The Lure (21 page)

After the embarrassing memory of her tennis outfit, she had dressed in a well-cut, dark-grey suit, touched her eyelashes with mascara, used a little bronze eye-shadow and a muted plum lipstick which went well, she believed, with her black skin. Her hair was straightened and sleek. She finished the effect with small, plain pearl earrings and she was wearing spectacles with the heaviest frames she could find.

But still none of it was quite obliterating that embarrassing memory.

Melanie Moore

Should be demure.

The stupid rhyme, having popped into her head in the Lincoln on the way over, would not go away. She opened the folder Sullivan had laid on the coffee-table. ‘Mr President, Prime Minister Edgeworth left Chequers on Thursday evening on a domestic flight, having abruptly cancelled his appearance at the Kohl funeral in Germany and a weekend social engagement. There’s no comment on it by the British press. We know, or think we know, he was driven to RAF Northolt which isn’t too far from Chequers. Now Edgeworth normally uses a VC-10 on domestic flights and one took off from Northolt soon after his ETA there. This was at twenty-two hundred hours Greenwich Mean Time.’

‘So far so good,’ Bull said encouragingly.

‘Now we don’t monitor Royal Air Force communications.’

‘Okay.’

‘But there are people who do that sort of thing for a hobby. Enthusiastic amateurs.’

‘Like trainspotters?’ Bull suggested.

‘Exactly like trainspotters, except that these people use VHF and UHF scanners, HF radio and so on which are able to pick up military communications. They cover Western Europe and they swap “sightings” on the Net. It’s murder on military security, especially if there’s, say, a Middle East operation on the boil, but there’s nothing any of us can do about it. Anyway, all we had to do was log into their records to find where the Prime Minister’s aircraft landed. Here’s their record of arrivals at RAF Lossiemouth on the evening in question.’ Melanie passed over a sheet of paper with a shaky hand.

Bull’s eyes skimmed over the sheet. ‘The VC-10?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s based in Brize Norton as you see, but it stopped off at Northolt. Unquestionably the Prime Minister was picked up there and taken on to Lossiemouth.’

‘Lossiemouth … the name rings a bell.’

‘You landed there last summer, sir. The British have a strong strike/attack Tornado complement up there, and it’s also where the Royal Family sometimes land when they want to go to Balmoral Castle. That’s the Queen’s summer house. You’ve been there too, at the Queen’s invitation, that’s why you flew to Lossiemouth.’

‘I remember the damned castle. Nothing but tartan carpets.’

‘But the Prime Minister didn’t go to Balmoral. First off, the Queen is in the Bahamas at present. Secondly, the castle just has a few caretakers in it at this time of year.’ Melanie passed over a couple of DSP photographs. ‘No security, as you see.’

Bull nodded. ‘So? Where
did
he go?’

There was a hint of satisfaction in Melanie’s voice. ‘Lossiemouth also has two Search and Rescue helicopters.’ She passed over another cluster of photographs. ‘And this is one of them. This particular reconnaissance satellite works in the infrared, Mr President, and the resolution’s not too good. But if you look at the second picture – that one – you’ll see one of the two Lossiemouth choppers, a Sea King HAR3.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘We’ve put it through image enhancement, sir. It’s a Sea King, all right. Fifty-six feet long, a hundred and forty miles an hour at sea level, normally a crew of four. This was taken halfway between Scotland and Norway.’

‘And you say the British Prime Minister was in this helicopter?’

‘There were no ships or aircraft in distress in the area at that time. There was no recorded radio traffic between the Sea King and Lossiemouth. It was flying late at night, almost at sea level, without navigation lights. Why would it be doing this? It has to be connected with the Prime Minister’s arrival at Lossiemouth. My analysis to this point is that Edgeworth was heading for some secret destination.’

‘Okay, I buy it so far,’ said Bull. ‘You say it was halfway to Norway?’

‘The Sea King’s radius of action is just under three hundred miles. That’s barely enough to get it to southern Norway and back from north-east Scotland.’

‘What’s in Norway, Ms Moore?’

Melanie passed over another batch of satellite reconnaissance pictures, each about a foot square. ‘We lost coverage for nearly three hours, but here we’ve picked it up again.’ A helicopter, bright in the infrared, was flying over a white background. ‘Sir, this is a Sea King. It has to be the same one; there are no others in this part of the world. That being so, it’s flown beyond its maximum range. It must have stopped to refuel somewhere in Norway.’

‘Which part of the world are we talking about?’

‘Finland, sir.’

‘Finnish radar would have picked it up.’

‘No, sir. This is flying at treetop level through densely forested country. An operation not without risk.’

‘The whole damn thing sounds perilous to me.’

‘Finally, Mr President, we got this on a DSP pass last evening. The blow-ups are image-enhanced.’ The view had been taken looking directly down. A frozen lake and a little cluster of cabins were plainly visible, surrounded by trees. Two of the cabins were shining brilliantly in the infrared. There were two clearings separated by about two hundred yards. ‘This is an almost impenetrably remote part of Finland. There are lots of mosquitos in the summer, and just a few trappers and hunters in the winter.’ A sharp red-painted nail circled a helicopter in one of the clearings. ‘And that’s the Sea King.’

‘And what the hell’s that?’ Bull tapped a finger at the image of a much larger machine in the other clearing.

‘An Mi-26T from the Moscow Mil helicopter plant. It can incorporate passenger carriage for VIPs in highly comfortable conditions and it has a range of 1300 kilometres if extra fuel tanks are added.’

‘VIP carriage?’

‘Almost certainly President Ogorodnikov, in our view. He was supposed to be in his Moscow
dacha
at the time. We asked Ambassador Wilson to confirm this but they’ve been giving him the runaround.’

‘He must have had his nuclear suitcase with him,’ Bull observed. ‘Where are the communications?’

‘We don’t know. Maybe in the Mi-26.’

The President shook his head sceptically.

‘That’s it,’ Sullivan said.

Bull leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands thoughtfully. ‘What are you telling me, people?’

McLarty decided it was about time to be heard. ‘Mr President, this Finnish place is about halfway on the direct route between London and Moscow. Melanie’s evidence leads me to believe that the Prime Minister and the Russian President left their respective countries for a clandestine meeting without anyone being aware of their absence.’

‘Um-huh. And where are they now?’

‘Visibly back in their respective capitals, as if they’d never gone.’

Bull looked at McLarty. ‘Any clues?’

‘None at all, Mr President.’

– The President sighed. ‘John, Ms Moore, thank you both. Good to meet you, Ms Moore.’

Melanie glowed. She followed her boss out of the door, the words:

Melanie Moore

Was quite demure

skipping through her head.

The President waited until the door had closed. Then he swivelled his chair round to face the CIA Director.

‘So what’s going on, Al?’

‘Two crazy things within a day of each other. First the conversation about an ET signal, then a secret head-to-head between Edgeworth and Ogorodnikov. They have to be connected.’

‘Where does Edgeworth come into it?’

‘Go back to that conversation between the Russian scientists, Velikhov and Shtyrkov. This Shtyrkov is part of an Anglo-Russian experiment in a cave a few hours’ drive from the castle. It’s an experiment to detect exotic particles from space.’

‘Exotic like signals from extraterrestrials? Is that what you’re trying to say?’ Bull’s face was expressionless.

‘They could have picked them up by accident.’

‘This is getting beyond a joke.’

Sullivan tried to keep his frustration in check. ‘Mr President, with respect, they didn’t meet up in Finland to catch salmon. Whatever is going on, it’s deadly serious and we’ve been excluded from it. In the interests of national security, it’s vital that we find out about that signal.’

Bull strummed his fingers on the table for some moments. ‘Al, use your common sense. They’re cooking something up over the Iraq crisis.’

‘There’s no evidence of that, sir.’

‘There is now. I want to see an analysis of the options if the Brits changed sides on that one. What’s the balance of risks and opportunities for them? What does it mean for us? That’s what I need, Al, not this fantasy stuff about alien signals.’

26

Shangri-La

The road was narrow and wet and lined with snow, and the driver took it with care. He glanced in the rear mirror. His passenger was asleep and he took the opportunity to appraise the man. He was in his seventies, white-haired and white-eyebrowed. His mouth was turned down at the edges, giving him a slightly dogmatic look. The man had dressed for the cold: a grey woollen scarf, hand-knitted, poked up above the fur collar of his winter coat, and a pair of fur gloves rested on his lap.

‘Much further to go?’ the passenger asked, his eyes still shut.

‘We’re nearly there, sir. We’re past Hagerton, going along Hunting Creek.’

The road was climbing steeply, approaching a one-in-ten gradient. The fog was thickening by the yard. The twin halogen beams of the limo lit up a sign for
Catoctin Mountain Park,
and the driver slowed and turned right. Two deer, startled in the headlights, leaped nimbly into the dark.

Logie Harris gave up on his nap. He sat upright in his seat, pulling at his safety belt.

The road levelled. Lights were piercing the fog and an indeterminate shape resolved itself into a metal gate, like the entrance to a high-security prison. A handsome young Marine took a document from the driver, examined it carefully and peered into the car. ‘Welcome to Camp David, sir.’

*   *   *

Red Oak, like the other guest cottages, was a simple two-bedroomed wooden cabin with a lounge, all wood panelling and timber beams, and an open fireplace. Someone had lit a fire and he was enveloped by a comfortable warmth. The call from the President had come at midnight and he had frantically scoured his library until the car had come to collect him at 2 a.m. It was now 5 a.m. and he had barely slept. He threw off his clothes and put on pyjamas. He kneeled briefly by the bedside and murmured, ‘Lord, forgive my sins. Help the President in his troubles, and give me the wisdom to guide him. Amen.’ Then he slid between warmed sheets and listened to the silence. His mind drifted back, to the goosepimpling midnight call from the President, to his weird question, and to his closing words: ‘… above all I need someone I can trust.’

Seth Bull, the evangelist deduced, was falling back on his reserves, summoning up the unique bond that half a lifetime of friendship produced. But if the President of the United States couldn’t trust the people around him …

He was wakened by a powerful roar. He jumped out of bed and drew back the curtains just in time to glimpse a large blue and white helicopter sinking amongst the snow-covered trees a few hundred yards away. The early-hours fog was gone and the sky was blue. A chipmunk scurried over some rocks in front of the cottage. The air was pure and scented. He dressed quickly in casuals and sweater and put on the blue windcheater a steward had given him. He was just pulling on his shoes when he heard a tap on the door. ‘Logie, glad you could make it. Come over to my place for breakfast.’

*   *   *

In the sun lounge of Aspen, at a table with orange juice, Granola and toast, Bull waved his arm towards the window. Beyond the patio was a snow-covered lawn and beyond that a frozen pond. Flurries of snow drifted down from a tree, tracing the route of some creature jumping from branch to branch. Light mist floated up from the Monocacy Valley.

‘I can see why Truman called this place Shangri-La, Mr President.’

Bull’s tone changed; he became businesslike. ‘A good place for clearing out the cobwebs. And believe me, I need a clear head for this one. Finish your breakfast while I change, Logie, and then we’ll get down to it.’

Harris strolled on the patio, the President’s
Berchtesgaden.
This was indeed a wonderful place for rejuvenation. Here a President could go for a solitary walk, listen to the birds and watch his dog chasing the squirrels. The last time he’d stood here, the patio steps had been bordered with flowers, courtesy of Nancy Reagan. ‘Of all the things Ronald misses about the Presidency,’ she’d told him, ‘his Camp David weekends come top.’ Now the flowers were gone and there was ice in the air: at eighteen hundred feet up it could be rough. He turned up his collar. A pristine blanket of snow covered the roof of the lodge, the lawn and the trees, and thin ice coated the hour-glass swimming pool over to the right.