There was a tap at the door. Kate and Lou looked up in unison and saw Jerry Derham standing just inside the lab, Adam Fleming close behind him.
‘It was open,’ he said, indicating the door. ‘Hope we’re not . . .’
‘Perfect timing, actually,’ Kate said, as she and Lou turned round to greet them.
Fleming pecked Kate on the cheek and shook Lou’s hand. The two visitors stood in front of the monitor.
‘We’ve made a breakthrough with the cylinder,’ Lou said. ‘Look what’s written on the inside. We almost missed it.’
‘
You
almost missed it!’ Kate corrected.
On the screen, three lines of closely packed, seemingly random letters and numbers stood in sharp relief against the dull metallic background of the tube.
‘Looks like they’re etched in,’ Derham said keeping his eyes fixed on the image.
‘They are, I think,’ Lou commented. ‘You can see some faint marks here where the hydrofluoric acid used to create the letters bit in.’ He poised a finger over the upper
right of the screen. ‘A very clever idea.’
‘Indeed,’ Fleming responded. ‘Any clue what it says?’
‘We’ve only just picked it up,’ Lou said. ‘But it must be the cipher that unlocks the message Kessler sent via the British vessel.’
‘And the note: “REMEMBER JOAN’S PLACE?”. What was that?’
‘A decoy?’ Kate offered.
Fleming nodded, lost in thought. ‘Possibly.’
‘I’ll get our encryption expert, Kevin Grant, onto it,’ Derham said. ‘Remember, he solved the code for the Fortescue document we brought up from
Titanic
?’
‘I think this could prove a little tougher.’
Derham raised his eyebrows. ‘We’ll see. He’s very good.’
‘So what brings you here?’ Kate asked them, lowering herself onto a stool.
‘We may have a breakthrough of our own,’ Fleming said. ‘I was contacted by my superiors in London this morning. We have a lead on the Kessler Document.’
‘But didn’t it go down with the British merchant ship in 1937?’ Lou asked.
‘I never said it did . . . Nor did Einstein in the film clip.’
‘But there’s no evidence that it survived either.’
‘Unless our new lead proves to have some foundation. A man who will only identify himself as “Zero” made contact with London yesterday. He says he is working for a powerful
Russian named Sergei. He claims Sergei knows the whereabouts of the Kessler Document.’
‘A bit of a coincidence!’ Kate cut in.
Fleming nodded and glanced around the lab. ‘Far too much of one. So, either this Sergei is in Russian Intelligence and they have access to MI6 secrets on this . . . which I doubt . .
.’ Fleming inhaled loudly and puffed up his chest.
‘Of course,’ Lou commented. Kate glared at him.
‘Or else . . .’ Fleming went on, ‘what is more likely is that this Sergei character is linked in some way to Glena Buckingham and Eurenergy.’
‘That implies she – they – have a very long reach, Fleming,’ Derham said. ‘I find that hard to believe. You reckoned she had only just learned about Earhart’s
plane crash site. How could she know Kate and Lou had retrieved anything from the aircraft and linked it with Einstein and the communications he had with Kessler in 1937?’
Fleming shrugged. ‘I have no idea, Captain. That’s why we,’ and he nodded towards Kate and Lou, ‘need to get to Moscow asap.’
Dakar, Senegal. 9 June 1937.
She ran through the evening, feeling sweat seeping from her pores and the hot air like clammy fingers groping her skin.
The darkness and the light, the colours, the monochrome patches, they all merged into a blur as she tore down a narrow alleyway between two crumbling buildings smelling the urine and the sweat,
unwashed clothes and dung.
Out on the main plaza, people milled about, trading, gossiping, drinking, eating. She ignored them all and darted down another passage hardly wider than her shoulders.
This led Amelia to a further, quieter square, a pair of woman arguing solemnly, children, sleepy but still noisy and protesting, pulling at legs. She ducked aside, skirted the square into
another almost identical alleyway of stone and sky, and then she was out on the main road, the Imperial ahead on the left.
The sweat had penetrated the fabric of her blouse and she felt self-conscious as she nodded to the doorman and slipped into the hotel, the wooden box under her arm, across the foyer and into the
bar. Fred Noonan was where she had left him an hour earlier.
‘Amy . . . Where’ve you been?’
Earhart gripped his arm, smelt her odour and knew that Fred had too. ‘We have to go.’
‘Go? Go where?’
‘Fred, please don’t make a scene, speak quietly. I’m in trouble. People are after me.’
Fred Noonan looked at her uncomprehendingly. His mouth started to move.
Amelia gave the room a furtive once-over. Three tables with seated couples and a lone drinker propped up at the end of the bar staring into his drink. The tinkling of a piano in the far corner
doused her words. ‘We have to pack and leave right away.’
‘Amy . . . You’re—’
She pulled his arm. ‘Now, Fred!’
*
They met on the landing less than three minutes later, each with a single small leather bag.
‘You get a cab out front. Take it round the back. I’ll meet you there.’
‘You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on, right?’ Noonan spat. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him.
‘Please, Fred. I will. Can you just trust me on this?’ She turned away before he could reply.
*
Amelia felt her heart racing and she had to remind herself to steady her breathing. She slipped through a swing door close to the bar’s toilets. It opened onto a
featureless, barely lit passageway. She reached the end after sidestepping cardboard boxes and a rickety trolley half filled with wooden cartons that gave off the pungent odour of overripe fruit.
Beyond the passage lay an annexe to the kitchens. She kept close to the wall and passed into the night air once more, unnoticed. Shouldering her bag, she moved around a corner and saw the cab pull
up. Across a stretch of squeaking sand and a pitted pathway, she reached the car and got into the back seat as Noonan directed the driver to the airfield.
Moscow. Present day.
The landing at Domodedovo Airport was the bumpiest either Kate or Lou had ever experienced. The 747 came down on the runway hard and started to skid as soon as the wheels
touched the tarmac. Women screamed and lights in the passenger cabin blinked off and on. Kate felt Lou’s hand grasp hers. She dared not even turn her head to see his face.
For several moments Kate wished she and Lou had not agreed to go with Adam so readily, even if the invite had come out of the blue. Her first question to Fleming had been: ‘Why?’ To
which he had given the reasonable enough answer that higher authorities admired their work, and – as the Kessler Document had supposedly been lost at sea – a pair of marine
archaeologists might prove useful.
The skid seemed to go on forever. Through the window, in the corner of Kate’s field of vision, the lights of Moscow, like a gigantic fairy castle, lit up the distant horizon. Heaped snow
lay either side of the runway and, far off, close to the terminal buildings, a line of snowploughs laboured against the elements.
The plane made a final judder, straightened and decelerated on the tarmac, the engines roaring with a squealing top note like the agonized protests of a stuck pig.
An hour later they were in a cab travelling fast along the Kashirskoe Shosse highway. Adam Fleming was seated in the front studying an iPad, a square-shaped man with a bulbous red nose was at
the wheel; in the back Lou and Kate stared out at the bleak snow-girded freeway, cars and lorries streaming past. The cab windscreen wipers worked hard to sweep clear the sludge and spray thrown up
from the road. A crimson glow from the setting sun coloured the concrete and bedraggled trees either side of the highway.
‘The latest intel from London,’ Fleming said, turning in his seat and offering Kate and Lou his iPad. ‘Just picked it up after I finally got a signal with MegaFon.’
They read the page of information.
Sergei:
We have few hard facts. Primary source researcher Professor Ian Grady (LSE, 2011) claims Sergei was born Leon Kaminski. DOB:
uncertain, 1961–3? Kaminski rose to rank of Major in Red Army (1982–1993). Died in Chechnya, 1993. Name ‘Sergei’ first reported in 1999. Almost nothing known about
this figure. Residence and work-base location unknown. Reported to be anti-Putin; Russian mafia connections; international links with oligarchs living in UK, but again, no hard information.
Professor Grady’s assessment considered best background profile, i.e. Kaminski faked death in 1993, assumed new identity ‘Sergei’ and disappeared off radar. Much of
Grady’s construct relies upon single reported sighting of man who fits rumoured description of Sergei and bearing an aged resemblance to Major Leon Kaminski. See attached long-distance
shot at funeral in Rublyovka in 2010.
Kate scrolled down and they both studied an indistinct photograph of a tall, white-haired man in a long black coat, his facial features fuzzy.
‘Not very helpful,’ Lou commented.
‘Agreed, but it’s all we or anyone else has, I’m afraid. It’ll be no picnic finding the guy.’
‘But presumably, if he wants to do business with us he’ll want to be found.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Fleming replied. ‘He may only work through intermediaries such as this “Zero” person.’
The car pulled off the highway onto a wide street and across a succession of junctions with traffic lights hanging over the road. The car turned right, then left, before pulling up in front of
the grand frontage of the five-star Grigovna Zempska Hotel.
‘MI6 must be flush,’ Lou quipped.
‘Only the best for our specialists,’ Adam Fleming replied as he paid the driver.
Five minutes later they had signed in at reception and two liveried bellboys were taking their luggage to a service lift. Fleming checked his watch. ‘18.05. Shall we meet for dinner?
19.00?’
‘Make it 7.30,’ Kate said. ‘I need some down time.’
‘Fair enough,’ Fleming said. ‘7.30 it is.’
*
‘Can’t complain about the view,’ Lou said as he gazed out of the huge bay window of their room.
Kate was in a steam-filled bathroom, the water running. ‘What was that?’
‘The view,’ Lou repeated loudly, half turning back to the room and catching a glimpse of Kate’s naked body as she pulled off her robe in front of the mirror. ‘But
actually I prefer the one in here.’ He strode over to the bathroom and held Kate about the waist, kissing her neck.
‘Now, now . . . we don’t have time for shenanigans, Dr Bates.’
‘Oh, I think we do, Dr Wetherall. Unless of course you don’t want to keep your ex waiting . . . Katie.’
Kate spun round and frowned at Lou. ‘
Katie?
You’re not jealous, are you, Dr Bates?’
Lou grinned. ‘How could I be? You’re here naked in my arms and Fleming is in his room, alone.’
‘That’s absolutely right.’ She kissed him, their tongues entwining, a low moan coming from deep in her throat. Lou’s hand wandered up to Kate’s breast and he felt
the hard nipple between his thumb and index finger. Between them they pulled Lou’s shirt off as they stumbled into the vast bedroom and fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.
*
‘What do you make of Adam turning up out of the blue?’ Lou asked.
Kate was nestled into him, her head on his shoulder, a single sheet wrapped around them. Propped up on voluminous pillows, they could see through the open curtains that the sky had darkened to a
hazy purple, heavy with snow clouds. A glint of neon came from the street below. She propped herself up on one elbow, a look of surprise on her face. ‘You sound very suspicious.’
Lou shrugged. ‘I dunno, I’ve never trusted spies and spooks. You’ll have to make allowances.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, come on.’
‘All right, you know the guy.’
‘Knew him.’
‘Knew him. You seem well, pretty chummy. Do you trust him?’
‘Adam was always the keen military type – runs in his family. His father and grandfather were both army, same regiment. You know the sort of thing. I imagine moving into MI6
isn’t that strange.’
‘What was he like at university?’
‘I only knew him in my first year. He was in his final year, PPE at Merton College. We were just friends, in the same crowd for a while.’
‘I got the impression he was an old flame.’
‘No.’ Kate shook her head. ‘Men! You always jump to the wrong conclusions.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it if he was a boyfriend.’
‘I know, it’s . . . oh, anyway, why are you suspicious of him?’
‘I didn’t say I was, you did.’
Lou knocked her elbow so she slipped forward and he pulled her on top of him. She wriggled free. ‘I know your game, Lou Bates.’ She slid off the bed and clutched at a robe. He made a
grab for her but caught only air.
‘I have to get ready,’ Kate giggled and ran for the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her.
*
The dining room of the Grigovna Zempska was the epitome of faded grandeur. The hotel had first opened its doors over a century ago and its website claimed that Tsar Nicholas and
his family often dined there. Painted in duck-egg blue, with two massive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, gilt chairs upholstered in a vibrant dark green, it had old world sophistication
stamped all over it.
‘I’ve had another email from London,’ Fleming said after ordering a bottle of Chablis for the three of them.
‘Sergei is still in?’ Kate asked.
‘Seems so. The message was that Zero would make first contact with us.’
‘When?’
‘No idea.’
The wine arrived and the waiter poured measures into fine crystal then retreated after depositing the bottle in an ice bucket.
‘To our mission,’ Adam said, raising his glass.
‘Well, I didn’t expect to be in Moscow this evening,’ Kate commented.
‘Life is full of surprises.’ Adam took a sip. ‘I certainly didn’t expect to bump into you a few days ago, Katie. Nor did I expect to meet you, Lou.’ He took another
sip. ‘This isn’t half bad. So, tell me, how did you two meet?’