The nurse sifted through his paperwork, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry — we still haven’t heard anything. I’ll make sure to let them know you asked.’
‘Thanks,’ Novitskiy said, and hobbled back down the corridor to his room.
‘Hey, Novitskiy?’ the nurse called after him.
‘Yeah?’
‘No running in the halls.’
Novitskiy rolled his eyes, grinning, and carried on walking while the nurse chuckled to himself. The smile faded as the thought of Sally Fisher panged in his chest.
The next day, he awoke early to the warmth of the sun poking in between the blinds. He felt tired, even more so than usual. His dreams had jarred him awake again and again, leaving him before he could remember what they were. He sat up, stretched and yawned, and when he’d finished he saw a nurse wheeling a trolley though the door with his breakfast on it.
‘Here you go, Captain,’ the nurse said as she lifted the tray onto his lap.
‘Thank you, very kind.’
‘And this came for you, too.’
The nurse handed him a letter. It had a US Department of Defence logo on it. He took it, but didn’t open it. ‘Thank you.’
‘Enjoy your breakfast.’
The nurse smiled, then left. Novitskiy watched her, and when she was gone, he tore open the letter. It was short.
Dear Captain Novitskiy,
You have been summoned to a meeting with Major General John Bales.
Other than the time and date of the meeting and a note to say a car would come to collect him, that was it. There wasn’t even a signature. He looked at the bedside clock — the meeting was tomorrow. He turned the letter over to see if there was anything else written on it: there wasn’t. Major General John Bales? He’d never even heard of this high-ranking man, let alone met him. This was very strange.
Chapter 20
‘Hello — is this the NASA press centre?’
The person on the other end of the line — in her middling forties by the sound of it — confirmed that, yes, it was the NASA press centre. ‘And can I ask who you might be?’
‘Ah, yes — my name is Steve Philips. I’m the foreign affairs and technology correspondent for the New York Times.’
Steve Philips was indeed the correspondent for foreign affairs and technology at the New York Times, but that wasn’t making the pretence of being him any easier. Sean transferred the bulky satellite phone from one ear to the other, and gave a thumbs-up to Aleks and Grigory, who were sitting on the back of Grigory’s pickup truck, watching. Although Sean had explained his plan to them as they drove out into the wilderness, the expressions on their faces didn’t suggest they were convinced by it. Whatever, Sean thought. I think it’s a good idea. The plan was simple: dig up as much information on Sally Fisher and Robert Gardner as possible to try and prove their present whereabouts, thus forcing NASA to make a new statement. And sometimes — just sometimes — the easiest place to get that withheld information was via the very people trying to withhold it, so that’s what Sean — now also known as Steve Philips, foreign affairs and technology correspondent for the New York Times — was doing. As Professor Klein had often repeated to his class during journalism schooclass="underline" it was all about confidence.
‘Mr Philips, thank you for calling. And how might we be able to help you today?’
‘I’m doing a piece on the relationship between America and Russia, and the joint program on the International Space Station. You know, astronauts working with cosmonauts, that sort of thing. Quite the teamwork story, don’t you think?’
Too much information, Sean, too much information. Keep the lie simple. He could almost hear Professor Klein’s voice in his head.
‘Yes, that does sound very good.’
Keep it simple.
‘I’d like to interview some of the team on the ground. I understand Sally Fisher, the communications expert, and Robert Gardner, former astronaut, were both recruited as consultants on the matter. I’d like to interview them if I can.’
The woman didn’t reply. Sean felt hot, his shirt tight and clammy around his chest and neck. Perhaps he had triggered some kind of keyword? Were they trying to track him down, trace the call? They were miles out into the woods, but were they far enough away from civilization? He listened for the thump of helicopter blades over the trees, anxious, but —
‘Would you like to do a telephone interview, or interview them in person, Mr Philips?’
The response stunned Sean, and he regrouped his thoughts to speak. ‘In person, please.’
‘Would you like to interview any of the Russian team, too?’
He hadn’t thought of that. ‘Er… okay.’
‘Who would you like to interview?’
Think, Sean, think.
‘The surgeon and CAPCOM, please.’
Shit. CAPCOM was sat opposite him, looking concerned.
‘I’m afraid the CAPCOM isn’t available for interview at present. I’m sure you understand. You can most certainly interview his cover and the mission surgeon, though. When shall I arrange that for, Mr Philips?’
‘Is tomorrow too soon?’
‘Not at all. Shall we say ten thirty?’
‘Yes please.’
And it was done. He thumbed the call disconnect button, and took a breath. His heart was pounding. Who’d have thought the most intense phone call he’d ever make would be to a middling forties woman?
‘Well?’ said Aleks, gesturing for Sean to reveal all.
‘We’re in. I don’t believe it, but we’re in.’
Aleks hopped down from the truck to give him a slap on the arm, which in his present state of nervous shock nearly toppled him over. He was thankful that Grigory only gave him a smile.
Back at Grigory’s house they fired up Grigory’s computer and set a search running for the terms Sally Fisher and Robert Gardner. Sean was convinced there was something more to find online, and while they waited for day to become night to become day again, he wanted to use the time to scour the web for more clues. He routed the searches through proxy servers to prevent them being traced, and left the computer to whizz through billions of fragments of data, sorting, disposing, sorting, disposing, hunting until it found a piece that might be of interest. When it did, it flagged it up. So far all the flagged data had been irrelevant, and Sean had dismissed it, leaving the computer to continue its digital treasure hunt.
‘This soup is really delicious,’ Sean said after a mouthful. ‘How do you get it so thick?’ He dunked the spoon in again, waiting for Grigory to finish his own mouthful and reveal the secret.
‘Potato,’ Grigory said. ‘Mashed.’
‘Huh. As simple as that?’
‘Yes. Always use good potatoes.’
Sean nodded, his mouth full of creamy soup. It struck him that the three of them could have been friends on one of those character-building wilderness trips, were it not for the undercover journalism and criminal fugitive.
‘I think the computer’s found something,’ Aleks said, putting his bowl down to go see.
‘Anything useful?’ Sean asked.
‘I’m not sure. Come and have a look.’
Sean finished his last spoonful and went over. It was obvious why Aleks was uncertain: the computer seemed to have pulled a result from a long-since abandoned conspiracy site.
‘This page doesn’t exist any more,’ Aleks said. ‘It found this in the cache of an online search engine. It’s six years old.’