She didn’t have to go that far. They left the square and continued along the side of the British Museum to its front before entering the gates into the museum’s grounds.
Taylor stopped, momentarily thrown. It was seven p.m., past the museum’s closing. But security remained on the gates conducting bag checks, and a handful of people were crossing the front grounds to the steps. Beneath the pillars she could see a small queue to enter the building.
An event? There were enough people arriving to lend her some cover. She was wearing her work suit, which was sharp enough to blend in. Taylor thought she might at least try to find out what it was—that this might give her some insight into 9 Russell Square. She showed her bag to the security and crossed toward the museum. A corporate event, Taylor decided, scanning the attendees. She climbed the front steps, glancing at her watch as if late. Security just inside the doors amounted to two young staff with clipboards. No name badges to collect, Taylor was relieved to see. She approached, unsmiling, governmental ID at the ready.
“I’m with Geoffrey Payne,” Taylor said. “You won’t have my name down.”
There was an exchange of looks between the young man and the slightly older woman beside him who saw Taylor’s ID and gave a nod.
“Of course,” she said. “Have a good evening.”
The sight inside took Taylor’s breath. Colored lights swept across the pale stone walls of the Great Court. Acrobats descended from balloons suspended above the heads of several hundred people. Beneath them, a contortionist in silver balanced on a giant mirror ball. Projections wrapped around the rotunda of the Reading Room: Financing the New Age of Exploration. Then the words disappeared and in their place was the burning exhaust of a rocket launch.
Taylor followed the crowd as it channeled toward the Egyptian sculpture gallery. There were more guests in here, crowded closer together, talking over the sounds of a string quartet. Ramses II stared impassively past the Rosetta Stone at the musicians. Drinks and canapés filtered through. Taylor took a glass of orange juice. She read identifiable types around her: government, City, media, finally the self-styled entrepreneurs—younger, tieless, eager. She searched for her target pair, contemplating cover stories she could give if challenged. Snap cover needed to be convincing but obscure enough that no one would expect to find you online. An investor on behalf of a wealthy individual could work; she knew enough of them, wrapped in tangled webs of advisors and investment vehicles. They turned up most places and were usually welcome.
After a moment, she clocked the two men from Russell Square in the center of the room. They were partly eclipsed by the group that had gathered around them. Payne had an unmistakable Westminster bearing, simultaneously gauche and unctuous. The younger man had removed his jacket. He looked intelligent, awkward, excited. Why had they been running checks on Kane, four thousand miles away? Why digging up her past transgressions? Taylor wondered if she’d made a mistake. But the conjunction of a senior politician with an offshore-owned property suggested something was going on. The Oman element put Taylor in the crosshairs, but it also gave her a sense of purpose: If they wanted to confront her, they could do it directly. They could come out from behind the holding company, show her what they were made of. She was running on anger and adrenaline. At the same time, something told her that these weren’t men who got their hands dirty with security, that neither of them knew her face well enough to recognize her.
They split up. A lot of people wanted to speak to the younger man. The MP moved away, joining a separate cluster of guests. Taylor made a mental note of the people that the two men interacted with, noting who appeared acquainted, who might have information, who might even engineer an introduction. A “bump” as they called it, get talking apparently accidentally, establish cover, draw closer to your target. Taylor was assessing her options when someone grabbed her arm. She turned to see a man in his sixties wearing a pink tie and a wavering smile.
“I believe I saw you at the Expo last week,” he said.
“Really? I don’t think it was me.” She smiled.
“Oh. You’re not with the Financial Times?”
“No.”
He laughed. “Apologies. A senior moment. I thought your face looked familiar. Are you in the business?”
“On the edges,” Taylor said, catching her breath again, focusing on her story. “And you?”
“Empyrean.”
“Remind me what Empyrean do.”
“Space burials. Funerals: memorial ashes sent into orbit. That kind of thing.”
Taylor felt her eyes widen. She moderated her surprise.
“How interesting,” she said.
“Very popular. Surprisingly popular.”
Taylor introduced herself using the investor cover and his eyes lit up.
“I must send you one of our packs.”
“Please do.”
Financing the New Age of Exploration, she thought. Was it possible she was at a networking event for the space industry?
“Two years ago, this was in a Holiday Inn with about twenty people,” the man said. “And we were the only ones offering funerals.” He looked wistful. “Soon they’ll say it’s a bubble. Enjoy it while it lasts. This is your nuts man.”
He stopped a young man as he was marching past.
“Michael, you must meet Suzan. She’s an investor. I was saying you’re the nuts man.” He winked. “Michael’s the nuts and bolts of it all.”
Michael was tall with a receding hairline and gleaming brow. He grinned, reached into his pocket, and produced a thick silver screw, which he gave to Taylor, closing her hand around it.
“If you’ve ever struggled to thread a nut onto a bolt in an awkward spot, you know how frustrating it can be. Imagine doing that in a space suit; imagine doing it in zero gravity. That’s an AstraNut.” Taylor opened her hand and gazed at it with what she hoped was appropriate awe. “No threads, no issues with rust, paint, damage. Used on oil rigs, used in the Arctic.” He took his phone out and showed her an image of a contraption like a spinning top, floating in outer space.
“That’s the world’s first space hotel, launching next year. How many bolts do you think that will need?”
“A lot.”
Taylor cast an eye around the room while they spoke. The younger, awkward-looking man still stood among a group of eight or nine individuals. Hard to reach. He was the one speaking, but he didn’t like making eye contact. Payne’s eyes roamed everywhere. He chatted to a man in a corduroy jacket, glancing distractedly over the man’s shoulder as he spoke. MI6 had worked to bury a sex scandal when he was trade secretary, she remembered. It had caused a flap just as he was set to negotiate a deal with the Saudis. One of those handkerchief-in-the-breast-pocket politicians whose traditionalism was entirely at ease with the bleeding edge of corporate enterprise. Money being as traditional as anything, she guessed. As power. His eyes met Taylor’s. Payne smiled before she had a chance to turn. No sense he recognized her. Taylor held his gaze a beat, allowing herself the slightest of smiles before gently looking away again.
“No nuts, no insurance,” Michael was saying. “That’s why we work closely with the guys trying to set up an insurance framework.”
Taylor nodded, planning her next move. The funeral director had found someone else to buttonhole. After another few minutes on the intricacies of galactic policy cover, Taylor pointed to the man in the center of the crowd, the younger one from 9 Russell Square.
“Do you know that guy? I swear I recognize him.”
“Stuart Adair? Sure.”
“Who does he work with?”
“He’s the founder of Quadrant. They’re doing okay. We’re trying to get them to use AstraNuts. Could save them a lot of time and money.”
“What do Quadrant do?”
“You must know them. One of the main sponsors of this whole thing. All sorts of space magic.”
Now that he’d said it, she could see the name on various stands and banners: Quadran
t Space Technologies.
“Of course, Quadrant. I’m being dim. Probably need some rehydration.”
Taylor excused herself and went to get another juice. When Payne noticed her by the drinks, he caught her eye again. He kept his head bowed, as if deep in discussion, but a second later began to move away, a hand on his interlocutor’s elbow, a pat on their back. Then he was beside her.
“Stick close to the wine. That’s my policy.” Payne smiled, topping up his glass.
“It’s a good one.”
“I remember coming here as a schoolboy. Seems a bit of a shame to see it used for corporate nibbles. Bit of an insult to the gods.”
“I’m sure the gods have seen worse.”
“Indeed. How are you finding it all?”
“Fascinating.”
“If you don’t mind a bit of snake oil with your Chardonnay.”
“Nothing snake oil about Quadrant,” Taylor said, with a smile of her own this time. This caused him to regard her more carefully, but not without amusement. Now Payne introduced himself, by which he meant: Who are you?
“Suzan Wicks,” Taylor said, shaking his hand. “I’m an investment manager.”
“Is Quadrant a company you’ve got your eye on?”
“For sure. One of the reasons I’m here.”
“Between you and me, they would be a wise investment. A British company that’s going places. That has that vision thing. You know what I mean? Stuart’s a genius.”
“What’s he got up his sleeve this time?”
“Making space viable. Finding solutions to problems.” Payne winked and leaned in. “Junk.”
“Junk.”
“Space junk. Where there’s muck there’s brass, and there’s a lot of muck in space right now. It’s a little over my head, but I know intelligent people when I see them. It’s a very clever gambit. But that’s just the start.”
Before he could expand, Payne’s attention was diverted by someone standing behind Taylor. She saw his eyes slide and a new smile grow. Then she heard a voice that sent a shiver up her spine.
“May I cut in?”
“Markus,” Payne said. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Taylor turned, slightly horrified to gaze up into the eyes of Markus Fischer, officer for the German intelligence service. Fischer was tall, smartly dressed, immaculately groomed, befitting his long-term cover as an international banker. This, she assumed, was how Geoffrey Payne regarded him. She hadn’t crossed paths with Fischer for six or seven years, but they knew each other well. He met Taylor’s eyes and appeared to bury his own reaction.
“I hope I’m not interrupting . . .” Fischer began.
“Not at all,” Taylor managed to say. She stuck a hand out quickly. “Suzan Wicks.”
Fischer smiled with only the hint of a raised eyebrow.
“Pleasure to meet you, Suzan. Markus.”
His eyes bored into her. This happened, of course. Certain environments brought out the spooks, and she was never surprised to find Berlin sniffing around. But it was a different feeling being caught winging it, off-road. This was dangerous, but also possibly an opportunity. She’d met Fischer in Geneva many years ago. Alongside his activity as a globe-trotting financier, he remained a senior officer within the colossal Bundesnachrichtendienst,or BND, as Germany referred to its intelligence agency. Taylor was one of the very few people who knew of this double life. She wondered what he was doing here and hoped he felt equally exposed, so she might exploit the potential awkwardness. She suspected Fischer had more insight into this scene than she did, but he didn’t have to know that.
“I wanted to catch a word with Geoffrey before he disappears,” Fischer said.
“I’ve monopolized him enough. I needed to freshen up anyway. Geoffrey, it’s been a pleasure. And I wish you luck.”
The MP shook her hand again, releasing it regretfully, insisted she take one of his cards, and offered her lunch if she wanted to continue the conversation.
Taylor cut through the crowded room, trying to think why Markus Fischer would turn up here. She went to the bathroom, locked herself in a stall and ran searches on her phone for Quadrant. The company’s website was as slick and opaque as she expected: sliding full-screen images of the stars with a variety of mission statements. Quadrant Space Technologies provide advanced space engineering solutions that integrate an innovative proprietary portfolio of satellite technologies and disruptive business solutions. It listed offices in London, along with testing and production facilities in Oxfordshire. There was some information on their patented ClearSky debris solution, but all it told her was that investment had been made and things were set to proceed in the coming months. Nothing about why it should cause her problems.
By the time Taylor returned to the sculpture gallery, Fischer’s conversation with the MP was over and the German stood alone, admiring the Rosetta Stone. She went over. They stood side by side, gazing at the hieroglyphs.
“I owe you one,” she said quietly.
“We owe each other. Let’s get out of here.”
Fischer taking the initiative shifted her momentarily onto the back foot, but this was what she’d had in mind. She needed insight, which meant taking a risk.
“Be at the end of the street in fifteen minutes,” Taylor said. “The far corner of Russell Square. I’ll pick you up.”
20
Germany’s BND was as cool and effective as you’d expect from an intelligence agency born out of the ashes of postwar Berlin, second only to the CIA in scale but several fathoms further below the radar. To the British, they were mostly regarded as an ally but not always. They didn’t have MI6’s legacy of global coverage, but they spied the hell out of Europe and had been increasingly energetic over the last few years.
When Taylor met Fischer in Geneva, she was running an agent in a private bank with a lot of interesting Russian clients and he was establishing himself as a high-flying money man with fingers in several pies. That was ten years ago. He was a heavy drinker, shrewd gossip, bon viveur. She’d been tipped off about his real employer, and it seemed he knew she wasn’t simply embassy staff, which didn’t stop some good-natured, flirtatious, and mutually beneficial information sharing. And there was plenty to share. Geneva attracted every intelligence service in the world: The Russians loved the ease of agent rendezvous and low levels of police surveillance. The US hammered at the UN’s European headquarters. Germans and French went heavy on the WTO, while MI6 tried to keep an eye on all of them. Markus Fischer had provided a convenient entrance to various worlds, but Taylor never kidded herself it was out of the goodness of his heart.
She stopped on the corner of the square and Fischer appeared from the darkness and jumped in, checking the road behind them, exhaling when they were on the move.
“Your car?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Head toward the river.”
Fischer loosened his tie. He slid the seat back, lowered the sun visor, ran a hand across the fabric, looking for microphones, then flipped it back up.
“How are you, Kathryn?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Enjoy the party?”
“Where are we going?”
“Cross the river. I have somewhere in mind.”
Taylor turned onto Waterloo Bridge and continued into South London. They needed a location that was both secure and discreet. If Fischer had a suggestion, she’d have to take it.
“So, was that your first taste of New Space?” he said.
“First taste of something.”
“What did you learn?”
“There are approximately two thousand bolts in a space hotel.”
“Michael Greenwood. Funny guy. But their contract with India’s Galactic Tourism could be worth a cool sixteen million.”
“Doesn’t seem to be a shortage of money around.”
“Never is when the future’s at stake. Know what Geoffrey Payne said to me?” Fischer imitated the MP’s cut-gla
ss accent. “There’s one thing of which I’m certain, and that’s the generation being born now will look up and see lights on the moon, and they’ll feel a lot more free and a lot more prosperous than us.”
Fischer laughed. She wondered if he was drunk. Wondered who was luring who.
“Can you think of anything worse?” he asked. He told her to turn off the Old Kent Road at the next lights, twisting in his seat as she did so to check the road behind.
“Keep going.”
They continued through the back street of Bermondsey, then out of the estates toward the shiny towers of Surrey Quays. He told her to slow, checked the mirrors a final time.
“Here is fine.”
Taylor pulled up alongside the old docks. The residential towers were dark. Geese slept on the ornamental squares of water between them. When they were out of the car Fischer lit a cigarette and looked around. The street remained deserted.
“Follow me,” he said. They cut into a small side street, to the entrance of one of the glitzier blocks, where he dropped his cigarette, tapped a fob to the entry system and the door opened. He unlocked a mailbox in the foyer, put his phone inside, nodded to Taylor, and she did the same.
They ascended in a glass walled lift with London beneath them, neither speaking. The flat was on the seventeenth floor. Fischer switched the lights on and looked around. It was showroom plush, safe house cold: floor-length windows, slat blinds, slices of a London view. Fischer opened kitchen cupboards, then the fridge, studying the bottles inside. He took a sticker off two new wineglasses and rinsed them.
“Make yourself at home.”
He poured them both red wine. Taylor went to the window to gather her thoughts. In Geneva, Fischer had operated out of a comically vast but barely furnished apartment on the Quai du Seujet, with the Rhône out one window and the Jura Mountains out the other. She felt momentarily nostalgic thinking about it. Exciting times. Or just young times, with so much future ahead that small mistakes seemed sure to be washed away.
Ascension Page 19
