The Tower. Simon Toyne

up.

      Mala: [mala] Name given to several historical anti-establishment groups and more recently a clandestine anti-religious terror organization.

      Shepherd turned to Franklin who was smiling his trademark smile. ‘If you’d paid a little more attention you would have seen the Mala mentioned more than once in those old newspapers we found back in Kinderman’s pad. I told you the Bureau got involved. They were the terrorist group blamed for the attacks on the Citadel in Ruin.’

      Shepherd turned back and continued to read.

      The Mala are one of two pre-historic tribes of men whose combined history underpins the emergence of modern civilization and religion. The other tribe – the Yahweh – were victorious in a struggle to possess and control a powerful ancient relic known as the Sacrament, which is believed by many to still exist inside the Citadel fortress in the southern Turkish city of Ruin, where it has been kept and protected since pre-history by the spiritual heirs of the Yahweh, a brotherhood of monks known as the Sancti.

      Shepherd bristled at this last word. ‘The letter sent to Kinderman was signed Novus Sancti.’

      Franklin nodded. ‘Looks like the religious angle is starting to fly. Read on.’

      The Mala, having lost the Sacrament, were branded as heretics by the emerging Church and driven into hiding where they became synonymous with other anti-Church organizations such as the Illuminati. Because of the secretive nature of the Mala, little is known about them but many famous scientific figures are believed to have been members. These include Sir Isaac Newton, Galileo Galilei and many others, particularly in the field of astronomy, who often suffered persecution because their theories and discoveries challenged the teachings of the Church. The Church, in turn, continues to portray the Mala as terrorists, Satanists and worshippers of the occult.

      Shepherd sat back in his chair. ‘The letter also called Kinderman a member of the occult tribe.’

      ‘Which would explain why Kinderman was targeted by religious freaks, though not why he would sabotage Hubble.’ Franklin turned to Smith. ‘Can you dig anything else out from Kinderman’s drive? Maybe the context of these words will give us something to go on.’

      Smith hammered in more commands, so hard that Shepherd wondered how many keyboards he went through a year. He hit Return and the program went to work.

      Shepherd looked down at the question marks in his notebook, feeling that his usefulness to the investigation was slipping away. He was already thinking of the report he would have to write before dawn and getting through the next day of classes having had no sleep.

      ‘Looks like he was talking to someone,’ Franklin said.

      Shepherd looked up and read the new messages.

      408 Finished calculating co-ordinates for the Mala star, will send separately for you to check

      408 Not much time left. May be needing our friends in Mala sooner than I thought.

      ‘It’s network mail,’ Shepherd said, recognizing the repeated number as a directory code. ‘It’s an encrypted, stripped down version of email they use to share data between different departments and facilities. He was talking to someone else at NASA.’ He grabbed the desk phone, hit redial and put it on speakerphone so everyone could hear. This time it barely rang before being picked up.

      ‘Hubble Flight Team.’

      ‘Merriweather, Shepherd again. Do you have a network mail directory handy?’

      There was a pause punctuated by the muffled rattle of a keyboard. ‘Yeah, I got it.’

      ‘Could you tell me who has the directory code 408?’

      Three muffled taps then a louder one. ‘That’s Professor Douglas.’

      Shepherd felt the ground fall away beneath him. ‘Joseph Douglas?’

      ‘Who else.’

      ‘OK, thanks.’

      ‘You need anything else?’

      Franklin leaned over. ‘This is Agent Franklin. Please do not mention this conversation to anyone. Not even Chief Pierce, understood?’

      ‘You got it.’ Franklin disconnected before Merriweather could say anything else, picked up the handset and dialled the number for transport. ‘Looks like I’ll be heading back to Goddard with an arrest warrant.’

      ‘Professor Douglas isn’t at Goddard,’ Shepherd said, ‘he’s at the Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama. That’s where they’re testing all the components of the James Webb Telescope prior to launch. Professor Douglas is in charge of the whole project.’

      Franklin’s face went dark as he registered the implications. ‘This is Franklin,’ he barked down the phone at whoever answered. ‘I need a ride, soon as humanly possible, to fly me as close to Huntsville, Alabama as possible.’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Make yourself useful Shepherd, find me the name of whoever is head of security at Marshall and get him on the phone.’

      ‘You should take me with you.’

      Franklin looked genuinely amused. ‘Really? And why’s that?’

      ‘Because I know Professor Douglas,’ Shepherd replied, sensing that the door closing on his part of the investigation might just be starting to open again. ‘I used to be his student.’

       22

      Carrie perched on the edge of one of the sunken motel beds watching Eli sleeping on the other. There wasn’t much to the room: a bulky air-con unit built into the window; a fifties-style table with cuss words carved into it and two mismatched chairs swamped beneath their drying cammo jackets. They were pushed up against the solitary wall heater, steaming slightly and filling the trapped, mildewed air in the room with the fresh, wet smell of the forest.

      The phone lay next to her on the worn counterpane. She could never sleep when she was waiting on new orders. It was a limbo state she had never relaxed into, something which came with command. The grunts could always sleep like babies, but the officers and NCOs were like parents, with all the responsibility and worry that came with that.

      Outside the rain had settled into a steady drumming, like the noise Humvee tyres made over a decent blacktop. The only other sound came from an antique TV set bolted high on a wall. When they had first come into the room and switched it on it had been tuned to a porno channel, the unmistakable fake panting making her fumble for a button to cut the sound or change the channel. She hadn’t been quick enough. The screen had briefly flashed pink with the urgency of flesh before she managed to turn it off. Neither of them mentioned what they had seen, though she knew it had chimed with something unspoken in both of them. The TV was now tuned to a local news station with the volume low, in case anything came up that might be relevant or useful.

      She glanced at Eli’s sleeping form, feeling the frustration that, even though they were alone in this seedy motel room with the caved-in mattresses whispering of all the things they denied themselves, their still unfulfilled mission was keeping them apart. She just wanted it to be over so they could get married and finally be together, to face the coming judgement as man and wife, blessed in the eyes of God.

      Eli let out a small sound, like a frightened animal. Eight times out of ten he would jolt himself awake, staring around for the horrors that came out to play when he slept. When she’d first met him in the mission hospital outside Kandahar, he couldn’t sleep at all without screaming himself awake so this was an improvement. He was getting better and it was she who was making him so. If she had enough time she would heal him completely, but she wasn’t sure how much time they had left.

      The phone rang and she pounced on it, rising from the bed and moving away to the furthest corner of the room.

      ‘Hello.’