by Bill Napier
‘Which part of the world are we talking about?’
‘Finland, sir.’
‘Finnish radar would have picked it up.’
‘No, sir. This is flying at treetop level through densely forested country. An operation not without risk.’
‘The whole damn thing sounds perilous to me.’
‘Finally, Mr President, we got this on a DSP pass last evening. The blow-ups are image-enhanced.’ The view had been taken looking directly down. A frozen lake and a little cluster of cabins were plainly visible, surrounded by trees. Two of the cabins were shining brilliantly in the infrared. There were two clearings separated by about two hundred yards. ‘This is an almost impenetrably remote part of Finland. There are lots of mosquitos in the summer, and just a few trappers and hunters in the winter.’ A sharp red-painted nail circled a helicopter in one of the clearings. ‘And that’s the Sea King.’
‘And what the hell’s that?’ Bull tapped a finger at the image of a much larger machine in the other clearing.
‘An Mi-26T from the Moscow Mil helicopter plant. It can incorporate passenger carriage for VIPs in highly comfortable conditions and it has a range of 1300 kilometres if extra fuel tanks are added.’
‘VIP carriage?’
‘Almost certainly President Ogorodnikov, in our view. He was supposed to be in his Moscow dacha at the time. We asked Ambassador Wilson to confirm this but they’ve been giving him the runaround.’
‘He must have had his nuclear suitcase with him,’ Bull observed. ‘Where are the communications?’
‘We don’t know. Maybe in the Mi-26.’
The President shook his head sceptically.
‘That’s it,’ Sullivan said.
Bull leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands thoughtfully. ‘What are you telling me, people?’
McLarty decided it was about time to be heard. ‘Mr President, this Finnish place is about halfway on the direct route between London and Moscow. Melanie’s evidence leads me to believe that the Prime Minister and the Russian President left their respective countries for a clandestine meeting without anyone being aware of their absence.’
‘Um-huh. And where are they now?’
‘Visibly back in their respective capitals, as if they’d never gone.’
Bull looked at McLarty. ‘Any clues?’
‘None at all, Mr President.’
– The President sighed. ‘John, Ms Moore, thank you both. Good to meet you, Ms Moore.’
Melanie glowed. She followed her boss out of the door, the words:
Melanie Moore
Was quite demure
skipping through her head.
The President waited until the door had closed. Then he swivelled his chair round to face the CIA Director.
‘So what’s going on, Al?’
‘Two crazy things within a day of each other. First the conversation about an ET signal, then a secret head-to-head between Edgeworth and Ogorodnikov. They have to be connected.’
‘Where does Edgeworth come into it?’
‘Go back to that conversation between the Russian scientists, Velikhov and Shtyrkov. This Shtyrkov is part of an Anglo-Russian experiment in a cave a few hours’ drive from the castle. It’s an experiment to detect exotic particles from space.’
‘Exotic like signals from extraterrestrials? Is that what you’re trying to say?’ Bull’s face was expressionless.
‘They could have picked them up by accident.’
‘This is getting beyond a joke.’
Sullivan tried to keep his frustration in check. ‘Mr President, with respect, they didn’t meet up in Finland to catch salmon. Whatever is going on, it’s deadly serious and we’ve been excluded from it. In the interests of national security, it’s vital that we find out about that signal.’
Bull strummed his fingers on the table for some moments. ‘Al, use your common sense. They’re cooking something up over the Iraq crisis.’
‘There’s no evidence of that, sir.’
‘There is now. I want to see an analysis of the options if the Brits changed sides on that one. What’s the balance of risks and opportunities for them? What does it mean for us? That’s what I need, Al, not this fantasy stuff about alien signals.’
26
Shangri-La
The road was narrow and wet and lined with snow, and the driver took it with care. He glanced in the rear mirror. His passenger was asleep and he took the opportunity to appraise the man. He was in his seventies, white-haired and white-eyebrowed. His mouth was turned down at the edges, giving him a slightly dogmatic look. The man had dressed for the cold: a grey woollen scarf, hand-knitted, poked up above the fur collar of his winter coat, and a pair of fur gloves rested on his lap.
‘Much further to go?’ the passenger asked, his eyes still shut.
‘We’re nearly there, sir. We’re past Hagerton, going along Hunting Creek.’
The road was climbing steeply, approaching a one-in-ten gradient. The fog was thickening by the yard. The twin halogen beams of the limo lit up a sign for Catoctin Mountain Park, and the driver slowed and turned right. Two deer, startled in the headlights, leaped nimbly into the dark.
Logie Harris gave up on his nap. He sat upright in his seat, pulling at his safety belt.
The road levelled. Lights were piercing the fog and an indeterminate shape resolved itself into a metal gate, like the entrance to a high-security prison. A handsome young Marine took a document from the driver, examined it carefully and peered into the car. ‘Welcome to Camp David, sir.’
* * *
Red Oak, like the other guest cottages, was a simple two-bedroomed wooden cabin with a lounge, all wood panelling and timber beams, and an open fireplace. Someone had lit a fire and he was enveloped by a comfortable warmth. The call from the President had come at midnight and he had frantically scoured his library until the car had come to collect him at 2 a.m. It was now 5 a.m. and he had barely slept. He threw off his clothes and put on pyjamas. He kneeled briefly by the bedside and murmured, ‘Lord, forgive my sins. Help the President in his troubles, and give me the wisdom to guide him. Amen.’ Then he slid between warmed sheets and listened to the silence. His mind drifted back, to the goosepimpling midnight call from the President, to his weird question, and to his closing words: ‘… above all I need someone I can trust.’
Seth Bull, the evangelist deduced, was falling back on his reserves, summoning up the unique bond that half a lifetime of friendship produced. But if the President of the United States couldn’t trust the people around him …
He was wakened by a powerful roar. He jumped out of bed and drew back the curtains just in time to glimpse a large blue and white helicopter sinking amongst the snow-covered trees a few hundred yards away. The early-hours fog was gone and the sky was blue. A chipmunk scurried over some rocks in front of the cottage. The air was pure and scented. He dressed quickly in casuals and sweater and put on the blue windcheater a steward had given him. He was just pulling on his shoes when he heard a tap on the door. ‘Logie, glad you could make it. Come over to my place for breakfast.’
* * *
In the sun lounge of Aspen, at a table with orange juice, Granola and toast, Bull waved his arm towards the window. Beyond the patio was a snow-covered lawn and beyond that a frozen pond. Flurries of snow drifted down from a tree, tracing the route of some creature jumping from branch to branch. Light mist floated up from the Monocacy Valley.
‘I can see why Truman called this place Shangri-La, Mr President.’
Bull’s tone changed; he became businesslike. ‘A good place for clearing out the cobwebs. And believe me, I need a clear head for this one. Finish your breakfast while I change, Logie, and then we’ll get down to it.’
Harris strolled on the patio, the President’s Berchtesgaden. This was indeed a wonderful place for rejuvenation. Here a President could go for a solitary walk, listen to the birds and watch his dog chasing the squirrels. The last time he’d stood here, th
e patio steps had been bordered with flowers, courtesy of Nancy Reagan. ‘Of all the things Ronald misses about the Presidency,’ she’d told him, ‘his Camp David weekends come top.’ Now the flowers were gone and there was ice in the air: at eighteen hundred feet up it could be rough. He turned up his collar. A pristine blanket of snow covered the roof of the lodge, the lawn and the trees, and thin ice coated the hour-glass swimming pool over to the right.
The President appeared wearing a navy-blue windcheater and casual trousers to match. White hair protruded under a baseball cap with a badge showing the Presidential yacht. The word Titanic was emblazoned beneath the vessel. The men went down the steps and strolled past the pond and the little artificial stream on the west side of the lodge.
‘Logie, I need answers in a hurry.’ They were in step together, a slow, rhythmic pace. There was nobody else in sight. ‘What is the theological position on life out there?’
‘Read up on it as soon as I got your call, Seth. But I already knew that the Scriptures give clear guidance on the issue, as they do in so much else in life. But I also looked into the writings of the great thinkers of the past, to see how they handled the question.’
‘So what does the Bible say?’
‘The Bible is silent on the question of extraterrestrials. I believe the silence is significant. God created Man in His own image. The Bible says nothing about creatures beyond the Earth because there’s nothing to say about them. They don’t exist.’
‘Well, that’s simple enough.’ Bull’s tone was sceptical. ‘Is that it?’
‘The heavy hitters in this area were the medieval thinkers. Nobody has surpassed them for depth of thought, even in modern times.’
‘I guess if you’re a monk with nothing else to do all day but think … Sometimes I wish I was a monk.’
‘They were against the idea of life out there on grounds that are still valid today. They were thinking about it before we even knew the Earth is a planet.’
‘Incredible,’ said the President.
‘Incredible. Saint Augustine opposed the alien concept in his City of God, likewise Thomas Aquinas in his Summa Theologica. They said that mankind, here on Earth, is the focus of God’s love. Creatures on other worlds wouldn’t have the Creator’s love and there would have been no point in creating them.’
Bull’s mouth twisted in annoyance. ‘Logie, I can’t take executive action on the basis of stuff like that. Are medieval monks all you’ve got?’
‘I have all I need, namely the Word of God. If there are people on other worlds, have they sinned as Adam sinned? Would the Saviour have to go from planet to planet, dying again and again? Do we expect this of a God of Love?’ The evangelist waved an arm. ‘Only a God of Love could create beauty like this.’
‘He had a little help from Roosevelt.’
The evangelist seemed not to have heard. ‘Are we to believe that Jesus is some sort of travelling redeemer? There just can’t be men out there in need of salvation. This has been pointed out over the centuries from William Vorilong in the Middle Ages through Melanchthon in the Renaissance to Thomas Paine in the Age of Reason.’
‘Maybe aliens don’t need salvation.’
‘Mr President, all men need salvation, and it can only be attained through Divine Incarnation. That’s core Christian doctrine.’
The valley mist had reached them and snowflakes were beginning to drift lightly down. They were into the trees: maple, birch, hazel and dogwood surrounded them.
Harris went on relentlessly. ‘Look, Seth, if there were men on other worlds, then men here on Earth wouldn’t be of unique importance to the Creator. You just have to open a Bible to see the absurdity of that belief. The Bible tells us that man was made in the image of God. We’re special to Him, like children to a father. God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son…’
‘Turn left here. It’ll take us back while our ears are still attached to our heads.’ The President was frowning. ‘Logie, how far do we go back?’
‘’Nam.’
‘Right. And as Christians go, would you call me a lousy one?’
Harris grinned. ‘You want a sin list? I’ve picked you up legless from the sidewalk a few times. There was the drink driving charge which the media have miraculously overlooked. There was that business with the Saigon hostess…’
‘Before Beth, bless her memory.’
‘… but as old sinners go, you’re no worse than me.’
‘Well, old habits die hard. I still pray at night, and I try to grab a few verses of the Book in the morning.’
‘What are you on now?’
‘Psalm 72. Give the king Thy judgements, O God, and Thy righteousness unto the king’s son.’
‘You have more power than any king ever had.’
‘Sure. The people gave and the people can take away. I have a duty to do my best for them. But I also have a duty to God. So far, the two have coincided. My dilemma is that in the present situation I can’t find a path that embraces the two without compromising either.’
‘Render unto Caesar…’
The President interrupted impatiently. ‘Logie, I’m being given hard evidence that advanced beings are out there and have signalled us.’
Harris stopped. He stared disbelievingly at the President. ‘You’ve been given wrong information, Seth. Intelligent life beyond the Earth is just plain unBiblical.’
Bull shook his head in irritation. ‘I’m getting no concrete help from you. Frankly I’m becoming frustrated by your evangelical fantasies. You’re telling me there’s a flat contradiction between my Christian faith and the evidence my people are bringing in to me.’
‘I am.’ Harris’s face was set in an expression of righteous determination familiar to millions of television viewers.
‘But for once in your life, suppose you’re wrong. This is what I want to know from you: what would these aliens be like? Would they share our moral code? Would they be well disposed towards us? I need answers to that like a man in the desert needs water and I don’t need any fucking medieval monks.’
They were back at Aspen. They climbed steps. Harris turned to the President, his face grim. ‘You’re looking for something concrete, Seth? I’ll give you something concrete.’
‘I’m listening, for Christ’s sake.’
‘If these creatures exist – if you have hard evidence, which I gravely doubt…’
‘Well?’
‘There’s only one remaining possibility.’
The President waited.
‘Think about it. We’re God’s beloved. Here on Earth, not scattered around the stars. Therefore any message reaching us couldn’t come from creatures born of God. What’s left? Angels, yes. But angels born of Satan before the Fall.’ Harris paused. ‘The message would have to come from the spawn of the Devil.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Say you truly received a signal from space, Mr President, a phone call from some advanced intelligence. On no account answer the phone. Keep quiet. Keep very, very quiet.’
27
Siege
A scrawny hand, all skinny grey talons and sharp nails, was stretching over the castle, and black clouds were rolling down the hills on the horizon like an advancing army. But even at half a mile, in the dull light, there was no mistaking Shtyrkov’s oblate form. He was moving at a fast waddle, as if trying to escape from the approaching claw.
Svetlana, looking out over the parapet, watched his approach curiously, but with a touch of alarm. He cut across the grass, puffing and wheezy, his eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him, and toddled briskly under her before disappearing from sight round the corner. She went into the building and stood at the top of the marble stairs. In a moment he appeared at the foot, breathless. He looked up at the stairs helplessly. Anxiety showed in his eyes.
‘Stay down there,’ Svetlana called to him. ‘I’ll get the others.’
A few minutes later she had herded the scientists into the computer room. G
ibson entered carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. Petrie was unshaven and his eyes were red-rimmed. He was carrying a bundle of papers as if reluctant to let go of them.
‘Where’s Hanning?’ Gibson wanted to know.
‘I can’t find him,’ Svetlana complained.
Gibson poured coffees. He looked at Shtyrkov, who had collapsed into one of the blue armchairs. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I go for a walk, to think. I meet soldiers in the woods. They turn me back. Ladies and gentlemen, they will not allow us to leave the castle. They intend us to die here.’
Gibson said, quietly, ‘That’s a bit dramatic, Vashislav.’
‘But I tell you, they turn me back!’
‘Maybe there’s some military exercise going on in the woods,’ Petrie suggested.
‘Not an exercise.’ Shtyrkov shook his head vigorously. ‘An operation. To keep us here. We are prisoners in the castle.’
‘Prisoners?’ Freya giggled nervously. She was stirring coffee with brisk little movements, the spoon jangling in the china cup.
Petrie stood up. ‘We can test this.’
‘Spoken in the best scientific tradition,’ said Gibson. ‘Take a walk in the woods. I’ll give you five minutes and then stroll out the front gate.’
‘I tell you we’re prisoners,’ Shtyrkov said. ‘We will die here.’
* * *
Into the woods.
The black clouds are now overhead and the light is fading by the minute. Petrie tries to look like a man out for a stroll, tries not to peer into dark corners.
Stop, stretch, glance behind. All very casual. The castle is still visible in outline through the trees, a dark silhouette against a white misty patch of sky. The air is damp. Rain will come at any minute. The witch’s fingers are at ground level now, little tracers of mist creeping through the trees on either side of him. In Petrie’s imagination they are purposeful, enclosing him in a pincer movement.
And there are shapes, lurking in the shadows.
