by Tom West
CIA File #34565Brit/MI6.
Special Agent Adam Sinclair Fleming.
DOB: 16 March 1983, Norwich, England.
Parents: Brigadier Miles Henry Fleming (deceased) and Dr Mary Louise Fleming (ophthalmologist).
Education: St Paul’s School, London; Rugby; Merton College, Oxford (PPE); Sandringham.
Notes: Fleming is perceived as a model agent coming through the tried and tested British Establishment/class/military system. He comes from what the Brits call an ‘upper-middle-class family’, a military dynasty dating back to the 18th century. A rowing blue at Oxford, Fleming graduated with 1st class honours.
Training and Skills: Qualified as Marksman 1st class, black belt Judo and Krav Maga master. Fluent Russian, Mandarin, Spanish. Pilot’s license.
Derham paused in his reading to survey a collection of images of Fleming at Oxford, on exercises at Sandringham, his first ID photograph at MI6, attending a formal dinner dressed in white tie, his blond hair oiled back rakishly.
‘Quite the golden boy,’ he muttered to himself. ‘And the girl to go with it,’ he added, noticing Fleming’s arm was draped around the bare shoulders of a stunning woman with high cheekbones and large black eyes. He read on:
Fleming joined MI6 in May 2008. He was recruited by his future wife, Celia Gainsborough.
Jerry stopped again to study more closely the picture of Fleming with the woman.
Gainsborough was Fleming’s superior in British Intelligence. They married in June 2009. Served together in Kabul (July–November 2009) and in Moscow over Christmas that year.
Fleming then worked as senior field operative without Gainsborough in Lebanon, Beijing, and later, Cairo.
Celia Gainsborough was killed on active duty in Mexico, June 2012.
Fleming served three more missions to Moscow, returned to Cairo and completed two stints in Karachi.
Personal Life: Since the death of his wife, Fleming has had no serious romantic relationships. He seems to have few friends and little time for any social life. He returned to Merton College, Oxford for a reunion in April 2014 and holidayed alone in Malta for the second week of August the same year.
‘Wow!’ Derham said to himself as he tapped his keyboard and scrolled down to the end of the report. ‘Just as it says on the packet!’
There was a gentle tap at the door. Derham looked up and saw in the doorway the man he had just been reading about, his fingers on the handle.
‘You free?’ Fleming asked. ‘I have some news.’
23
Institute of Marine Studies, Hampton, Virginia. Present day.
‘I don’t know how you have so much energy,’ Lou moaned, sipping at his second cup of strong coffee.
‘It’s early Sunday morning – the best time of the week. And don’t forget I went for a run at six,’ Kate replied.
Lou rolled his eyes. ‘Obviously you are Superwoman.’ He turned back to his monitor.
On the screen was an image of the inside of the cylinder they had found in the cockpit of Amelia Earhart’s plane a few days earlier. The piece of paper could be seen clearly, the three words: ‘REMEMBER JOAN’S PLACE?’ Kate wheeled over her chair directly behind Lou so she could see the screen.
‘Handwritten,’ she commented.
‘This can’t be the extent of the cipher Einstein talked about on the film we saw. If it was as simple as that why go through the whole rigmarole of putting the message in this metal container?’
Kate flicked a glance at the rusted metal tube lying on the laboratory bench close by. ‘Why not just have somebody commit it to memory and pass it on, or come to that, why didn’t this Professor Kessler simply say that over the phone?’
‘Agreed. Must be more to it. On the recording Einstein said the code was something he and Kessler had developed when they were younger and working in Oxford together for a brief time before the war. We should have it checked over by a forensic document examiner – confirm it’s Kessler’s . . . or not. This “Joan’s Place” must be something to do with that time, don’t you think?’
Kate was nodding, lost in thought. ‘More than likely, maybe it was somewhere they hung out, or maybe Joan was a friend, a girlfriend of Kessler’s? Einstein was married by 1933, wasn’t he?’
‘To his second wife, Elsa . . . years before, I think. It could be anybody though, couldn’t it? Or anywhere come to that.’
‘I feel like we’re missing something, something obvious. It’s really annoying.’
‘Look, we’ve got a lab full of equipment here. I suggest we get started.’
Lou pulled on a pair of latex gloves, picked up the cylinder and held it under a powerful halogen light close to the workbench. Kate joined him, pulling up a stool to the bench.
‘We did everything we could with the equipment we had on the boat – we have the basics down: dimensions, weight, description of any markings, condition of the relic.’
‘And Gustav ran a full spectrometric analysis as well, didn’t he?’
‘I suggest the next thing we do is a UV spectroscopic scan, and if needs be, run an NMR on it. I’m pretty sure the paper inside is in good condition. I don’t think the object was vacuum-sealed, so there shouldn’t be any problems taking it out into an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere.’
Kate picked up the cylinder and walked over to a plain-looking steel box standing close to the end of the bench. The UV spectrometer was the size and shape of a toaster. She opened the front, placed the cylinder inside the cavity, closed the door and punched a few buttons on the top of the device. A moment later, the image of the cylinder appeared as a brightly coloured graphic on a monitor close to the machine. Kate pulled up close to the bench and began tapping at the keyboard, altering parameters and settings on the device.
On the screen, the image of the cylinder rotated and different coloured lines began to appear on its surface. These denoted fault lines in its metallic structure.
‘This isn’t telling us anything new,’ Kate commented. She retrieved the cylinder from the machine and settled at the bench close to where Lou was sitting.
‘Better open it then, I guess.’
Kate gripped the end of the cylinder and attempted to unscrew the metal cap. It wouldn’t budge.
‘Let me see.’
Kate handed the object to Lou. He tried to loosen the cap but had no more luck than her. Rummaging in a drawer under the bench, he found a pipe wrench. A further search offered up a length of rubber tubing. He cut two short pieces from one end and taped these to the claws of the pipe wrench so the cylinder would not be scratched. Clamping the end of the tube, he gripped tightly and twisted. The cap produced a squeaking sound and began to give.
Small flakes of rust fell onto the surface of the bench, but after three turns on the cap it came loose and Lou placed both the cylinder and the end piece on a pad of cotton wool. Slipping two fingers inside the open end, he pulled out the single sheet of paper.
He handed it to Kate, who rolled it open and placed it on a cotton pad, smoothing it down very gently.
It was a piece of expensive stationery. At the top of the paper was printed: Regent Berlin Charlottenstr. 49, Berlin, BE 10117, Germany.
‘Ah, hotel stationery. The Regent Berlin, I’ve heard of that. Quite a classy place – well, it is now. We didn’t pick up the header with the scanner on the boat.’
‘Kessler must have been staying at the hotel when he wrote this message.’
Lou picked up the cap of the cylinder and rolled it in his palm before studying it closely under the lamp. ‘No markings, nothing on here.’ He put it aside and moved the cylinder under a magnifying glass on a stand and peered through it. Kate glanced over as Lou turned the cylinder over, end to end.
‘Wait,’ Kate said. Lou looked at her, surprised.
‘Tip it back again.’ She took the cylinder from Lou’s hands and nudged him aside. ‘Yes! I didn’t think I’d imagined it.’
‘Imagined what?’
‘Look.’ She t
ilted the cylinder, catching the inside close to the opening in a pool of light from the lamp.
‘Wow! Well spotted. Tilt it back a little bit, can you?’
‘Can you make out what it says?’
‘Not really. Just a couple of letters. Is it a P? An N?’
‘I thought it was a B and then an N,’ Kate said.
‘You’re right.’ Lou rotated the cylinder along its axis, and squinted through the magnifying glass.
Kate was an inch away from his face staring at the same magnified image. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing.’
‘We’ll have to use a fibre-optic probe. There may well be some other letters further into the tube.’
It took them over half an hour to set up the equipment. The probe was incredibly slender and pliable. At the end of the fibre-optic strand was a tiny 3D camera able to collect visual data in a 360-degree field and in very low light. It had been specifically designed for use by archaeologists investigating burial chambers and inaccessible parts of ruins. A miniature version had then been adapted to study the insides of delicate, often oddly shaped objects that resisted conventional analysis.
Kate inserted the fibre-optic slowly into the cylinder, taped the end to the opening to keep it fixed in place and pulled up a chair beside Lou at a computer console linked to the probe. Lou tapped at the keyboard, and activated the fibre-optic. For a few minutes nothing changed on the screen as the probe collected data and collated the information to create a detailed coloured image of the entire inner surface of the cylinder. The cursor blinked, a line of computer code slithered across the screen, then a hi-res, full-colour image flicked up on the monitor.
It took a few seconds for the scientists to understand what they were seeing. Then Lou emitted a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘I didn’t expect that!’ Kate said.
There was a tap at the door. Kate and Lou looked up in unison and saw Jerry Derham standing just inside the lab, Adam Fleming close behind him.
‘It was open,’ he said, indicating the door. ‘Hope we’re not . . .’
‘Perfect timing, actually,’ Kate said, as she and Lou turned round to greet them.
Fleming pecked Kate on the cheek and shook Lou’s hand. The two visitors stood in front of the monitor.
‘We’ve made a breakthrough with the cylinder,’ Lou said. ‘Look what’s written on the inside. We almost missed it.’
‘You almost missed it!’ Kate corrected.
On the screen, three lines of closely packed, seemingly random letters and numbers stood in sharp relief against the dull metallic background of the tube.
‘Looks like they’re etched in,’ Derham said keeping his eyes fixed on the image.
‘They are, I think,’ Lou commented. ‘You can see some faint marks here where the hydrofluoric acid used to create the letters bit in.’ He poised a finger over the upper right of the screen. ‘A very clever idea.’
‘Indeed,’ Fleming responded. ‘Any clue what it says?’
‘We’ve only just picked it up,’ Lou said. ‘But it must be the cipher that unlocks the message Kessler sent via the British vessel.’
‘And the note: “REMEMBER JOAN’S PLACE?”. What was that?’
‘A decoy?’ Kate offered.
Fleming nodded, lost in thought. ‘Possibly.’
‘I’ll get our encryption expert, Kevin Grant, onto it,’ Derham said. ‘Remember, he solved the code for the Fortescue document we brought up from Titanic?’
‘I think this could prove a little tougher.’
Derham raised his eyebrows. ‘We’ll see. He’s very good.’
‘So what brings you here?’ Kate asked them, lowering herself onto a stool.
‘We may have a breakthrough of our own,’ Fleming said. ‘I was contacted by my superiors in London this morning. We have a lead on the Kessler Document.’
‘But didn’t it go down with the British merchant ship in 1937?’ Lou asked.
‘I never said it did . . . Nor did Einstein in the film clip.’
‘But there’s no evidence that it survived either.’
‘Unless our new lead proves to have some foundation. A man who will only identify himself as “Zero” made contact with London yesterday. He says he is working for a powerful Russian named Sergei. He claims Sergei knows the whereabouts of the Kessler Document.’
‘A bit of a coincidence!’ Kate cut in.
Fleming nodded and glanced around the lab. ‘Far too much of one. So, either this Sergei is in Russian Intelligence and they have access to MI6 secrets on this . . . which I doubt . . .’ Fleming inhaled loudly and puffed up his chest.
‘Of course,’ Lou commented. Kate glared at him.
‘Or else . . .’ Fleming went on, ‘what is more likely is that this Sergei character is linked in some way to Glena Buckingham and Eurenergy.’
‘That implies she – they – have a very long reach, Fleming,’ Derham said. ‘I find that hard to believe. You reckoned she had only just learned about Earhart’s plane crash site. How could she know Kate and Lou had retrieved anything from the aircraft and linked it with Einstein and the communications he had with Kessler in 1937?’
Fleming shrugged. ‘I have no idea, Captain. That’s why we,’ and he nodded towards Kate and Lou, ‘need to get to Moscow asap.’
24
Dakar, Senegal. 9 June 1937.
She ran through the evening, feeling sweat seeping from her pores and the hot air like clammy fingers groping her skin.
The darkness and the light, the colours, the monochrome patches, they all merged into a blur as she tore down a narrow alleyway between two crumbling buildings smelling the urine and the sweat, unwashed clothes and dung.
Out on the main plaza, people milled about, trading, gossiping, drinking, eating. She ignored them all and darted down another passage hardly wider than her shoulders.
This led Amelia to a further, quieter square, a pair of woman arguing solemnly, children, sleepy but still noisy and protesting, pulling at legs. She ducked aside, skirted the square into another almost identical alleyway of stone and sky, and then she was out on the main road, the Imperial ahead on the left.
The sweat had penetrated the fabric of her blouse and she felt self-conscious as she nodded to the doorman and slipped into the hotel, the wooden box under her arm, across the foyer and into the bar. Fred Noonan was where she had left him an hour earlier.
‘Amy . . . Where’ve you been?’
Earhart gripped his arm, smelt her odour and knew that Fred had too. ‘We have to go.’
‘Go? Go where?’
‘Fred, please don’t make a scene, speak quietly. I’m in trouble. People are after me.’
Fred Noonan looked at her uncomprehendingly. His mouth started to move.
Amelia gave the room a furtive once-over. Three tables with seated couples and a lone drinker propped up at the end of the bar staring into his drink. The tinkling of a piano in the far corner doused her words. ‘We have to pack and leave right away.’
‘Amy . . . You’re—’
She pulled his arm. ‘Now, Fred!’
*
They met on the landing less than three minutes later, each with a single small leather bag.
‘You get a cab out front. Take it round the back. I’ll meet you there.’
‘You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on, right?’ Noonan spat. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him.
‘Please, Fred. I will. Can you just trust me on this?’ She turned away before he could reply.
*
Amelia felt her heart racing and she had to remind herself to steady her breathing. She slipped through a swing door close to the bar’s toilets. It opened onto a featureless, barely lit passageway. She reached the end after sidestepping cardboard boxes and a rickety trolley half filled with wooden cartons that gave off the pungent odour of overripe fruit. Beyond the passage lay an annexe to the kitchens. She kept close to the wall and
passed into the night air once more, unnoticed. Shouldering her bag, she moved around a corner and saw the cab pull up. Across a stretch of squeaking sand and a pitted pathway, she reached the car and got into the back seat as Noonan directed the driver to the airfield.
25
Moscow. Present day.
The landing at Domodedovo Airport was the bumpiest either Kate or Lou had ever experienced. The 747 came down on the runway hard and started to skid as soon as the wheels touched the tarmac. Women screamed and lights in the passenger cabin blinked off and on. Kate felt Lou’s hand grasp hers. She dared not even turn her head to see his face.
For several moments Kate wished she and Lou had not agreed to go with Adam so readily, even if the invite had come out of the blue. Her first question to Fleming had been: ‘Why?’ To which he had given the reasonable enough answer that higher authorities admired their work, and – as the Kessler Document had supposedly been lost at sea – a pair of marine archaeologists might prove useful.
The skid seemed to go on forever. Through the window, in the corner of Kate’s field of vision, the lights of Moscow, like a gigantic fairy castle, lit up the distant horizon. Heaped snow lay either side of the runway and, far off, close to the terminal buildings, a line of snowploughs laboured against the elements.
The plane made a final judder, straightened and decelerated on the tarmac, the engines roaring with a squealing top note like the agonized protests of a stuck pig.
An hour later they were in a cab travelling fast along the Kashirskoe Shosse highway. Adam Fleming was seated in the front studying an iPad, a square-shaped man with a bulbous red nose was at the wheel; in the back Lou and Kate stared out at the bleak snow-girded freeway, cars and lorries streaming past. The cab windscreen wipers worked hard to sweep clear the sludge and spray thrown up from the road. A crimson glow from the setting sun coloured the concrete and bedraggled trees either side of the highway.
‘The latest intel from London,’ Fleming said, turning in his seat and offering Kate and Lou his iPad. ‘Just picked it up after I finally got a signal with MegaFon.’
