Kessler was about to respond when Jones stepped up to the mike. “I’d like to respond to that if you don’t mind, Mike.” Jones turned in the direction of the reporter. “Listen, Ms. Warren. I have no idea what you’re driving at, but I’d like to say — for the record — that this guy here’s the best damned pilot I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s going up because he’s the best, and Lightning deserves nothing but the best at the helm. I’m very proud to get the chance to go up with him in what’s going to be the most successful of the shuttle missions to date. Now, why don’t we stick to real issues about the mission and stay off trick questions?”
The room fell silent for several seconds. Kessler closed his eyes and exhaled.
“Next question, please,” Jones said.
“Robert Kinsley, ABC. How many days is the mission to last?”
Jones smiled and turned to Kessler. “I guess I’ll let you answer that. After all, you’re the mission commander.”
Kessler smiled in return. “The current schedule is to remain in orbit for four days.”
“What is the main purpose of the mission?” the same reporter asked.
“The first priority is to get Lightning checked out for commercial and military use. Captain Jones and I will go through a comprehensive series of tests to verify Lightning’s functionality in space. This is the main reason for the crew of two. There will be no mission specialists aboard on this trip… yes, the lady in the second row.”
“Is there any spacewalking scheduled for this mission?”
“No.”
“But Lightning is carrying the latest spacewalking gear, correct?”
“Every orbiter, regardless of the mission, always carries two sets of EVA gear even if there are no plans to go outside. In the event that we have to EVA for whatever reason, both Captain Jones and myself have spent hundreds of hours training to do so.”
Kessler looked at Jones as a dozen hands went up. Jones raised his eyebrows and smiled.
George Pruett put down his paperback and raised an eyebrow when the yellow-bordered NASA icon suddenly turned red. His right hand reached for the mouse and he clicked his way down the list to a new entry.
He read on for a few minutes and exhaled.
“Sweet Jesus!”
“You okay, George?” asked one analyst looking over the short cubicle wall into George’s small office.
“Ah… yeah, yeah, I’m fine, thanks.” The analyst gave him a puzzled look before going back to his work.
What does it mean? George asked himself. Three former Athena scientists gunned down during an assault on a warehouse? Two of them shot in the head point-blank? Who did the shooting? The other seven unidentified dead men found there maybe? All had sound-suppressed weapons. None carried any identification papers.
The report was short but concise. It had originated with a daily summary of activities provided by CIA analysts.
“Hmm…”
Now this is interesting, George thought as he selected the print command from a list of options on the right side of the screen. First Claude Guilloux and now more scientists from the same space agency? A few seconds later the Hewlett Packard laser jet printer kicked in with a light hum. A single sheet of paper was sucked in from the paper tray and came out at the other end. George snatched it and carefully read all three entries again. His analytical mind now told him that Guilloux had also been murdered. What about the accident at NASA?
George couldn’t help himself. Perhaps he’d read just too many spy novels, or maybe he simply wanted his algorithm to come up with something of significance, but he grabbed his phone and called information for the number of the public affairs office at Kennedy Space Center. He got it and dialed.
Ten minutes later, he hung up and set the Sun into a continuous loop so that nobody could access it without the appropriate password. Satisfied, George got up and headed for the fax machine across the hall, where the public affairs official at KSC faxed him a copy of the formal report on the accident.
George walked back to his cubicle, sat on his swivel chair, and slowly read the two-page report. It seemed as if Vera Baumberger had lost her balance while climbing down from one of the shuttle’s main engines — according to a young technician working with her at the platform, who also happened to be the first one to get to the spot where she’d fallen. George still didn’t like it, but decided to leave it at that for now. The matter with Athena scientists, however, definitely needed some attention.
He briefly checked the six-digit counter on the side of the laser printer and wrote down the number on the printout. He then made an entry on the printer’s logbook. The number of entries in the logbook matched the number of single-sheet printouts. That way no one could get hard-copy information from his system without him knowing about it.
George typed a short memo using a small electric typewriter on the side of his desk, grabbed the computer printout, and headed for the Records department of Computer Services on the second floor. He walked through the double doors and handed the papers to the Records clerk.
“Please route to the European section and file the originals.”
“Right away,” she responded, getting up and walking to the copy machine.
“Thanks.” George checked his watch and headed back to his Sun.
After three Metro transfers and a short walk, Cameron unlocked the door of their hotel room and let Marie through. He checked both sides of the long hallway before stepping inside and locking the door. They had had no problems finding a hotel room. Tourist season was almost over.
Exhausted, they both collapsed onto the double bed. Cameron flashed briefly on the impropriety of being this close physically to his charge, and guiltily recognized that he didn’t give a damn. His training told him that two people, often two agents, were inclined to become physically involved during high-stress assignments, but something told him that if it happened to him and Marie, stress would have less to do with it than her stunning beauty.
Priorities. Cameron knew they were clean, that they hadn’t been followed from the warehouse. And he’d specifically chosen not to seek refuge in the embassy when he noticed a gray-paneled truck parked next to the side gate. He wondered for a moment if the embassy was aware of the surveillance, then began to think about a safe contact point to meet his case officer. Marie’s voice broke his train of thought.
“So, what’s next?”
“Huh?”
“What do we do next?”
“Oh. I contact Potter and get him to pull us in.”
“How?”
He smiled. “Trust me.”
“What about the French police?”
“I’m not sure how to handle that yet. Let’s get to safety first and talk it over with our people. I’m sure there’s a way to work that out.”
She frowned. “How do you think Potter is going to react?”
“Oh, he’ll be pissed off at first and will probably curse me out for a couple of minutes. After that I think he’ll listen to what we have to say.”
“When do you plan to…”
“I spotted a couple of public phones a block away. I just wanted to get you out of harm’s way first.”
She smiled again and touched his arm in gratitude.