Simon Toyne - The Tower

‘So you dropped out.’

‘That’s one way of putting it, sir.’

‘How would you put it?’

‘At first I felt cheated, like something had been taken away from me. It seemed pointless to carry on studying for a job that was no longer there. There were plenty of private companies offering to fund the remainder of my studies but they all wanted me to sign my life away in exchange. Work for them as soon as I graduated, study stock markets instead of stars. It wasn’t what I wanted. So I took off and went travelling to clear my head and try and work out what I was going to do with my life now NASA no longer appeared to be an option.’

‘Where did you end up? There’s a gap in your file of almost two years where you seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth: no social security records, no job history, no credit card records.’

‘I was off the grid mainly – Europe first then Southeast Asia and eventually Africa, travelling from place to place, working cash jobs in bars and as migrant labour on farms, staying in backpacker hostels that charged by the night. They don’t take credit cards in most of those places. I’d been a student for most of my adult life so I knew how to live cheap.’

‘Then what, you saw the light and decided to rejoin society?’

‘Yes, sir. I realized I was squandering an opportunity. What happened on 9/11 changed my life – but almost three thousand other people lost theirs. My future had been altered; theirs had been taken away. My intention had always been to pay back the money for my education by devoting myself to public service and working for NASA. I came to realize that just because that particular opportunity had been closed to me didn’t mean I couldn’t pay my dues in other ways.’

‘So you signed up for the FBI?’

‘Not immediately, sir.’

‘No, that’s right.’ O’Halloran opened the file for the first time and flipped to a page near the back. ‘First you worked as a volunteer for various aid agencies, setting up computer networks and fundraising pages and teaching computer skills to homeless people and the long-term unemployed.’ He looked back up. ‘You really weren’t kidding about money were you?’

‘No, sir – it’s never been something that has particularly motivated me.’

O’Halloran pursed his lips and studied Shepherd like a poker player deciding which way to bet. ‘I’m not entirely happy that the Bureau I have served all my adult life seems to be some kind of consolation prize for you, Shepherd, but I can’t afford to turn away a candidate with your qualifications.’ He closed the file and laid a hand on the second one. ‘Are you familiar with the Goddard Space Flight Center?’

‘Yes sir, I spent a few summers there running test data off Explorer 66.’

‘Is that anything to do with the Hubble Space Telescope?’

‘Not really. They both collect data from the furthest edges of the universe, at least they did – Explorer is pretty much used as a test satellite now. Hubble does everything Explorer used to and has a much greater reach.’

The lips pursed again. ‘Not any more.’ O’Halloran opened his desk drawer, removed a badge wallet and handed it to Shepherd. ‘I am not in the habit of sending trainees out in the field before they have completed their training or spent at least a year in a field office, but apparently, out of more than thirty thousand currently active Bureau personnel, you are uniquely qualified for a situation that has arisen.’ Shepherd opened the wallet and saw his own photo staring back from an FBI ID card. ‘That will temporarily entitle you to carry a concealed weapon and transport it onboard commercial airlines. You can collect your Roscoe and a box of shells from Agent Williams on your way out.’

Shepherd read the name printed next to a date that expired in a month. ‘My middle name is Thomas,’ he said, turning the badge to O’Halloran.

‘There’s already a Special Agent J. T. Shepherd in the Memphis office and, as no two agents can have the same ID,’ he raised his hand and made a small sign of the cross in the air, ‘I now baptize you J. C . Shepherd. That’s your Bureau name, and you will answer to it. I am placing Agent Franklin in full command of the investigation and you are to follow his lead exactly. You have been assigned to this investigation solely because of your unique and considerable expertise in the field of astronomy. You will use it to assist Agent Franklin in this investigation and give your opinion only when it is requested. The rest of the time you will look upon this as a valuable opportunity to learn on the job from a well-seasoned and highly regarded agent. Once your usefulness to the investigation has been exhausted, your temporary status will be revoked and you will report back here to finish your training, understood?’

‘Yessir.’

‘I trust you know your way to Goddard from here? There’s a car signed out to you in transport.’ He took the plain covered file from the desk and held it up. ‘Agent Franklin can brief you on the way.’

Shepherd and Franklin drove for the first ten minutes in total silence, the whump of windscreen wipers and hiss of tyres over wet tarmac punctuated only by the rustle of paper as Franklin read through the file. Occasionally he jotted a note in a pocketbook lit by the glow of a small Maglite clamped in his teeth. Shepherd sensed he was unhappy about the situation. That made two of them.

After his performance on Hogan’s Alley the last thing Shepherd wanted was to be heading out into the real world with a loaded gun tucked into his jacket. As promised, Agent Williams, the firearms instructor, had been ready and waiting in the armoury with an oiled SIG 226, which he made Shepherd speed-load from an open box of 9x19 Parabellums while he looked on. Shepherd’s Catholic education had hammered enough Latin into him to know that para bellum meant ‘prepare for war’. He tried to push the thought from his mind as he slotted fifteen shells into the magazine, fumbling two, before smacking it home and looking up into the pained expression on the instructor’s face.

‘Do yourself a favour,’ Williams had said, as Shepherd signed for the gun and the spare shells, ‘try not to put yourself in any situation where you may have to draw this weapon. Just keep it in your holster and come back as quickly as you can to finish your training.’

Shepherd checked the rear-view mirror. Behind him he could see the lights of the grey panel van that had followed them out of the gates at Quantico. It was a tech wagon, loaded with forensics equipment and two Physical Science Technicians ready to process the crime scene his former workplace had now become. They were on I-95, heading north: the bright lights of DC spread across the horizon ahead of them like a luminous stain, lighting up the low cloud that was spilling monsoon-level rain over everything. The weather was slowing them down but at least it would be too late for commuter traffic to be a problem when they eventually hit the capitol. He figured they would be in Maryland in twenty minutes, though he still had no idea why they were heading there.

The Maglite twisted off in the passenger seat and Shepherd heard the creak of the vinyl seat as Franklin turned to him. ‘That little story you span back there,’ he said, ‘your tale of travel to the far corners of the world to find yourself – I just want you to know, I ain’t buying it.’

Shepherd felt heat on his cheeks and was glad it was too dark for Franklin to see. ‘I don’t follow you, sir.’

‘I’ve spent over twenty years talking to people who have done everything from write bad cheques to kidnap children so they could torture them for fun, and you know what every single one of ’em had in common? They all tried to lie to me. Now you may have all your highfalutin’ degrees in astrophysics and rocket science and whatever else, but I got a degree in people and I know when someone is spinning me a line. I can smell it on them, and right now, Agent Shepherd, you stink.’