The Lure (16 page)

She turned. ‘There’s no known explanation for the glowing seas. It’s an acknowledged mystery.’

‘Put that in your pipe, Charlie,’ Petrie said. ‘And anyway, how could bioluminescence affect radio and radar? Given what you saw in the Tatras, what else can these patterns be but repeated probings of the Earth?’

Gibson grunted, an unwilling mule. ‘How far back do these marine reports go?’

Freya said, ‘I have them back to June 1854. South of Java, a Captain Kingman of the American clipper
Shooting Star
reported—’

‘Okay. There were no subnuclear facilities to target in 1854. I guess that weakens the case for the F star, Freya and Tom.’

The relief was almost palpable. Freya mock-curtsied. ‘A gracious acknowledgement, Charlie.’

‘They’re probing, but they don’t know we’re here,’ Petrie said. ‘Yet.’

Gibson nodded. ‘But I still don’t buy the Whirlpool. That leaves us guessing: where did the signal come from? What do I tell the media? That the signal came from empty space?’

‘Not just the media, Charlie. Your scientific colleagues, your government and the United Nations,’ Svetlana chided him.

Petrie said, ‘I think they’ve been probing for thousands of years. Minimum.’

‘Do you have evidence for that, Tom, or are you off on a flight of fancy?’

Petrie walked to the projector; the machine reflected brightly in his round spectacle lenses. Freya shared Shtyrkov’s couch at the back of the room. Petrie opened the big Bible and cleared his throat. Gibson said, ‘My God,’ and Petrie started to read.

Now it came to pass in the thirtieth year, in the fourth month, in the fifth day of the month, as I was among the captives by the river of Chebar, that the heavens were opened, and I saw visions of God.

And I looked, and, behold, a whirlwind came out of the north, a great cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness was about it.

And out of the midst thereof came the likeness of four living creatures. And this was their appearance; they had the likeness of a man.

And every one had four faces, and every one had four wings.

Their wings were joined to one another; they turned not when they went; they went every one straight forward.

As for the likeness of the living creatures, their appearance was like burning coals of fire, and like the appearance of lamps: it went up and down among the living creatures; and the fire was bright, and out of the fire went forth lightning.

And the living creatures ran and returned as the appearance of a flash of lightning.

As for their rings, they were so high that they were dreadful; and their rings were full of eyes round about them four.

And when the living creatures went, the wheels went by them; and when the living creatures were lifted up from the earth, the wheels were lifted up: for the spirit of the living creature was in the wheels.

Then I looked, and, behold, in the firmament that was above the head of the cherubim there appeared over them as it were a sapphire stone, as the appearance of the likeness of a throne.

And when I looked, behold the four wheels by the cherubim, one wheel by one cherub, and another wheel by another cherub: and the appearance of the wheels was as the colour of a beryl stone.

And as for their appearances, they four had one likeness, as if a wheel had been in the midst of a wheel.

And their whole body, and their backs, and the wheels, were full of eyes round about, even the wheels that they four had.

This is the living creature that I saw under the God of Israel by the river of Chebar.

Petrie couldn’t resist finishing with a dramatic flourish. ‘Ezekiel’s chariot. Four wheels, a moving pattern, in the sky over two thousand years ago.’ He settled into a leather armchair. ‘We’ve been targeted for thousands of years, long before we had the technology to understand the signals. It’s possible they don’t even know we’re here.’

Svetlana switched on the lights.

There was a long silence as the scientists took this on board. Vashislav finally broke it. ‘Why? Why should they do this? Indeed, why would civilisations millions of years old want to contact us at all? We are mice! Insects! Bacteria!’

‘I’ve been wondering too,’ said Svetlana. ‘What’s their motivation? And who are they?’

‘And where are they?’ Gibson chipped in impatiently. ‘What do I tell the media on Monday?’

‘Tom has a theory,’ said Freya.

Attention swivelled to Petrie. Gibson leaned forward, his eyes alert.

Freya added, ‘But he’s not going to tell us.’

There was a chorus of dismay. Hanning snorted. Svetlana raised her hands to her cheeks. Freya grinned impishly. Shtyrkov sat bolt upright and rattled out something in Russian.

‘Spit it out, Petrie!’ Gibson ordered.

Petrie held up his hands in a defensive gesture. ‘I need to think about it.’

Shtyrkov slapped his hand on a table. ‘What? Are you a scientist or not? Open discussion, Tom!’

‘Let me sleep on it. It’s too crazy for words.’

20

Ogorodnikov

In line with long-standing practice, the paper folders were neatly laid out on Mikhail Isayevich Ogorodnikov’s desk, waiting for his arrival. Red to the left, holding the files stamped with
Immediate
and
Urgent:
tomorrow’s news headlines. White in the centre, for the internal files of office, the ministries and departments which comprised the sprawling monster of government: often these files were secret, usually they were self-serving. To the right, the green folder, for the enactment or veto of laws supported by the State Duma and the Federation Council.

The green folder also contained requests for clemency from condemned criminals. Men lived or died depending on where he placed his signature.

Ogorodnikov hated the green folder. It gave him insomnia.

He got the clemency requests over with first. A man of good character had stabbed to death his wife and three children for no apparent reason; another had raped and murdered a child and was now expressing remorse; a woman had hired a professional assassin to dispose of a troublesome husband; a gangster had done the same to a public prosecutor; three young men had murdered an American tourist for his wallet. He quickly skimmed through the catalogue of misery, spending no more than five minutes on each file, scribbling his signature after a few moments’ thought.

A small man with a round, bald head topped by thin white hair came in carrying a red folder under his arm. The Russian President looked up with relief. The man wore a grey suit made of cheap material but, Ogorodnikov noted with approval, it was immaculately pressed. ‘You’re looking stressed this morning, Alexy. You should see the view from my side of the desk. What have you got there?’

‘Good morning, Mikhail Isayevich. I thought you should see this right away.’

Alexy stood back nervously from the large desk. The red folder contained a single sheet of paper. Ogorodnikov read carefully through it, and then rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Is this a joke, Alexy?’

The head of the presidential office gulped. ‘No, Mikhail. It is serious.’

‘Who else in Moscow knows about this?’

‘Only the man who sent the message: Professor Georgi Velikhov.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘You appointed him. He’s the President of the Academy of Sciences. The message came to him directly from this castle in Slovakia.’

‘What about our own personnel? Who has seen this?’

‘It came on to Olga’s screen in the outer office. But I’m convinced she didn’t see the significance of it.’

‘Has it gone through our review procedure?’

Alexy shook his head emphatically. ‘No. I brought it straight here.’

‘Put it in the safe.’

Ogorodnikov pressed a button on the panel to the left of his desk. In the days of Yeltsin and Putin, the control panel had been clumsy, enormous. But now it had been replaced with a compact touch-the-screen monitor. It was much more modern and – he had to admit –
American
in style, but it had the same function: he could reach anyone in Russia within minutes. He picked up a telephone and pressed a button. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, cancel my meeting with the Interior Minister. I want to see Academician Georgi Velikhov here at twelve noon precisely. Make sure he keeps his mouth shut – he must understand that the meeting is to be kept strictly secret.’

The Russian President put the phone down and turned to the head of the presidential office. ‘Think about it, Alexy. This must be a clever hoax. But suppose – just for a moment – that it is not. That our people really have detected signals from some advanced civilisation. Do we reply to these signallers? What do we say to them? What rules do we apply? Are there international protocols to cover this event?’

Alexy said, ‘On the last item, that is a question for lawyers. You should discuss it with Lebedev.’

Lebedev was the President’s chief legal adviser and a former member of the Fatherland-All Russia faction. He was young, ambitious and good-looking in a TV presenter kind of way. Ogorodnikov didn’t trust him an inch. The President had in fact been carefully preparing to dismiss the man, but he wasn’t ready to reveal his intentions, not even to Alexy. He simply shook his head. ‘We’ll keep Lebedev out of it. Make quiet enquiries, Alexy. Find a top-class lawyer outside the political system. Someone with specialised knowledge in this area. Give me a name before the morning is out.’

*   *   *

Before the morning was out, Alexy caught up with Ogorodnikov in the long Kremlin corridor. The President was a small, heavily built man, but he was walking quickly and Alexy had to run to catch up. ‘On that matter, Mikhail, I have two names. Professor Orlov of the Moscow State University is our most distinguished constitutional lawyer. And Professor Dobryshev is an expert on space law.’

‘But this is not about our constitution, Alexy. And it is not about who pays for the damage when
Mir
falls. Are these the best names you have?’ Ogorodnikov sensed Alexy’s slight hesitation. ‘Well?’

‘Tanya Pleskov.’

‘The woman who…?’

Alexy gulped. ‘Yes, formerly of the prosecutor’s office. A brilliant woman. It happens she wrote a paper on’ – he consulted a spiral notebook –
‘The Legal and Ethical Implications of Contact with Aliens.
The story is she wrote it for fun one weekend but it’s become the definitive treatise.’

‘And where is this Tanya Pleskov now?’

Alexy shrugged. ‘After the scandal, she just dropped out of sight.’

‘Find her, and bring her here.’

Alexy’s features were showing dismay. ‘But the scandal … What about Katya?’

As soon as he had said the words, Alexy regretted them. Ogorodnikov’s lips tightened. ‘I think my forty-year marriage may just survive a professional contact with the notorious Tanya.’

Alexy’s face paled. ‘I’m an idiot. You should send me to a gulag.’

‘I would agree, if we still had them. However, you may have a point. She should not be seen entering the office of the Russian President. And, on reflection, neither do I want curious eyes to see Academician Velikhov in the corridors of the Kremlin.’ He tapped his fingers together. ‘The meeting will take place in my Gorki-9
dacha.
I want my limousine at the Borovitsky Gate in ten minutes.’

Apart from the two men, the long corridor was empty, but still Ogorodnikov lowered his voice. ‘Alexy, either this is a bad joke or we are on the threshold of something. What that something is, and where it will take us, I don’t know. But I have a bad feeling about it.’

21

Night Flight to Karkkila

6.00 a.m.
Get up (wakened, usually, by the sounds of cleaning staff downstairs, sometimes by band practice in Horseguards). Finish off overnight boxes, make calls on a cordless phone (while still in pyjamas).

7.00 a.m.
Pull on a tracksuit, put in five minutes of basic crunch, ten of skipping, five weightlifting (in a bedroom converted to a small gymnasium).

7.20 a.m.
Shower.

7.40 a.m.
Breakfast, thrown together in the cramped little attic kitchen.

8.00 a.m.
Showered and breakfasted, plan the day ahead with three secretaries: Private Secretary, Diary Secretary and Personal Secretary.

Mondays
Also plan the week ahead, with Chief of Staff, Personal Secretary, Press Secretary, Political Secretary and the Head of the Policy Unit.

For those wise to the routine, the Achilles’ heel in the Prime Minister’s iron routine was 7.20 a.m.: there is no lock on the door to the private apartments, and no place to hide in a shower.

So it was that on this particular morning Sally Morgan, the Head of MI6, was sitting on a lavatory lid with Edgeworth’s naked, soapy form just visible a few feet away through the frosted glass. It was her second meeting with the PM within nine hours.

She read out the coded message from Ogorodnikov which had arrived at her desk in the early hours of the morning, via her Russian counterpart. Her voice was raised, to be heard over the splashing water.

‘Prime Minister,

‘You and I are aware of a certain breakthrough which has been made by our scientists working in a spirit of co-operation in an underground research facility in Slovakia. In mankind’s long and troubled history there can be few more exciting discoveries than to find that we are not alone. Unfortunately, this discovery may also prove to be very dangerous. Information of a highly advanced scientific and technical nature has been received, which could benefit our species beyond measure but which may also carry enormous risks.

‘I am advised that there are international protocols to cover this situation. This is surely a matter for all mankind, to be dealt with through the United Nations. However, I have also been told that if this information becomes public, we could do nothing to prevent a private individual or group from replying to the message, revealing to the signallers that we have reached a certain stage of advancement. Conceivably, the message could be a lure intended to sniff out civilisations which have reached this stage. The motivation lying behind the message could be far from friendly. We could find ourselves inside their test tubes.