THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Page 19

May 22nd

  Polizeioberrat Addler Bauer of the Bundespolizei looked down at the papers and other belongings of John Dalton and wondered what had gone so seriously wrong as to cause the man’s death at the airport. His small team of officers stood around the room waiting for his review of the case so far.

  The Bundespolizei were a relatively new police force in Germany. They were formed in 2005 and their responsibilities included the security of federal buildings, counter terrorism, and to act as Marshals on aeroplanes and German railways. While the organisational structure was regional, Frankfurt International Airport had its own division, of which Addler Bauer was one of the senior officers.

  On top of the man’s possessions was the report from the Bundespolizie at the airport. It was clear and concise. It explained why the police had decided to shoot. It didn’t explain why the man had, by his actions, forced them to shoot.

  Addler put the report to one side and turned his attention to the deceased’s phone. It was in pieces, the battery and SIM disfigured. “What happened here?” he asked, looking up and at his small team of officers.

  “The phone was locked and the normal methods of unlocking it did not work, so we opened it to remove the SIM, at which point something was released and did that damage,” he was told.

  Addler nodded. The brochures and papers all related to the sale of anti-snooping devices, so of course the man would have state of the art systems on his own phone to protect against snooping. Hindsight told him that more care should have been taken, but he was reasonably certain his officers knew that by now.

  “Tablet?” he asked.

  “There was none,” he was told.

  That seemed strange to Addler. All businessmen kept a tablet close to hand, so why hadn’t Mr Dalton, unless such devices could not be made secure. He would have to do some research on that subject.

  On a larger table were all of the man’s clothes and toiletries, recovered from the hold baggage. Addler glanced at the items, neatly laid out on the table; a spare suit, ties, underwear, toiletries, and a rubber wet-suit, the type used by scuba divers. There was nothing suspicious.

  He returned to the smaller table to glance at the passport. “Has this been checked?” he asked.

  One of the police officers nodded. “He has just sold his property in Croydon, England.”

  Hence the single ticket to Japan, Addler thought. He looked again at the list of companies John Dalton had visited and picked it up. “Have these companies been contacted?” he asked.

  The others looked towards one another, and then shook their heads. Addler nodded. “I shall go and speak to them,” he said. “Let the British know we have one of their nationals. Our condolences, of course,” he murmured.

  +++++++++++++++++

  The offices of the Vice Chancellor of Cambridge University are situated next to King’s College Chapel, and when their choir is singing, and the weather is nice enough to allow the windows to be opened, you can just hear them.

  Stan Charway watched Sir Richard Phillips listen to the last strands of Sanctus, and while the Vice Chancellor’s eyes were still closed, surreptitiously placed a small listening device underneath his chair.

  Sir Richard opened his eyes to smile towards Stan. “A Gregorian Chant. Such calming music, don’t you find?” asked the Vice Chancellor.

  “Yes, very. I particularly like Gloria,” Stan agreed. He may not have a university degree, and he felt certain that Sir Richard knew of his academic background, or lack of it, but that wasn’t to say he wasn’t educated.

  “But you haven’t come here to listen to me ramble on about music, have you now?” Sir Richard asked.

  “No Sir. I’m sure you’re aware of the new tension between Britain, Russia and China,” he said, but Sir Richard was shaking his head.

  “I can’t say I follow world politics that closely now-a-days,” he admitted. “You’d be surprised at how much politics the university can generate all on its own, without the real world intruding into our lives,” he chuckled.

  Stan smiled too, sensing some of what the Vice Chancellor was alluding to. “Well, Sir Richard, there is a significant amount of tension between our countries at the moment. It would appear to stem from at least one of those countries having some form of new technology, something with vast potential, and of course, they all want to share in it,” he explained.

  “I understand Mr Charway. But what has this got to do with Cambridge University?” he asked.

  Stan took a breath, almost certain that the Vice Chancellor knew what he was talking about, but choosing to remain above the fray.

  “Sir, Cambridge University is currently host to over 200 students from Russia and China. It would help us tremendously if you would rescind the exchange agreements and request these students return to their own universities.”

  “Rescind our exchange agreements with universities in Russia and China?” Sir Richard asked in shock. “I’m sorry Mr Charway, but there is no way to rescind those agreements. They are one of the corner stones of this establishment, and every learning establishment in the world!” he explained.

  “Sir, the presence of those students in Cambridge is a risk to British sovereignty,” Stan explained.

  “Oh, I don’t think it as serious as all that, Mr Charway,” Sir Richard chuckled. “Look, I appreciate that there is some tension in the air following one of the big boys refusing to share his toys with the others, but to close the doors of Cambridge University to students who wish to learn, irrespective of religion, creed, nationality or colour? No. We cannot; will not do that.”

  +++++++++++++++++

  The warehouse in Dagenham had been part of the Ford factory some two decades before, which went some way to explaining the twenty acres of concrete that it covered. However, after remaining empty for years, it had become a private auction house for commercial vehicles and most of the space was filled with vehicles of all colours and types, from small vans to the largest of road haulage vehicles. Commercial vehicles of all sizes and ages stood in straight rows across the covered space, a single sheet of paper on each windscreen providing details, all of which the auctioneer would repeat as the vehicle came under the hammer.

  Frankie had arrived early and bought a copy of the catalogue before he started to walk among the vehicles, visually examining likely choices before wandering over to the mobile cafe for a cup of tea. He nodded to those he knew and stopped to chat to a few, shrugging his shoulders as they asked what he was up to. He never admitted to much, even in his most chatty moods, so his silence was hardly anything to comment on.

  With the auction about to start, Frankie wandered over to the office and paid for one of the electronic bidding machines and flexed his fingers around it as the first of his chosen vehicles was driven onto the low ramp in front of them. Its details appeared on the large screen above the Auctioneer’s head while the man repeated the details for those who couldn’t read.

  The bidding commenced and Frankie pressed his device to see his Trader’s Number appear on the large screen, the value incremented to the next value at the standard rate for vehicle auctions. The scrolling figure slowed as bidders fell by the wayside. Frankie won the lot and nodded to himself before waiting for the next of his chosen vehicles to appear. The sale had taken less than 30 seconds to complete.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Stan sat silently in the car, only his eyes moving as he watched the dimly-lit street in front of him. Only two of the five street-lights functioned, the other three strategically broken and unlit. The street was broad, laid out in more gracious times and once accommodating car parking on both sides. Now, only the odd commercial vehicle and rental car were on the street, parking now limited to one side only, allowing a cycle lane on the other side.

  The houses were tall and broad, the nicer ones from the Georgian period, newer properties emulating their older neighbour’s elegant features. Most had been converted into small offices, small schools providing additional language tuition, o
r small but comfortable hotels. Boutique hotels, Stan smiled, thinking of the name. Whoever had coined the phrase was older than he, he surmised.

  It was getting late, and despite it being May, the night was growing cold, windscreens turning opaque as water condensed on the glass. Stan left his car engine running to keep the heater on the front and rear windows of the car, the radio turned low while Classic FM played Chopin.

  Three men appeared at the end of the street, turning towards Stan as they made their way back to their hotel. Stan could hear them speaking Russian among themselves, idle chatter about the food and the English women, the bicycles and the old buildings, none thinking they were being overheard.

  They didn’t see the three dark clothes figures suddenly appear behind them, although Stan did, watching through his wing mirror.

  The three Russians fell with soft grunts, and then were hauled to their feet, gags forced into their mouths while knives were held close to their throats, blades turned to catch the light and the Russian’s full attention.

  Stan got out of the car to saunter over to them. He smiled up into their terrified eyes for a few moments before speaking to them slowly, so they’d understand his poor Russian. “Your holiday is over, gentlemen,” he told them. “Unfortunately, we are unable to return you to your homes, not just yet, so we will put you up in a little property we know, somewhere where you will be safe until we can let you go back home to tell your friends your holiday stories,” he told them, smiling grimly.

  One of his men murmured into this throat mike, and a van started up further down the road behind them, swinging out to arrive with its side door open, ready to receive the three Russians into the back.

  “Good work lads. Keep your heads down until I find the others,” Stan told them. Finding the right Chinese was proving difficult; there were just too many of them.

  May 23rd

  Cambridge Business Park, towards the east of the town, was an area of numerous warehouses and offices, small manufacturing units, logistic companies and their support organisations. Its proximity to Cambridge University added a little to its affluence, but otherwise, it bore a resemblance to pretty much every industrial estate in England.

  Frankie had chosen to rent a small unit of 5,000 square feet with car parking in the forecourt for 8 vehicles. Roller blinds led into a large warehouse with just a small office and toilets in the front corner, accessible through a side door. It was more than enough room for Frankie, his vehicles and the small caravan that was to be his home for the next few weeks.

  It had taken a while to set up, Frankie reflected, sipping his tea and playing with one of the rings in his left earlobe. However, it had been done legitimately, which may have accounted for why it took longer than was usual for one of his enterprises. This venture, for example, would be his first that was compliant with European Health & Safety regulations. He hoped none of his previous business associates would ever find out.

  He stood in the doorway of his caravan savouring the cup of tea he’d made as the boys arrived; sauntering in from their drive up the A1017 from Colchester. Chatting and laughing, they strolled over, hands stuffed deep in their overalls as they patiently waited on him.

  He nodded to those he knew really well, like Mickey McKee, a smart young lad who kept his head down and rarely got into harm’s way. Paddy Miller was there too, grinning excitedly, always up for it, whatever it was.

  Within the warehouse stood the vehicles Frankie had purchased; four box-vans, two 40-seat buses, a Range Rover that had suffered a serious impact, and a van similar to the one Matt and Jake had been driving about in. These too he had bought legitimately, from the Dagenham vehicle auction, and he had the papers to prove it, should the need arise.

  “OK lads. The boys from the university will be joining us to do their bit, but before then, we want to have these vehicles stripped right down and all the parts were going to need ordered. So let’s get to work,” he called.

  “Ordered? You’re going to actually order parts, Frankie?” Paddy asked with a chuckle, his comment bringing broad grins from the others. Under normal circumstances they would just pick up a similar vehicle from where its owner had left it, and remove all the parts they needed, and make a tidy profit by selling the rest on. What was left of the vehicle after that was easily disposed of.

  “Paddy, just get on with it, will you?” Frankie begged, wincing with the pain of his diminishing kudos.

  There was a lot of work to be done on all the vehicles, critically making sure they were all airtight. As his men sauntered off to begin work, he turned and smiled towards Leanne as the lanky student arrived, a small toolbox in hand.

  “Why don’t you start on the Range Rover,” he suggested, and sat watching the lanky jean clad student move away, until she turned to smile knowingly back at him. He then rose to refill his mug from the teapot.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Polizeioberrat Addler Bauer returned to his office on the perimeter road of the Frankfurt airport and pulled the John Dalton file towards him, opening it once more to return the sheets he had taken with him when visiting the companies.

  They had all confirmed that the English man had been selling anti-snooping devices. He had provided demonstrations at all the offices, so successfully that the majority of those he had visited had placed orders.

  Addler winced, because had it not been their own policemen who had shot poor Mr Dalton, then he might have suggested that a third party wanted him dead, just to stop his wares from getting onto the market.

  “Sir, what shall we do?” asked his Sergeant from the open doorway.

  Addler closed the file and passed it to him. “Offer the body and his belonging to the English, then pass our recommendation to the courts; Accidental Death,” he said.

  May 24th

  Professor Rolle woke, the telephone making an annoying noise on one side of him, Claire complaining loudly on the other side of him.

  He picked up the phone while grumbling and tried looking at his alarm clock, fuzzy through sleep laden eyes.

  “Yes?” he asked curtly, his other hand combing his hair back from his forehead.

  “Rolle? It’s Lark,” said the unmistakable voice of Professor Gerald Lark, the senior man in Cavendish Laboratory.

  “Professor Lark? What’s happened?” he asked.

  “The laboratory has been broken into. Our offices have been ransacked,” Lark told him with a sour note.

  “My God. Who, when?” Rolle asked, sitting up with growing attention.

  “Well, sometime since I left and now I believe. Who? I have no idea Rolle. Do you?”

  “No, no, not at all,” Rolle told him as he moved to free his legs from the warmth of the bed. Claire sat up too, watching him with concern. “The office at Cavendish Laboratory has been ransacked,” he repeated for her benefit.

  “Well, you best get down here and have a look through the mess. The police are already here, covering everything in that awful dust they use,” Lark groaned.

  Rolle used the bicycle, refusing a flask of tea from Claire as he urged her instead to try and get some more sleep. It was only about a kilometre to the laboratory, half way between the M11 and Cambridge town centre.

  All the lights were on when Rolle got there, and two police cars were outside, blue lights still revolving while a third vehicle, a police van, stood to one side, its back doors open, the letters SOCO stencilled below the Cambridge Constabulary emblem on the back door.

  Professor Rolle had to show his credentials twice before he could get to his office. As Lark had described; the room was a mess, every single sheet of paper from his files laying on the floor, his books and magazines pulled from their shelves to also decorate the floor. His desk, never tidy at the best of times, had had the drawers removed and turned up onto the desktop before the contents had been swept left and right, much of it landing on the floor.

  “What were they looking for, any ideas?” Lark asked from behind him. Normally a relaxed man, pr
ofessor Lark looked both worried and concerned, his face reflecting the pain he felt at the mess that had been inflicted on their college offices.

  Rolle sighed. “It just looks like vandalism to me, but of course, I won’t know for quite a while,” he admitted.

  “But there was nothing to get, nothing of any import, was there Rolle?” Lark asked pointedly.

  “Oh no, nothing of that nature,” Rolle agreed.

  Professor Lark moved off to talk to one of the police officers, and Rolle sat heavily behind his desk. Had the Chinese done this? Were they making another point?

  He sighed and, looking at the mess of his room, wondered what the Chinese would do next.

  They seemed to be everywhere, Rolle reflected, and yet that might just be his over-active mind. His last meeting with them certainly got his attention, and he rubbed his gut with the memory of it. Should he tell someone? He thought on it and decided not. Michael had enough on his plate, anyway.

  If a beating was the price to be paid for keeping ruffians from abusing more vulnerable students, then Rolle would pay. That wasn’t to say he wouldn’t try and negotiate a better price, just as long as his team of students were not affected.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Jonas Grun was beginning to wonder if his life could get any worse. First their Alfter-Bonn studios had become the centre of an exclusion zone following the successful lift of their satellite, and then the Radiation and Bacterial Protection Unit of the Federal Government had whisked him away to douse him under their showers, to drink vile tasting liquids and then have unrealistically large suppositories inserted deep into his bowels. He wasn’t absolutely sure all of that had been necessary, but he wasn’t about to argue, not while his life was allegedly in the balance. He’d only just finished suffering from diarrhoea and abdominal cramps when Mr Villem Goraya of ROSCOSMO arrived.

  The meeting was to take place in the third floor meeting room, the same one in which John Dalton had given his presentation. Mr Goraya took a seat to face away from the window as he declined refreshments and opened his briefcase. The man was of medium height, but broad and imposing, like a barrel. Wearing an expensive London suit, his smile revealed perfectly even teeth while his left wrist sported a gold Rolex, and his right little finger, a heavy gold and diamond ring.