Chapter Six

The two men dressed as workmen reached the roof of the National Space Museum.

Pigeons scattered as they walked towards the edge of the roof.

'Dish Seven,' the gruff voiced one announced.

His colleague nodded, taking a pair of clippers from the pocket of his overalls.

'I don't understand why we still need to do this.'

'Neither do I. That isn't going to stop me.'

They located the dish, identifying it by the little panel screwed to the back. Together, they unplugged the coaxial cable at the back.

The gruff voiced man opened up his canvas kit bag and removed a brass cylinder the size of a Thermos flask. It was surprisingly light, with a socket at either end and a neat row of switches along its side. He adjusted the settings, then plugged it into the dish. His colleague connected the other end to the cable.

They eased the device into place, tucking it out of sight.

A bright yellow vintage car turned into an anonymous-looking car park underneath an imposing Whitehall office block.

In a third-floor window opposite, one of the watchers took a photograph, the other made a note into a dictaphone.

'Six oh-five. Four entering. Three male, one female. Yellow vintage car, make unknown, registration Whisky Hotel Oscar Eight.'

Alan watched Oswald on the floor of the editing suite, rummaging through Eve's press pack. He'd seen the contents for himself at the Museum, when they'd been handing out the packs. Glossy photographs of the crew, with biographies on the back; maps of Mars; artist's impressions of what a Mars Colony might look like; description of Mars. Alan saw the piece of paper that he wanted, a glossy card bearing a diagram of a space suit.