Blinding Fear (7 page)

Adelmo said nothing in response, He simply held the money in both hands, caressing it, somewhat awestruck, never having held or seen this much in cash before. When he came north from Guatemala he’d had slightly more than a thousand, all of which he’d saved over years of night-and-day, grinding labor. He carefully looked over the fresh new bills trying to make certain as best he could that they were real. He pulled one out and held it up to the light, scrutinizing it for the various U.S. Treasury authentication markers. He rubbed his three-day growth of beard, trying to take it all in; trying to determine whether this man and his cause were genuine

After a minute he finally spoke without looking at Paul.

“For the sake of my family and Our Blessed Virgin my answer must be yes. But I have one condition.” Now it was his turn to look at Paul with careful scrutiny.

“What is that?”

“That you pay me double—ten thousand!”

Paul leaned back into his seat, thinking for a moment, this time frowning. He nodded several times as if crunching the numbers. “All right. I don’t like it but with all honesty I expected it.”

“And I want another two thousand right now!” Adelmo added.

Paul simply responded by reaching into his pocket and taking out another slightly smaller stack of bills and handing it to Adelmo. “I knew you’d be a shrewd bargainer.”

Adelmo took it laughing out loud. “My mother and family will be happy!” This time it was he who reached out to Paul to shake hands. “Very, very happy!”

Chapter 9

Frank Whalen depressed the touch pad of his MacBook Pro and watched as the contents of the mysterious e-mail snapped into view. The page and the letter on it were unadorned and straight forward: no flashy graphics or layouts; no banners, pictures or color; no specialty fonts—simplicity itself.

United States Department of Strategic Planning and Policy for Near-Earth and Other Space Objects

Office of the Director
Frank Whalen
Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA

He stopped reading for a moment, wondering again: how had this organization gotten his name and address? The CBAT was supposed to be highly confidential; its servers, protocols, encryption software, etc., the latest—supposedly hack-proof. After all, amateur astronomers were far beyond secretive when it came to comet discovery claims. They were loathe to tell their spouses, girlfriends or children—much less anyone else—for fear that “anyone else” might beat them to the punch when it came time for naming rights.

‘Just think,’ he mused, ‘“Whalen’s Comet!’”

Then he noticed something else in the addressing of the letter: why “USA”? If the letter had come from Uncle Sam why add anything other than what the USPS would place on any letter or document for delivery in the U.S.? Another layer to the mystery. He continued reading.

Because of the highly sensitive nature of this letter, you will have exactly 10 minutes in which to read it. At that time it will self-delete.

Frank laughed out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding me! What is this? Some kind of script for the latest ‘Mission: Impossible’ movie!?”

He shook his head in amazement then saw at the top of the screen a small timer counting down; now at 09:45.

“Unbelievable!”

He quickly began reading again.

It has been brought to this Office’s attention that you have been telescopically surveying a certain portion of the celestial sphere—Approx. 15 thru 28 degrees declination, 53 thru 55 degrees right ascension—in an attempt to “discover” previously unknown planetary bodies such as asteroids or comets.

We must now inform you, that pursuant to the terms of the “International Near-Earth Space Objects Convention and Treaty,” that portion of the celestial sphere has been declared “Top Secret-Most Sensitive” and is now “Closed.” You may not, under any circumstance, continue to view, survey or photograph anything within it, nor can you reveal or discuss the classified nature of this area or its contents with any other organization or individual, under penalty of law.

The Treaty was recently negotiated and ratified by select representatives from 53 of the industrialized nations to ensure that celestial discoveries of planetary importance and impact were released within carefully prescribed limits and conditions. In effect this means private, commercial or governmental astronomers or other astro-physical scientists or technicians are forbidden to release anything to the public about discoveries in portions of the celestial sphere that have been “Closed” unless they have appropriate “Top Secret” security clearances.

All signatory nations have agreed that within their own international boundaries they will strictly enforce the terms of the treaty and have subsequently codified them into country-specific laws, regulations and protocols as well as criminal penalties.

Within the United States, individuals who fail to abide by these terms will face severe criminal sanctions as defined by several new laws. Because of the potential, immediate threat to national and international security there will be no further warnings to individuals who have received this letter.

Failure to strictly follow the terms and conditions of this directive will result in immediate implementation of all appropriate legal penalties. Again, there will be no further warnings!

Frank stopped long enough to try to come to grips with what he was reading. 53 nations agreeing the sun would rise in the East was as near to impossible as anything he could imagine. To think they could agree to a treaty of this complexity and delicacy was quite simply insane! And that the United States would subordinate its internal policies to such a treaty—ridiculous!

This letter was in essence saying that many of the cornerstones of western jurisprudence were being abolished in his and other astronomers’ similar situations: due process, innocence until proven guilt, trial by jury, legal representation, presentation of evidence, fair, appropriately timed punishment, all done away with!

Not a chance!

He considered for a moment whether to just delete the letter but decided to see what else it contained.

Because of the highly classified nature of the images you have recorded and attempted to release, special software within this e-mail has already uploaded them to a secure location, then deleted them from your hard-drive. In addition, selected portions of your e-mail and contact lists, as well as other appropriate documents have been deleted immediately after they were uploaded to this agencies offices for further examination; this to determine if anyone else within your sphere of professional or social contacts is aware of the images and has in turn attempted to share them with others.

Finally, you may not reveal or discuss the existence of this e-mail, the existence of the directive it contains or any portion thereof, or the existence of the International Near-Earth Space Objects Convention and Treaty, with anyone else. To do so would be an additional violation of United States law and again subject to
immediate
and severe legal sanctions.

Other software has also been downloaded to your computer to ensure your compliance with this directive. Violation of the terms stated above will result in your
entire
hard-drive being immediately erased.

Additionally, all of your cell and landline calls will be monitored to ensure compliance.

That was it. No closing, no signature, no nothing at the end. After another moments thought he came to the only obvious conclusion. The whole thing was a preposterous hoax! Had to be! All whoever sent the thing wanted was to “steal” his comet and then stop him from trying again. The portion of the letter that talked about uploading his images somewhere else, then deleting them, proved it.

Ever since he had become involved in the amateur astronomical community he’d heard of other individuals’ occasionally ludicrous attempts to pilfer the cometary discoveries of their peers. Yes, this letter or directive or whatever it was, went multiple steps beyond the craziest of any he’d heard about, but theft of his data was the only logical answer.

He looked up to the top of the document at the precise moment the timer reached 0:00. Instantly the entire page disappeared. Quickly he jumped over in his hard drive to try to find the documents folder where he’d placed his star field images. The folder was missing and the hundreds of images it had contained.

“No!” he groaned, slumping back in his chair, closing his eyes, massaging his temples, agonizing at the thought of the hundreds of hours he’d spent taking those pictures going down the drain.

For the next fifteen minutes he performed various systems checks to see if the other applications and programs in his laptop were working. Everything else seemed to be in normal working order except for some holes in his e-mail contact list and astronomically related correspondence. Luckily, most of those things could be replaced or reworked without too much effort. He wouldn’t have to start from scratch with his sky search.

For a moment he considered searching for any other software that might have been downloaded to monitor him in the future. After some careful consideration, however, he decided that portion of the letter, like the rest of it, was probably false and simply designed to further intimidate him and shut down new search efforts.

But he was still conflicted. He was 100% sure the e-mail was a fake right up to the moment all his images of his comet disappeared. Now he wasn’t so sure—maybe 80%. Then there was the threat of his hard drive being erased. Maybe whoever had stolen his pictures
could
take out the hard drive. He also wondered about the monitoring of calls the letter mentioned. Just to be safe he decided to be very careful about who he talked to and what he said. He’d also try to avoid forums and chat rooms.

Whoever it was had gone to great lengths to steal his stuff and then scare him off. But he could remember the celestial coordinates where Whalen’s Comet was located. There was no way they could find out he was using his telescope unless he told someone.

This elaborate thievery was not going to deter him from claiming what was rightfully his!

Chapter 10

The music of mariachi-legend Vicente Fernandez, with his unique mix of vocals, trumpets, violins and bass guitars, played softly through the Dodge Ram Van’s sound system. Adelmo Garza took one final slug of the last Cucapa beer that his good friend and co-conspirator Paul had given him. The brand was considered by beer aficionados to be the best Mexico had to offer. For Paul to have gone to such great lengths to track it down in the Boston area proved how much he liked Adelmo, appreciated his student’s mastering of the mission and how much confidence he had in him.

It was just after 2:00 a.m.. Adelmo sat alone in his delivery van, in the darkened, empty parking lot of a small market and cafe on the corner of Huron Street and Concord Avenue in the heart of Cambridge, Massachusetts.

He and his employer had shared a 12-pack not long before in celebratory anticipation of Adelmo successfully completing the mission. The empties littered the passenger foot well. Although Adelmo hadn’t counted, he guessed he’d drunk most of the beers and was feeling quite happy. He wouldn’t say he was drunk, just slightly buzzed—then again perhaps more than slightly.

Before leaving him alone, Paul had provided very specific instructions on exactly when to start his approach to the target. He’d told Adelmo the next clandestine meeting of the conspirators plotting against the life of Pope Francis would begin at 2:30. Through his informant he’d learned they were to gather in the basement of the Center for Astrophysics building just around the corner from where he waited in the van. Then they would finish their plans for the assassination with the assistance of the supercomputer.

He looked at the digital clock in the dashboard and saw that it was 2:19 a.m.— nearly “go time.”

The 360 cubic-inch Magnum small block V-8 rumbled quietly, providing heat inside the cab against the cool autumn night. For a moment he paused, listening. Something was different about the motor; something he’d initially noticed driving to the cafe’s parking lot earlier. It seemed to be idling too high. Normally factory-set to 800 RPM, as he looked at the tachometer, blinking away alcohol-induced fogginess, he could see it was now around 1,500. He chuckled to himself. It was just like his cost-shaving boss to let vehicle maintenance go. Then, of course, something much worse would happen causing costs to go sky-high. No matter, he wouldn’t have to worry about this van’s maintenance ever again!

Adelmo reviewed for the umpteenth time what he was to do and why; drive down Concord and turn left on Madison Street. Go one block and turn right into a parking lot, accelerate to around 30 miles per hour and crash the van into the three-story brick facade of the hundred-year-old, unreinforced brick building that housed the Center for Astrophysics. Adelmo was obviously skeptical but Paul had assured him that the building would easily collapse. He said it would be like running into a hay stack because of the poor, early twentieth-century construction techniques. He added the three-ton mass of the van and its reinforced cab would provide all the protection he needed. Paul did warn him to make certain his lap and seat belts were tight and to push back against the steering wheel so his head and back were supported upon impact. He said the seat belts and air bag would keep him from injury, although he might be slightly stunned. The impact would send that side of the building crashing into the basement, destroying the computer and killing or seriously injuring the plotters.

Immediately after the crash he would climb out of the van, sprawl himself out on the grass strip near the entrance to the building and wait for first-responders to arrive. He would feign a head injury saying while taking a shortcut across campus some unknown mechanical defect had forced the van to accelerate on its own causing him to lose control. He would refuse transport for medical treatment and fully cooperate with police who would likely call his boss because Adelmo would be too “shocked” to do so. His boss would almost certainly take him back to his apartment. There he would “recuperate,” refusing any other efforts by law enforcement to interview him until his “lawyer”—Paul—arrived to assist.

Paul told Adelmo he was anticipating a big investigation and said he’d gone to great lengths to protect him from prosecution or even suspicion. Paul refused to tell him most of the behind-the-scenes planning, only saying it would protect Adelmo and their cause, in case of or during police questioning. One thing Paul did reveal was that he would hack into a mechanical engineering lab’s computer the night of the conspiracy. He planned to create a fake order for three canisters each of methane, acetylene, oxygen and hydrogen for Adelmo to deliver in the early morning hours. He’d learned one of the professors there had been working on a graduate-level project. It involved several students who were developing a new gas to replace oxy-fuel used in metal cutting. The students had been pulling all-nighters trying to develop the right mix. He’d also made certain the route Adelmo used to get to the lab would pass the astrophysics complex, further solidifying his story.

He remained nervous about what he was about to do but still felt confident, even elated. Thankfully, Paul, in his obvious concern for Adelmo’s welfare, seemed to have thought about every negative possibility and provided an answer.

Now, he was about to do God’s work for the good of the Holy Church, the Blessed Virgin and, of course, the world. And he was getting paid $10,000! His mother and family would be proud and would greatly benefit from the cash he would send.

He looked at the clock again and saw it read 2:25.

Time to go. He released the parking brake, put the gear selector into drive and slowly eased out of the parking lot and headed down Concord Avenue; the twelve heavy canisters of compressed gases gently clanking against each other in the back.