The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) (13 page)

Zaventem, Belgium, Saturday
.

T
he address scrawled on the
map was on a narrow street lined with shops in the center of town. Intrigued, Eytan parked outside a pizzeria with a marquee in the colors of the Italian flag. At nearly four in the morning, downtown Zaventem was dead. Except for a couple of cars, there wasn’t a soul to be seen. The streetlights seemed superfluous in this small, ghostly town. Stuck between the Ring, the freeway that connected Brussels to its outskirts, and the international airport, Zaventem was a charmless commuter town.

Jet lag and physical and nervous exhaustion had caught up with Jeremy. He’d been fast asleep for a good two hours. A big nudge from Eytan jerked him out of his slumber. Jackie was accorded a slightly less brutal awakening. Barely a minute later, the three of them were walking cautiously down the sidewalk, alert to the slightest movement. An ambush on a narrow street like this would be infinitely less manageable than the attack at the rest stop. The two agents stayed on either side of Jeremy. A car turned into the street. Eytan grabbed the trader’s shoulder and dragged him into an alcove that housed an ATM. Jackie ducked behind a parked car, one hand on her revolver.

The Kidon agent’s relaxed approach was history. Eytan sensed they were closing in on the truth, and nothing could be left to chance until the whole sinister business was over. The small red Toyota turned left at the first intersection. False alarm. They kept walking.

Outside No. 22, they stopped and exchanged incredulous looks when they saw the bookstore’s highly evocative name, Deep Zone. In the windows, posters for manga showed futuristic heroines with alluring, if slightly exaggerated curves. Comic books and graphic novels formed a patchwork of colors, shapes and unlikely titles. The motto on the window proclaimed the store’s ethos:
The Temple of the Imagination
. Which may have explained the presence of old Dungeons and Dragons game boxes. A curtain blocked off the inside of the store. Eytan checked the address on the map three times, backed into the road to confirm the number and glanced around until he found a sign with the street name on it. Clearly, he found it hard to accept that this paradise for overgrown teenagers could play a decisive role in the success of their mission.

Jeremy, on the other hand, was psyched, pointing to various role-playing games. Collector’s editions from the nineteen eighties, he claimed, while inflicting on Jackie the complete history of a game he had been addicted to as a kid. Bemused, she nodded politely, silently praying that Eytan would quickly decide their next step.

“We’re going in,” Eytan said, leaning over the lock on the door. Jeremy almost squealed with excitement. Jackie thanked heaven for the respite from his geekish gushing. Fifteen seconds later, the lock’s rudimentary mechanism yielded to the attack of a credit card in the skilled hands of the Israeli agent. He entered, peered at the frame and followed the wires to the switchbox above the door. The others didn’t have to wait long for his expert conclusion. The so-called alarm had given up the ghost long ago. But it didn’t seem likely that anybody would want to steal this stuff, anyway. The cash register, meanwhile, probably never held more than loose change.

With a sharp whistle, Eytan signaled Jeremy and Jackie to enter. Jackie stopped next to Eytan and imitated his hands-on-hips pose, staring at the narrow shop that stretched back maybe twenty yards. Huge shelves covered the walls. They were packed with an array of novels, comic books and figurines, from
Star Wars
to
Lord of the Rings
. Thousands of books. A thousand square feet maybe and as many documents as Mossad’s complete archives.

“OK, we don’t know what we’re looking for and have, at a conservative estimate, a million pages to go through. Seven hours on the road to wind up here.”

“Eytan, maybe we should see if there’s a hiding place. That door must lead to the storeroom. C’mon, let’s get busy. Jeremy, what are you doing?”

Hopping with glee, the trader waved a book at them. “This is an amazing place. I love it! Look, they even have a first edition of the
Choose Your Own Adventure
series. All this must be worth a fortune. I haven’t seen stuff like this since I was a kid. It’s wild!”

Eytan leaned toward Jackie and muttered, “Do you mind if I punch him?”

She frowned and clenched her fists. “Do you want me to hold him for you?”

An hour and one stern lecture for Jeremy later, they were all hard at work in what Eytan now called the Temple of the Imbeciles. While the two secret agents looked for a hiding place, Jeremy sat behind a counter, chewing on a pen and staring at the sheet of paper on which he had copied the numbers to the code on the back of the photo in the safe-deposit box. Crumpled pieces of paper were piling up next to the cash register. So far, all his columns, tables and grids had gotten him nowhere.

The meager light from the streetlights outside wasn’t helping. Another fifteen minutes had passed when Jeremy shouted to the others, “Hey, smart-asses, stop everything. I’ve got it! My old man was so warped!”

“Or just paranoid, like anybody else who uses codes,” Jackie replied. Exasperated by the time they had wasted, Eytan avoided making any caustic remarks. This was no time for jokes. Jeremy brandished a page full of figures and letters.

“Three first names. Jeremy, six letters. Daniel J., seven letters. Ann, three letters. And three lines with a series of numbers on them. After racking my brain, I used the keys provided by the names to decipher the strings of numbers and the four letters. In other words, six for the first line, seven for the second and three for the last. So with the Jeremy key, A, the first letter of the alphabet becomes seven, one plus six. Easy. Working from there, everything falls into place.”

Eytan and Jackie stared at the trader with a whole new expression. This boy’s mind was clearly made to do math. “So, what are we looking for?” asked the petite blonde.

“
La Chevauchée des Justes
,
Editions des Noirs Secrets, 1965
.”

“No kidding. We could have kept looking forever,” Jackie muttered as she began to examine the spines of a row of books, looking for the title Jeremy had mentioned.

Eytan heaved a sigh of relief and pulled three copies of the novel from the highest shelf at the back of the store. No member of the public, except a giant or a guy with a ladder, could have gotten anywhere near the book. “Here it is. Three copies. Written by a guy named Thomel Gevoust. Never heard of him.”

The yellow-tinged pages testified to the books’ long shelf life. By opening each one to the last page, they soon found the edition they were looking for. They examined it from all sides, in vain. Eytan flicked through it, looking for another clue. In the end, he gave up, handed the book to Jeremy and leaned against a shelf, rubbing his neck. “We’ll have to read the whole damn thing to find anything in there. Assuming there’s something to find.”

“You don’t like to read, or you can’t?” Jeremy teased, turning the pages.

“You’re some comedian!” Eytan scowled, irritated.

“That’s right,” replied Jeremy, eyes riveted on the book. “But above all, I’m our resident code breaker, and I’m going to save us a whole stack of time again.”

“How’s that?”

“Because just by reading the chapter headings, I can see that from page one-twenty, what’s printed in the book are my father’s notes.”

September 8, 1985. A routine mission that turns into a fiasco isn’t rare. But why reward the commanding officer of the mission instead of reprimanding him? The top brass have promoted me to lieutenant general and put me in charge of a department overseeing aircraft turnaround. Basically, I’ve been booted upstairs. Ever since, I can’t stop wondering about what happened that day…

Opportunities to fly fighter planes were increasingly rare as my career progressed. But stars on your uniform are no replacement for the thrill of flying a mission. Quite the opposite.

So when the higher-ups asked me to pick three seasoned pilots for a test mission, I couldn’t resist the temptation to put my name on the list. The F-16 was the jewel in the Air Force crown. For the occasion, it would be equipped with a revolutionary aiming system. Take-off would be from Fort Lauderdale
…

After months of deadly dull bureaucratic routine and office politics, I grabbed the opportunity. Besides, being back in the frat house atmosphere of crews that couldn’t salute me without making vulgar wisecracks would do me a world of good. I joined the military because I love my country. I stayed in it because I enjoyed the camaraderie of the Air Force. A shared passion for aviation creates strong bonds among characters with equally strong personalities. More than once, the rules were bent in order to do a risky maneuver or to get a one-up on other pilots. The brass turned a blind eye as long as no damage was done. If damage was done, though
…

Even more than getting into the cockpit of the F-16, the flight plan got my juices flowing. After take-off, we’d be heading due south to take on an aircraft carrier and a group of mobile decoys before swinging back to base via the legendary Bermuda Triangle. That caused a lot of banter in the mess. Unstable weather conditions and, above all, pilot error could explain most of the so-called disappearances in the last fifty years. Even so, guys never failed to feel a twinge of excitement as they approached the zone
.

On the big day, incredibly bad luck struck the mission. Lieutenants Jake Sokolove and Brian Stabbleford, fellow pilots and friends, were prevented from suiting up. Their physicals revealed that they both had heart conditions and therefore couldn’t fly fighters. The medics even decided to keep them for observation. Military procedure, especially for top-secret Pentagon test flights, offers a host of options for the most unlikely scenarios, such as the last-minute grounding of two experienced pilots
.

The spare wheels, as they are known, were called in. Richard Hoffman and Christopher Durham walked onto the tarmac. Both had just arrived from Edwards Air Force Base in the Mojave Desert, which had a reputation for spawning hotheads and daredevils. My cordial welcome soon turned into a full-blown Q&A session. I had to be sure my crew was prepared. Alongside other qualities, this thoroughness was a foundation stone of my career
.

When I was satisfied, the pilots pulled on their helmets and climbed into their respective cockpits. I did likewise. The mission could begin. I applied full throttle but couldn’t shake off an inexplicable sense of foreboding
.

The operation went smoothly. I would even call it a total success, both in terms of the equipment we were testing and the crew’s coordination. As tradition demands, Durham and Hoffman radioed me with their congratulations, and we headed back
.

After a few minutes, we hit some clouds that didn’t seem to present any danger. Suddenly, the other two planes dropped off my radar. I had no visual contact, and my attempts to radio them on every possible frequency met with no response. Suddenly, amid all the static, I picked up snatches of a conversation
.

“They need to realize…BCI…lining its pockets.” And “we…in the sun
.”

Those were the last words I heard Durham and Hoffman utter. The board of inquiry took barely three days to conclude that mechanical failure had led to the disappearance of the two planes and their pilots. I couldn’t believe it. I knew my men. I didn’t mention the conversation I overheard after the loss of visual and radio contact. Why? I don’t know. Intuition, maybe. My transfer will be effective within one month. That gives me a little time to keep digging
…

The checklists provided by the airbase maintenance crews never reached the Internal Affairs Division at the Pentagon. Nobody seems to know what happened to these important documents relative to the inquiry. An astonishing procedural snafu
…

Sokolove’s and Stabbleford’s files are untraceable on every computer at the base and on the Air Force’s database. The people at pensions and benefits have no record of them. I called two friends at Vandenberg and Edwards. Nobody has ever heard of them
…

I start my new job in seven days, two weeks earlier than planned. My investigation has annoyed the brass. I have to be more discreet and think of every possibility. Mechanical failure is a pretext to shelve the case. Two complete unknowns with phony IDs and mission papers have stolen two fighter planes. I’m sure of it. I have to find out what BCI means. But before that, I must get my hands on the records of incidents over the Bermuda Triangle. Sunday—tomorrow. Jeremy’s sixth birthday. I’ll work in the evening
…

They’re all fake! The disappearances over the Bermuda Triangle aren’t at all mysterious. The legend is a smoke screen. I can’t tell for sure about the civilian flights and the ships, but as for the military, and more specifically the Air Force, the data has been carefully massaged. I’ve dug up a confidential memo that mentions about twenty incidents involving the Air Force. An earlier draft of the same memo mentions no fewer than thirty-five disappearances, mostly bombers. I’m on the right track
…

I’m Lieutenant General Corbin now. I should celebrate. I did with Ann and Jeremy yesterday. Ann is a rock. She knows I’m preoccupied, but she never mentions it. I have to watch myself. I’m not sleeping, and I’m on a short fuse
…

Managing on-base personnel is my worst nightmare. I don’t have a second to myself and rarely get home before ten in the evening. The last two months have been crazy, but not crazy enough to make me lose sight of my objective. Gradually, I’m piecing together the list of mysteriously vanishing aircraft and tracking down assignment details. But I sense the number of people I can call my friends is getting smaller and smaller
…

An old friend called yesterday. We were at military academy together. Hearing from Bernard Dean was a real shot in the arm. He’s going to drop by this weekend. I’ll sound him out to see if he’s picked up on the case. It could be useful to know someone with the CIA. But I’m walking on eggshells. I have to watch my step
…

Ann and I hadn’t seen Dean for years, and yet it felt like it was only yesterday. His charisma keeps growing, whereas I’m visibly withering. Constant stress and lack of sleep are mostly to blame. I never play with Jeremy anymore. I see no resentment in his eyes, just huge sadness. When all this is behind us, we’ll get back to normal. Tonight, when Ann and Jeremy are asleep, Dean and I will have a little chat
…

Dean didn’t want to know. He advised me to be extremely careful for my sake and my family’s. Basically, he told me to drop the investigation. But he’ll be there if I get into big trouble. I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that, but it’s not my style to let something like this go
…

Without exception, the vanished bombers were all carrying enriched uranium. Besides the obvious danger of moving such sensitive materials by air, the transport of radioactive matter is by special permit only and strictly controlled. The military must, therefore, be involved in some kind of uranium-trafficking network, most likely linked to nuclear operations. So far, not completely surprising. National security transcends legal, administrative and even constitutional considerations. But when crews start disappearing, then we really are in murky waters
…

A whole month and not a single new lead. The initials BCI correspond to no known military department. This whole business is becoming an obsession. I can’t trust anyone on base. I’ve even started copying duty rosters to make sure nobody falsifies them. I have to get a grip. But I can’t get one question out of my head: Where have the bombers, fighters and the damn uranium disappeared to
?

I’m becoming irascible. Jeremy came home with a bad grade in math. I almost slapped him. That’s not like me at all. I need to move on, or I’ll lose my sanity and my family
…

I was right! I couldn’t put my hunch into words, but deep down I knew. I contacted Ed Jackson, a friend who works in the military’s legal department. He told me he’d been investigating networks of traffickers in military secrets and radioactive material for years. He even works from a special office set up to bypass usual procedures and reduce the risk of leaks. The Soviets, Arabs and even the Chinese have all headed the list of suspects at one time or another, but nothing has ever been proved. I have dived headfirst into a big stinking mess. I’ve been ordered to drop it, but I know that it all has to do with those three letters. What can BCI possibly mean
?

Ann and I had a big fight yesterday. I know she’s worried, but she doesn’t realize the importance of my investigation. She used Jeremy to make me feel guilty about never being home for him. I’ll make amends when the time comes. Maybe I should get in touch with Dean. I know where to look
.

Tomorrow, I head to D.C. for three days. The pretext is an air staff meeting to discuss the budget proposal going through Congress. We’ll have to put up with the White House apparatchiks. I’m taking the whole file with me. Jackson said he’d meet me at the bar at the Watergate Hotel. He has a very questionable sense of humor
…

The meeting never took place. I arrived late at the hotel, just in time to see paramedics carrying out Jackson’s body. Heart attack. Surprising for a thirty-three-year-old athlete with no medical history. Before I slipped away, a waiter came over with a piece of paper Ed asked him to give to me just before he died. The scribbled note contained just one word. A name, to be precise. Icarus
…

I’m making waves, rocking the boat. Requesting documents and asking questions wherever I go has attracted too much attention. Somebody’s out to stop me and will use any means necessary. I have to be doubly careful
…

Still no lead on BCI. It’s infuriating. That’s the key to the whole thing. I can sense it. I picked up the mail when I arrived home. In an envelope addressed to me, I found a bullet engraved with the word “Icarus.” I think it’s time to call Bernard Dean
…

I’m trained for action. Tough decisions don’t scare me. But nothing prepared me for the situation I’m in now. Bernard agrees with me. Whoever’s calling me Icarus doesn’t want me to get too close to the sun. My family’s in danger. I’ve gone too far, but I can’t turn back. Bernard offered to co-opt me into the CIA and put Ann and Jeremy under protection. He still wants nothing to do with my investigation, however. In the Secret Service, friendship has its limits. I’ll be reunited with my family when all this madness is over
…

I lay out the situation to Ann, frankly and honestly. She’s a brave, strong woman. When she married me, she understood the nation’s security couldn’t be jeopardized, and I had an obligation. I feel her pain behind all the talk about me having to do my duty. Actually, it’s about more than doing my duty to the country. I need to protect Ann and our son. He knows nothing. He wouldn’t understand. He’ll never understand. It’s heartbreaking, but deep down, I’m convinced it’s “see you later” and not “farewell
…”

Two years. Two long years, gathering and crosschecking dozens and even hundreds of documents about missing consignments of uranium. In the United States alone, the volume is preposterous—over one hundred pounds. The floor of my sleazy studio-apartment hideout is carpeted with piles of paper. The walls are covered with sticky notes and sprawling charts. The only good news is that I’ve found a lead on BCI. There’s a pharmaceutical company in South America with that name. I don’t see how it ties in, but I have to explore even the slenderest leads
…

I’ve traveled across Europe and Africa, pored over archives, visited embassies and consulates, met cultural attachés, the catchall word for our secret agents. Without any possible doubt, the network stealing radioactive material has a global reach. But I still have no lead on who controls it
…

The collapse of the Soviet Republic is a blessing. The Berlin Wall fell less than six months ago, and already thousands of secret documents have emerged from the offices of the KGB. One document that that has reached us spells out the exchange of two U.S. Air Force planes equipped with experimental aiming systems in return for uranium. My planes. In the recipient box, no name, just a single word: Consortium
…

1996. The Olympic Games are going to be held in Atlanta. While the world focuses on the athletes, I wander alone in a universe that scares me. A few weeks ago, I got a job working in the warehouse of a BCI subsidiary in Belgium. The company has expanded massively in the last twenty years to become a leader in its field. But the few records I got my hands on told me nothing new. I’m missing the key that unlocks the whole mystery, and I’m worried I’ll never find it. These people know how to cover their tracks
…

When I arrived at work this morning, a letter was waiting for me with an address in Zaventem, a suburb of Brussels. I’ll pay a visit, but I have to be careful. My cover may be compromised
…

I met an old man named Planic. He claims to have learned about my inquiries in the late eighties. He says he worked for the Consortium, and BCI is only a facet of it. He seems trustworthy. According to Planic, there’s an organization deep in the corridors of power that’s pulling the strings of history with terrifying cynicism and efficiency. Christ, these guys are nuts. I need to gather evidence to put a stop to them
…