THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Read online

  “Well, the biggest thing is the lifting of their satellite, of course,” Ben Knightly said around a mouthful of tuna mayonnaise and sweetcorn sandwich.

  “So, it’s definitely Cambridge’s then,” Stan asked, wanting to be sure.

  A few of his team nodded. “No one is saying much because it’s meant to be a big secret, but everyone knows it was Cambridge University that lifted their own experiment,” Sam Drake agreed.

  “I guess the American’s, Russian and Chinese will know this too, then,” Stan sighed.

  “Not so sure they would,” Ben said. “I mean, everyone knows the university did it, but just as importantly, everyone knows we don’t want others, especially USA, Russia and China, learning how it was done.”

  “So they talk to the likes of us, because we’re British, but not to someone like Paul, because he looks Chinese,” Sam explained.

  Paul Grady, whose parents had been Chinese and Korean, nodded. “I’ve learnt absolutely nothing,” he agreed.

  “Got any names for me?” Stan asked the others.

  “Professor Rolle,” Ben said.

  “Gary Clarke, the Chair of the CUSF,” Sam added.

  “Anyone mentioned the name ‘Michael Bennett’?” Stan asked.

  There was a shaking of heads.

  Stan chewed his sandwich with mechanical thoroughness as he thought of the two new names he had and how they would fit into the scheme. Meanwhile, his team waited, eager for their next instructions.

  May 15th

  The coach was the latest Earthglide model from MCI, a forty-seat coach providing all the comfort of airliner type seating, video at each seat, drink dispensers, air conditioning and restrooms. It drove slowly into the car park of Long, Bridge & Sons and thirty five men and women disembarked to look about them in open interest, and some trepidation.

  “Where we meant to go Bert?” asked one of the men, every bit as broad and stocky as the first man, his tattoos faded with age, his shirt stretched across his rotund belly.

  “Just hold on, all of you!” Bert cried, and marched through the back door to find out who was in charge.

  By chance, it was Robert Bridge who came out to greet Bert and his extended family. He led the way into the warehouse, work in the factory slowing for the space of time it took Robert to guide the visitors into the measuring room, the latest new facility at the plant.

  “I want to explain the process to you all, so you know what will happen,” he explained as they filed in to create a semicircle with their back to the walls and the laser equipment in front of them.

  “The suits have to be extremely close to your body, like a second skin,” he told them. “For this reason, we use a laser beam to build up an exact model of your bodies. This means the suit will fit you perfectly.”

  The mechanic turned the equipment on and Robert stood on the platform to show how the harmless light moved rapidly from his head to his toes.

  “In order to be precise, when you have your measurement taken you will be in the nude,” he warned them.

  “You mean we won’t be wearing anything under the suit either?” a woman of older years asked.

  “No, you won’t,” Robert agreed.

  “Uh, I don’t know about that!” she stormed while looking about her neighbours in disgust.

  “And we have to wear that all the time, even when in bed?” another lady asked.

  “As I understand it; to begin with, yes. Then, as things settle down in your new environment, you can set up a discrete area with sufficient security so that you won’t need to wear them if you stay within that area. But these questions need to be put to your own Team Leader; he knows much more about your future plans than I do,” Robert pointed out.

  “What about us bigger girls?” asked a lady in her forties with a bust that must have been all of 50DD. “Does it give us any support where we need it most?” she asked tactfully, but still getting a few wolf whistles, ribald comments and laughter.

  “You’ll find that the suit provides some support, and we can always add some additional support over the top of it, if needed,” Robert told her.

  “What, like a corset, or something,” she asked.

  “Exactly,” he nodded.

  “What if I put some weight on,” Bert asked.

  “You won’t!” Martha slapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make him wince while her expression promised him a dire death should it ever occur.

  “You can put on, or take off, about three kilograms of weight before the suit will need changing. The suit cannot be altered. We are preparing a facility on board your ship for making new suits.”

  “And if I fall pregnant?” asked a tall and slender girl, chewing gum. The younger men laughed and the older men made disparaging remarks about her options, one making her blush before she held up a single finger and told the man what his chances were.

  “The three kilograms variable is only true for general weight changes; weight that is put on around the body and not just one place,” Robert explained.

  “Like your belly, eh Bert?” someone asked, soliciting more comments and laughter.

  “Yes, if the weight is just one place, say more than three centimetres’ of swell at the belly or bust, or anywhere for that matter, then you’ll need a new suit,” he agreed.

  He waited a few moments in case there were any more questions, and then nodded. “Ok, let me lead you through to where you can have a coffee or a cup of tea while you wait your turn, and then we can have each of you come in here and be measured.”

  +++++++++++++++++

  Like two tribes of a pre-Christian era, the Secret Service men recognised the four Chinese men as their adversaries as they walked from Guildhall Street into Market Hill and the open square where market stalls had been erected in long lines.

  It was late evening and reasonably quiet. The market stalls had closed several hours before, but being in the centre of Cambridge, couples and small groups meandered through the square, making their way to or from any of the many small restaurants and bars that graced the nearby streets.

  The Chinese men noticed the British men at probably the same instant and looks were exchanged as the men moved apart, rolling their shoulders and flexing their arms.

  “Command. We have four Chinese hostiles on Market Hill, over,” the senior British man murmured into the small device beside his ear. His men moved apart in order to stop the Chinese from leaving by any of the side streets on their side of the square.

  “Use police authorisation to detain,” came Mr Charway’s response in their ear pieces.

  The British reached slowly and carefully into their pockets to draw out their police ID cards, at which point the Chinese moved in.

  A British operative went down with scarcely a sound while a Chinese man spun away from his British adversary, on his feet but shaken by the rapid hand movement that had landed sharply against his chest.

  In moments the eight men joined battle, pairs moving together, and then apart, some exchanging partners in a swift dance of flashing limbs.

  The Chinese made sharp cries as they fought, while the British remained silent; hands, feet and heads moving rapidly as they came together, their surge of movement too all consuming to last for long, at which point the combatants moved apart to reassess each other.

  The British were fitter and took the flurry of movement to the Chinese, fighting hard to beat the resilient Asians, while their foes began to work in teams, turning swiftly to surprise the British.

  The fighting moved to the north of the square, scattering the public as the violence surged swiftly back and forth, moving without warning into Rose Crescent.

  The end of the fighting came as suddenly as it had begun. As the siren of police cars approached from Trinity Street, two Chinese fell to the ground under the blows of the British and rolled back, away from their combatants before stumbling away to the south. The other two broke off their fighting to run back the way they came, helping their injured co
mrades and leaving the British to help each other melt into the alleys off Rose Crescent.

  The police car arrived and came to a sudden stop, two policemen striding out from the vehicle to look about the empty square with an air of surprise, their tension melting away as they saw that there was nothing happening. Slowly, hesitantly, members of the public came forward to tell the policemen what they had seen.

  May 16th

  Professor Rolle had only just got into his office that morning when the door opened and Stanley Charway entered, a small grin on the stooped man’s face as he showed the professor his credentials, the smile growing thin as the professor mildly asked what he could do to help.

  “My contacts advise me that you are involved in the launching of various small projects into space,” Stan said, looking about the clutter of the small office. The bookshelves were full, with additional books and magazines stacked in piles on the floor. Glossy photographs, presumably taken from the Hubble telescope, took up the space not covered by the book shelves, while the professor’s desk top looked similarly cluttered and uncoordinated. It made Stanley’s fingers twitch with the urge to clean it up and categorise everything.

  “Launching things into space, Mr Charway? Is that how I should address you; as Mr Charway? Is there a title that goes with your position in the Government?” The professor asked.

  “Mr Charway is fine,” Stan nodded. “Now, about these small packages you’re launching into space?” he enquired gently.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there,” Professor Rolle told him.

  “Can’t, or won’t, professor?”

  “I’m flattered that the British Government should think me responsible for a revolutionary technology, but the truth is, I’m just using the publication of that story in the Chronicle as an excuse to drum up interest in Astrophysics. You’ll probably hear the name of Gary Clarke associated with this fiction too, Mr Charway. As the chair of the Cambridge University Spaceflight Society, he too shares in my enthusiasm to ‘spread the word’ as it were,” the professor smiled.

  “And the projects that were recently launched? How do you suppose they got there?” Stan asked, his attention now focused on the professor’s expression.

  “How should I know, Mr Charway. I’ve not been involved in the acquisition of launch facilities for some years now. Have you spoken to Professor Gerald Lark on the subject? He would be the one to speak to,” the professor suggested. “I have his card here somewhere,” he said, beginning to rummage through the papers on his desk, opening a drawer that was spilling over with pieces of paper. The sight made Stan wince in pain.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure I have that information. So it would surprise you to learn that most students believe you to be the source?” Stan asked.

  The professor laughed and shook his head. “I’m not surprised, nonetheless flattered, Mr Charway. I’m afraid students have a very simplistic view of clandestine operations. The truth is rarely important to them in such cases, whereas popular fiction always gets more credence and applause,” Rolle explained.

  “But you don’t deny that research packages have been recently launched, and not through the recognised methods?” Stan pressed.

  “I can neither deny nor confirm, Mr Charway. I’ve not seen any results from such research packages. So although there are various rumours circulating about successful launches, I’ve not seen any proof that these have actually occurred.”

  Stan nodded his head. He hadn’t really expected the professor to admit to being the linchpin of the operation, but he hadn’t expected the man to conduct himself quite as well as he had.

  “Well, thank you for your time. Undoubtedly we’ll be talking again, soon,” Stan smiled. He rose and shook the professor’s hand, welcoming the firm dry grip and nodding in recognition of his adversary’s ability.

  “Oh, just out of idle curiosity,” he said, stopping at the door, “what brings Michael Bennett back to Cambridge?” he asked.

  The professor’s expression turned to sadness and the old man shook his head. “He took the death of his wife very badly, you know, Mr Charway. He’s been drinking a little bit more than is good for him for some time now, one of the reasons he was dismissed from his last London-based job. I suggested he come here, and helped to get him the job at the Chronicle. I’m hoping earlier memories, a more relaxed environment and closer links to old friends can get him back onto the right track. He’s a poor ghost of what he used to be, you know.

  “Why do you ask? You don’t think he’s involved in this as well do you?” the professor asked, and chuckled at the humour of the idea.

  “No, of course not,” Stan agreed, even tossing his head as if the idea had truly been dismissed.

  Rolle waited until he was certain the stooped man from the government had left, then sagged back into his chair, deflated in more ways than one.

  +++++++++++++++++

  John had taken five firm orders for his anti-snoop devices and was sitting in his rented car eating a sandwich when the call from Jonas Grun came through.

  He slid down in the seat until his face was below the level of the windows and greeted the man in his poor German before listening. A smile crept over his face as the manager gave him the news; his company had agreed. The satellite would be ready by the 18th and details of weight, dimensions, etc, would be available in the order for anti-snoop devices, waiting his collection at the company’s Bonn offices.

  John turned the phone off, threw away the remains of his sandwich and headed back towards Bonn, eager to have the confirmed order in his hands.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Stan found Gary on the Camb; rowing.

  He watched the young man from the strip of grass that fronted the Cambridge University Boat Club. The Goldie Boathouse was off Chesterton Road and faced both a large green, and beyond it, half obscured by mature trees just coming into leaf, the impressive building of Jesus College. In the foreground was the Jesus Green swimming pool, just on the other side of the river.

  Gary was in a Scull; a ‘straight’ boat, on his own, without a cox. Stan watched as he rowed with a slow pace, the muscles of his back and arms bulging as he swept the oars down and through the water, propelling him briskly forward.

  The student rowed to the bank with an easy grace, drawing the narrow boat up onto the shore in front of the boathouse, his light vest stretched tight across his sculptured chest and belly.

  “Mr Clarke,” Stan introduced himself, holding his credential in front of him as Gary straightened, the boat held over his head.

  “That looks very official,” Gary murmured, and began walking up the ramp to the garage area, the Scull upon his head, Stan following him.

  “I wanted to discuss these rumours concerning launches of equipment into space,” Stan told him.

  Gary slid his boat onto its rack and stepped back to look at the stooped official. “What is it you want to know?” he asked, and moved off towards the changing rooms. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have classes soon, so I have to hurry,” he explained as Stan followed him.

  “So, what can you tell me about these launched experiments?” Stan asked.

  “Well, I haven’t actually seen them, or course, but everyone is talking about them,” Gary admitted. “What’s your interest? I mean, it’s not illegal, is it, to launch stuff into space?”

  “More a matter of etiquette I’d say, Mr Clarke,” Stan told him, entering the changing room behind the young man and watching him take off his tight vest.

  “The international community don’t like surprises of this nature,” he explained, watching Gary bend to pull his shorts down, baring extremely tight and lean pale buttocks.

  “Etiquette? More like closed shop, Mr Charway. Big boys don’t like having to share space with interlopers,” Gary said, voicing his opinion as he slid out of his last piece of clothing before walking into the large shower room.

  “In the interest of safeguarding the university from these ‘Big Boys�
�, what can you tell me?” Stan asked, his heart quickening as he watched the fit and nude student begin to soap his lean and hard torso.

  “Well, not a lot to be honest Mr Charway. I’m obviously aware of them, because it’s the talk of the town, but I don’t think I’ve actually met anyone involved in it,” Gary admitted.

  “Really? I thought Professor Rolle was involved,” Stan told him.

  “Professor Rolle? Really? Have you told him? He’ll be ever so thrilled to think people think him capable of that,” Gary chuckled, his head angled up into the stream of hot water, unaware of the equally hot looks Stan Charway was giving him.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Late that night, returning to the flat on Thoday Street by taxi, Michael winced as loud music not so much floated down the stairs towards him, as hammered its deep drum beat upon him.

  He climbed to the first floor where Matt and Jake were in the kitchen preparing sandwiches. “We’ve got a gig over in Germany,” he was told.

  “Oh, that’s good. So you’re getting the music ready, eh?” he asked loudly, loud enough for anyone listening to hear over the din.

  Matt nodded while Jake showed him his phone. Thomas had written a short text. “Any1 3 2 hlp out?” he saw it read.

  May 17th

  “I thought it best if we met here, rather than anywhere else,” Stan was saying to Michael as he poured coffee into two cups and added cream.

  Michael looked about him. The lobby of the Cambridge Hilton, scarcely over a year old, was large and imposing with deep leather chairs and sofas set in small groups around thick wooden coffee tables. A grand piano played in one corner, competing with the constant tinkle of water as it cascaded down one side of the glass lifts, while a bar served ten varieties of coffee and twenty different teas as well as a long list of cocktails and beers. There was a constant flow of people around the periphery while, this early in the evening, only one or two other groups sat at similar tables, most dressed for an evening at the nearby theatre. One glass wall looked out over the river Camb as it meandered past at its normal slow pace.