THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Page 20

  “We were very disappointed to hear that, despite our agreement, you chose to use a third party to lift your very valuable satellite,” Mr Goraya told Jonas while passing him his business card.

  “Our agreement was to commence with the delivery of the satellite to your facility. I suspect that this paragraph has been overlooked by your staff,” Jonas replied.

  “No, we have not overlooked it. However, between close friends, some degree of trust was expected,” Villem pointed out.

  “I agree,” Jonas nodded. “We do not believe we have done anything wrong, Mr Goraya.”

  Mr Goraya licked his lips as he hesitated, choosing his next words with care. “Perhaps ‘wrong’ is a poor choice of words,” he suggested. “Let us say that your decision was poorly made, in that it fails to reflect the full cost of the satellite,” he explained.

  Jonas cocked his head and looked at the Russian’s blank expression. “In what way?” he asked.

  “Well, there is the cost of further difficulties with your studios in Alfter. You may not appreciate it at this moment in time, but anything that occurs amiss at this site will now be put down to having been used for an untested launch of a very heavy satellite into space,” he pointed out.

  “It wasn’t lifted from the studio. It was lifted from the public road, outside of the gates,” Jonas pointed out.

  “Fifty yards? Hardly sufficient to keep that new and undiscovered radiation at bay, don’t you think?” the Russian asked with a placating smile.

  “What ‘Undiscovered Radiation’? There is no undiscovered radiation,” Jonas told him.

  “That is why it is still undiscovered, Mr Grun,” Villem told him pointedly. “I believe this radiation may also cause cancers. It could well be that anyone getting a cancer within a mile radius of the launch any time in the next five, ten years, may have legal rights to compensation from your company.

  “Then, of course, there’s the matter of positioning,” Villem said, and smiled viciously towards the pale German in front of him.

  “Positioning?” Jonas murmured, his stomach pains returning.

  “Well, yes. You see, ROSCOSMO go to great lengths to ensure the chosen orbit does not cross the path of any debris, or other satellite. We have agreements with all the other space companies, so we know where everyone is, or will be.”

  “All of that information is in the public domain. I have assurances that the orbit chosen is good,” Jonas stated.

  “Oh, for now, perhaps. But what about tomorrow? Why, without having been told of your orbit, we may put something up there that might cause a conflict. How are we to know, you understand me?” Villem asked.

  “We will petition COPUOS, the United Nation Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space,” Jonas said firmly.

  “Really?” Villem laughed. “Perhaps you will try UNOOSA; the United Nation Office for Outer Space Affairs, too,” he chuckled. “Do you really think the United Nations will help you?” he asked.

  Jonas swallowed. “And to give you this information, to ensure our satellite is not compromised?” he asked.

  “If you were to tell us who lifted it for you, then we could talk directly with these people to make sure we get the correct information from them,” Villem told him.

  “I see.” Jonas nodded his understanding.

  “And a $20 million US Dollar brokerage fee,” Villem added, his smile reaching his eyes. “These things are very expensive; as I am sure you appreciate.”

  “I shall need to talk to my management,” Jonas murmured, a lump in his throat.

  “I understand,” Villem told him, and closed his suitcase. “You have my card. I shall be in Bonn for a further day, and then I return to ROSCOSMO to arrange our next launch. It would be best if I have the details we have spoken of by then, to safeguard your investment,” he chuckled.

  Jonas remained in the meeting room as the Russian was shown out, and he continued to stand there, looking out of the window as the man got into a waiting car to drive slowly into the Bonn city traffic. He then turned to the conference phone on the table and pressed one of the pre-dial numbers.

  “Yes?” said a deep voice at the other end.

  “Hans, this is Jonas. Did you get it?” Jonas asked.

  “Yes, everything,” he was told. “Good images too, despite the poor lighting.”

  Jonas breathed out with relief. “Go talk to the production people. I want it featured in our News program at 7pm this evening. Full disclosure of the dirty tricks the Russians employ in an effort to control access to space.”

  “Yes Sir!” Hans chuckled at the other end of the phone.

  “Make sure you have copies ready for BBC, CNN, SKY, Bloomberg and Al Jazeera,” he requested before he sat down and began laughing. It was a pity that his good humour did not extend to his stomach.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Stan watched from his car as another address was raided. There was little to see from the front of the property, just one man pretending to knock on the door, then wait for a response while the rest of the team quietly but quickly entered the property from the back.

  He waited, silent and still, while another of his men opened the door from the inside for the last of the team to enter from the front. Then it was more waiting as they searched the place, intimidating the occupants in the small hope that one may say something. Truth was, the Chinese were just too good at this game to give anything away in that way.

  “All clear. No toys,” Stan heard in his earpiece. He sighed and drew a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket to find the next address. With so many Chinese in Cambridge, it was going to be a long night.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Michael actually found himself busy. The break-in at Cavendish Laboratory had sparked a lot of interest, especially since nearly every student attending courses at the laboratory had been asked to assist in putting the papers back into some semblance of order. So, despite the University year winding down and coming to an end, they found themselves busier than most.

  More importantly, it gave Michael a much needed reason for visiting the Cavendish Laboratory and interviewing Rolle. He used his little black box to talk to him in confidence, sharing what information he had, while learning that Stanley Charway had already made himself known to Rolle.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Rolle told him with a wave of his arm. “Gary was also spoken to, and we used the story we agreed on,” he told Michael. “Joanne Cannon has also involved herself by the way,” he warned.

  “Dr Cannon, how?” Michael asked.

  “She takes exception to the ransacking of one of Cambridge University’s colleges, and has made that very clear to those who support it in the Government,” he explained.

  “Oh Christ!” Michael groaned. Now he couldn’t stop from worrying.

  “Anything else we need to discuss” he asked the professor.

  Rolle’s face clouded for a moment and he seemed to consider for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, we’re good,” he said, perhaps more to himself than to Michael.

  “You’re sure now?” Michael asked, feeling the professor was holding something back.

  “Michael, stop worrying about me and worry about the rest of the team, God alone knows they need worrying over!” the professor retorted.

  Truth was, the professor wasn’t that far from the truth. There were a number of loose ends that needed watching. Like Robert Fuller’s Chronicle article of April the 10th that was current again, following the news story from Fernsehen Zentral. The Guardian newspaper was also loudly claiming prior knowledge, and Oliver Cole, their investigative reporter, was vociferously calling for Russia, China and the USA to come clean and admit to secretly testing new technology in the European heartland. If only he knew the full story, Michael thought, chuckling to himself.

  Renewed interest in his article was the last thing Robert wanted, and it fell to the poor junior journalist to admit to each caller that it had been a hoax, and he had fallen for it w
ithout having got anything to substantiate the story.

  Michael felt sorry for the twenty-year old and had left him a short note suggesting that, should he want a truly interesting story, he should talk to the hotels to find out, in broad numbers, the ethnic mix of their clients. Having walked the streets, Michael was fairly certain what he’d find.

  At least the news out of Germany was good. It would reduce the pressure on Cheryl who had been urged time and time again for some proof that their launch process did not cause a new and unknown radiation risk. The latest news from Cheryl was that her clients had all returned, some voraciously demanding she proceed with the alternative launch facilities after having seen the Fersehen Zentral news story. None the less, Cheryl would need to ensure all the satellites were ready at the same place, and at the same time.

  The launches of the commercial satellites were only half the story though, and Michael worried incessantly about the task the twins were engaged on. Converting an ocean-going ship to a space-faring ship; rebuilding it, installing new systems, most untested, and all to be achieved as quickly but as quietly as possible. He was sometimes surprised to find that he managed to get any sleep at all.

  Michael was therefore still in the Press Room when a flag appeared on his tablet. It was a short email from the twins. “Having a great time. Working hard. Japanese numbers are very complicated though. See you all soon, Thomas & David.”

  Michael sighed and deleted it, then tidied his desk before leaving for the evening, unable to stop worrying.

  May 25th

  Sir Arthur Coleman was not having a good day, and he felt it only fair that Stan Charway share in his discomfort.

  “I don’t know what you or someone else has done,” he said curtly to his chosen tool, “but it’s as though a fox has entered the chicken coop,” he explained caustically.

  “Sir, I don’t know of anything,” Stan began.

  “And I don’t care, Stanley,” Sir Arthur told him sharply. “I’ve had at least ten Ministers approach me today, all to tell me how important Cambridge University is to the nation; their research, their prominence in world affairs, their prestige as a centre of excellence. And not just Ministers. The Upper Chamber has been just as vocal! You would think half the bloody Parliament had been to Cambridge University!” he snarled.

  “But Sir,” Stan began, knowing that nearly half of those seated in the Chambers were indeed, ex students of Cambridge University.

  “No, no defence Stanley. Our problems may well stem from within that organisation, but we must tread carefully; do you understand?” Sir Arthur asked sternly.

  “Yes, Sir,” Stan agreed. Arguing would be futile.

  “Good,” Sir Arthur said, and bid him a curt goodbye.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Hardly an hour had gone by before Stan received a call from the University Vice Chancellor’s office requesting an immediate meeting.

  Already ruffled by Sir Arthur, Stan hurried round, to be kept waiting in the outer office like a naughty schoolboy before being quietly summoned into the Vice Chancellor’s office nearly an hour later.

  “Ah, Mr Charway, so good to see you again. And thank you for coming over so promptly!” Sir Richard told him, beaming as he came round his desk with a hand outstretched.

  “My pleasure Sir,” Stan answered, shaking his grip and smiling too. Two could play at that game, he thought.

  “I just wanted to apologise if some of the university friends in the Government caused any anxiety within your London offices,” he said with a smile.

  “No, not at all Sir,” Stan assured him, his face immobile.

  “You know, these old boys become so passionate about their school and college,” Sir Richard confided. “I hope you can appreciate that,” he added as he steered Stan towards the door again.

  “Yes, of course Sir Richard,” Stan agreed.

  “Well, that’s a relief. So good to see you again, and thank you for coming over so quickly. Makes me feel we can rely upon you, eh Mr Charway?”

  “Certainly Sir,” Stan agreed, before he found himself outside the office again, his position well and truly defined.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Allan Blake made his request for an early departure from the university on the forms provided, and then headed out to finish his packing. His flight would leave early the next morning from Stansted and five hours later he’d be in Sham el Sheikh with his diving suit.

  At any other time, Allan would have enjoyed the diving, but on this occasion he knew he’d need to book his ticket locally for the boat ride round the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden to arrive in Qatar. He would then get a flight to Japan with, he hoped, no one in England any the wiser.

  He’d done everything he could at the UK end of the project. He and Leanne had spent several enjoyable evenings refining the interface between the electronics and the software, and both felt comfortable that it would function adequately for day one, perhaps even day two. Both senior students were realistic enough to know that there would need to be further revisions, but it was fruitless to try and anticipate what would be needed until they were actually there.

  The rest of the project, Allan knew next to nothing about, and Professor Rolle seemed to take a great delight in keeping it that way.

  May 26th

  Professor Rolle kissed Claire as he passed her on the way to the breakfast table and glanced at the mail. The weekly Science Journal was there with a large picture of the sun on its front cover. Intrigued, Rolle released the magazine from its sealed plastic bag in order to turn it to the table-of-contents.

  The cup of tea stopped on its way to his mouth and moved downwards once again, missing the saucer as Rolle stared at the entry for the cover story.

  “What’s wrong dear?” Claire asked, her unconscious humming interrupted by the look of incredulity on her husband’s face. The poached egg was just about ready too.

  “They’ve only gone and published!” Rolle said, aghast.

  “Published what?” she asked.

  “Cranfield University. They’ve published the findings from their probe for God’s sake!” he cried.

  Rolle shook his head and sighed. Any respite the lifting of a German satellite may have brought them would be lost now. The Cranfield University article, without having to say it, had told its readers that the British had lifted their experiments.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Stan sat in his office, relishing his recently made cup of tea while he reviewed the news from Bonn on the day of the lift. He was searching through as many news sources as he could think of, or find, in the hope that some item, however small, would give him just a little more information. Something he could act on.

  Stan took another sip of his tea. He’d found a tea merchant on Jesus Lane and was enjoying one of their own blends. He silently approved the flavour, unaware of how he was gradually settling in to Cambridge.

  The difficulty before him made him sigh in frustration. The American’s idea to have the Germans create an exclusion zone around the lift location had been brilliant, but its repercussions were seen in the development of news stories. With one big story to fill their web content, many of the smaller news items that would normally have been used by the media just weren’t there. Some would have been used on later days if they had some human drama associated with them, but that meant that what he was looking for may be spread over several days, and made searching that much harder.

  Stan persevered; he hadn’t achieved his position by giving up on a job half done. Which was why, a little over an hour later, he finally saw the story about a British national being shot in Frankfurt International Airport following a suspicion of terrorism.

  Stan automatically checked the name, hoping he would find a connection with Cambridge University. Instead, he found a link to Michael Bennett the journalist, and no casual link either. Bennett and Dalton had worked together within the Service for over five years. Their bond of friendship would go very deep.

 
Stan smiled the smile of a wolf that scents his prey’s weakened state and actually licked his lips, as if he could taste the other’s nervous sweat on his tongue.

  He picked up the phone and dialled his London offices. “Rachel? Hello. I’m about to send you a recent photograph. Would you scan it into CTASS for me please?” he asked.

  The Camera Tracking and Surveillance System was a recent development by the Metropolitan Police Force. It automatically gathered all CCTV footage of a target, sequenced it on a time-line and presented it for viewing, practically in real time if necessary. The latest release, only a few months old, even provided a Google map to one side of the screen to show the path being taken by the target. The Google map, when linked to the police data base, tagged relevant information on the map such as known drug users’ haunts, gambling dens, massage parlours, and the addresses of all known criminals.

  Stan then ran further enquires on John Dalton, his fingers automatically tapping his pencil against his desk as he noted the sudden change in John’s life. Did Bennett have anything to do with it?

  The airline ticket to Japan caught his attention, and he immediately ran a query against all students travelling to Japan recently. His pencil stopped its tapping as the query highlighted jut two names; Thomas and David Howard, both of number 15 Thoday Road, the same address as Michael Bennett.

  Stan swore, his pencil breaking into two.

  +++++++++++++++++

  It made the news, Michael noted, smiling inside as CNN carried the story on the tickertape at the bottom of their 24hour news channel.

  “USA makes a formal complain to the United Nations Council claiming a breach of space law; in that objects have been put into space without their prior registration.”

  Yes, that will do a load of good, he thought to himself. The United Nations would act upon it, of course. But their schedule would be months away, long after Michael and his colleagues would be out of harm’s way.