by A J Marshall
“I’m late because of your biotronic friend if the truth be known, but I’m okay, thank you.”
“Where is Thomas, Richard? Is there a problem?”
“He’s jammed in a freight pod beneath our right wing. Best place for him. There wasn’t an alternative at the Egyptian base. I wanted to leave him there, but Lieutenant Quarrie did some negotiating. The pod isn’t really compatible with this aeroplane and so it was a botch job to secure it. That’s why we are subsonic and relatively low. Arrival at the Orbitalport is in two hours and twenty-seven minutes.”
Rothschild appeared to be in two minds: he did not know whether to be pleased at Richard’s safe return or annoyed at his apparent disregard for orders. Abbey shook her head at his cavalier attitude.
“Understood,” Rothschild said, removing the edge from his tone. “Listen . . . there are definitely problems on the Moon – unspecified at the moment, but something to do with security. We think it is serious. The Lunar Senate is being cagey as usual – as I said to you previously, it’s their damned isolationist policies. Anyway, they need you back immediately to command your squadron. They are sending a fighter to pick you up. I delayed it until I heard from you. I will not be in London when you arrive – business elsewhere I’m afraid – but Abbey will meet you. There’ll be enough time for a debrief and then you will need to go.”
“That’s all well and good, Peter, but I need to follow my lead on Madame Vallogia; she has been abducted, as has Asharf Makkoum. Their lives are in danger, I know it.”
“So you know where they are?”
“Not exactly . . . I need your help.”
“I’m not sure we have time for this, Richard, there are some critical . . .”
“I’m not going back to Andromeda without finding Madame Vallogia, Peter. You can forget it! You brokered the secondment, you can make the excuses. You help me to find her and I’m on my way back full of praise for MI9 – it’s your call.”
Rothschild turned the microphone off. “This damned man . . .” he muttered, full of frustration.
“Madame Vallogia may well be important to us, Peter,” Abbey interjected, in a conciliatory way, “and particularly if another consignment of crystals is forthcoming. Consider the recent Mitchell report on their believed origin. The basis of it is Richard’s discovery of the Ark of the Light in Venice. Two years to compile, it was supposed to be the consultative document when Hera’s consignment was put into service. It stated Madame Vallogia’s role as ‘a very knowledgeable historian’ but it also mentioned her hereditary line. She has knowledge of the cultures that first used the crystals, Peter – should anyone stop to listen.”
Rothschild drew a deep breath and nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, but the Senate will not be happy.” He flipped the switch again. “I’m going to try to buy you some more time, Richard. I’ll try for tomorrow morning . . . So how can I help?”
“Thank you. Go on the World Net, will you? Open up a travel programme or holiday guide – or perhaps a city guide. Asharf was taken from Cairo in a small plane, probably a private jet. He says he experienced frequent bumpiness and so they were probably at or below the tropopause. That probably puts them in a subsonic regime. Say a top speed of Mach 0.95. He says the flight was about three hours. That gives a circle with an approximate radius of two thousand miles based on Cairo. Madame Vallogia is with him; she was driven there from Paris. It was a couple of hours apparently, maybe a little more, and there was a holdup on the road, too, so that puts them near Europe somewhere, perhaps still in France, maybe Germany or Holland. She recalls hearing noises of jet engines and an aeroplane passed low overhead as she was led into a building, so they are probably close to an airport. They were both blindfolded for the duration but Madame Vallogia managed to glimpse two street names and a park name on her way; she said she had a cold and needed to blow her nose – she could convince you of anything.” Richard paused with that thought. “Peter,” he went on, “please feed these street names into the travel programme and see what it comes up with.”
“Alright, go ahead with the names.”
“The park was called Parc de la Meinau, spelt with a c. The streets are the Rue de Figeac and then she turned left into Rue Louis Braille. After that, her head was covered again, but she was driven for only another ten minutes before they reached the building. What have you got – anything?”
After typing in the final word, Rothschild stabbed the enter key on his illuminated panel. Almost immediately the programme responded and a place name appeared on his computer screen. For a moment he simply stared. “I don’t believe it,” he voiced in a whisper, and then he looked up at Abbey with widening eyes. “It’s Strasbourg,” he uttered. “Richard!” he called, in a loud voice. “It’s Strasbourg! Those places are all in Strasbourg! And only a short distance from the Aérodrome de Strasbourg-Neuhof.”
“Of course! That’s it! That’s where they are! Spheron! Spheron . . . they are being held captive in their bloody headquarters building.” There was a pause of realisation. “They want information from her regarding the crystals. That’s got to be the reason – but she doesn’t know anything, not consciously anyway. Peter, I’m going there. I need to find her . . . and Asharf.”
“That’s not possible, Richard. There’s a Federation security operation tonight; we are raiding that building. I’m due there myself after it has been secured in order to help coordinate an investigation with the French authorities. No to that request Richard, I’m sorry – too many complications.”
“I want to be there before the shooting starts, Peter. Don’t you see? They will not give up a prize asset eas—”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that.”
“Oh really, and you are going to guarantee Madame Vallogia’s life are you? I would say that the Spheron Corporation has a lot to hide and they are not going to give it up without a fight.” There was a moment of silence and the radio crackled and then Richard was heard to say to his pilot: “Make a call to Air Traffic Control, Chris; we are diverting to Strasbourg. ETA . . . 16:30 GMT; that’s 17:30 Local.” And then Richard’s voice became clearer. “What is the planned time for this raid? And what’s the address?”
Rothschild knew that he was on a hiding to nothing. “I want you to be careful with this, Richard. Do you understand? No diplomatic incidents . . .” It was a stern voice that offered no compromise.
“Of course . . . you have my word on it. I’m into the building . . . I find them . . . and I’m out. Who would I contact? Who’s in charge of the operation?”
“Ask for Monsieur Pierre Marquenie. He is my opposite number in the French Secret Service. The raid is due to start at 19:00 Local. Be there at 18:30 but not before – just down the street from the main entrance. I’ll have the address sent through to your telephonic pager. There will be enough police vehicles to attract your attention. One other thing . . . you’re unlikely to find any local taxis – there’s no fuel on general sale over there. I’ll get a message to the airport manager and get our department driver out for you.”
“Copied.”
“Richard, this is Abbey. Listen carefully – this is important. We have somewhere that you can go in Strasbourg – a safe house. It’s in the local area, close to the diplomatic sector. It was used as a base for our agents when the European Democratic Republic was formed and the UK withdrew its membership in favour of the North Atlantic Alliance. We used to keep an eye on decisions being made in their parliament. I’m not sure of the exact address but it’s only a short drive – Robertsau, Rue des Fleurs, if I recall. I’ll need to confirm that. It’s not far from the principal Parliament building. I’ll get Laura to send the address and the main door entry code to your pager. The building has not been used for a while. Take Madame Vallogia and Mr Makkoum there. I will arrange for a pickup tomorrow, mid-morning, when the dust has settled, so to speak. Have you got that?”
“Got it, Abbey. I’ll be in touch!”
CHAPTER 23
Voi
ces from the Past
Strasbourg – same day
18:42 European Time
Lieutenant Quarrie’s suggestion that Strasbourg’s Spaceport was a more logical place to land than the restricted and city-central Neuhof Airport was sensible, despite being situated in countryside twelve kilometres south of the metropolitan area. Putting the agile fighter down at night, in bad weather and on a relatively short, wet, runway was well avoided unless absolutely necessary.
The Space and Science Federation owned and ran the spaceport as part of its European Headquarters. It was the largest facility outside the Americas and additionally it had maintenance equipment on hand that was compatible with the Typhoon. Richard had left Chris Quarrie supervising the replenishment of his aircraft’s systems, including a small fuel uplift for the proposed short hop to London after his business in the city was concluded. He had also asked for the HIM 32 to remain secured in the freight pod until he could rid himself of the responsibility by handing the system back to Peter Rothschild – he could not see any use whatsoever for a robot like Thomas. A helpful Duty Officer at the Spaceport’s Control Centre had put a car at Richard’s disposal and it was in this vehicle – a black-painted, French-built, Partisan estate model – that Richard arrived at his destination.
Richard’s dark-suited driver reminded him of the famous fictional detective from Belgium – the one from the Art Deco period that he had seen on telescreen repeats. He had black hair slicked back with tonic, an old-fashioned moustache and keen dark eyes. In the specified location the man had spotted a number of haphazardly parked vehicles, including three white, windowless vans. Consequently, Richard had asked him to turn around, drive back and stop in a crossing street close to where the vehicles formed a loose cordon. Subsequently, the driver had approached the furtive scene with caution. With headlights dimmed but without concealment, the Partisan estate car drew to a halt beneath the last lit street lamp; thereafter, the remainder of the street was in darkness.
Richard sat for a short while assessing the situation. He could see a number of figures lurking in the shadows at the edge of the street.
“You see them?” asked the driver; he had a strong French intonation.
Richard nodded. “Yes, I see them,” he replied. “There must be twenty.”
Richard, who was sitting in the back of the car, noted that the street was effectively blocked. He also noticed that the suspension was dragging on all three vans and he realised that there was probably a similar number of men in hiding.
He began searching the vicinity for someone who might be in charge when suddenly a man appeared from behind his right shoulder and peered inside. Richard jumped. “What the . . . ?” he blurted, being taken completely unawares.
The man, who was wearing riot gear and had the visor on his helmet flipped up, tapped on the window with his knuckle. Richard found the switch and motored the window down.
“Monsieur Reece?” the man asked.
Richard nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”
The man gestured over his shoulder. “You are expected. Monsieur Marquenie waits for you. Come with me.”
Richard was wearing his spare set of clothes – dark blue trousers, brown brogues and a white, roll neck cotton shirt beneath a royal blue, woollen, cable-knit, crewneck pullover. He had left his flight suit rolled neatly on the rear ejection seat of the Typhoon. “You’ll wait for me?” he asked the man he had mentally nicknamed Poirot.
“Those are my instructions,” replied the driver curtly.
Richard pulled a borrowed mid-length dark coat from the seat beside him and climbed from the car. It was a cold night, one degree at most, and a light drizzle moistened his shoulders. He followed the man into the shadows, pulling on the coat and buttoning it. There, beneath a leafless lime tree, lurked a group of plainly clothed men; they loitered with intent. Most wore overly- padded black jackets with elasticated waistbands, but two wore dark, calf-length raincoats. Richard smiled and shook his head – plain clothes or not, he thought, they were clearly policemen.
The entire group watched suspiciously as Richard approached. It was attention that made him feel nervous. One of the raincoat-wearing men stepped forward and held out his hand. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Reece,” he said, in a friendly way. “My name is Pierre Marquenie. I was told to expect you by my friend in London. He is on his way, but will miss the action . . . quel dommage.”
“How do you do?” responded Richard, as he shook the tall man’s hand.
“I am told that there are two people inside that you have to make contact with,” said Marquenie, assessing Richard with a quick look up and down. “And one is an Egyptian undercover agent?”
Richard nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”
Marquenie pulled a small radio from his coat pocket. He held it to his mouth, whilst keeping a watchful eye on Richard, and barked a few words into it in French. The hushed conversations around them stopped abruptly. “It is 18:52, Monsieur,” he said to Richard. “We move in a few minutes. Tell me quickly, a description . . . What should we be expecting?”
“The lady is Madame Vallogia,” replied Richard immediately. “She’s in her forties but looks younger. Perhaps ten years younger. She’s one point eight metres in flat shoes – always flat shoes. Slim. Attractive. Mediterranean complexion. Italian looking. Speaks French fluently . . . Oh, and long dark hair.”
“Attractive . . . ?” asked Marquenie. “She sounds beautiful!”
Richard shrugged. “One other thing . . .” he started, appearing to ignore the remark, “she has a birthmark on her face – left side, down here.” Richard ran his hand from his forehead down his cheek and onto his neck.
“Shame,” commented Marquenie, and then he lifted the radio to his mouth and translated the description into French.
“It makes no difference,” replied Richard, dropping his words to a whisper. Then he wondered why he had said that.
“And the agent, monsieur – what about him?”
“Asharf Saeed Makkoum . . . He’s a little shorter – by a centimetre or two. Arabic descent. Tanned face. An intuitive look with dark hair. Bit of a hooked nose, too . . . probably unshaven.” Richard paused for a moment in recollection. “Wiry – deceptively strong actually. He’ll wear a djellaba for sure.”
Marquenie nodded and translated the words into French again, adding, “Allons!” Then he slipped the radio into his pocket, noted the time and raised his hand to point ominously down the street.
The response was immediate. With electric drives whining, the three white vans screeched off in the direction of a tall, rectangular glass building. Realising where he was going, Richard could see several lit offices on various floors. The street was wide and tree lined. Agents seemed to spring up from nowhere, some carrying torches. A group of policemen heavily clad in protective riot gear spontaneously formed a platoon. One of their number, although indistinguishable as an officer, began giving orders in French. The group stepped off in a spritely fashion and headed towards the building.
“Stay close to me,” said Marquenie to Richard. “We will take our time. Nobody is sure what to expect.”
The entrance to the building was formed by an impressive overhanging glass portico with a greenish hue. Towering side panels were set to prevent any weather from reaching the three transparent revolving doors. Within this dry area that was paved in translucent glass, and was made to glow by integral fibre optics, there was a central fountain in the form of a single jet of water. The column rose vertically to perhaps fifteen metres and was set so precisely as to come down on itself without a drop being spilt. On the glass wall to the right of the doors and mounted at head height was a large plaque bearing the words ‘Spheron Industries’ in polished platinum. As he approached, Richard stood almost mesmerised by the legend.
Marquenie called Richard over. With the other man in a raincoat – whose name was Matisse – he was standing close to the central door, waiting for a report. They were keen to go inside. French
spoken over the radio was almost continuous and at times excited. Once or twice Marquenie interrupted proceedings by shouting orders, but in the main he let his men get on with it.
“There are no more than a dozen security guards and a few people working late. Middle management you will understand; unfortunately no directors. But they will be questioned by my people.” Marquenie explained the situation in good English. Richard watched him draw a slow breath of relief and nod his silent approval to his colleague. Marquenie, as he stepped into the light, he seemed older than the fifty-something years that Richard had originally estimated.
Marquenie was taller than Richard. He had a narrow face and prominent cheekbones and was almost permanently adorned with a trilby-type hat, which he wore pulled down over his eyes – at an angle that made him look sinister. Richard peered through the glass doors and into the foyer – there was still plenty of action inside.
“They were not expecting us,” Marquenie continued, after some more talk over the radio. “No armed resistance. Believe me, this is a good thing – when news of this breaks tomorrow there will be repercussions.” He paused thoughtfully and then shrugged, as if discarding that remark. “Soon we will have the building secured,” he said.
“Any sign of Madame Vallogia?” asked Richard expectantly.
Marquenie shook his head. “There are facilities underground still to be searched.”
An Anti-terrorist Officer carrying a compact machine gun in one hand and a radio in the other stepped purposefully from the building. He made straight for Marquenie and delivered his report. The subsequent conversation in French included Matisse. After nodded assurance from the officer, Marquenie looked across at Richard. “We can go in,” he said, gesturing with his head. The four men entered the building through the central door.
It was a large, open, and well-lit foyer and Richard looked towards Pierre Marquenie for direction as his men ran in all directions. There were other officers sitting behind a wide, brushed metal reception desk and also an adjacent security console. They appeared totally preoccupied with the security monitors that they controlled. Richard followed Marquenie to the desk and stood behind him as the officers combed the building remotely. Then two men, dressed smartly in dark business suits and wearing handcuffs, brushed passed them. Accompanying detectives directed them towards the main doors with an occasional shove. Richard watched them go; he was disappointed, considering them a lost interrogation opportunity.
