Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

“I’m not.”

  “Well, as you know, ceramic is brittle or powdery. It’s not hard like a silicon chip or as malleable as metal, so you have to spread out the ceramic on another substance called a substrate.”

  Ah, ha. Yashito and Trevor’s conversation suddenly began to make sense. “Tell me about the substrate.”

  “As far as I know, there are only two ways to deposit the ceramic: by lasers and by sputtering. You can use a pulsed excimer laser to vaporize the ceramic into bits that will crystallize on the substrate. Or you can evaporate the ceramic on the substrate using a plasma. Take your pick.”

  Okay, now Mick was lost again.

  “Why would you need the world’s largest particle accelerator to produce a substrate?”

  Like a schoolboy answering questions on an oral exam, Chris was suddenly stumped. He bent over backwards in his chair, chin in fist.

  “That’s a tough one. I really couldn’t say. You’re getting into high-energy physics there—subatomic particles—an area with which I’m not all that familiar. I’m at the Scientific American stage on that.”

  “That’s all right,” Mick said. “No need to apologize. I’m at the Time magazine stage.”

  “What you would need is someone who deals in the theory of superconductivity, the Josephson effect, electron spin, all that.”

  “Who might you suggest?”

  “Well, my old teacher, Professor Kronz, has been plugging away at it.”

  “Back at Princeton?”

  “Right now, he’s affiliated with the Carnegie Institute of Washington. At least that’s where he hangs his hat. He’s not in it for the money.”

  “That’s refreshing.”

  “He’s strictly interested in theory. You might look him up.”

  “Could you introduce me?”

  “Aw hell, you don’t need an introduction. Anyway, people in Washington are patriotic. He’ll do it for his country.”

  Mick rose from his chair and shook Chris’s hand. “Thanks. And sorry I stunk up your office.”

  “De nada, compadre,” Chris said.

  Turning to leave, Mick surveyed the volumes of journals on Chris’s shelves. His gaze landed on a familiar textbook. “I remember that book from high school physics.”

  “It’s my refresher course,” Chris said. “It’s been considerably revised since way back then. In fact, I ought to order a newer version. Why don’t you take this one with you?”

  He handed “Introduction to Physics” to Mick.

  “It’s good to know that even the experts need a refresher course,” Mick said, and stuffed it into his flight bag.

  As Chris sneaked him toward the back staircase, Mick listened to the hum of computers and inhaled the comforting smell of brewing coffee.

  It was a far cry from Morocco.

  Chapter 40

  The day after the shooting death at the CIA and the disguised voice routed through the White House telling him to leave SATO alone or “heads will roll,” Eli Shaw was fearful of returning to the office. But he was determined to find out what SATO was and how it intended to harm the president.

  “Damn it, we’re the CIA,” he said, flinging his office door open. He hung his suit jacket behind the door and tried to air out his moist armpits. “We ought to know this stuff.”

  Dwight Goode came in holding the late Jeremy Watts’ personnel file and sat terrified in the corner.

  Eli was running late that morning because of the traffic jam at the main gate. Security had begun checking every vehicle for firearms and other weapons. As he had sat in his car, he had fumed over his role in the mess.

  He had no idea what SATO was or what it was up to, and at that point he had decided to wash his hands of the whole affair.

  Then, as he waited in the long line of cars, his mobile phone had begun to jingle. From the phone’s screen, he could tell the call was from the White House. He had nearly shitted a brick. Was the Administration out to get him?

  It turned out to be a secretary returning a call from the previous day, informing him that the president had no intention of canceling his visit to CERN. Everyone should proceed as planned.

  He had resolved then and there to follow through on his job. He would protect the President of the United States. Even if that meant tackling SATO.

  He was just getting started, at Dwight’s expense. “We’re the CIA. We’ve got files on every terrorist group, every subversive government and every underground organization in the entire world down to the last hole-in-the-wall gang. And I’m not talking about ‘known’ groups. I’m talking about all groups. We should have something on this damned SATO.”

  “The question is where to look, sir. Is it domestic, or is it foreign? We’ve searched every place we can think of. Where do we go from here?”

  “What does the Jeremy Watts personnel file show?”

  “Not much. Our Counterterrorism unit confirmed all the facts. He was just a regular dude. In fact, no foreign contacts whatsoever. He was a techie, a scientist by training. His job was to monitor high technologies, the kind of area where science meets engineering meets the future.”

  Eli loosened his tie and tried to recall his conversation with Jeremy shortly before he bolted.

  “I remember him saying something about supercomputing something. Or was it superconducting? That’s it. He asked me if I knew about the ‘superconducting chip.’ Do you know anything about a superconducting chip?”

  “I assume that would be a computer chip, sir.”

  “Yeah, probably. Let’s look into that. What exactly is a superconducting chip? Was he working on it? And finally, how’s it connected to SATO?”

  Dwight stood up with the file. “I can interview his bosses at DI, find out about the superconducting chip and his role in it, and have Security check through his computer files for mention of SATO.”

  “Okay. We need it done now. The president’s going to Switzerland in four days. And damn it, nobody’s going to stop him.”

  Eli paused, wiped the sweat off his face and looked at the four paneled walls of his office.

  “And have my office swept for bugs.”

  After taking the George Washington Bridge from New York to New Jersey, Mick dropped off his rental car at Newark International Airport and booked a flight to Washington.

  Then he found a bank of public phones just outside the United Express gate and placed a call to Switzerland.

  “Everett,” he said. “Sorry to wake you up. Any news on Suzy’s killer?”

  “Mick?” Everett said in a sleepy voice. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m going into the Agency tomorrow. Do you have any news for me?”

  “Tell them to call off the damned presidential visit. We caught Suzy’s killer, and he cracked. He said that Proteus isn’t dead and plans to kill the president. He said there’s no way in the world to reach Proteus, and furthermore Proteus can’t be stopped once his plan is set in motion. I think it’s too late for anyone to get hold of Proteus and change his mind.”

  “I’ll relay that,” Mick said, then paused. “Any other news?”

  “I heard from your brother for the first time in a week. Said he’s in Morocco. Hasn’t found your wife yet. Sounds like Natalie’s on some cloak-and-dagger mission.”

  “I told Alec that she knows what she’s doing,” Mick said.

  “What the hell is she doing?” Everett demanded.

  “I don’t exactly know.”

  Robert Zimmer had miscalculated badly. As ousted science advisor to the White House, he had tacitly approved of the president’s assassination. Now it had come back to bite him in the butt. Somehow the government had learned of the plot, uncovered SATO, and swung into high gear, killing his inside man, Jeremy Watts.

  Robert strode with purpose across his bedroom to the dedicated high-security cell phone.

  His last option was to end the assassination attempt. But would that call off those attacking him?

  On his way to the phone,
he closed an open window, shutting out the sound of evening crickets that chirped on his well-manicured Virginia lawn.

  Then he dialed a special telephone number and waited.

  After static and an electronic handshake, a sleepy voice answered.

  “So, it’s you again,” the mechanical voice said sharply.

  “As always.”

  “Too bad I was already asleep.”

  Robert wracked his brains for a reply. “Out of bed, you.”

  “Okay, what do you want, old chap?”

  “After your last call to me,” Robert said, “I thought I’d reciprocate and wake you up.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “Our secrecy has been blown. The deal is off. The Secret Service learned of the plot to assassinate President Damon, and they’ll be on heightened alert. I’m sure they would capture Proteus if he tried anything. We’ve got to call it off.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late, old chap. He’s incommunicado.”

  Robert rubbed his forehead. He felt the initial pang of a headache. “You’ve got to find a way to reach Proteus.” He glanced across the street at houses bathed in streetlights. He whipped the curtains closed and lowered his voice. “If he’s caught, our whole involvement will be revealed.”

  “He’s a professional. He won’t talk.”

  “If Proteus is caught, he’ll be extradited to America. And if that happens, he knows he’ll have to sing, otherwise it’s capital punishment.”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “You brought him in, Trevor. You brought in the Japanese and the rest of the chip cartel. I didn’t hire you for either Proteus or the cartel. I gave you privileged information to run my agents in CERN and get membership for the U.S. You sold the information to the cartel, for some astronomical sum I don’t even want to contemplate, so you owe it to me to stop this assassination.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but some of that money will be yours. Besides, you approved the assassination.”

  “Nobody would like to get rid of Damon more than I would,” Robert admitted. “But I want to save my own skin, too. In fact, I’ve been forced to personally threaten CIA honchos if they don’t back off of us.”

  “Are you going wobbly on me?”

  “No. I’m with you one hundred percent,” Robert said. “You just have to find another way to please the cartel. Whatever you do, don’t shoot the American president.”

  “Are you speaking as a member of the American Government?”

  “No. I’m a lonely old man.”

  Not to mention desperate.

  He no longer worried about America’s future welfare. One way or another, the superconducting chip would level the world’s playing field and give unlimited power to one and all players, from Castro to bin Laden to Qadhafi.

  If Damon were exterminated in the process, so much the better. Robert and his career had been ill served by the spineless leader of the free world.

  Now, all he wanted was a piece of the pie. And to enjoy it alive.

  Robert realized it was never a good idea to threaten a man of O’Smythe’s caliber, but his back was to the wall.

  He took a deep breath. “Remember, I can reveal your identity, too.”

  The background noise evaporated quickly and disappeared. O’Smythe had hung up on him.

  Damn it.

  The call had not gone as planned. What started out as a request had turned into a threat.

  Now O’Smythe wouldn’t give him a cut of the profits. Instead, he would probably come after Robert and kill him before he could turn O’Smythe in.

  Robert looked around the bedroom of his neo-Colonial house. He had worked his entire career at the university and in the service of his government to purchase the place.

  Before he was exposed, he’d have to leave Arlington. Maybe find an apartment in some out-of-the-way city. He’d have to change his identity and lose all his credentials.

  Crap. He would lose all he had worked for.

  So there was no way to call off the assassination and he had alienated O’Smythe in the process. He was a dead man.

  How could Robert escape the most ruthless, self-disciplined, well-connected and secretive underworld figure on the planet? He had hired O’Smythe for those very qualities, and now he was sure they would be turned against him.

  A sudden, desperate idea passed through his mind. Could he ask the U.S. Government for protection?

  A bitter laugh escaped his lips when he considered the irony.

  He began to throw his clothes into a suitcase. He would move out that night.

  Chapter 41

  “May I take that for you?” the flight attendant asked Mick.

  Mick liked the impersonal efficiency with which the young blonde on his flight from Newark to Washington folded his gray jacket over her arm and began to march down the aisle.

  Then his tongue accidentally rubbed against the smooth ball of plastique affixed to his molars.

  Half standing and restrained by his seatbelt, he swiped at the jacket. He caught hold of it between two fingers and ripped it away from her.

  “Ow,” she cried, recoiling and rubbing her arm.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll keep that.”

  “My, you’re quick,” she said, then paused to examine him, coatless in his sweat-stained white shirt.

  He folded the jacket and laid it in his lap. Feeling the lining, he found the thin box.

  That was close. If she had taken the jacket more than ten feet away from him, indicating to the device that he was no longer with the transmitter that sent out information to Saas Fee about his whereabouts, the C4 would explode in his mouth and the small jet would become a large crater in Newark’s tarmac.

  He looked around the cabin. The plane’s narrow seats were arranged three across and ten rows deep, with an aisle splitting the rows into two seats and one. He sat alone, and he preferred it that way.

  The flight attendant was an athletic young woman. Smiling coyly, she sashayed to the front of the cabin. He heard her give a little grunt as she hauled in the white polypropylene rope. The door whooshed shut.

  She rammed the red lock down with a crash and tapped the pilot’s shoulder lightly. “Ready to go,” she said sweetly.

  The pilot nodded.

  The flight attendant whisked the cockpit door shut and swept a microphone to her lips.

  “Kindly buckle your seat belts and return your cup holders to the upright position. Today you’re flying in a Jetstream 41. Please familiarize yourself with the exit.”

  Mick watched the red and white tipped propellers flick into motion. The cabin’s plastic walls began to vibrate and buzz. He tried to relax, but his seat had no armrests. The fuselage’s curve gave him little room for his head and legs.

  Soon they lurched forward and crept toward the runway.

  The twin prop airplane gamely confronted the same runway used by much larger aircraft. Squared away, the pilot released the brakes, and Mick felt pressed gently against his seat. Under the plane’s lights, the ground rushed by. Then, in a spirited swoop, they parted company with the earth.

  Looking past the blur of blades, he watched a full summer moon glint off New Jersey rooftops, roads, winding rivers and scattered lakes.

  Conversation was impossible in the drone of the engines. That was fine with him.

  He had no interest in talking with the flight attendant who was smiling invitingly at him.

  Instead, he opened his flight bag and pulled out the high school primer on physics that Christopher McNulty had given him.

  His memory of quantum mechanics was outdated. What exactly does one use a particle accelerator for? It helped to go back to night school for the hour-and-a-half flight.

  The flight attendant began to move her well-proportioned body around the undulating cabin.

  He switched on his reading lamp.

  Under the beam of light, he thought he might look up “light.” He was astonished to read that scientist
s grouped light under matter. Photons were elementary particles, and all particles fell into one of three groups—hadrons, leptons and bosons—according to the forces that usually controlled their interactions.

  The beverage service started, and he decided not to pull down his cup holder.

  He caught a whiff of perfume, a youthful bouquet of spring blossoms.

  The flight attendant paused, but didn’t interrupt his reading.

  Hadrons were the protons and neutrons and other parts of the nucleus of an atom. Leptons included electrons, neutrinos and other similar particles. Finally, the boson group covered photons, the carriers of light, and whatever mysterious, theoretical objects that carried radioactive force and gravity.

  He barely noticed the flight attendant moving on, as he became immersed in the textbook.

  He plunged straight into the four forces of the universe—gravity, electromagnetism, strong and weak.

  He knew that gravity was the force between two masses and that electromagnetism bound electrons and protons in an atom, but what were the strong and weak forces?

  He felt the flight attendant’s strong fingers on his shoulder. “Last chance. Peanuts or crackers?”

  He pulled his most disarming smile and shook his head.

  Strong force was a mysterious power that held protons near to each other and to neutrons in the nucleus of an atom. Kind of like the force that keeps a husband and wife together.

  The trim blue uniform swished as it passed.

  Then there was weak force. Kind of like a weakness for another object, a slight, constant attraction. In the case of radioactivity, scientists found and measured weak forces by the decay of isotopes, atoms with more or fewer neutrons than the normal atom.

  The flight attendant had returned to her jump seat and put on some boyish-looking reading glasses. Was she mocking him?

  He tried to regain his focus. Now, how did particle accelerators relate to all that he had just learned?

  He read about how scientists accelerated charged particles such as electrons and protons with such tremendous speed and accuracy that they could hit and smash apart other particles traveling at the same speed in the opposite direction.