‘Apart from the Moon crisis. The commander of the Chinese base was imprisoned by the Americans.’
‘Oh, come on! First they shoot an atomic bomb up to the Moon as part of some unbelievably elaborate and sophisticated camouflage manoeuvre, then a few taikonauts stumble into American mining territory like a couple of idiots and get themselves caught?’
‘Hmm.’ Yoyo wrinkled her forehead. ‘So someone took the elevator. But to do that they would either have had to plant someone in an authorised team—’
‘Or bribe someone who was already in it.’
‘And Thorn was in the team.’
‘On his mission to the Moon, all official and above board.’ Jericho nodded. ‘In the role of a commander, with almost unlimited access. And above all, he knew his way around up there like the back of his hand. He’d been there before.’
‘Have you told Shaw and Norrington about this?’ Yoyo’s eyes were gleaming. Suddenly she was a Guardian again, infected by curiosity.
‘No.’ Jericho stood up. ‘But I think we should remedy that right away.’
* * *
Shaw and Norrington were wandering around somewhere in the Big O with delegates from MI5, but Edda Hoff gobbled up the fillet steak of their investigations hungrily. She knew about Thorn’s case of course, but so far no one had come up with the idea that the respected two-time commander of the Peary Base might have been the chosen one for blowing Gaia to smithereens. She promised to put together some information about Thorn and fill her superiors in on Jericho’s theory. Then Tu Tian reappeared, looking perfectly composed, as if nothing had happened. He told a joke and listened to the latest news before retreating into the guest area.
‘Business,’ he said, with an apologetic gesture. ‘The day’s just getting started in China. Armies of hard-working competitors are sharpening their knives; I can’t act as if I don’t have a company to run. So if you don’t need me to save the world—’
‘No, not right this moment, Tian.’
‘Excellent. Fenshou!’
Shaw and Norrington came back in, but Hoff was tied up in a video conversation with NASA. Jericho was just about to speak to Shaw about Vic Thorn when Tom Merrick announced that, in all probability, he had found the reason for the communication blockade but was unable to lift it.
‘Knowing why it doesn’t work is still progress,’ said Shaw as they gathered in the large conference room.
‘As I already mentioned’ – Merrick’s gaze flitted from one face to the next – ‘to be able to cut the Moon off from all communication, you’d need to interfere with so many satellites and ground control stations that it would be practically impossible. So my guess is that it’s something else: IOF.’
‘IO what?’ said Shaw.
Merrick looked at her as if he found it incomprehensible that people didn’t talk exclusively in abbreviations.
‘Information Overflow.’
‘Paralysis of the terminal device by botnet mass mails,’ said Yoyo. ‘Data congestion.’
One of the MI6 people present looked confused.
‘Imagine there’s someone sitting in a room, and you want to silence them,’ she explained. ‘And you don’t want them to be able to hear either. Assuming that you succeed in getting your hands on all the keys, you’ll try to bolt all the doors in order to cut them off from the world. The doors are the satellites and ground control stations, but you can’t stop more and more doors being built in, not to mention the fact that you won’t be able to get all the keys anyway. The alternative is incredibly simple. You just go into the room, put a gag in their mouth and cotton wool in their ears.’
‘So, as far as I understand it, that man is Gaia’s computer.’
‘Two men,’ said Merrick. ‘Gaia’s computer and the Peary Base system.’
‘Don’t they have any mirror systems?’ asked Jericho.
‘Okay, four men then.’ Merrick waved his hand impatiently. ‘Or even more, as it’s possible the shuttles’ satellite receivers were gagged too. In any case, the procedure is much more efficient because you only interfere with the terminal device, that is the IP addresses of the people you want to target. Everything is fine with the satellites –, you can have a million of them flying around and it won’t change anything, quite the contrary. Nowadays, satellites and ground control stations function increasingly as knots in an IP network, like an internet in space! The botnet can jump from one knot to another in order to fight its way through.’
Jericho realised immediately that Merrick was right. In essence, botnets were old hat. Hackers gained control over as many computers as possible by implanting special software. Generally speaking, the users didn’t know that it would make their computers turn into bots, soldiers of an automated army. Theoretically, the illegal software could lie dormant in the infiltrated computers indefinitely, until it awakened at a pre-programmed time and prompted its host computer to ceaselessly send emails to a defined target: totally legal enquiries, but in torrential proportions. On the black market for cyberterrorism, networks with up to 100,000 bots had been exposed. When the botnet struck, it simultaneously fired billions of emails and flooded the target with data, until the attacked computer was no longer able to cope with the volume and perished under IOF, Information Overload.
‘What are your thoughts, Tom?’ asked Shaw. ‘How long can they keep their attacks up for?’
‘It’s difficult to say. Botnets are usually unstoppable. You tell the software in advance how long it should keep at it for, then smuggle it in. After that, there’s no way of getting to it.’
‘So you can also program into the software when it should stop?’
‘Sure, you can do anything. But my suspicion is that the one we’re dealing with is a little different. The attack came as a direct reaction to our attempt to warn Julian and the Gaia, so someone must have started the bots individually.’
‘Which means they must have directed a query at this someone after the software was installed,’ said Yoyo. ‘And that question was: Shall I attack? So the person in question must have said yes at some stage.’
‘And while they were attacking the Gaia and the Peary Base, they directed another query at Mister Unknown,’ nodded Merrick. ‘This time: Shall I stop?’
‘So if we only knew who started it—’ said the MI6 man.
‘Then we could make him stop it.’
‘Where could the person be?’ asked Shaw.
Merrick stared at her. ‘How should I know? There could be a number of people involved. The person who set the attacks in motion could be on the Moon. If he smuggled control software into the Gaia’s computer, then it would have been no problem for him to start the bots from there, although admittedly he would have crippled himself in the process. So I suspect the jerk who can stop all this madness is somewhere on Earth. For heaven’s sake, Jennifer!’ His arms flailed around wildly. ‘He could be anywhere. He could be here. In the Big O. In this very room!’
* * *
Not long after, they heard from Gerald Palstein. The face staring at them through the monitor window from Texas looked dejected, and Jericho couldn’t help being reminded of Shaw’s words, about the unpleasant decisions EMCO’s chief strategist was responsible for on a daily basis.
Then he looked closer.
No, it was something else. Palstein looked like someone who had just been given devastating news.
‘I can supply you with the film now,’ he said wearily.
‘You were able to speak to your contact?’ Shaw’s voice sneaked up, cautious and tentative.
‘No.’ Palstein rubbed his eyes. ‘Something happened.’
For a moment his forehead appeared in disproportion to the rest of his body as he leaned forward and pressed something underneath the transmission camera. Then the image changed, and they saw a news report from CNN.
‘An incomprehensible tragedy took place today in Vancouver in Canada,’ said Christine Roberts, the smartly dressed frontwoman of Breaking News. ‘In
an act of unprecedented violence, practically the entire leadership of the internet portal Greenwatch has been wiped out. The ecologically orientated station, known for its engaged and critical reportage, has contributed again and again to the resolution of environmental scandals in recent years, as well as bringing multiple suits against companies and politicians. They were known to be balanced and fair. Our correspondent in Vancouver can now speak to us. Rick Lester, are there any indications yet as to who could be behind the bloodbath which may mean the end of Greenwatch?’
The picture changed. Early evening light. A man in front of a Canadian villa-style property, crime-scene tape fluttering all around him, along with police vehicles and uniformed officers.
‘No, Christine, and that’s exactly what makes the whole thing so eerie: so far there are no clues at all as to who is responsible for these murders, or rather executions, and above all, why.’ Rick Lester spoke in an emphasised staccato, pausing after every half-sentence. ‘Greenwatch were working, as we now know, on an extensive report about the destruction of the boreal forest in Canada and other parts of the world, so that would make the oil industry a prime suspect, but the report was more looking back at what damage has been caused over the years, that can’t be undone, and at first glance there’s nothing there which could serve as an explanation for a massacre like this.’
‘There’s now talk of ten fatalities, Rick. What exactly happened, and what names are amongst the victims?’
‘So, I should add that this is probably a concerted action, because it not only affected the headquarters of Greenwatch, where seven people have been found dead’ – he turned slightly to indicate the scene behind him – ‘but a quarter of an hour before there was also a wild pursuit on Marine Drive, a coastal road that leads out to Point Grey, and witnesses claim to have seen a large four-by-four repeatedly ram into a Thunderbird containing three Greenwatch staff, and then intentionally cause an accident. It seems that two of the people in the car initially survived the crash, but were then immediately shot. One of the victims is, incidentally, the chief reporter of Greenwatch, Loreena Keowa. So the murderers may have driven on to the Greenwatch headquarters, here at Point Grey, gained access and created this bloodbath within a matter of minutes.’
‘A bloodbath which – according to the latest reports – also cost the director, Susan Hudsucker, her life?’
‘Yes, that has been confirmed.’
‘It’s terrible, Rick, really unbelievable, but it’s not just the murders which are giving the investigators clues, but some things which seem to have disappeared—’
‘That’s right, Christine, and this shines a particular light on the incident. Because there is not one single computer to be found in the whole building; all of Green-watch’s data has been stolen, as well as handwritten notes, so pretty much the station’s entire memory.’
‘Rick, doesn’t that imply that someone here was trying to prevent the publication of potentially controversial information?’
Lester nodded. ‘Someone was undoubtedly trying to delay its publication, and we’ve just heard that contact has been made with freelance workers to find out more about the current projects, but Greenwatch always took great pains to keep hot information and stories within the inner circle right up to the last moment, so it could mean those final projects will never be reconstructed.’
‘An immense tragedy indeed. So, that’s all from Vancouver for now, thank you, Rick Lester. And now—’
The recording came to an end. Palstein reappeared, alone in front of the polished mahogany table in his conference room in Dallas.
‘Was that your contact person?’ asked Shaw. ‘The woman in the car?’
‘Yes.’ Palstein nodded. ‘Loreena Keowa.’
‘And you think the events are directly connected to the assassination attempt in Calgary?’
‘I don’t know.’ Palstein sighed. ‘A film clip turned up showing a man. He could be the assassin, but does that justify a massacre like this? I mean, I’m in possession of the pictures too, and Loreena said she showed them to a number of people. We were planning to talk on the phone right after her landing in Vancouver, I asked her to call me without fail—’
‘Because you were worried.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Palstein shook his head. ‘It was like she was obsessed with the case. I was very worried.’
‘Mr Palstein,’ said Jericho, ‘how quickly could we get hold of the film? Every second—’
‘No problem. I can show you the extract right away.’
The picture changed once again. This time they saw the entrance hall of a building. Jericho thought he recognised the run-down façade: the empty business complex opposite the Imperial Oil HQ in Calgary, from which the shot at Palstein was alleged to have been fired. People were walking around aimlessly. Two men and a woman came out of the building into the sunlight. The men joined a policeman and engaged him in conversation, while the woman positioned herself to the side. A figure crept up from the left, a fat, bulky man with long black hair.
Jericho leaned forwards. A still image appeared on the monitor, just a head and shoulders. He was clearly an Asian man. A corpulent, unkempt appearance, greasy hair, his beard thin and dishevelled; but what couldn’t be accomplished with a bit of latex, foam and make-up?
Even Yoyo was staring at the Asian man.
‘Almost unrecognisable,’ she whispered.
Shaw looked at her keenly. ‘You know him?’
‘Absolutely.’ Jericho nodded. He couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Unbelievable, but it’s him!’
The disguise was worthy of an Oscar, but the circumstances under which they had met him meant they couldn’t be misled. Jericho had already fallen for it once, but wouldn’t let it happen again, even if the bastard covered himself in fur and went down on all fours.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is without a doubt the Calgary assassin.’
Shaw raised her eyebrows. ‘And do you have a name?’
‘Yes, but it won’t help you much. The guy is as volatile as gas. His name is Xin. Kenny Xin.’
Sinus Iridum, The Moon
The Land of Mist.
It was only after getting to the Moon that Evelyn had learned the astronauts’ name for the mining zone, and to her the term seemed corny and inapplicable. According to her school education, mist was a meteorological phenomenon, an aerosol, and there was certainly no droplet formation on the Moon. She had asked around as to whether the name resulted from some pretentious need to pay homage to Riccioli and his historical misinterpretations, but didn’t receive any adequate answers. In general, the zone was hardly ever discussed. Julian had scheduled in a presentation of a documentary for the last day of their stay; so there were no plans to visit the mining zone at all.
But now that she had ended up here after all, one glance was enough to make her see why prosaic minds had named the stretch of land between Sinus Iridum and Mare Imbrium the Land of Mist. A flat, iridescent barrier stretched out from horizon to horizon, over a kilometre high and not in the slightest bit suited to lifting Chambers’ mood. It weighed down on the land desolately, hopelessness which had turned into dust. No one in their right mind would feel the desire to cross it.
But Hanna’s wheel tracks led right into it.
He had driven down the path for several hundred metres, then veered off in a north-easterly direction. According to Julian, he was travelling along the imaginary line that linked Cape Heraclides to Cape Laplace. Giving in to the conflicting hope that their opponent might be a survival expert, and possibly the better pathfinder, they followed in his tracks. Amber continued to study her maps, but as good as their services had been so far, here they proved to be useless. Everywhere they looked, visibility was cut short by mist, sometimes after a hundred metres, but mostly after just ten. There was no horizon now, no hills, no mountain ranges, only Hanna’s solitary tracks on his way into the unknown. Something that fed on life itself crept up out of the dust, weighed heavily on Chambers’ r
ibcage and unleashed in her the childlike longing to cry. The Moon was dead matter, and yet until now she had seen it as strangely alive, like an old and wise human being, a wonderful Methuselah, whose wrinkles preserved the history of creation. Here, though, history seemed to have been erased. The familiar powdery consistency of the regolith, its gentle slopes and miniature craters, had given way to crumbly uniformity, as if something had glided over and subjected it to an eerie transformation. For a moment, she thought she could make out the edge of a small crater, but it vanished into dust before her eyes, mere hallucination.
‘There’s nothing left here to get your bearings from,’ said Julian to Amber. ‘The beetles have changed the landscape permanently.’
Beetles? Evelyn stopped. She couldn’t recall ever having heard of beetles being on the Moon. But whatever they were up to, in her eyes it amounted to desecration. All around them, it looked as though someone had inflicted grievous bodily harm on the satellite. This crumbly stuff was the ashes of the dead. It was racked up in parallel, shallow ramparts, like powerful furrows, as if something had been ploughing the ground.
‘Julian, it looks awful here,’ she said.
‘I know. Not exactly the dream destination for tourists. People only ever come here if there are problems the maintenance robots can’t cope with.’
‘And what in God’s name are the beetles?’
‘Look over there.’ Julian raised his arm and pointed ahead. ‘That’s one.’
She squinted. At first she just saw the sunlight flickering on the dust particles. Then, amidst enigmatic grey tones, a silhouette came into view at an indefinable distance from them, a thing of primeval appearance. It slowly pushed its hunched, strangely weightless-looking body forwards, making bizarre details visible: a rotating jaw system beneath a low, oblate head, which rummaged industriously through the regolith, insectoid legs spread out wide. Unrelentingly, it kept adding to the dust across the plateau, causing it to whirl around as it continued to eat and move forwards. The microscopic suspended matter enshrouded its bulky body, surrounding its legs like a cocoon. By now, Evelyn was pretty sure she knew what she was looking at, except all her perceptions were stunted by the impression of just how inconceivably powerful the beetle was. The nearer they got to it, the more monstrous it looked, stretching out its humpback, which was covered in enormous, glinting, shell-like mirrors, a mythical monster, as tall as a high-rise building.
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