Dark Matter (40 page)

'Shit, sorry Charlie.  I was hoping you Brit's might escape that.'

'You have the same order?'

'Yep.  Not official yet, later today probably, but yer we're getting the same order.'

'What do you intend to do about it?'

'Same as you I figure.  Bitch about it in private and support it in public.  Why?  Do you have something else planned?'

'No Sam, I was hoping you had.'

'It's going to make the exercise real tricky.  I don't know about you but I don't fancy them looking over our shoulders while we show our best tactics.  Shit, I just thought, what about Ivanskiy?  If I know him at all he'll do a shit over this.'

Charlie didn't like his friend’s use of profanity, but he couldn't argue with his assessment of the situation, or the likely reaction of their Russian colleague.

15:00
              24 December  [12:00  24 December GMT] 

Office of the Head of the Russian Army, Kremlin, Moscow, Russia.

'Absolutely not!’  General Gregori Stephonovich Ivanskiy bellowed at his boss not three feet away.  He had jumped to his feet, sending his chair, a nice seventeen-century handcrafted French example, flying away behind him.  'Never!’  He slammed his considerable fist down on the desk, inches from his boss.

His boss sat there impassively.  Uncharacteristically for a Russian he was not quick to anger, or at least not to show it.  He looked up at his subordinate, glowering over him.  'Have you finished, Gregori Stephonovich?'  He asked, his voice a quiet strength against the noise still echoing in the room.

Gregori Stephonovich breathed deeply, like a wounded bear.  He straightened up and retrieved his chair from where it was cowering.  He pushed it back in front of his boss's desk and sat down on it heavily, the old wood creaking slightly under the sudden strain.

'Yes.'  Gregori Stephonovich said, trying his best to sound calm and in control.

'Tell me old friend.  If you were given an irrational but legitimate order in battle what would you do?'

'I would have to follow the order, but I would interpret it in such a way so that I could make a good decision from it.'  He replied honestly.

'Even from me?'  His boss raised an eyebrow.

'Of course not from you.'

'Of course from me.'  He said making his point clear.  'This is a field order.  You must obey it.  How you obey it, is up to you.  Just make sure that everyone sees that you have obeyed it...Gregori Stephonovich, this is not the time for rocking the boat.  Now unless there is anything else, you are dismissed.' 

Gregori Stephonovich turned and left.  Waiting outside was his aide.

'How much did you hear Nickolai Andreovich?' 

'Not much.'  Colonel Nickolai Andreovich Petrov lied politely.

'Good.  Trouble comes to the man who listens too much.  I have a job for you.'

The General explained what he wanted and Nickolai Andreovich's eyes went wide.

'Brilliant General.  A truly excellent response.'

'Careful Nickolai Andreovich, remember what I told you about trouble.' 

13:00
              24 December  [12:00  24 December GMT] 

Le Monde, Paris, France
.

'I don't give a shit for your sad little story.  It's mostly rumour and conjecture.'

'But that's the point...'

'Don't interrupt me!  I was editing this paper before you could read.  As I was saying, what you call a story is not.  Yet.  You can carry on sniffing around in your spare time.  In the meantime, I want the story on the Mayor and this isn't ready to be published.  Haven't you heard about the Sunarr?  Help from Afar.' 

The Editor quoted the copy in the advert the Sunday edition was going to carry.  They were doing an advertisement feature on the Sunarr, and they were being paid a lot for it.  Moreover, the owner was now a personal friend of the Sunarr ambassador to France.  A good editor follows the news; a long-term editor follows the owner.

Jean Minoit left his bosses office a deeply unhappy man.  Six years into his full time journalist role he had failed to get a scoop to make his name, others had and their careers had blossomed.  Jean's was still a fledging, not yet capable of flight, its legs tired and weary of carrying all the weight, his wings as yet untested.  He could feel this was a story in his bones, but everywhere he looked doors closed in his face.  Contacts normally happy to reveal even the deepest of secrets, often to the detriment of their own side, were conspicuously silent on the Sunarr and the possible existence of any camps.  Somehow, world gold production had shot up soon after their arrival.  Some relatives couldn't contact those in jails close to a gold mine.  Others had no problem.  In addition, it was only gold mines.

             
This is a real story, it has to be.  But how do I get corroboration when no one will talk off the record, even on deep background?
  Jean thought to himself.  He realised that he was going to have to paint a picture without the subject in it, just the background.  Like a painting of a black hole in space, with only the absence of stars to denote its presence.  He would build his story on all the circumstantial facts that he could gather.  Testimony from the relatives of prisoners.  The decrease in food and supplies sent to those prisons close to gold mines, compared to those that are not.  The increase in production of gold at virtually all mines.  The no flyover zones implemented.  The perimeters set up around them to keep people out.  The edited satellite photos.

Jean would build his story and let the world know what was happening.  Prisoners, hundreds, maybe thousands of them had gone missing and the aliens had taken over nearly every Gold mine on Earth. 
This is news; the people have a right to know.

Jean left the offices of Le Monde, crossing the street to his favourite café, deep in thought about his story.  A blue Mercedes van hit him square at speed, sending the reporter into the path of oncoming traffic.  The van never stopped. 

19
The Living Letter

13:40
              19 December  [07:40 19 December GMT] 

La Guitarra Mine, Nr. San Simon de Guerrero, 60 miles South West of Mexico City.

It had taken Chuck a few days to find his target.  The dishwasher was young, perhaps seventeen.  He spoke good English, which was essential for Chuck, and he was very unhappy with his lot.  That was the deciding factor.  He had overheard him talking with the other dishwashers and what he could understand was how unfairly he had been treated.  Chuck didn't know what it was yet, but he knew that he would soon.  He took the opportunity that lunch provided, bolting down his food he took his plate back to be washed.

'You know I used to wash dishes when I was you age.'  Chuck lied.

'Si, now you are a prisoner, so what?'

'So I decided one day that I wanted more.  Seemed to me that others were getting the good life and I was clearing up after them.'

The young man stopped and looked up at Chuck. 

'What did you do?'  His face was beginning to show his yearning for a better life.

'I found out what others wanted and helped them get it.  For a fee of course.  How much do you earn?'

The young man laughed like the fates had conspired against him.

'Hah, I get the same I always have.  The others, well, they are getting rich.'

'Whys that?'

'The miners, they get paid on the price of gold.  I have heard them talk about it.  They also get paid on production.  Both have increased many times, but I still paid the same.'

'That's not fair.'

'Si, it is not.  My girlfriend is with child.  We want to get married.  This I cannot afford.'

'Perhaps I can help.'

'Why should you help?'  The young man was suspicious now.

'I'm Chuck.'  He said as he held out his hand.

'I am Angel.'  He took Chuck's hand and shook it, grateful that someone thought him worthy of something as simple as a handshake.

'Well life is pretty uncomfortable in here.  I have friends and money on the outside that could help.  I would be grateful enough to help you...and your family.'

'How grateful?'

'Enough for the wedding and maybe a nice house.'

Angel smiled.  Chuck could see he had him right. 
Give me a disgruntled man and I’ll give you a way in…or out. 
Chuck smiled and offered his hand again, sealing the bargain.

'I'll see you at dinner Angel.'

'Si, see you later Chuck.'

Chuck whistled to himself as he walked away.  His back was stiff, his stride confident.  He hadn't felt this good in a long while.

'Angel, what was that about?'

'The gringo thought I could get him extra food, pah!'  Angel spat to emphasise his disgust at prisoners in general and foreign prisoners in particular.  The other dishwasher wasn't overly convinced but walked off anyway.  Angel watched him go back to his workstation; delighted by the fact he wasn't going to have to share his new source of income. 
I must be more careful,
Angel thought to himself.

Chuck walked over to Leroy, and squatted down next to him.  'Have you got the letter ready?'

'Not yet.' 
That was quick
, Leroy thought to himself,
this guy is good
.

'Get it to me at dinner.'

Chuck stood up and walked off.

Lunch was almost over, Leroy moved quickly to find Saeb and Benjamin.  They were sitting apart from the others on the periphery of the prisoner group.

'It's on for dinner.  Have you got the letter ready?'

'Nearly.'  replied Benjamin.

'We will get it to you at the end of the water break.'  Promised Saeb.

'Cool.  See you later.'

The time to the water break passed quickly.  Saeb and Benjamin discussing what else needed to be in the first letter.  It was not made any easier by the fact that they had to encode the entire letter, whilst maintaining the appearance of an innocent letter home.

'What else do you think we should ask of them my friend?'  Benjamin said, then was struck by the fact he had added my friend and that it hadn't felt awkward or forced. 
Why have I never sat and eaten with a Palestinian before?  Never held a civil conversation with one?  What would my friends back home say?
Benjamin couldn't know it but his friend Saeb was thinking along similar lines.

'We need information, as much as they can tell us.  I don't know if you noticed, but when we were brought here, there were no guards outside, no military installations that could be seen.  This tells me that these Sunarr, ' Saeb spoke their name as if a curse, 'have every confidence in this dome of theirs.  I fear it will be up to us to escape, rescue will not be likely.'

How did I miss that?
  Benjamin asked himself. 
Because I was feeling sorry for myself, rather than helping myself by doing reconnaissance and planning.
  Saeb rose again in Benjamin's estimation.

'You are right of course.'  Benjamin realised.  'We should make this clear to them.'

08:15               27 December  [03:15  27 December GMT]

Office of the Secretary-General, United Nations, New York, USA.

Jayanti fondled the piece of paper in her hands.  She looked nervously at the Sunarr security detail standing opposite her, either side of her office door. 
They follow me everywhere, well nearly everywhere
, she smiled to herself at that thought. 
Thank goodness that they don't know my usual routine.
Jay had changed her activity when the Sunarr had been attached to protect her.  Now she still held meetings to discuss normal UN business, but she supplemented that with personally delivering written correspondence around the building, in this way she hoped that the off the record stuff she had to do would not attract attention.  However, communicating only in writing has its limitations.

It amazed her how quick her organisation was growing.  The letter had arrived the day before, hand delivered by Jane.  The symbols on it were obviously Arabic or Hebrew, she hadn't known which.  However she had sent it down to the Middle Eastern section chief for eyes only translation.  He couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.  As soon as he had started reading it, it became clear that it was filled with everyday stuff; the weather, questions about relatives, holiday plans and the like.  Nothing unusual in that.  However when he came to the second page it did become rather odd.  Not the content he noted, that was more of the everyday.  It was the language.  The first page was written in Arabic, Palestinian he was quite sure.  The second page however was in Hebrew.  He ran a spectrographic analysis of the ink.  They had used the same pen.  He was sure that the two sections had been written by different people.  The use of language was too untidy to be the work of people who weren't natural writers in each of the two languages, sentence construction and diction both confirmed this in his mind.  He finished the translation, wrote up his findings, and put them in the secure internal envelope.  This he hand delivered to the Secretary-General.

Jay had reviewed the section chief’s notes.  Having someone independent confirm that the letter was written by both a native Israeli and a native Palestinian wasn't enough to confirm its authenticity for her.  The translated text she handed over to the deputy section chief of the cryptography department, the section chief being on long-term sick leave.  The analysis didn’t reveal anything hidden in the text, the Cryptographer explaining that she needed the original text.  Jayanti had sent her the original and was now reading the new report.

The authors of the letter have detailed knowledge of cryptography.  Specifically the Hebrew section appears to have been encoded using the second revision of the Israeli intelligence service, Mossad.  This revision is used almost exclusively by senior field members of that service.  However, the service had implemented revision three over ten years previously, so it is likely that the individual concerned has not been in the field for at least that long.  The Arabic is even more interesting.  It is definitely Palestinian in origin; the encoding method used was developed by a group called Ilah Quwwa or God's Might.

The Cryptographer had included a table with known members of that group, listed as Active, Inactive, or Deceased.  Jay noted that Saeb Tibi was marked as “Deceased (Presumed)”.  Jay knew it was not absolute proof; however, she also knew that you rarely have anything one hundred per cent confirmed in intelligence.  The odds of this being anything other than genuine were slim indeed.  However, just to be cautious she had sent the translated text to be reviewed by the intelligence section.  They had confirmed all the references to relatives were accurate; the clincher had been the things that they couldn't confirm.  The intelligence files are heavily indexed and cross-referenced.  Both sections of the letter had included affiliations that they suspected, but had never been able to confirm.  Including oblique references to military actions both were believed to have been involved in but had never been proved.

Jay reflected on all this,
this has to be genuine,
she thought.  There was a knock at her door, William entered.

'You wanted a reminder about your spa day.' 

Jay looked at her watch; it was eight thirty and time to get moving.

'Yes thank you William, would you ask my driver to bring the car around.'

'Of course.'

Jay stood to leave, the Sunarr body guards seemed to stiffen at this, like a coiled snake ready to strike.  She ignored them the best she could and headed out of the office, the Sunarr following close behind.  By the time Jay exited the building her driver was waiting for her, as too was the driver of the car for the Sunarr. 
It’s a shame I'm not allowed now to have anyone travel in the car with me, except Sam of course
.  Jay had been resolute on this point and the Sunarr had conceded.  The convoy pulled away and headed for the spa.

10:00
              27 December  [05:00  27 December GMT]

Dayton Park Spa, New York, USA
.

The spa dated back to the early nineteenth century.  It had been built by Mary Morgan's great, great, great aunt, also named Mary, after her rather acrimonious divorce from her first husband, some years before she married into the Morgan family.  At that time there were few places were women could go to be in their own company.  Men had all sorts of clubs, some private members clubs, others for the less financially secure provided services aimed at men.

Dayton Park was named in honour of her mother.  A beautiful but emotionally strong woman, it had been her influence that had persuaded her daughter that divorce was far preferable to a bad marriage.  It was made somewhat easier in that the money was Mary's not her husbands.  Indeed his gambling and poor investments had been the last straw in their rocky relationship.

Mary had established Dayton Park as a retreat for ladies from the pressures of society life.  Here, in an all-woman environment there was no need for makeup, corsets, or other strictures of society.  The library was one of the best.  The extensive reception rooms held classes, ranging from finance and investments to the sciences.  Almost unheard of in its day, the classes were always well attended.  The women who passed through its doors were inspired to go further in the course of improving the lives of other women.

It was not without its detractors though.  Some men tried to have it closed for any number of spurious reasons.  One such incident included an accusation that the establishment “corrupted the morals and values of ladies.”  Although without foundation it made it to the district court, where the Judge, Justice Arthur Stanwright-Moore found in favour of the defendant and in his summing up said “...it is without question that Dayton Park affects the attitudes, experiences and knowledge of the ladies who attend there.  However I find no evidence that this has harmed the virtues, values or morals of said ladies”  It was no coincidence that the Judge's wife had been one of those ladies, who after some weeks attending Dayton Park returned prepared to work at her marriage.  She cut their expenses by a third, increased the return on their investments, and through her newly formed connections got her husband membership at the country club, where he had spent many happy days playing golf.

Now Dayton Park was a foundation.  Income it earned that was in excess of costs was donated to various women's charities.  Education was still a cornerstone of its existence.  It still provided classes in various subjects, but the curriculum, such as it was, had been brought up to date.

Jay's car swept along the gravel drive pulling up to the ornate East entrance.  She waited for one of the Sunarr bodyguards to open her door, she didn't have long to wait.  Jay strode up the steps into the entrance, the two bodyguards standing one either side of the door turning from automatons into statues.