FREELANCE SCIENCE WRITER
T/A Wordwise Science Communication
| |
Louise Thomas FREELANCE SCIENCE WRITER T/A Wordwise Science Communication |
|
Golightly and the ECTO ConspiracyChapter 1 A wet start
‘Brace! Brace! Brace!’ screamed the pilot into the public intercom. All 78 people on board the Boeing 737 immediately leaned forward, laced their hands over the backs of their heads, and kissed their knees as the plane bucked sideways several metres. The plane continued to shudder violently, metal on metal graunched like grinding teeth as the wings flexed dangerously in the face of the hurricane. Three passengers were sick, the smell of vomit and fear crept through the cabin as the plane turned on a shape angle to line up with Wellington’s airport. It wasn’t an emergency landing exactly, but after circling for half an hour the plane didn’t have enough fuel to go anywhere else other than its planned destination. Unfortunately, 230 kilometres per hour wind gusts were not uncommon for New Zealand’s capital city during the spring equinox. Jean-Claude Farquhar would not normally have left Paris in autumn, or his insects, to suffer discomfort at the other end of the globe. But both London Royal Society HQ and, coincidentally, his new employers had insisted he fly to New Zealand immediately. He unclenched his fine manicured hands from around his head as the plane taxied to the terminal. A smiling air hostess, gathered magazines from the departing green-tinged passengers. ‘Thank you for flying Air New
Flight NZ007, the professor’s third plane in 24 hours, was the last flight to get through before the airport closed to wait out the storm. They were supposed to have sent a car to the airport for him; he scanned the waiting crowd outside the arrivals area. There were only two people holding signs. One was an elderly Japanese man with a sign which read ‘Cindy the perky’ and the other was a teenage surfer wearing a yellow plastic raincoat, dreadlocks and sunglasses, with a sign which read ‘Frank’s dad’. ‘Freaks,’ muttered Professor Farquhar under his breath. The receptionist at the information counter was of little help. When he enquired if a car had been sent for him or if anyone had asked of his arrival, she had looked at him blankly and said she knew nothing about it. Another receptionist was giggling at the neighbouring counter, preoccupied by the attentions of a young red-headed man in a tweed jacket and corduroy pants. ‘Well, could I use your telephone to call my office? I can’t seem to get any cell phone coverage here.’ ‘I’m sorry Sir, but the phones are all down with the storm,’ the woman gestured in the direction of the rain swept windows. ‘But please don’t forget your free street map of Wellington - it comes with discount coupons for many of the city’s attractions and restaurants,’ beamed the receptionist. Professor Farquhar glared at the women, took the map and exited the bustling airport. There was not a rental car to be had, and, of course, no taxis. The rain flapped in soggy silver sheets across the airport car park. With Frank’s dad safely ensconced in the passenger seat, the surfer was pulling out in a Combie van; its windscreen wipers flip-flopping at full-bore. A man more used to Learjets and limousines, Farquhar contemplated flagging them down but decided instead to cram into the shuttle bus. This, he realised too late, was a mistake. He gagged at the onboard fug of old onions, wet dog and human sweat generated by the damp international travellers. He pressed his crisp white cotton handkerchief to his nose. The bus navigated the winding narrow road that followed the shore of the harbour from the airport right into the centre of the city. The tyres peeled along the wet chipseal like ripping Velcro and the hypnotic sound of the driving rain and windscreen wipers filled the bus over the low key murmurs from the other passengers. In fine weather Wellington was not unlike a modern version of Zurich, with hills cradling the capital and buildings wrapping in an arc around the water’s edge. But unlike Zurich, Wellington is the only capital city in the world to sit squarely in the boisterous westerly wind belt of the ‘roaring forties’. And when it wasn’t getting the trade route winds from the west, it had a bad habit of getting hammered by freezing southerlies blowing up from the Antarctic. When visitors complain about the weather, Wellingtonians, in an act of collective denial, trot out the you-should-have-been-here-yesterday-the-weather-was-beautiful reply. The professor, however, was unable to appreciate any architectural or town planning beauty as he could hardly see through the condensation on the bus windows. Wiping the steam away on the window where he stood only revealed a brown, choppy sea the colour of rotting fruit and an angry dark broiling sky. He felt it best not to look when he realised how often the bus crossed the road’s centre line and the wind sprayed buckets of salty water over their thin metal and glass protection. The lights from the advancing city looked weak and strained through the onslaught of weather. The bus disgorged its load of malodorous passengers under the shelter of the balcony outside the railway station. At least twelve people made a run at the two waiting taxis. A warm friendly pie cart parked up in front of the station was the only beacon of humanity. A couple of punters huddled under the caravan’s fluttering striped canopy clutching hot coffee and steaming pies. ‘This is ridiculous. And for what? Fifteen-year-old twins! Children!’ muttered Farquhar to himself as he read the street map to find Turnbull Street. He turned up his coat collar, leaning into the wind he dashed across the road and he set off on foot up Mulgrave Street. * * * Nigel stared despondently out the window; though he wasn’t focused on the wind and rain pounding the trees across the park. He tapped the pen up and down on the blank pad paper. Well, almost blank pad paper. It was headed up birthday party guest list. Caitlin wanted a party for their 16th birthday; it was just over a month away. The problem was Nigel couldn’t think of anyone to put on the list. A thought occurred to him and he scribbled Bruce and Sharon’s names down. Then he scribbled them out. Bruce and Sharon were their cook and housekeeper they would be there anyway, so didn’t really count. In the past their mother had always organised this sort of stuff. Drumming up some children of friends they never saw from one birthday to the next, but at least providing the temporary illusion of having friends – even if some of them were pretty jolly rude. The problem there was that Nigel and Caitlin had recently lost possession of both their parents through a series of unfortunate events. It could be worse he supposed at least they were twins and had each other, otherwise he thought he would be pathetically lonely. He wrote Bruce and Sharon back on the list again; then added Elvis their driver. At times like this Nigel looked on his gift as an isolating burden, he couldn’t think of a single friend they had to invite to their party. In fine weather he would stare out the window and watch parents and children visiting the park across the road, eating ice creams, smiling and laughing; he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being cheated. His supervisor interrupted his thoughts. ‘Nigel, you should head off. The storm’s cut off the phones, and there could be flooding. You don’t want to get stuck here, can I drop you home?’ ‘Um, no thanks Matt. Elvis will be here to collect me soon.’ ‘Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, or maybe the day after if there’s flooding.’ ‘Yeah, sure.’ Nigel fiddled with his pen for another few minutes. It was only 2.00pm, Elvis wasn’t due until five, but Nigel couldn’t stand the idea of a silent car ride home with Matt. Maybe he should go home early; he picked up the phone to ring Elvis then remembered the phones were dead. He picked up his back pack and made his way to the Civil Defence centre, it was only just down the hall. No one was about, which suited him fine. He sat down at the two-way radio, and began scanning for the Hutt Taxi Company. ‘Elvis? Are you there, it’s Nigel. Can you come and get me? Over.’ ‘Who is this? Get off this frequency young man. This is Hutt Taxis.’ ‘Yeah, sorry. I won’t be a second. Elvis, are you there? Come and get me. Over.’ ‘Nigel, this is Elvis. Get off this frequency before you get us all in trouble. I’ll be there in fifteen.’ ‘Cheers. Can you get Cait first, in case we get cut off from Wellington. Over.’ ‘Get off this frequency you little scroat.’ ‘Roger, willdo. See you soon Nigel. In future use channel 2.’ ‘Thanks Elvis. Over. Sorry taxi dispatch lady.’ ‘I should think so.’ Nigel shouldered his backpack and went to wait in the lobby of GNS Science. The building was deserted; even the receptionist had gone home. * * * It wasn’t far - a bare ten minutes walk from the railway station. But ten minutes in biting wind and heavy showers almost froze Professor Farquhar before he reached the safety of the Royal Society lobby. Had he not been dripping wet, the professor might have stopped to admire the old building. The Royal Society in Wellington was located in an old three-storied 1880s colonial house, with a rabbit warren of twisting dark-wood staircases and intersecting hall ways. There were also a few unaccounted for spaces where a wall in one office would end, but the neighbouring office seemed to start a good few metres away. There was no obvious way into these spaces, and as the building was protected by the Historic Places Trust, it was strictly forbidden to use an enquiring sledge hammer to sort it all out. However, the professor was in no mood to notice the subtleties of his surroundings. ‘This is outrageous!’ he said in his most severe voice to the Wellington Office Royal Society Chief Executive, Dr Arnold Wood. Little dribbles of spit stuck to the underside of Farquhar’s moustache as he spoke. A few flecks also flew on to Dr Wood’s jacket - he was aware of them being there but decided out of politeness against brushing the spittle off. ‘Do you know who I am? I am the world’s foremost expert on the great peacock moth as well as the Aedes aegypti mosquito. I am not used to being treated in such a manner!’ Dr Wood noticed the world’s foremost expert on the great peacock moth and the Aedes aegypti mosquito was making a puddle on his favourite Turkish rug in the lobby – he ushered him through to his office. A cheery gas fire burned in the grate in the Chief Executive’s office where two comfortable upholstered armchairs had been placed. A hint of steam began to rise from Farquhar’s wet coat. ‘Of course we sent a car for you Professor Farquhar. London HQ E-mailed your flight details yesterday. I can’t imagine what happened to David our driver. I’ve asked our receptionist to contact him on his cell, but the phones are not working at present. As soon as he gets here I’ll have him take you to your hotel. There’ll be plenty of time to meet the twins tomorrow,’ said Dr Wood in a soothing voice. Dr Wood was not originally from New Zealand. He was Canadian - not the suave French-Canadian kind from Quebec, but more the gristly red-checked-flannel-shirt-wearing kind from British Columbia. Although out of place in most other countries in the world, his lumberjack attire worked perfectly in New Zealand - for awhile at least. In the 1960s, the Royal Society of New Zealand brought in a dress code in order to blend unnoticed into the community. Members were required to grow a beard (unless female) and wear Roman sandals, socks, shorts and t-shirts in the summer, and sensible boots or leather shoes in the winter, with corduroy trousers and flannel shirts. Hand-knitted jumpers or cardigans were optional. When Wood had interviewed for the job, the interview panel had congratulated him on his excellent adherence to the dress code. Dress had changed as the country became more sophisticated, now the only people who dressed like that were instantly recognisable as scientists affiliated to the Royal Society of New Zealand – the geological branch in particular. In contrast, Farquhar was elegantly attired in an almost black suit, with a dark blue Yves Saint Laurent shirt and a black and blue striped tie with a gold pin. His trouser legs, socks, shoes and hair were soaked but his thigh length tan camel hair coat had borne the brunt of the rain. He hung the heavy coat on the hat rack by the door. He placed his small suitcase on Dr Wood’s desk. ‘If you don’t mind Dr Wood, I would like to put on some dry trousers and socks immediately - I am very uncomfortable. You have a nice fire there. I will dry out my shoes.’ ‘Of course, Professor,’ Dr Wood blushed and headed for the door. ‘Just give me a moment and we can sit down and you can tell me about the twins you have found.’ ‘I’ll send for a towel and some hot tea to help warm you up.’ ‘But I would prefer coffee; I am French after all, although of course my father was English.’ Dr Wood had not met Farquhar before, although he had heard of him because of his reputation in the field of entomology. He was getting slightly irritated by the professor’s brisk superior manner, and his lack of please-and-thank-yous. Dr Wood was a good humoured man and was used to the people around him reflecting that attitude back to him. He shrugged the professor’s manner off as perhaps being because English was not his first language - he would give him the benefit of the doubt for now at least. The professor settled into one of the armchairs and stretched his socked feet towards the flames. He wrapped his still cold hands around the fresh mug of coffee, Dr Wood’s secretary Ryan had delivered along with a pot of tea and some club sandwiches. Dr Wood referred to his dossier on the Golightly twins. He handed Professor Farquhar two photographs. One was a girl with large brown eyes, olive skin, dark freckles on her nose, and a mass of curly chestnut hair, the other was a slim boy with blue eyes, blond/brown hair, pale skin, brown freckles and slight buckteeth. They looked nothing alike and it would have been hard to believe they were twins, were it not for the fact that both had the same arched eyebrows and the same facial expression of slight surprise. ‘Um, Caitlin takes after her father, and Nigel looks more like his mother,’ explained Dr Wood. ‘As you know, one of our operatives picked up some videophone chatter about six weeks ago. We were unable to identify the send and receive sources apart from the general locations of
Dr Wood slurped his tea and continued. ‘One of our members teaching at a school in Lower Hutt first noticed Caitlin Golightly three years ago when she was only twelve. She had developed holographic nail polish in an advanced chemistry class and was selling it to the other students. We later found out that the design of the geometric paint molecules with dielectric materials and silicon oxide-coated micas for the pigment had been done by her twin brother Nigel Golightly.’ ‘So, enterprising as well as intelligent,’ smirked Professor Farquhar. ‘Although both are extremely intelligent, neither of them is particularly good at handing in homework or even completing class work, but their tests results in science and maths are exceptional. By age 13, Caitlin and Nigel had filed several patents, including the nail polish formula - it never took off as nail polish, but several car manufacturers have purchased rights to produce cars which look different colours on different angles. The deal has netted the twins millions in royalties.’ Farquhar snorted, although pheromones he had helped develop were used in orchards around the world to attract and trap pesky moths, he had so far made little money on the deal. Although he hoped his latest project involving mosquitoes was going to bring him fame and fortune. ‘They’ve both recently completed their PhDs through Victoria, and the MacDiarmid Institute has been letting them use their facilities. They have started developing nanotechnology beyond anything that we have seen to date, and have jointly filed patents for self-building nanowires, one atom wide, made of alternating silicon, phosphorus, and boron, where the current only flows in one direction. Going beyond the theoretical, Caitlin has been incorporating the wires into microdevices. Nigel, on the other hand, has developed an interest in geophysics in the last few months and has already published two papers including one on fluid flow across fault planes that I understand has been very well received. He’s recently been invited to work at GNS Science. Unfortunately, with Nigel gone from the lab, Caitlin is not as careful with her gadgets as she should be. There was a nasty incident last week, where several items of microscopic technology left out on a slide on the work bench were bumped and then accidentally inhaled by a janitor. It took ages to track them throughout his body and extract them.’ Dr Wood nibbled a sandwich thoughtfully and continued. ’But the reason we thought it was time to bring them in is because one of our members in the lab, swears she is working in secret on microscopic surveillance devices, mostly cameras and bugging devices with remote directional control. Now I don’t need to tell you that this could revolutionise the intelligence industry world-wide, heck even medicine – gone would be the days of having a camera on a tube shoved up your bottom.’ ‘Quite!’ agreed Farquhar. ‘But how dangerous these devices could be in the wrong hands. This is a means of tracking, listening and watching anyone, anywhere, anytime undetected. It is for certain that developing such technology is going to attract the interests of ECTO.’ Professor Farquhar nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, I agree they must be brought in, for their own protection. What about their parents? Can we expect their co-operation?’ ‘Alas, their father, Dr Theodore Golightly, died when they were only eleven. A massive heart attack. The mother has recently remarried, but the twins aren’t keen on the new step-father, and just last month succeeded in court in declaring themselves emancipated. The mother didn’t object too strenuously, and we notice that the newly weds seem to have purchased an expensive house.’ ‘A pay-off then?’ ‘A court settlement to provide the mother with maintenance. The mother, Joyce Golightly, has for several years done volunteer work at the local food bank as the twins have provided more than enough funds to run the household and pay off the mother’s debts. Despite the settlement, she seems to be making an attempt to get back in touch with her children, visiting them last week for the first time since she remarried. We’re still looking into the step-father but are having trouble finding reliable information. We suspect he could be a con man. The twins have their own house now, but are by no means unprotected. The judge insisted that they hire a nanny and a cook - we’ve managed to put our own people in these positions. They’ve hired their regular taxi driver as their personal driver; we’ve had him vetted and he checked out okay. And the house itself has state-of-the-art surveillance and alarm technology. Up until the mother’s visit last week, the only people who are registered to gain entry are our two operatives, the twins, and the driver, although Caitlin requested that her mother be given access. A move I wasn’t happy about, but one we couldn’t refuse without arousing the twins’ suspicion. The mother could definitely be a weak link.’ There was a timid tap on the door. ‘Enter.’ The young red-headed man from the airport reception poked his head around the door. ‘I’m sorry Dr Wood, I couldn’t find him.’ ‘You!’ exploded Farquhar. ‘Perhaps if you had spent less time chatting to young ladies you would have noticed me standing right next to you.’ David’s face blushed scarlet, the colour remaining the longest in his ear lobes. ‘Never mind David, I’ll talk to you later. Could you just be ready to take Professor Farquhar to his hotel in twenty minutes?’ ‘Yes Dr Wood,’ David shut the door softly. He decided to wait in the car next to the front door rather than chat to the Society receptionist. ‘So Arnold, please forgive my earlier mood – I simply hate to be uncomfortable, and the older I get, the greater my aversion to discomfort,’ Professor Farquhar shrugged disarmingly. ‘But, to business, have you received any new intelligence to suggest that ECTO have noticed or are interested in these particular children?’ ‘Not directly, obviously our thoughts on the videophone chatter is an extrapolation rather than a known certainty, but when you combine that with some recent intelligence that the janitor I mentioned earlier, the one who inhaled the micro-gear, disappeared not long after the incident. I think we can start to build a picture here. He had only been working in the building for two weeks, we had run a full background check after the incident to see if he was the type of chap who might sue, but it turned up nothing. And I mean nothing. His name, his image and even his DNA are recorded no where. We inquired with the usual government agencies, thinking he might be an agent of some sort, but he didn’t belong to any of them. There are no clear images of him on the institute’s surveillance cameras as he was always wearing a baseball cap and always looking down. He had false papers, and given where he was working, we fear the worst – a member of an ECTO cell on a fishing expedition.’ ‘Yes. It does sound like it,’ agreed Professor Farquhar. ‘But just let me check with my contacts in London and France, if they have heard of ECTO offering the technology to any potential buyers. ECTO tends to line up a buyer before they bring in the stock.’ ‘The usual communications are completely knocked out because of the storm, Jean-Claude, honestly we are lucky the electricity is still on. We do have a few Goldbar satellite phones, although satellite coverage can be patchy. Also, you’ll have to come up to the top floor to the comms centre, because the external antenna only works from there.’ Steam was curling gently from Farquhar shoes which were leaning against the fire guard. He stared at them in contemplation for a moment. ‘Let’s do it. I hope the staff won’t mind me walking about in stockinged feet, but I do not fancy putting my wet shoes back on just yet.’ Professor Farquhar replaced the secure satellite phone back in its stand. He looked grim. ‘The news is not good,
‘It’s worse than we thought. They certainly fit the shopping list for the micro spy devices, although perhaps more Caitlin rather than Nigel. We’d better start trying to work out who else they might be targeting and we’ll bring the twins in tomorrow – I know where we can put them for temporary safe keeping. And I’ll send Frank Houston to clean out their labs. He just happens to be in
Farquhar was impressed. He had heard of Dr Houston, a.k.a The Cleaner, a Royal Society man normally based in
Dr Wood’s secretary, Ryan, knocked on the satellite-communications room door and popped his head through into the room. ‘Dr Wood, Professor, I thought you might both like to know that the phones are working again now, and the storm is abating.’ ‘Ah! Excellent. Thank you Ryan, excellent timing. Could you also show Professor Farquhar back to my office and put some more coffee on and I’ll have another cup of tea. Perhaps a few more club sandwiches? Thanks.’ ‘Certainly Dr Wood.’ Ryan opened the door fully, but Farquhar seemed reluctant to leave. Seeing his hesitation Dr Wood lowered his cell phone. ‘You go ahead Jean-Claude. I’m just going to quickly ring my housekeeper and tell her I’ll be late for dinner. Then I’ll give
Arnold Wood had a secret. One that he didn’t mind sharing with Houston whom he knew could be trusted implicitly. But well, it was strictly need-to-know information, and Farquhar did not need to know. Three years ago Dr Wood had discovered a hidden room next to his office when he had one day tripped on a small Persian rug and had to thrust out his arms to steady himself on the dado rail. The very section of paint-covered wooden rail he had placed his hand on had grudgingly swung outward from the wall on an old brass hinge and Dr Wood had watched in amazement as a section of panelled wall had slid back and revealed a small four metre by three metre dust and cobweb-covered room. The space was ready furnished with a nineteenth century wing-back armchair, two framed prints showing English fox-hunting scenes, an oil painting showing the head and shoulders of a tattooed Maori chief signed by an artist named G. Lindauer, and a pedestal table. A newspaper dated 16 February 1889 lay open on the table as if someone were in the process of reading the yellowing curled pages. It took sometime for Dr Wood to realise that the room had a window. Over a century of dust and grime had settled on the glass, obscuring much of the light not already blocked by the heavy drapes. Years of stealth had kicked in and Dr Wood had surreptitiously locked his office door while he assessed the situation. He decided to keep the room a secret - not for any nefarious purpose, but simply because it would be a pleasant place to escape to with a cup of tea and a crossword. His secretary couldn’t find him in there and nagging phone messages, faxes, and E-mails could be forgotten for a few moments. Returning late that night, he had installed an iris scanner set for his own iris. He carefully inserted acid-free paper between the pages of the newspaper, and then slipped it into a large plastic sleeve to send to the museum in the morning. He dusted, vacuumed, and removed the heavy red velvet drapes and other soft furnishings for his housekeeper, Mrs Arbuthnott, to clean. He then carefully tacked a poster of the solar system over the dado rail to cover the tell-tale cracks in the paintwork and the scanner. It did look odd with the rail running under the poster, but he explained to anyone who asked that he liked to pin things at that height for young visitors. Just to be on the safe side he also hung a poster of the development of a conifer tree and one of the Horse Head Nebula across the rail at other places in the room so as not to arouse any suspicion. Turning his cell phone onto secure mode, Dr Wood made the decision to tell
Closing his cell phone, Dr Wood left the Society’s Comms Room to rejoin Farquhar. He was surprised to see the professor sitting behind his desk; the man was lacing up his shoes. ‘Ah, there you are Arnold. I believe there is little more to be done here. I will go to my hotel, have a meal and get some rest. Then we will pick up the twins in the morning to take them to a safe house.’ ‘Yes, all right Jean-Claude. I’ll notify their minders to have the twins ready tomorrow morning.’ Outside the storm had indeed abated. Murky clouds still postured threateningly overhead, but they were out of juice. The best they could now muster was an intermittent sneeze, with the odd freezing wind gust. As soon as Farquhar had dismissed David and dumped his case on the hotel bed he picked up his cell phone and flicked it to a secure line. ‘You need to move tonight.’ Book approx word count: 60,600 Please contact me ASAP if you are a legitimate publisher or literary agent and interested in seeing the complete manuscript. © 2008 Louise Thomas. All rights reserved. |
