THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Read online

  And he knew to focus on Cambridge.

  His notes held more questions than answers. In particular, what was the reality behind a foolish space story published in their local paper on the 10th of April? It was a flight of fancy, unsubstantiated at every turn, so why had it been published?

  That it was a university town that was his target was beyond question. Otherwise, why would so many universities be contending with each other with ridiculous videos of toy satellites rising into the air?

  He also wanted to know why the Cambridge University Physics team were so quiet. Until recently they had regularly updated their blog with stories of their difficulties in obtaining room on a launch vehicle to place their experiment into Low Earth Orbit. Now, and coincidentally since November when the strange weather balloons had been noted, they were no longer concerned. Could one of the balloons have been theirs? Had their experiment been lifted, Stan wondered, tapping the sheet of paper with his pencil.

  And finally, as if that wasn’t enough, several operatives had commented on the unseasonal increase in visitors, in particular, Chinese visitors to Cambridge. Just what was there in Cambridge that drew so many visitors so early in the year? Not just any visitors either, but the Chinese and Russians.

  Stanley nodded to himself and sent off various emails, waking more of his operatives’ in-and-around Cambridge while closing down those from farther afield.

  May 6th

  The trip from Cambridge to Long, Bridge & Sons didn’t take long in the little CUSF Fiat allotted to Gary Clarke, their Chairman. They were barely on the M11 heading north when they had to come off to negotiate the small country roads leading to the factory. Parking at the back, Gary attached the electricity cable to charge the car’s batteries while he was in the meeting.

  Gary took Allan Blake along with him for a review of the progress Jack Long had made on the suit.

  Jack’s smile was broad and welcoming as he greeted the two university students and made small talk as he led them along the corridor to his office where a second man, somewhat older than Jack, stood to be introduced.

  “My partner, Robert Bridge,” Jack told them. The man, a few pounds overweight, sported a full red beard while also being bald, ears like handles and eyes that twinkled, but could just as easily cast fire. Allan was reminded of images of Hell’s Angels back in the 70s and wondered if Robert owned a motorbike too.

  As drinks were served, another man entered the room. The new arrival was still in his twenties, but his features, together with his startling red hair identified him as Robert Bridge’s son, Peter.

  Peter smiled as the eyes of the room drifted towards him, to become absorbed looks from the two university students. He chuckled as he held his arms out from his sides, displaying the single piece suit he wore.

  The suit appeared to be a single suit of rubber or latex that closely moulded his body. It covered him from head to toe, enshrouding his hair, ears and neck before covering his torso and limbs, even his fingers and toes. Only his face was uncovered, the suit running along the underside of his jaw and chin before sliding upwards, over his ears and forehead.

  “You can see that we’ve made the cooling channels a lot smaller,” Jack said. “That has also helped increase the non-motorised flow of the coolant, and reduced the volume and overall weight quite significantly.”

  “It’s skin tight,” Allan noted, not having had the benefit of seeing the suit beforehand.

  “Yes, although we’ve sculptured the inside of the suit to have some air flow between the fabric and the skin. You need that if you’re going to wear the suit for any length of time,” Jack pointed out. “We’ve compensated for the additional pressure by adding some Carbon into the compound. That would equate to the use of Mylar in the current NASA spacesuit, but has benefits over Mylar in terms of strength and weight.”

  “And disadvantages on cost,” Gary surmised.

  “True, but this alternative will still be a twentieth the cost of the NASA suit,” Jack nodded.

  “The coolant channels broaden under the arms, behind the knees, elbows and in the inner thighs. That means that any squeezing or bending motion in the limbs provides still further movement of the liquid about the suit,” Jack explained. “Because of the reduced volume, we suggest a single reservoir of liquid with heating and refrigeration units sculptured to the back. Your people at the University are working on a lightweight and form-fitting solution.”

  Gary nodded. “You’ve changed the zip too,” he noticed, standing to go over to Peter for an even closer look at the tightly fitting suit.

  “Yes, a broad magnetic strip has now been built into the suit. The overlapping edges form a tight and airtight seal. In fact, it’s so tight, we’ve had to manufacture a special little tool for lifting the edge so that the rest of the seal can be pulled apart,” Peter explained.

  He showed them what he meant, pulling a short and knife-like plastic object from a wrist pocket on the suit, and using it to pull up an edge of the suit on his chest. He could then pull the suit apart. With a clever artistic touch of a colour flash across his chest, the seam was otherwise invisible, hidden by the edge of the colour change.

  Gary looked again at how the colour was used and guessed where other seams might lie. “It has underpants!” he suddenly observed.

  Peter, Jack and Robert laughed. “It has a removable gusset area,” Peter agreed, his fingers drawing a line around his crotch and between his legs, then turning to do the same across his buttocks to the small of his back. Now it had been pointed out to them, Gary and Allan could see it, and immediately understood its purpose.

  “That’s brilliant!” Gary cried.

  “Oh, there’s more,” Jack chuckled.

  “We’ve been investigating some of the other problems your project posed,” Robert told them. “So the suit material is also resistant to UV radiation, and in particular, type UVC,” he told them.

  “We’ve also made a small change to the outer structure of the suit,” Peter added. “The fabric is now much more resistant to being pierced or torn,” he explained, his hand running down the chest.

  “And what’s this around the neck?” Gary asked as he noted that the material seemed to have a flap of looser material all around the head, travelling across the shoulders, upper back and across the collar bones.

  “It transpired that there are a lot of synergies between your requirements, and ideas that the divers have had, diving in the depths of the Arctic Ocean. So we’ve created, as a suggested solution, a complete face mask,” Jack explained.

  Peter reached across to where a large fish bowl vase stood on one of the book shelves, its rounded surface flattened at one side as if to fit on the shelf more easily. Inverting it and grinning at the surprised looks on the students faces, he lifted it over his head and down, the flattened side towards the back.

  “Putting it on can be tricky if you’re not used to it,” Robert explained as his son threw his head back so he could position the flattened rear of the bowl into the seam that ran around the back of his suit. Once under it, his finger could then ease the rest of the seam over the ridge of the bowl all the way round while his head dropped forward to help the process.

  “There’s a magnetic area on the crown of the suit that meets the top of the glass bowl, so it’s not just the seam of the suit holding it in place,” Jack explained.

  “Would that work, with no external pressure from an atmosphere?” Allan wondered aloud.

  “We’d need to test it,” Gary agreed.

  “We have. It does,” Peter told them, his voice surprising the students by coming from the table speaker.

  “Another innovation the divers wanted. The headpiece converts voice signal to electronic communication. In this case, we’re using Bluetooth, but that can be adapted to client requirements.”

  “And he can hear us?”

  “Same method in reverse,” Jack nodded. “The conference facility in this room is picking up our voices and sending it
to an earpiece embedded in his ear, under his suit,” he explained.

  “The divers have their own system, and I’m sure the space industry has their own too,” Robert shrugged. “Whatever is wanted, it can be provided.”

  “Well, this is absolutely incredible,” Gary admitted.

  “I must ask,” Robert said as Peter left the room. “Is this really just a project, or does it have anything to do with that article in the Cambridge Chronicle?”

  +++++++++++++++++

  Michael came out of the Ugly Duckling restaurant shortly after eight that evening, his stomach satisfactorily full. He waved goodbye to the staff and promised he’d be there the following week, then turned automatically on St John’s Street to head south, towards the flat on Thoday street. Almost by habit he turned into All Saints Passage, cutting through the alleys and gardens between buildings to reappear on St John’s Street, fifty yards down the road. It was a regular shortcut used by nearly all students.

  Within moments he knew he was being followed, alarm bells ringing in his inner ear as two Chinese gentlemen reappeared on the road at exactly the same place he had.

  Continuing down St John’s Street to where it changed to Trinity Street, Michael entered another alley, moving quickly to turn right and then left, running along the narrow corridor between the back of two buildings in order to reach Clifford Place, and then Green Street.

  He was out of breath. He didn’t do this often enough, he recalled. When was the last time he’d gone for a run?

  He crossed Green Street to enter another narrow alley between two buildings and in the near blackness of its mouth, watched the place he’d just come from.

  Seconds passed, and the two Chinese men appeared, their eyes scanning Green Street before they began looking for the alleys. Michael didn’t wait, but ran along the alley, following it behind and to the side of buildings until it met with Market Passage.

  There were shouts from behind him, and a hasty glance showed the two suited gentlemen running after him, Chinese faces screwed up into anger.

  Michael ignored his burning breath and pounding heart to rush down Sidney Street to St Andrews Street, the two Chinese men slowly gaining on him. But there were buses on St Andrews Street, and Michael rapped urgently on the door of one of them to gain access to the bus as it prepared to move off, never more grateful to move into its busy interior and watch the Chinese men come to a halt thirty paces away, both struggling to find their breath.

  Finding a seat, Michael breathed deeply as he reviewed what had just occurred, his heart pounding. The Chinese had begun to show their hand and the others couldn’t afford to hold back much longer. He would have to start taking extra precautions now.

  May 8th

  News had begun to trickle in. Stan had begun pinning larger items to the wall, juggling items around as he tried putting them in chronological order, a black marker stabbing at names he believed to be involved in the clandestine operation.

  In the centre of the wall was the article from the Cambridge Chronicle.

  Stan looked at it, trying to judge its importance. It didn’t take a lot of skill or knowledge to know that much of the story was fiction. Had it been true, then knowledge of it would have been far more apparent. But was there some truth in it, if only a grain? Had the leaders of this operation planned for such a story to be published in order to have people discount everything they heard that was in any way similar?

  There had been a lot of other fanciful activity of late, but Stan discounted it. All of it had occurred after that article. That article had been the beginning, the spring-board if you will. The rest was noise, he surmised, put there to distract.

  In which case, who and what was Robert Fuller, the author of the article, and where did he fit in? He ran a check against the journalist and found nothing. The man was absolutely clean without even a church affiliation.

  The influx of visitors to Cambridge had been confirmed by all of his operatives. It was much too early in the year, and together with an influx of Americans, always liking Cambridge, its architecture and its history, had come large groups of Russians and Chinese. Those were not normal; not in those volumes.

  Stan stopped playing with his pencil to lift his mobile from the table and select an icon.

  “Liz?” he said, talking to Sir Arthur Coleman’s long-suffering secretary. “Can you let the boss know, I’m moving the enquiry to Cambridge,” he told her. “I shall also need two teams of twelve Special Operatives, and one of the groups must be young enough to fit in as students,” he explained. He’d need them if he was to dissuade these numerous groups of foreign nationals from doing anything regrettable. “He’ll know where to reach me,” he told the overworked woman before placing the phone in his pocket.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Rolle exited the Cavendish laboratory only to stop as he noticed a thin Asian man standing to one side, a worried frown on his face.

  “Robert? Is that you?” he asked.

  “Ah, Professor. I’m so glad to have caught you,” Robert Hwang told him, and looked about him with continued nervousness. “Can we go somewhere to talk?” he asked. “Somewhere private, where we will not be seen?”

  “Certainly. But what’s this about?” the professor asked, intrigued as to what the owner of a Chinese restaurant could want with him, other than perhaps his extended patronage. That wouldn’t be a problem.

  The professor re-entered the laboratory and led the English-born Chinese man to one of the small meeting rooms tutors often used for short meetings with individual students. He turned the flip-sign to red and closed the door.

  “So, how can I help you?” he asked the agitated Asian.

  “We get many people in the restaurant, Professor, but the other day, we had four men who had only just arrived from China. Big men, like Sumo wrestlers, powerful men. I told them I do not know Cantonese, that I am British, not Chinese, and they took my offered table and ate.”

  “Carry on,” Rolle urged.

  “Well, they spoke in Cantonese, which I know,” Robert admitted. “They spoke of needing to get a special substance, and how you know where it is, and if you do not provide it, then they must find out from you where it is so that they can obtain it.”

  Rolle slid his hand through his hair and breathed slowly out. Now he was in trouble, he thought.

  “Please Professor,” Robert begged. “You must be very careful with these men. They are very, very dangerous men!”

  +++++++++++++++++

  Allan grinned as the twins, Matt, Jake and Leanne all played the same game on their tablets. They were in the Thoday Street flat, sitting on the twin’s couch as they tried their hand on Allan’s new ‘game’.

  Using the tablet like an aircraft joystick, the aim was to keep a small circle within a set of brackets to finally ‘dock’ within a large hanger space.

  “Is this is what it’s going to be like?” Jake asked, the motion of the tablet moving the small circle on the screen. The circle often slid off centre as the program required the user to navigate around an object. When it did so it changed colour, moving from green to yellow, and then to red. The aim of the game was to keep the circle green, and land in the hanger.

  “The heads up display and the colouring,” Allan agreed. “The game will have different backgrounds in an effort to steal your attention, and the manual controls might be slightly different, depending what vehicles we use, but using this game will get you comfortable with the overall idea of keeping the box in the green, and where to find the data you need. The heads up display will be consistent across all applications,” he explained.

  “Cool!” the twins murmured, engrossed in their tablets as they moved them gently in front of them.

  “I’m going to distribute the game right across Cambridge and there’ll be an automated leader board for successful dockings and time spent ‘in space’. You never know; we may find a brilliant space pilot out there,” he grinned.

  May 12th

&nbs
p; Anyone other than Michael Bennett may have had trouble recognising John Dalton as he exited the cab and gave the driver a small tip. His hair had been washed and cut, a tint darkening the grey strands to relieve him of the extra years they had added to his age. He wore a well-cut suit while his skin had acquired a light tan. A pair of tinted glasses completed the transformation.

  Straightening as the cab drove away, John turned to look at the offices and manufacturing centre for Long, Bridge and Sons. Theirs was one of the older buildings on the estate, the frontage evocative of the 1960s when it had been built. Inside, the building had been renovated and it was modern, right down to the coffee dispenser from which Peter Bridge obtained their cups of coffee.

  “Advanced Exploration Service,” Peter read from the business card John had produced.

  “Yes,” John agreed. “We actually front for a number of other organisations, ones that don’t necessarily want their names associated with certain types of exploration,” he explained. “We’re registered in the Isle of Man,” he added, and Peter nodded with a fresh understanding.

  “So, what can we do for you?” Peter asked. “I understand you indicated some interest in our BV21 Diving Suit.”

  “Yes. I wish to place an order for 75 units,” John told him.

  “75!” Peter’s eyes widened. “That’s quite a few, possibly the largest order we’ve ever had, in fact.”

  “I appreciate that, but we’re also on a tight schedule, so we’d appreciate a short lead time on the units. In fact, if we could have 30 within 10 days and the balance in the first week of June,” John asked.

  “10 days!” Peter gasped. “We will have to delay our other orders to meet that deadline.”

  “We would be willing to pay an additional fee for the rapid service, say 5%,” John offered. “We’d also like the suits to incorporate all of the Cambridge University modifications,” he murmured.

  Peter looked more keenly at the thin man seated across from him. “Modifications?” he asked.