Fatal Orbit

by Tom Grace

  “Have you seen this?” Tian asked, spinning one of the photographs around for Huang.

  Huang looked at the image and nodded. “That’s the woman who met Kilkenny in Washington. Has she been identified?”

  “Yes.”

  Tian slid the second photograph to Huang. It was clearly that same woman, but where the first image presented a woman of high refinement, the second was clearly a woman of the masses.

  “We’ve been looking for her for almost two years. Her name, or at least the name we knew her by, is Chen Mei Yue. Her presence in Washington confirms our belief that she was an illegal operative for the CIA. A very good one in some ways we still have not recovered completely from her activities.”

  “Is any action to be taken?”

  Tian shook his head. “Against the rules of the game. But, now that we know where she is …”

  Tian kept the rest of the thought to himself as he slipped the photographs into a thick file. Huang recognized the file’s color-coding and realized that by being told the woman’s cover name, he had been made privy to a highly classified secret.

  “Any progress with your investigation of the American shuttle incident?” Tian asked.

  “Kilkenny made two stops of interest in Washington. The first was to an office building adjacent to the White House where many of their president’s senior staff have offices.”

  “I am familiar with that building from my posting in Washington,” Tian said. “Your estimate of the importance of Newton’s message appears correct. Any idea with whom he met?”

  “Other than that woman, no, sir. Our agent was unable to maintain contact with Kilkenny after he entered the building.”

  “And the second stop?”

  “The U.S. Space Command facility in Dahlgren, Virginia this is where their navy keeps track of objects in orbit and determines safe windows for space launches. The woman accompanied him there and, at this moment, they are both en route to London.”

  “London?”

  “Yes, and we are maintaining our surveillance.”

  “Good. So, what do you make of this?”

  “Kilkenny went to Washington with information relevant to the cause of their shuttle’s destruction. This information was placed before senior members of the American government and it apparently has caused the launch of a second line of inquiry.”

  “This has an odd feel to it, Huang. The Americans analyze their accidents in public almost as a form of entertainment. If Newton’s message supported an accidental scenario, I have no doubt it would have been released to the media by now. This covert investigation bolsters your theory of a deliberate cause. If so, then the question becomes who?”

  “A question I am certain the Americans are most interested in answering.” Huang paused to consider his words.

  “What’s on your mind, Huang?” the minister asked.

  “Shenzhou-7.”

  “I would not look too deeply into this matter for answers to our own loss. Our nation is new to space travel, and both Russia and the United States lost men in their early days. It is a difficult and dangerous activity. Even if their shuttle suffered some form of sabotage, the odds of mounting two operations with that kind of complexity are unimaginable.”

  “There are two ways to attack an enemy,” Huang replied. “From the inside, and from the outside.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  LONDON

  AUGUST 13

  The overnight flight from Washington put Kilkenny and Tao in London late the following morning. In a courtesy normally extended to persons bearing diplomatic credentials, they were escorted through customs by a representative of the British government, then collected by a driver from the U.S. Embassy and taken to their hotel.

  That afternoon, their driver pulled up to the curb at 1 Lime Street. Towering above them, an elegant composition of glass, concrete and stainless steel—the landmark headquarters of Lloyd’s of London. The late-modern cathedral to capitalism was a far cry from the Seventeenth-century Thames-side coffeehouse on Tower Street run by Edward Lloyd.

  They presented their identification at the main entrance and were quickly processed by building security and issued visitor identification cards. From there, they entered the Room—an open volume of space encompassing most of the ground floor and several levels of overlooking galleries above. A twelve-story atrium soared high above them, and as they walked into the center of the ground floor, they passed the columned structure under which hung the famed Lutine Bell. Recovered from the British warship Lutine, which sank in 1799 off the coast of Holland, the bell has hung in Lloyd’s for two centuries, ringing twice to signal good news, such as the safe return of a ship, and once for bad. Most recently, it had tolled a single time for the shuttle Liberty.

  The blended sounds of conversations, office machines, and movement surrounded them with a continuous pulsing hum. Like the building’s facade, the interior spaces were exquisitely detailed—every element was part of an elegant, well-crafted machine of commerce.

  Following the directions they’d been given at security, they crossed the trading floor and arrived at the MATS area, where brokers and underwriters serviced the needs of the marine, aviation, transportation and space industries. They were met by a tall, thin man with graying temples and an impeccably tailored suit.

  “I see you made it,” Devon Fleetwood said warmly, “not much trouble getting here, I hope? Traffic’s usually quite thick this time of day.”

  “Not at all,” Tao replied, accepting Fleetwood’s offered hand.

  Introductions made, Fleetwood led them back to his box—a rectangle of space surrounded by low panels of richly stained wood.

  “Please have a seat,” Fleetwood said, “and do pardon the mess.”

  Kilkenny looked around the box as he sat down—other than a few stray files on Fleetwood’s wood and steel desk, the space could have been an installation at MoMA.

  “Early this morning,” Fleetwood began, “I received a telephone call from Sir Daniel Long, who, in addition to requesting that I schedule this meeting, asked me to pass along his regards.”

  “On both counts, thank you,” Kilkenny replied.

  “I take it you are a personal acquaintance of the minister’s?”

  “I met Sir Daniel a few years ago, during my last visit to London.”

  “Well, how may I be of help to you? Sir Daniel indicated that you have an interest in satellite insurance.”

  “Indirectly,” Tao said. “We’re looking into the loss of the shuttle Liberty.”

  Fleetwood’s mouth drooped into a slight frown. “Oh, the incident with your shuttle. Quite tragic. Been a blow to the industry as well.”

  “How so?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Insurance, like any investment, is based on risk. We, the insurers, base our premiums on the level of risk we are being asked to take. The industry as a whole has enough capacity to absorb the loss of a few satellites each year without raising our premiums, but what happened to Liberty has hit our little niche in the market like an earthquake. When our followers get nervous, premiums go up.”

  “I think you lost me with the followers,” Kilkenny admitted. “I’m used to thinking about insurance as it relates to my car. I sign up with one company, pay my premiums, and make a claim when something bad happens. Isn’t that how it works with satellites?”

  “Yes and no,” Fleetwood replied. “Your auto is a small part of a very large pool of vehicles. The premiums you pay are based on the type of vehicle you own, your driving record, and where you live. Those are the risk factors your insurer uses when quoting you a price. With satellites, the risk in monetary terms for an individual satellite is quite large and ownership of the spacecraft changes as it moves from the factory into space. To deal with this complexity, we provide separate policies for the different owners and distinct periods of time. Pre-Launch covers satellites and rockets while they are still on the ground. Launch insurance covers from launch through to satellite separatio
n, and Post-Separation insurance follows the satellite to its intended orbit and through in-orbit testing. In-Orbit coverage lasts for the service life of the satellite once it is in place and functioning properly. Other policies cover just the satellite transponders, loss of incentives to satellite manufacturers if their product fails to perform properly, launch risk guarantees, and third-party liability.”

  “And that’s what Lloyd’s provides?” Tao asked.

  Fleetwood shook his head. “You’re still thinking of Lloyd’s as a monolithic insurance company. We’re really much more like a marketplace. Any time you’re dealing with a very expensive property—be it a satellite, an oil tanker, or a fleet of aircraft—you’re talking about a risk that’s far too large for a single insurer to handle alone. That would be putting all your eggs in one basket. Each of the underwriters here in the Room represents a syndicate of individuals or corporations. These syndicates take on a portion of the risk and, if nothing goes wrong, are rewarded with a share of the profits.”

  “And if a claim is made,” Tao said, “they bear the burden of liability.”

  “Precisely. Instead of shares of ownership, members of our syndicates assume shares of risk. It’s our members that provide the financial capacity to service our industry.”

  “This capacity you’re talking about, just how large is this market?” Kilkenny asked.

  “As with the stock market, the amount of money available varies. During the late nineties, the industry as a whole had roughly $1.3 billion in capacity and could provide up to $400 million of coverage for a single launch. A recent string of satellite failures and the secondary effects of 9/11 drove a lot of money out of the market. Present capacity is about half of what was available ten years ago, and premiums with some insurers are 50 to 75 percent higher.”

  “Doesn’t a shuttle cost about two billion?” Kilkenny asked.

  “I believe so, but the U.S. government self-insures its shuttle fleet as well as its scientific and military satellites. Our industry only covers commercial payloads.”

  “Like the ZetaComm satellite,” Tao offered.

  Fleetwood nodded. “I don’t know how that’s going to affect NASA’s stance on commercial payloads. They stopped carrying them aboard the shuttle in ‘86 after Challenger, and only returned to the field after completing construction of the ISS, albeit on a limited basis. From our point of view as the insurer, the ZetaComm loss is currently in review and, once a cause is determined, we’ll see whether or not the coverage applies.”

  Kilkenny shot a quick glance at Tao, then returned his attention to Fleetwood. “Since you can’t send a claims investigator into space—”

  “Not that I haven’t considered it, from time to time, but that’s another issue,” Fleetwood joked. “Please continue.”

  “—I assume you study all the communications between a satellite and its ground control?”

  “Precisely. In most cases, we have partial communications with the satellite, from which we can deduce a specific component failure. One line of satellites suffered from faulty controller systems while another’s solar panels degraded quickly over time. With ZetaComm, all we have to go on is a brief bit of telemetry before it went silent.”

  “I think that gets us to why we’re here,” Kilkenny said. “We’re looking for any information you may have on other satellites that have failed, for whatever reason, over the past ten years.”

  “Is there anything specific you are looking for?” Fleetwood asked, intrigued.

  “There’s some concern at NASA that Liberty was struck by either a micrometeoroid or a fragment of man-made space debris. We’re looking for more hard data to help in understanding the nature of the problem.”

  “I see,” Fleetwood replied, not really buying Kilkenny’s explanation. Orbital collision was one of several risk factors assessed by the MATS Group.

  “Here are the specifics,” Tao added as she handed Fleetwood a list.

  Fleetwood perused the list. “Shouldn’t be a problem pulling this together. When you’re finished with your survey, I do hope you’ll share the results with us. We’re always interested in anything that might have an effect on determining risks.”

  Ernst Unger casually approached the MATS area, a friendly smile on his weathered face. He was compact and ruggedly built—a mountain climber, when time permitted, with dark eyes and wavy black hair.

  “Good afternoon, Amanda,” he said warmly, his English almost devoid of a German accent.

  “Ernst, you scoundrel,” the receptionist flirted. “Where have you been hiding?”

  “Hiding?” Unger replied, playing along. “It is my cruel employer who keeps me away from your loveliness.”

  “Silver-tongued devil. So, what brings you to town?”

  “Business, as usual. I was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop in and say hello to Devon, but I see he has visitors.”

  “Yes. He’s tied up at the moment with a couple of Americans. A last-minute sort of thing. I don’t really know how long they’ll be, but he asked that I clear the rest of his afternoon.”

  “I see. Well, this was just a social call and I have a few other stops to make. Just let him know that I came by.”

  “Will do, love.”

  Unger left as Amanda keyed a message notice into Fleetwood’s e-mail. Outside, he walked a short distance up Lime Street and slipped into the passenger seat of a BMW X5. From where he sat, he had a clear view of the embassy car that had brought Fleetwood’s visitors.

  In addition to Lloyd’s files, Fleetwood called in favors with his counterparts at the other lead insurers and, in a matter of a few hours, had amassed a detailed list of the world’s space-based assets. Highlighted in the database were those assets which, for any reason, had failed and the results of the insurer’s investigation into those claims.

  “Well, this ought to give Grin something more to chew on,” Tao said as they departed Lloyd’s.

  “A lack of raw data isn’t one of our problems. I just hope we don’t end up spinning our wheels on an overload of irrelevant information.”

  Tao understood Kilkenny’s frustration. In a desperate search for leads, they were groping blindly for anything that might aid them in their search for the weapon used to murder six astronauts and to identify those responsible for placing it in space. Tao also knew that Kelsey Newton’s presence aboard the ISS only fueled Kilkenny’s anxiety.

  As they approached the embassy car, the driver stepped out and opened the door.

  “While you were inside, I received word that Jackson Barnett would like you to call him,” the driver reported. “You can use the secure cell in the car.”

  Kilkenny took the slip with Barnett’s number and, as the car pulled out into traffic, punched in the digits and switched on the speaker. The driver had already raised the glass between the front and rear compartments.

  “So, how’s London?” Barnett asked.

  Kilkenny and Tao both knew the CIA chief wasn’t inquiring about the weather.

  “Fine, sir,” Kilkenny replied. “We got what we came for.”

  “Good. I received a call from Heshel earlier today. It seems that after you two had left for London, he realized that he’d missed something in your search.”

  “We didn’t get all the satellites?” Tao asked.

  “Yes, you did, and that’s the root of Heshel’s problem. The search he ran for you was too narrow. It only covered satellites.”

  “What else is up there—” Kilkenny’s question died in mid-breath, his mind racing through to assemble an answer. “Manned spacecraft?”

  “Heshel was thinking about Roxanne’s idea of target practice,” Barnett continued, “and there’s one item, a rather large one, that didn’t make it onto your list—Mir.”

  “That went down back in what, spring of 2001?” Kilkenny asked.

  “On the twenty-third of March, to be exact. Heshel was present at the Russian control center outside Moscow when they brought it down. Officially
, everything went picture perfect.”

  “And unofficially?” Tao asked.

  “The way Heshel tells it, a lot of his comrades went straight to the bar after the last bits of the old station hit the Pacific. Which leads to a change in your travel plans. Instead of coming back here, you two are going to Moscow. I want you to meet with a man named Yuri Zadkine. He was in charge of bringing Mir down.”

  Unger’s BMW followed several lengths behind as the dark blue embassy car moved west along High Holborn toward Oxford Street—a direct route back to the U.S. Embassy. In the rear seat, one of Unger’s men manipulated a joystick controller, keeping the infrared laser concealed in the satellite radio receiver mounted atop the SUV aimed at the rear window of the embassy car. Through his headset, Unger clearly heard every word of Kilkenny and Tao’s conversation with Barnett.

  As the car pulled up to the embassy on Grosvenor Square, Unger motioned for the driver to move on, breaking contact both visually and electronically. He then pulled off his headset and selected a number from his cell phone’s memory.

  “It’s Ernst,” Unger announced as soon as Owen Moug answered. “I don’t think these two you’re interested in are consultants for NASA.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “Kilkenny is former Navy Special Forces. He did a six-year hitch, then left the service to work for a high-tech investment consortium headed up by his father in Michigan. A few years ago, he was involved in bringing down a ring of industrial spies here in London. His traveling companion is a bit more enigmatic. Tao heads the Michigan branch of a small venture capital firm that is, in part, funded by the CIA. They do business together.”

  “So what are they doing in London?” Moug asked, impatiently.

  “I’m getting to that. When they arrived here, MI6 waltzed them through Customs, stopping them long enough to get their passports stamped. They’re being chauffeured around in embassy cars, but have only made one stop of interest. They paid a visit to Devon Fleetwood at Lloyd’s.”