way through his regular NASA routine for a little while longer. It was eleven A.M. on a Tuesday, and he was exactly where he was supposed to be, the shower room of the NBL, wasting time as he waited the necessary hour before the doctor could check him out for his lunch break. Sure, maybe he had dawdled a bit longer than usual in the Jetson-family shower, but he was sure nobody was going to notice.
