In 1937, as all this was happening, Earhart was about to embark on a circumnavigation of the world; she was to be the first person to do this. She had planned a route in advance of course,
and one of the stops was Dakar in Senegal. The British were to get the cipher to Dakar, where it would be passed on to the famous aviator. She would then take it secretly on the rest of her journey
and bring it safely to the United States.’
Einstein drew on his pipe for a second and frowned.
‘Of course we all know that sadly Ms Earhart did not make it. In fact, nobody knows what happened to her and her co-pilot. The cipher was lost. Ironically, Kessler’s documents
were also lost; the merchant ship was attacked by a U-boat in the mid-Atlantic. The captain of the British vessel had been ordered to destroy his ship in the event of being boarded. To this day we
do not know whether that is what happened, or whether the Germans got hold of Kessler’s document. It made no difference anyway, because they didn’t have the cipher.’
Einstein was about to say something else when the film stopped abruptly.
Lou touched the screen to replay the film. After they had seen it a second time, he handed the iPhone back to Fleming, and Derham returned to his desk.
‘So, how can you know this is genuine?’ Lou asked. ‘It’s just that with video-editing software you can do some pretty amazing things.’
‘Fair question, Lou. We’ve done everything we can to verify its authenticity. The film stock is from 1953, two years before Einstein died. It comes from a Kodak wholesaler in Kansas.
We’ve had our guys go over it to check that the images of Einstein have not been tampered with. There are some very clever ways to check when something has been Photoshopped or messed around
with in any way. The backroom boys are ninety-nine point nine per cent sure that this film is genuine, shot around 1953, 1954, and that it is definitely Albert Einstein talking. Our voice analysis
people have checked that this is his voice and what he says to camera has not been altered or interfered with.’
‘How come Einstein was allowed to go on record about this? I would have thought it was top secret, even . . . what? Sixteen, seventeen years after the events.’
‘We’re pretty sure the military filmed it for their archives and it somehow got out. God only knows how.’
‘I was going to ask how exactly this came up for sale, even?’ Kate asked.
‘A small library in Des Moines was clearing out some old stock; a job lot of hundreds of film clips dating back to the 1930s,’ Fleming replied. ‘They had no idea what was on
the films, nor did they have the manpower to search through them. One of our archivists spotted the ad on eBay and took the films off their hands. Over a period of several months he went through
the collection. It was around about the seventieth or eightieth film on his list when he hit the jackpot.’
‘Amazing.’ Derham was shaking his head.
‘Well, no one could have guessed there would be a connection between Einstein and Amelia Earhart, let alone the legendary Philadelphia Experiment,’ Lou said.
‘Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us though. What’s next?’
‘Unfortunately we’ve hit another wall. We still have no idea what happened to the Kessler Document.’
Dakar, Senegal. 9 June 1937.
‘You OK, Amy?’ Fred Noonan asked. ‘You’ve had the jitters all evening.’
‘Sorry, Freddie, miles away.’ They were in the bar of the Imperial Hotel, Dakar. She twirled the ice in her tumbler and stood up from the barstool. ‘Listen, Fred. Gotta pop up
to my room. I’ll be back in a minute, have another iced tea ready for me.’
He went to say something but she was already out of the door.
Along a short passage from the bar, the broad sweeping staircase of the grand old colonial hotel, with its heavily patterned carpet and shining brass stair rods, dominated the entrance. Amelia
took the stairs, checked her watch and picked up the pace. Reaching the first floor, she turned left, fished out her key and was soon closing the door behind her.
She sat on the end of her bed, tapping her fingers rhythmically on the counterpane at her side, then checked her watch again. Earlier that afternoon she had picked up a cable at reception. It
had simply said ‘7.30 p.m.’, nothing more, no hint of where she should go or who she was to meet.
She felt her stomach churning; she hated all this. She was a pilot, an engineer really. She had not a single political bone in her body, but she was, she reminded herself, a patriot, and when
the president, a personal friend to boot, asked her to help, she hadn’t needed to think twice about it.
There was a quiet knock at the door. Amelia bolted up from the bed, forced herself to stop and take a deep breath. Brushing imaginary flecks of dust from her trousers, she paced to the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Room service, madam.’
Amelia opened the door. A short man wearing the blue livery of the hotel, a white cap placed on his head at a slight angle, stood in the corridor. He held a delicate silver tray in white-gloved
hands. On the tray lay an envelope. Amelia stared at it for a second.
‘Thank you.’ She pulled a couple of coins from her pocket, handed them to the man and closed the door. Leaning back on the wood, she ran a nail along the flap of the envelope and
ripped the top, pulling out a single sheet of paper. Opening it, she read: ‘Corner of St Germaine Street and Bernice Avenue, 20 minutes.’
*
The sky was darkening, a bolt of orange slicing through the canopy of purple-blue, but it was still busy on the streets of Dakar; traders closing stalls, dusty workmen returning
home, children running around. A line of carts trundled along the main street, stopping for a moment to allow a small herd of ragged cattle to cross. The smell of sweat and shit hung heavy in the
air.
She checked her watch. She was exactly on time. Turning on her heel she did a three-sixty-degree scan of the area. A rusty bench stood against a brick wall. She lowered herself onto the seat,
and watched.
The tap on her shoulder came as a bit of a surprise. She hadn’t heard anyone approach. Turning, she saw a small child, a boy of about seven, filthy face, snotty nose, big, brown,
almond-shaped eyes. He sat next to her.
‘Well, hi there.’
The boy stared at her silently, searching her face. She looked down to see that he was handing her a piece of paper. She unfolded it and read:
Please follow me.
She looked at the boy again. ‘No English?’
He simply stared at her, jumped off the seat and started to walk along a narrow alley away from the main road.
The alley was dark with evening shadows. Washing lines stretched across the narrow space above their heads. The place rang with a medley of sounds; pots and pans clanging, children crying,
mothers shouting. The boy moved fast and nimbly and Amelia felt the sweat on her skin under her shirt. Soon, they were far from the main thoroughfare. She saw the boy dash around a corner to their
left, followed him and nearly crashed into a door, its blue paint faded and flaked and worn to the wood. The door opened and Amelia followed the boy into a cool, dark hallway.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A faint light appeared in the corridor as a door creaked open.
‘This way, please, Miss Earhart.’ She could see no one. The voice sounded weary. She walked towards the door.
An old man sat in a low-slung, embroidered armchair wreathed in cigarette smoke. He was wearing a cream linen suit, a tie and a fedora. Amelia noticed his brown brogues polished to a high sheen.
He stood up as she entered and he gestured to another chair opposite his. The room was filled with the smell of incense, a blend of patchouli and sandalwood. Half-a-dozen large candles illuminated
the room.
The man leaned forward and offered Amelia a cigarette. She took one, he lit it for her with a gold, intricately engraved lighter. She took a long drag and exhaled a plume of smoke.
‘We can speak freely here,’ the man began. His accent was clipped, English. ‘You begin the next stage of your journey tomorrow. Is that correct?’
‘Do we not get introduced first?’
The man smiled. ‘Forgive me, most rude. However, any name I provide will of course bear no relationship to the one my mother and father gave me.’ A faint smile played across his
lips.
‘I am from British Intelligence. I assume you have been briefed concerning the transaction we are to make this evening!’
She nodded. ‘I have, and to answer your question, yes, we do continue tomorrow, 05.00 hours. You have a package for me, I believe?’
He moved his hand to the right of his hip and lifted a rectangular wooden box into the light. ‘Like you, I am merely a courier. I have no idea of the contents of this container. But what I
do know, is that it must not fall into the wrong hands. I don’t know who the wrong hands may be, but you must guard this’ – he held it in front of him – ‘with your
life.’
‘I understand.’ Amelia couldn’t keep the anxiety from her voice. She leaned forward and took the box. It felt warm in her hands.
The loud bang on the front door of the building echoed along the hall outside and Amelia sprang from her seat. She looked wide-eyed at the man in the cream suit. He got up from the chair with
surprising agility and grabbed her arm. She looked at his hand and went to speak. Leaning forward close to her face, he brought a finger to his lips.
‘Get away . . . now.’ He released her arm and pointed towards a door on the other side of the room. ‘I’ll buy you some time.’
‘I don’t understand . . . What is this all about?’
‘This place is clearly not as safe as I had hoped.’
‘But who . . .?’
‘Just go . . .’
She turned and another loud bang came from the door. A single gunshot rang out and the door flew open smashing against the wall. Amelia caught a glimpse of a figure turning into the room and
then she was through the door in the far wall, closing it and locking it behind her. She paused for a second, heard voices; first the Englishman’s then a second man shouting in French. Three
gunshots came in quick succession, a cry followed by the sound of boots pounding across the floor of the room. Amelia turned and ran.
A safe house, Virginia. Present day.
‘They knew, I tell you. They freakin’ knew everything! A freakin’ SWAT team, armed to the teeth.’
The man in the black tracksuit, Vince Manlow – who Kate and Lou had known as ‘Pete’ – his face filthy with soot and a smear of dried blood down his left cheek, stared
into the camera of the laptop. He could see both Buckingham and Secker seated at the boardroom table of the headquarters of Eurenergy in London. They could see him sitting in a battered metal chair
in a bare room, a man holding a Glock beside him.
‘And you were the only one to slip away?’
The man nodded.
‘Very fortunate,’ Secker commented.
‘And you say Bates and Wetherall did not have the artefact in their cases?’ Buckingham asked.
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure.’
‘Why not a hundred, Manlow?’
‘Because, sir,’ he stared back at Secker, ‘we were about to open the last pieces of luggage when the bastards hit.’
‘Suitcases? Boxes? Which?’
‘A briefcase and a small metal box. One of my men thought the box could have contained samples.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, man.’ Buckingham glared at Manlow. ‘First the useless arseholes at the airport screw up, then you incompetent—’
‘We almost had it, ma’am. We had no idea we had been followed.’
‘No idea we had been followed,’ Buckingham mimicked. ‘Fucktard!’
‘And you have no idea who the men were?’ Secker said.
‘They were in full assault gear, sir, night-vision goggles, armed to the teeth.’
‘Yes, you said,’ Secker spat. ‘And you were far too busy saving your own skin.’
‘No! I did everything I . . .’
‘Oh, shut the fuck up, Manlow. Hans, shut the fucker up . . . I can’t bear this. I’m getting one of my headaches.’
Secker gave an almost imperceptible nod to the man standing next to Manlow’s chair. He lifted the Glock and fired, sending Manlow across the floor, a plume of blood and brains spattering
the wall just out of view.
Secker broke the link to the laptop in Virginia and turned to his boss.
‘You have a theory brewing.’
Buckingham held Secker with an expressionless gaze. ‘Not a theory exactly, Hans. Toit has missed his last two scheduled call-ins. I’m growing suspicious.’
Adam Fleming was staying in a Holiday Inn just outside Hampton. Utilitarian and predictable, it suited his temporary needs without eliciting the slightest enthusiasm.
It was 4 a.m. before he reached his room and although he had been awake for almost thirty-four hours, he did not feel tired. In the shower he touched the red marks already beginning to turn
black on his hip and across his chest, injuries from the raid. Moving close to the bathroom mirror he considered his handsome, bruised face, his blond curls plastered to his temple. He dabbed at a
cut under his eye and walked back into the bedroom. His mobile trilled.
‘Traction, fourteen, obelisk,’ said a voice.
Fleming pulled a notebook from the inside of his jacket where it lay on the bed. He flicked through a few pages and found the code for the day. ‘Portmanteau, Jeremy, Toucan.’ He then
flicked a switch on the back of the phone and a pinprick of green light appeared close to the mouthpiece. ‘Clear,’ he said.
‘Must be early for you, old chap.’ It was Seth Wilberforce, a senior assistant to the deputy chief of MI6, Sir Donald Ashmore.
Fleming caught sight of the cheap LED radio alarm beside the bed. ‘It’s actually very late, Wilberforce. Haven’t been to bed yet.’
‘Well I have some news for you.’
Fleming lowered himself to the bed. It groaned under his weight. ‘Good news, I hope.’
‘We think so. A lead on the Kessler Document.’
‘A lead?’ Fleming was suddenly filled with nervous energy. He got to his feet and started pacing along the narrow stretch of garish carpet between the end of the bed and a wooden
unit housing a TV and a minibar.