| Subject: Waiting...Twelve & Thirteen |
Author:
Enjoue`
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Date Posted: 08:11:47 03/05/01 Mon
In reply to:
Enjoue`
's message, "Waiting...by Enjoue`" on 07:14:24 03/05/01 Mon
TWELVE
Under the relative cover of deepest night, their small group met in Madeline’s office, loosely organized in a circle centered by the tall, white haired man. Huber was well rested now, and his expression was firm with renewed purpose as he studied their faces and looked around Madeline’s office.
“This is a gift from Heaven,” he breathed. “A reward for my years of sacrifice.” He focused on Operations with the intensity of a religious zealot. “I knew I would have only one single chance, that I could probably destroy the core of the group at the Paris meeting. But never, never did I think that I would find the means to root out the seeds that had been planted worldwide.”
Operations was less enthusiastic. “Mr. Huber, just how do you propose that we ‘root out these seeds’, as you put it?”
“Our records, of course,” Huber replied, as if speaking to a child. “We kept membership records.”
Birkoff leaned forward. “Computerized?”
“Yes, certainly. It was the only way to keep that amount of information. We have files on everyone from Joerg Haider in Austria to Christof Blocher in Switzerland to Gerhard Louck in Nebraska, as well as most of the more than 5,000 neo-Nazis still in Germany. Our membership includes nearly all the Nazis who fled to South American countries after the war. Many of them continue to be active supporters of the cause.”
“Where is this information, Mr. Huber?”
Huber cleared his throat and his gaze slid from Operations down to his own shoes. “That is a slight difficulty. You see, Anna-Maria Albrecht was in charge of the maintenance and security of our database. She is the only one who can disable the protective software.” He paused. “Was the only one,” he corrected himself.
“We have very sophisticated information technology, Mr. Huber,” Operations assured him. “Just tell us where the information is kept.”
Huber sent a skeptical look at Birkoff’s youthful visage, then shrugged. “It is in a stand-alone computer. It can be accessed via satellite connection during a limited orbit window. If the wrong password is sent, the satellite will self-destruct. The only way to retrieve the data at that point would be to actually go to the location and get the disc.”
“And the location?” Operations prompted impatiently.
“The floor of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“What?” Walter yelped.
“Let me explain,” Huber began. He drew and released a deep breath, organizing his thoughts. “As you probably already know, my profession was oil exploration. Many times during my career I oversaw the installation of undersea drilling platforms. As our database grew and the need for secrecy became ever greater in this technological age, it was necessary to find a physically secure location for the data, as well as a secure access method. We decided that an undersea platform would be a reasonable location. They are made to endure for decades, and they are hidden from all but the most determined scrutiny. It was simple enough to invent a damage report, classify a platform as unusable, then take it over for our use. I was placed in charge of physical location. Anna-Maria was placed in charge of access. We never, ever exchanged the information. That way no one person ever knew both the location of the data and how to access it.”
“I see,” Operations commented cynically, tenting his fingers in front of his nose. “You know where it is. At the bottom of the ocean. But the only person who knows how to access it is dead.”
“That would describe the situation,” Huber confirmed, nodding his snowy head.
Operations sighed and rose to pace restlessly in the small area. “Birkoff, what are the chances of getting into that satellite without the password?”
Birkoff shook his head. “Slim,” he hedged. “With only one shot I wouldn’t want to go at it without a contingency plan in place.”
“What part of the Atlantic are we talking about? It is a big place,” Operations noted dryly.
“Off the west coast of Africa,” Huber replied. “Approximately 16 degrees South Latitude. Closest to Senegal,” he clarified. “I worked out of Dakar to set things up.”
“At least it’s not under ice. Walter, how in the hell do we get something off the bottom of the ocean?”
“Good question,” Walter snorted disgustedly. “I don’t keep equipment for dives beyond scuba range. And without government support we couldn’t even get anybody down there. Don’t have the ship or the underwater capability.”
“Well, we don’t have the government on this one,” Operations snapped irritably. He looked around. “Poole?”
No answer to this.
“Who else can do it?” He looked back at Huber. “How did you do it?”
“My company had salvage rigs and equipment for deep water work.” He shrugged. “I have been retired for 8 years. I no longer have legitimate access to this equipment.” Then, anticipating Operations’ thoughts, he added, “It would be utterly impossible to hijack or borrow the equipment. Too many hands and too much expertise are required for its handling.”
At this Operations stopped pacing, physically struck by a sudden thought. A moment later he turned his eyes to Madeline. She was already focused on him, one eyebrow raised, one corner of her mouth barely turned up.
“I believe we know someone.” Her gaze rested on him appraisingly.
“We do, Madeline. We do.”
* * *
THIRTEEN
Daniel Tucker stretched luxuriously, enjoying a breath of
fresh air after the long process of unloading cargo from his latest salvage job. It always felt good to get back to port and relax, knowing the work was done and the money was about to hit the bank.
Dinner, he thought. Then a glass of wine, a good book and the oblivion of sleep for at least twelve hours.
“All set Lukos?” he said to his divemaster.
The wild, dark head looked up from his never-ending routine of equipment maintenance. “I am,” he grinned. “This was a good job.”
“Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work,” Tucker said.
“Oh yeah?” Lukos bent his head back over the regulator in his lap. “Who said that then, one of your writers?”
Tucker shook his head, a smile splitting his hairy face. “Aristotle. I’ll civilize you yet, my friend.”
“Do your best,” Lukos challenged, not looking up.
Making his way down the gangplank, Tucker strode quickly toward the harbormaster’s office to complete the required paperwork. He liked the African ports. Not only was their record keeping less burdensome than at U.S. or European ports, but something in their barely-civilized ambience appealed to that part of him which hated to be restrained. He whistled the jubilant horn theme from Respighi’s “Pines of Rome” as he threw open the dilapidated door.
The tune died on his lips as he looked at the man who waited inside the small office.
There was a beat or two of silence, then the gray-haired man smiled thinly and said. “Well, Daniel. We meet again.”
Tucker stared for a long moment, then raised his palms in bewilderment. He couldn’t decide which of his conflicting thoughts to voice first.
“What, no friendly greeting this time?”
Finally Tucker moved, shoving the warped and protesting door shut behind him. “I didn’t expect ever to see you again, Paul. And I’m not coming up with any palatable reasons why you would be here.”
Operations shrugged. “Don’t worry. I know you’ve given up your toxic dumping sideline.” He took a step or two over to the smeary window and looked out at Tucker’s ship. “Did you have a good trip?” he inquired casually.
With an effort Tucker reined in his confusion and curiosity. “Yeah. We did. Salvage for some transatlantic telephone outfit.”
Operations turned and smiled at him. “Good. And your daughter? How is she?”
Feeling like he had somehow entered the Twilight Zone, Tucker heard himself answer. “Fine. She’s a senior at MIT this year. I don’t see her enough.”
It occurred to him that he could ask about Paul’s son, but given the strange circumstances of their last meeting, he decided he would simply wait and see where this conversation went.
“You know, Danny, I was thinking about you not long ago. I was wondering about your work.”
“My work.”
“Yes. I was wondering what kind of deep sea capability you have.”
“Deep sea capability.”
“Yes. I was wondering about what it takes to get someone onto the ocean floor off the west coast of Africa. I thought of you, naturally. And to my great surprise…here you are in Dakar.”
“Dakar.” Tucker was still struggling to find a direction, any direction, to this out-of-body conversation.
Suddenly impatient, Operations slapped an open palm down on the harbormaster’s cluttered desk.
“Why do you think you are here in Dakar?” he asked sharply.
Bewildered, Tucker replied, “To deliver the salvaged cable we just brought in.”
“And who ordered this work?”
Tucker shrugged, an ominous suspicion taking shape in his gut. “Some new outfit setting up to research improved undersea linkages.”
“No.”
Tucker closed his eyes briefly and relived the scene in his cabin two years ago, where he’d seen Paul for the first time in 30 years.
“So…what you are you - The Spy Who Came in from the Cold?”
“Something like that.”
He felt that ominous suspicion begin a slow, cold creep up his spine.
“What’s going on?”
Operations’ casual façade dropped away then and he turned his eyes again to the ship tied up below.
“I need some help, Danny. It’s important.” He looked back at Tucker and simply waited.
Perplexed, Tucker studied the other man’s tall, lean figure and carefully controlled face. Trying to identify some standard by which to weigh this unexpected request, he could only think again of their last, remarkable meeting.
“What happened to you anyway?”
“I was in the POW camp for six years. I escaped with the help of someone who came in toward the end of that time.”
“And after?”
“After that my life was over. My wife died. My son disappeared. And I have spent my life doing things so terrible that I dread going to sleep at night.”
Tucker had been moved to his soul by that unembellished story. Their shared experiences had shaped each day as his own life had gone forward from that time. It was the only possible context in which he could view this situation; it dictated his only possible response.
“All right, Paul. What can I do?”
* * *
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