Sex on the Moon (18 page)

27

Ten. Nine. Eight
…

Friday morning, a little after seven
A.M.
, and Thad was moving quickly down the central hallway that bisected the fourth floor of Building 31, counting under his breath as he kept one eye on the deserted territory up ahead and the other pinned to the rotating security camera jutting from a storklike metal strut embedded next to one of the ceiling’s fluorescent lighting panels. As he had predicted, so far his progress through the life sciences complex had been uninterrupted; any self-respecting scientist who would show up to work this early in the laid-back atmosphere that dominated life sciences at NASA would either be too new to think twice about seeing a co-op wandering the halls or so caught up in a brain-consuming project, he wouldn’t notice Thad at all.

And even if someone cognizant did happen across Thad—in his blue NASA polo shirt and khaki pants—the only unusual thing about his demeanor was that his gait seemed a little off center; in fact, if anyone looked closely, they might have noticed that he was moving so near to one side of the hallway that his right shoulder brushed against the concrete. His face, however, was perfectly calm, his expression muted—even as he suddenly shifted to the other side of the hallway, his left shoulder now kissing concrete.

Another flick of his eyes confirmed what he already knew: he’d now moved out of range of the first rotating ceiling camera and only had to avoid the final one, planted all the way at the far end of the hallway. It, too, had begun its own innocuous arc—filming the area where Thad had just been.

As easy as that, Thad thought to himself. A little dance step, a shuffle to the left, and he was a ghost. Of course, for the moment it was easy to play calm; he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was just walking undetected through the building where he had worked for two semesters as a co-op. If, by some odd twist of fate, he did run into someone he knew, there were a dozen explanations for why he might be there on an early Friday morning. The only people in the world who knew the
real
reason he was back in Building 31 were his two pretty accomplices, his new girlfriend and his confidante—neither one a hundred pounds soaking wet.

Fighting back a smile as he pictured Rebecca and Sandra, both waiting in his apartment for the phone call that would let them know that Phase One was complete, he slowed his pace, finally stopping as he reached a closed door located near the center of the long hallway. Bare inches away, midway up the door’s frame, was one of the electronic cipher locks Thad had grown so accustomed to in his years at the JSC. In fact, he had even watched this particular cipher lock be opened a handful of times. He had never gotten close enough to look over anyone’s shoulder to even attempt to guess at the five-number combination—but that would have made what he was planning to do way too simple, and now that he was determined to see it through, he relished the idea that nothing was going to be easy. As it was for any good scientist, it was the complicated, sophisticated projects that got his juices flowing. Maybe even more than the money, this was now about the thrill of doing the impossible.

Thad pressed his back against the concrete wall, checking the long hallway again to make sure no one was nearby. Then he quickly reached into his left pocket and retrieved a small plastic makeup compact; originally, it had been Rebecca’s, a shade of blush that really brought out the contrast between her porcelain cheeks and her bright blue eyes. The thing no longer contained blush. When he opened the compact with a flick of his left thumb, the powder inside—a unique concoction of his own creation—glistened a bit in the high fluorescent lighting, and Thad wondered for a moment if he’d gotten the concentration wrong. But when he gently shook the compact, evening the powder out, the glistening abated, and he exhaled. This would work.
This had to work
.

Carefully, he removed a small brush from his other pocket and dabbed it into the powder. Then he began to apply the brush to the keypad of the cipher lock, making sure to completely cover each numbered key with the powdery substance. Leaning close, he blew off the excess powder—then stepped back a few inches to survey his work. Even from just a few feet away, there was no real visible trace of what he had just done. Satisfied, he closed the compact and jammed it back into his pocket, along with the little brush. Then he calmly continued down the hallway. As he reached the next corner—passing right beneath the rotating security camera—he fought the urge to glance back one last time at his handiwork. Under his breath, he was no longer counting off the seconds; instead, he was humming to himself—the theme from the movie
Mission: Impossible
. Earlier, when he’d been alone in his old lab a few floors away, it had been the music from the James Bond franchise that rumbled out of his throat as he carefully mixed the compound—equal parts fluorite, gypsum, and talcum. All had been easy to find in the chemical cabinets at NASA, but even so, he couldn’t help but feel like a spy or an action hero as he’d prepared the ingenious concoction. Even the name he and the girls had given this portion of their preparation—
Phase One
—made Thad feel like he was part of something epic, an adventure he’d one day tell his grandchildren about.

Powder in a keypad, Phase One—it really was James Bond kind of shit. But still, he knew that he hadn’t yet crossed any real line; he hadn’t yet done anything that he couldn’t turn back from. Powder on a keypad, a dozen e-mails with a potential buyer—it was still little more than a mental game. But Thad also knew that within forty-eight hours, this would all change. Because he was determined now; the plan was in motion.

Phase One was complete. Which meant it was time for Phase Two.

Seven. Six. Five
…

…

Orb,

I’ll handle this for Axel. He’s explained to me a good bit about what we’re doing and the need for caution and discretion. It seems to me that you and I are going to have to make arrangements to meet somewhere to make sure we’re getting what we think we are. This is a rare opportunity and calls for us to be very careful. When and where are we going to be able to get together? I travel a good bit but will certainly make arrangements to see the merchandise wherever it might be necessary. I understand you are in Tampa, Florida. I certainly wouldn’t mind taking a trip to Florida. I look forward to hearing from you.

Lynn.

A throbbing burst of high-octane Christian rock exploded out of the dashboard speakers of Thad’s dilapidated, bright green Toyota as he navigated through the South Houston rush-hour traffic. He had one hand on the wheel while the other leafed through the stack of printed-out e-mails that took up much of the empty passenger seat next to him. The Christian rock was more than a little annoying—and by no means his first choice—but the Toyota had made the acoustic decision for him, as its pathetic excuse for a radio had frozen on the one channel Thad would have eagerly tried to avoid. But at the moment, stuck as he was in traffic on his way to Phase Two of the Plan in Motion, anything was preferable to silence. Silent, Thad couldn’t think past the bolts of nervous energy that were playing havoc with his internal organs—and at this stage of the game, he needed to be able to focus entirely on the preparation at hand.

At the next red light, he used the few seconds of nonmotion to leaf past the top e-mail on the pile—which happened to be the first real message he’d gotten from the sister-in-law of the Belgian rock collector, Lynn Briley—to the more recent e-mail he’d received from Gordon. Just as Thad had done with Emmermann, he’d asked his Utah buddy—he wondered if the word
accomplice
was now more fitting—to check out the Belgian’s American relative, to make sure she was who she said she was. Gordon hadn’t found much, but there was at least evidence that the woman existed—and confirmation of a few details of her story:

Hey, Orb.

Here is the only thing I found on Lynn Briley. She is a publisher in Glenside, Pennsylvania, it seems, and then there’s the Web site address. Nothing else for now.

Fractal.

Thad found it slightly amusing that Gordon had begun referring to him by the nickname Gordon himself had created—Orb. Thad thought Gordon’s own handle was much more indicative of his pothead friend’s disjointed character: Fractal. But it was certainly better and safer to use the nicknames than to use their real names—Thad just wished he could have devised the handles on his own. He didn’t like that any element of the scheme—even something as simple as code names—was not of his making. Even worse, the face-to-face meeting with this Lynn Briley—and the exchange of money for moon rocks—was now going to have to take place in Florida, because for some inexplicable reason that’s where Gordon had set his fictitious Orb Robinson.

Then again, Florida wasn’t the worst choice in the world—it was far enough away from Houston to allay some of Thad’s fears, but it was still reachable by car. Thad had no intention of trying to get on an airplane carrying the contraband that he’d soon have in his possession.

Contraband
. It was still hard to think of it that way, such a loaded term, like he was going to be dealing in drugs or some other dirty, underworld substance. He knew that the thing he was after was much more precious—even if NASA had labeled it trash. It was the most valuable thing in the world, actually, and even if he was only going to get $100,000 from the woman, it was going to be a heist of historic proportions. And as he engaged in Phase Two of the preparation, Thad had every right to think of himself in historic terms.

Restacking the e-mails on the passenger seat, he took a right at the next intersection, then navigated his way through a patchwork of suburban streets until he came to a driveway he recognized from a handful of previous visits. As he had arranged, the purpose of his visit was parked right next to the curb, leaving just enough room for him to get by; a moment later, he’d parked his Toyota halfway down the driveway. He retrieved the e-mails, shuffling them into a manila folder that was wedged between the two front seats. Taking the folder with him, he stepped out of the Toyota just in time to see Chip come out the front door of the small suburban house. Chip gave the Toyota one look, then rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yeah, this is a great deal. No wonder you couldn’t find anyone closer to campus to help you out.”

Thad laughed as he tossed Chip his car keys. Then he started toward the Jeep Cherokee that was parked along the curb. It was just as Thad remembered it from the Galveston ferry: almost as scuffed and aged as the Toyota, with mud etched into the tires and a spiderweb of tiny cracks in a corner of the front windshield. But the thing was almost twice as big as the Toyota, and with the backseat down, it was going to be perfect for what he had in mind. Even more important, Thad could easily make out the NASA parking sticker affixed to one of the side windows.

“I promise to return it in just as good condition as it is right now. And it’s only for the weekend. We should have my friend moved into her place by Sunday night, at the latest.”

“Take as long as you need,” Chip said as he turned back toward his house. “The keys are in the ignition. But I want dibs on the skydiving excursion you’ve got planned for next month.”

“I promise, you’ll be the first one out of the plane. Heck, I’ll pack your parachute myself.”

Thad slid into the front seat of the Jeep, twisted the key, and grinned as the ignition turned over. Again, this felt almost too easy. Chip hadn’t suspected anything at all—and why should he? Helping a friend move apartments was a perfectly good reason to need a car as big as the Cherokee. There was only one more component to Phase Two—and then Thad would be able to call the girls to let them know he was moving on to the final phase of the preparation.

It took about ten minutes of driving for Thad to find what he needed next. As he pulled a sharp left into a strip-mall parking lot, he glanced about to make sure there weren’t any signs of security or parking-lot cameras. Then he pulled the Jeep to a stop between a pair of American-made cars, near the very back of the lot.

He got out of the Jeep, then quickly crossed to the back of the closer car—a Buick that looked to be at least fifteen years old. Thad bent down behind the rear bumper like he was about to tie his shoe—and then, in one quick motion, slid a small screwdriver out from where it was taped within his sock. Of course, he could have carried the screwdriver in his pocket—but that would have felt much less James Bond.

He rapidly went to work on the Buick’s license plate. The first screw gave him a little bit of trouble, and he was sweating by the time he got it free—but the other screws went much easier. Within a few minutes, he had the license plate off and moved back behind the Cherokee. Another five minutes, and he’d removed the Jeep’s license plate and replaced it with the Buick’s. He tossed Chip’s license plate into the rear of the Jeep, then jumped back into the driver’s seat. As he reentered traffic, he realized that his heart was beating fast. He still hadn’t crossed any real lines—but now he was driving the getaway vehicle. A Jeep that wasn’t associated with him, that had a NASA sticker affixed to a window and a stranger’s license plate above its rear bumper.

Four. Three. Two. One
…

…

Almost five hours later, Thad was really breathing hard, putting all of his weight into his shoulders, straining the muscles in both legs as he shoved the motel bed, inch by inch, across the vomit-colored carpet. He hadn’t expected the damned thing to be so heavy; everything else in the pathetic little motel bedroom looked flimsy as hell, from the color TV bolted to the fake-wood bureau by the door to the light fixtures that hung from the chipped plaster walls. Rebecca had picked the motel, and it was obvious she had chosen it right out of the yellow pages. But despite the horrid decor—of which the vomit rug was only the centerpiece, highlighted by a pair of cheap-looking paintings of hunting dogs above where the bed used to be—the motel was ideal for a couple of reasons. First, it was right off the highway, which meant it wasn’t too close to the JSC campus, but it wasn’t so far away that they would have to spend hours in transit. And second, the place looked nearly vacant; Thad had counted only three other cars in the parking lot, and he had made sure to pick a room on the first floor, surrounded on one side by the ice machine and on the other by what appeared to be a janitor’s closet. With any luck, there would be nobody nearby when they arrived after the heist.