THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Page 15
John nodded. “Those discussed with Gary Clarke,” he confirmed.
“I see. Well, some of those are still in the planning stage, in particular, the electronics.”
“Yes. We’ve recruited a consultant to help you tailor the suit to our requirements,” John confirmed, and passed Peter a second card, this one with the name and email address of Leanne Adler, a senior year Cambridge student with an amazing ability with electronics.
“I see her email address is also Cambridge University,” Peter said.
“Yes; small world, isn’t it?” John remarked with a bland face.
“And those who will be wearing the suits; they can attend our offices for a laser fitting?” Peter asked.
“You’ll have two visitors today who need urgent fittings before they leave on a business trip. They’ll have two friends with them, so you might as well do all four at the same time,” John explained before passing him a piece of paper with the names and phone numbers of the other people who would need the suits. “Most of them live at a single estate in Essex and may well choose to come together,” he explained. “As for me, if you can do me now, please,” he asked. “I too am going to have to travel.”
“You’ll be diving too, will you?” Peter asked, keeping his face bland and expressionless in his turn.
“Yes. There’s a surge of interest in diving, you understand,” John told the young man.
“I understand, but these suits are for very hostile environments. I don’t think we’d be comfortable selling so many suits without providing some form of support service, especially given the limited amount of testing that we’ve been able to complete on this item,” Peter explained.
“I see,” John nodded. “So, do you have something in mind?”
“Well, I think Long, Bridge & Sons would request that one of the senior team accompany the suits so that alterations, developments and further support will be on hand,” Peter suggested, and licked his lips. “I would be prepared to tag along, for example,” he murmured.
John considered, and excused himself to make a phone call. It didn’t take long, and when he returned to the room his face was as bland as before.
“Our consortium would like to purchase the sole rights to the BV21 material and diving suit technology,” he told the young man.
Peter hastily called Jack Long and his father to the room and all three listened to John’s offer.
“We will pay you three million Euros to have control over who receives the BV21 material and the technology you’ve developed for the creation of the suits,” he explained. “The contract will be for a period of 10 years, and you will share the technical details with us to allow our people to assist in the further development of the compound. We will have the right to use these compounds, but commercial rights will revert to you at the end of the agreement.”
The three men looked towards one another and licked their lips.
“Make sure Leanne Adler knows of this discussion and of any specialist equipment that you will need to bring with you. She can then arrange for your ticket and appropriate lodging on our, er, ship.” John told Peter.
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Professor Rolle looked furtively about him as he hurried down the 1st floor corridor towards the West End laboratory inside the Department of Chemistry’s Lensfield Road building. He quickly entered and, looking about him, turned the lock in the door before making his way to one of the cabinets.
He grinned as he surveyed the chemicals sitting on shelves within it and began pouring a random mixture of chemicals into the small plastic bottle he had brought with him.
He gave some thought to the process. The end result must smell bad, and have a green colour to it. For some reason, green seemed more appropriate than any other colour, although red had also been considered.
In the end, he had a vile smelling concoction, but he would have to do without the colour. There had been some form of chemical reaction to his mixing, and the substance, at one point greenish, had later on turned to brown. But it would do, he judged, and screwed the lid on tightly before pocketing his efforts and leaving the laboratory as quietly as he had entered.
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Jake pushed the airport trolley while Matt led the way, Thomas and David following, tablets held tightly to their sides.
“You’ve got your money? Phones? Passports? Address for the hotel?” Matt was saying as he looked bewildered about him in his efforts to try and find the right check-in.
“Yes, yes, yes,” the twins chorused.
“An email each day, yes?” Jake reminded them as Matt suddenly burst forward, the right desk having been found.
The twins stood in front of the neatly presented check-in clerk and showed their passports. They agreed that they carried no knives, firearms, explosives or inflammables on their person, and received their boarding card in return.
“Wow, Japan, eh? They got lovely girls out there,” Matt said.
“Remember that Sue Lee girl. History, wasn’t she?” Jake asked.
“Oriental History,” Matt nodded, while they walked towards security.
“Fancy landing yourselves an exchange deal!” Jake chuckled. “You boys get all the good deals!”
They stopped outside the broad entrance to shake hands, and then Matt and Jake watched the twins walk through and put their belongings through the metal detector while they walked through the ten foot security tunnel. They followed the long list of instructions to walk calmly and normally between the yellow lines on the floor, arms out from their sides. When they reappeared at the other end, the twins waved their success before moving out of sight, and Matt emailed the professor to tell him the twins had left.
They didn’t notice Michael off to one side, looking intently at the display of deodorants in Boots, the Chemists. Nor did they pay any heed to the other gentleman who had been discretely following them, who now turned away from the boys as they passed him, a phone held tightly to his ear. He didn’t think he was being overheard when he gave the man in Cambridge an update in Russian, an update cut short by the shop alarm suddenly sounding.
The police were quick to arrest the Russian for the attempted shoplifting of one can of deodorant, and Michael smiled to himself as he made his way to the nearby bus terminus.
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The dinner was a formal affair; black tie for the men and evening gowns for the ladies. Cambridge University held these dinners on a regular basis, inviting men and women from business, politics and education to mingle and dine together, share views and ideas.
On this occasion it was being held in the Old Hall, Queens College. The large hall, seating over 100 people, was one of the oldest in Cambridge, dating from 1448. The wooden ceiling was elaborately painted while tall stained glass windows looked down upon those seated in long rows of tables, the oak darkened with age.
Pre-dinner drinks were served in the Old Kitchens where the large fireplace still stood at one end of the room. Herbert and Claire Rolle had become separated, and in a break between one conversation to the next, Rolle looked around in an effort to find her, only to find himself in front of Professor Derek Lovell instead.
“Having a good time?” the senior professor asked Rolle, shaking his hand.
“Yes, thank you Professor Lovell. It’s going very well, isn’t it?” he asked.
“They always do; the food and wine see to that,” he chuckled. “How’s the other thing coming along?” he asked.
“Oh, we’re keeping our heads down at the moment, but things are proceeding apace,” Rolle agreed.
“Well, there’s a marked increase in the number of students walking through the halls,” Lovell told him. “I thought I’d just let you know,” he murmured.
“What, not registered?” he asked.
“We suspect so. The numbers don’t add up, so to speak. We’re also seeing a larger than average influx of exchange students, particularly from China, but also from Russia and USA. I don’t think th
at needs explaining, does it?” Lovell asked him.
“No, no, it doesn’t,” Rolle agreed.
“About that other matter; the funds were confirmed as transferred shortly before I left to come here. Congratulations professor Rolle, you are now the owner of two ocean-going vessels,” he said with a smile.
“Well, have a good evening, and we’ll talk again in a little while, I’m sure,” Lovell told him, smiling and shaking his hand again before moving on to speak to another guest.
May 14th
The windowless cell was a bland grey, painted with a gloss paint that was easy to scrub clean, and the smell of a powerful disinfectant still hung in the small room from its last cleaning. Two cameras watched over the three occupants, little red LED lights confirming they were working, while a tape machine digitally recorded their voices. The lighting was strong, allowing for no shadows, the florescent tubes protected behind strengthened glass.
Robert Fuller looked nervously from one man to the next while between them, on the table, lay a copy of the Cambridge Chronicle dated 10th April. Although it wasn’t open to his story on page 2, Robert knew that this was the reason for his detention. At least, he hoped it was that and not his voyeuristic peeking at his neighbour’s bedroom window, hoping for a glimpse of nakedness as she prepared for bed each night.
The silence lengthened, the men watching him, saying nothing while he fidgeted, bit his nails and glanced back at them, his worries growing.
“My mother will be getting worried,” he told them, although he wasn’t sure if she would. ‘Eastenders’ would take precedence over just about anything, he reflected.
“Tell us about your story,” one of the two men ordered.
Robert shook his head, already having decided to be a good citizen and reveal the whole truth. “It wasn’t mine. I mean, yes, it was mine, but I didn’t get it from anyone at the university. They wouldn’t talk to me,” he confessed. He had tried. He had tried following up on all the notes Michael had written in his little book. No one returned his calls. Their all too apparent secrecy had goaded him into publishing without corroboration.
“Not yours. But it says it’s yours. Has your name across the top. ‘Article by Robert Fuller’, it says,” said the other man. The man’s eyes frightened Robert. They were small and dark, threatening whatever they settled upon and, right then, they were settled on Robert.
Robert shook his head again. “I know. I stole the story, right? Is that what you wanted to hear? I stole it, ok?”
“Stole it, Robert? Who did you steal it from, and how?”
Robert took a steadying breath and began to explain how he had obtained the story.
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John Dalton shook the hands of the three Germans attending his meeting and they exchanged business cards. He accepted a coffee while complimenting the men on their brand new offices. The building was glass and steel, the meeting room looking out over a neat lawn and a man-made lake shaped to look natural, while incorporating ease of maintenance. Beyond the carefully tended lawn lay Frankfurt and the northern edge of the Hessischer Spessart Park. John knew where he’d prefer to be, and pulled his mind away from all the electronic eyes he imagined watching him.
With the coffee served, John began to talk about the problems of corporate security, of industrial espionage and covert eavesdropping. It was a topic close to his heart and, over the years, he had developed tools to maintain his privacy. He was now offering to sell this knowledge to others.
He took samples from his case and showed them to the interested client. He turned one on and let them see how it impaired communication. He explained the purposes of the others, how video could be scrambled, how windows could be made to vibrate, blocking sound and some degree of vision, how communication devices could be made to fail.
The Germans were impressed and kept his card and his brochure. John returned to his rented car to put the next address into the navigation system while keeping his demons at bay.
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Stanley Charway sat at his desk reviewing the statement Robert Fuller had provided a little earlier that day. The boy had convinced him that he wasn’t involved in the subterfuge, on this or any other topic for that matter. He was a dolt.
Nonetheless, Stan queried the various databases he had access to, corroborating the boy’s story to verify that he hadn’t sandwiched any lies in amongst the truth, a last attempt at hiding important information from the authorities.
He typed Michael Bennett’s name into his search engine and lifted his tea cup to his mouth, stopping as his screen changed.
“Well, well,” he murmured, returning the cup to somewhere on the table as his eyes scanned down the brief profile of one Michael Bennett, once a member of the British Armed Forced Special Intelligence Group. There were no details, of course, and Stan was pretty sure he’d be receiving a call sometime soon from Sir Arthur to enquire why such a query had been made.
Stan made a note of Bennett’s current address and moved on, relatively sure he’d just uncovered a golden nugget.
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John Dalton’s second meeting was in a busy building in the heart of Bonn, the headquarters of Fernsehen Zentral.
Fernsehen Zentral was a relatively new communications and entertainment company that had grown rapidly over the last two years. With fresh capital and a focus on investment, they were the backer to two German television companies. As such, their need to maintain confidential corporate data was paramount to their strategy.
John once again showed his wares and explained their purpose and capabilities. He passed out his brochures, the glossy pages offering a level of security above that which they currently enjoyed. He then brought out his samples for the managers to see.
He pressed one unit to the large picture window while explaining its purpose, and then switched on the second unit to scramble any video in the vicinity. Finally, he disabled all mobile communication within the room and asked them to confirm it by looking at their phones and tablets.
“This is most impressive,” Jonas Grun, their senior manager agreed, putting his mobile back into his breast pocket.
Jonas Grun had worked in media for over ten years, much of it ensuring that costs were kept down and deadlines met. He was now the company’s Production Manager in their Bonn offices, a suitably vague title that allowed his board to give him as much work as they felt he could manage. A heavy-set man, he wore glasses with a thick square frame to offset his round face.
“Thank you. However, I’m really here to discuss the plans for the launch of your first satellite,” John explained.
Jonas Grun blinked, his expression cast in stone as he watched John take out an agreement document Jonas and Cheryl had signed a little over a month before.
“Cheryl and I were recently in the same organisation, hence my knowledge of these items. However, our organisation has had some internal differences of opinion, and as a result, we now have two organisations. We both wish to continue operating in complete secrecy, but it is my new company that wishes to offer you preferred pricing for the lift of your satellite into GEO,” John explained.
“Assuming this is all correct,” Jonas said, glancing at the document and recognising it as a copy of the one locked in his office, “why should I change my alliance and go with you?” he asked.
“Two million US Dollars,” John answered. “That is the discount we are willing to provide you with, if you agree to not only launch with us, but launch early.”
“Launch early? But it was Cheryl who told us no launch could take place until mid June,” he complained.
“One of the principle reasons for our split. My own organisation, using exactly the same technology and many of the key technical individuals who were engaged in your project previously, now invite you to allow us to lift your satellite. We will do so as early as possible, and for a fee of six million US Dollars, payable on receipt of the first signal from your parked satellite.”
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Jonas let himself fall back in his chair. “I will need to speak to our Chairman,” he told John.
“I understand. It’s been a pleasure talking to you, and I hope to hear from you soon,” John told him. He turned off his devices before shaking hands with the bemused managers.
John went on to visit two more companies that day, all voicing excitement at his wares.
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Cheryl Hall pressed the stud in her ear to respond to the phone call, the name of the caller having appeared on her sat-nav screen. “Hello Mr Grun. How are you?” she asked politely.
“Fine, fine, Miss Hall. And are you well?” Jonas asked, his face turned to the wall of his office.
“Very well, thank you Mr Grun. How can I help you, Sir?” she asked.
“We have just had a visitor offering a similar service to your own, but at a lower price, and a more rapid turn-around,” he told her.
“Ah, yes, this would be from our latest competitor,” she admitted.
“They are offering a massive inducement to use their services,” he pointed out.
“I see,” she said, her eyes checking the road behind her before she moved to overtake another BMW. “Perhaps we can match their price?” she suggested.
“$6 million US Dollars, Miss Hall,” he told her.
“Oh. Well, we certainly can’t reduce our pricing by that much,” Cheryl told Jonas.
“The problem is, given the risks, my Board is very eager to accept the lowest bid. I hope you understand, Miss Hall.”
“Oh yes, quite Mr Grun. I totally understand, and if a problem does occur, then please don’t hesitate to contact me. Perhaps we can do business in the future,” she suggested.
“Very good, Miss Hall. We will cancel our original order, and consider you for any future work that we may have. Thank you for your understanding, and good day.”
Cheryl turned off her phone and smiled, tension easing from her shoulders.
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Stan Charway decided to meet ‘his’ students in a small bakery on Jesus Lane, close to many other shops and restaurants. He took one of the tables in the cafeteria at the back of the bakery and allowed them all to buy their own drinks and sandwiches before asking for their reports. His expenses didn’t run to buying lunch for his team.