THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY Read online

  Once fairly sure he wasn’t being trailed, he waited for the bus to Fen Ditton, getting off at the top of the road so that he could walk down to the river, a leisurely walk with a pleasant view across the river to Stourbridge Common. The leaves were mostly off the trees now and decorated the ground with a mix of brown and reds, half obscuring the firm lines of the pathways. For just a few moments Michael was glad he’d left London and returned to Cambridge. Yes, London had greenery, parks and trees, but they rarely possessed the peace and tranquillity that Cambridge parkland was imbued with. Then the need for a drink hit him and he groaned, fighting the urge to dull his senses and relieve him of his constant pain.

  The boat was a small tourist river boat seating up to thirty tourists on the five wooden benches crossing the belly of the craft. At the front, beyond the curtained seating area a heavy-set man stood in the wheel house, wiping the brass items and whistling to himself. Michael knew the tune but not the name of it, and that niggled him as he walked up to the river’s edge to look more closely into the seating area.

  A heavy plastic curtain hung from the roof of the seating area, masking the interior from the threatening weather and the murky river on one side. Professor Rolle waved from inside and, after a casual glance around him, Michael stepped on board and down into the seating area. “David, Thomas,” he acknowledged with a nod as he saw the twins seated close together further into the boat.

  They grinned up at him for a moment before returning their attention to the tablets they carried. They could easily be playing a game on the screen, but somehow Michael doubted it.

  “Are we leaving the shore?” he asked, hearing the diesel motor come alive and feeling it under his feet. The boat rocked as a young lad, perhaps just in his teens, untied them from the mooring before hopping onto the gunwale beside the captain’s door, seemingly oblivious to his precarious position as he balanced there, his attention on the river in front of them while the diesel engine picked up and the boat began slowly moving from the shore.

  “Graham’s taking us for a ride down river,” Rolle nodded.

  “Jesus!” Michael breathed, and sat down hurriedly. Between the edge of the plastic curtain and one of the steel uprights supporting the roof, Michael watched the shore slip away and water fill the distance; murky, muddy water that Michael knew would also be freezing cold.

  “So, lads, we want to use your stuff to lift something into orbit. What do you need?” the professor asked them in a jovial and offhand manner. “Other than a name for it of course,” he teased.

  The twins stopped their work to look towards each other for a moment. “Something to track it with,” Thomas, but it could have been David, said.

  “Communications,” the other twin agreed. “We’ll need to alter the electric current in order to position it right.”

  “Is that it?” Michael asked as the silence grew.

  The twins considered him with cocked heads and nodded. “What else do you think?” he was asked.

  “Well, I don’t know; but it can’t be that simple, surely,” he said.

  The twins put their tablets to one side to focus on Michael’s question. “We use two or more separate pieces of the material, one under the satellite to provide a new gravity, and at least one other, to repel against the existing earth gravity,” one of the twins explained. “That way, we get movement with no inertia.”

  “So you just change the electrical current going through each, and that will put it into orbit?” Michael asked.

  “Just about,” one of the boys told him while both grinned in the same disarming way.

  “What about size?” Michael asked. “I take it we don’t want items as big as a car, or anything?” he asked, and looked to Rolle for confirmation.

  “Cars would be good. We could do cars,” one of the twins told him while the other nodded agreement.

  “No, not cars,” Rolle told them. “We need to launch quietly. Quickly and quietly, so no one see’s what we’re doing,” he reminded them.

  They shrugged. “100 kilos then, and keep it small enough to transport in a van.”

  “So we’ll need a van; a van with Green Transport credentials, a good PC, and wireless communication,” Michael summed it up. “Anything else?”

  The twins looked at each other again, an unsettling habit that led others to believe that they were communicating silently.

  “Who’s providing the lunch?” David asked, but it could have been Thomas. Both the twins looked between the professor and Michael as they waited for one of them to make a proposal.

  “I’m more interested in how we’re going to get Green Transport credentials for the car,” Michael pointed out. Since the new Green Transport Bill of 2015, private cars were not allowed on the road without a licence proving it wasn’t only used for private or recreational travel.

  “Did you know that young Matt and Jake have run the odd Disco in the past?” Rolle asked him.

  “Really? How interesting,” Michael said with a grin and a chuckle.

  “And while we’re here, why don’t we spend a few moments to discuss what we’re going to do, once we know this works,” Rolle suggested, smiling wickedly.

  The few moments he suggested stretched into hours, but no one seemed to mind.

  +++++++++++++++++

  The Rising Moon Chinese Restaurant on Regent Street, Cambridge, was a small restaurant. It only held 12 tables, one of which could seat eight, but for the most part the tables seated just two to four patrons. Little candles sat in small black metal frames on each table, the metal frames cut into the shape of dragons breathing flame. There were Chinese prints on the wall, predominantly gold coloured, complementing the red table cloth and burgundy walls.

  Robert Hwang was the owner, and very proud of being so. His grandparents had come from China and settled in Cambridge in the 1920s, and the restaurant on Regent Street was the family’s third property in the Cambridge area, and the first one in the city centre.

  The small restaurant had only just unlocked its doors that evening when they swung open to let in four men of varying ages, sizes and looks. Robert recognised the oldest and largest of the four and hurried over to welcome him.

  “Professor, it is such an honour to see you tonight. Welcome!” he cried, helping the gentleman with his coat while the others seemed quite comfortable to take their own coats off.

  “Here, my best table in the house,” Robert told them, smiling at each in turn as he hurriedly pulled chairs out from under the table.

  “You are a gracious host. My friends and I have been working hard all day, so I offered to treat them to the best Chinese cuisine in Cambridge,” the professor explained.

  “You are very kind Professor Rolle,” Robert said, beaming with pride as he gave each of the party his large and bound menu.

  “Now, no more talk of business. We’re here to relax; the calm before the storm,” the professor chuckled.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Claire was in the kitchen when the professor returned to their small cottage just off Victoria Road. He sensed her tension as soon as he entered, and listened pensively as he hung his coat up in the narrow hall. Claire was not humming.

  Claire normally hummed to herself. The only time she didn’t was when she was tense, worried or angry. Herbert hadn’t been married to her for over 40 years without learning the subtle differences, and the silence bore down on him, partly because he knew the reason for it.

  He stopped for a few moments to collect himself, then took a deep breath and tried smiling.

  “I’m back,” he called needlessly but none the less energetically, as if the power of his voice would change his wife’s mood. His coat hung-up and his shoes off, he headed towards the kitchen and the confrontation he knew he would have to face.

  Claire stopped wiping the kitchen work surface to watch him as he came in, automatically offering him her cheek for his usual kiss.

  “A bit brisk out there,” he explained. “Any tea in the pot?�
�� pointing needlessly to where it stood, the dark glaze hidden beneath a handmade cosy they had used for over twenty years. He sat at the kitchen table and watched her.

  Claire was a small woman, her short and curly hair allowed to turn to grey, and yet she was strong and energetic still, active in the university and in the church, assisting in many of the student activities. She still played the occasional game of tennis with her friends, but had given up golf.

  She brought a cup and saucer from the cupboard and began filling it, the silence a strain on Herbert’s senses.

  “You know,” he stated.

  “When were you going to tell me?” she asked, putting the black tea in front of him.

  He sighed and shook his head. “We need him, Claire. If anyone can keep these boys from being swallowed up, it’s him.”

  “He killed our daughter!” she told him sharply, her voice breaking. She turned away then, so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. She shook with tension, with the memory of the arrival of the shocking news.

  Herbert stood and put his arms around his wife, holding her to him as he recalled the news too. “Perhaps this task will atone for that, Claire. Just a little bit,” he suggested.

  Claire turned to bury her face in Herbert’s chest, hiding her tears from her husband.

  November 12th

  The meeting had taken some time to organise, and it was finally agreed to hold it in the offices of Dr Joanne Cannon, the Pro-Vice-Chancellor for International Strategy.

  Hers was a large office, wood panelling giving it the appearance of an age commensurate with the Tudor beams outside the building, although in reality it had been added just a decade ago, when the property had been re-cabled for optical, digital and modern electrical feeds. The Americans would love it, Michael thought as he looked around the polished oak panels and the rich red rug on the floor, before the introductions were started.

  Along with Dr Cannon there was also Professor Derek Lovell, the Pro-Vice-Chancellor for Education who held the financial strings on all research. Such funds would be needed if Rolle’s plans were to see more than just the back of his eyes. Derek was a small man in his late fifties, balding, with a thin moustache, his eyes always questioning, and his lips always smiling. Dr Cannon was the taller of the two and appeared much younger, her vitality matched by her youthful looks, for she was always busy and if not in her office, then she was travelling to another university or large company seeking to extend links with Cambridge and the university.

  Michael had suggested all the Pro-Vice-Chancellors should be there, but Rolle had vetoed the idea. “It will be far harder to keep this thing secret if they all know, and we don’t need all five. Dr Cannon and Professor Lovell will be most affected, and they can inform the Vice Chancellor,” he had said. “Let the Vice Chancellor decide who needs to know after this initial meeting.”

  “I remember you fondly,” Professor Lovell told Michael, shaking his hand before taking a glass of the port Rolle had thought to bring to the meeting. “Though I don’t understand what you and Professor Rolle have that would need our attention in such a hurry,” he admitted, a smile suggesting this was the time to put it on the table.

  “We have a couple of geniuses on the campus,” Rolle began.

  “Only two?” Dr Cannon asked in surprise.

  Rolle smiled and nodded as the four of them settled into their seats around the table. “These two are of particular concern, because they have developed a chemical that, with a small power source, produces a totally independent gravitational field. As such, it can lift and transport anything within its field, cheaply and reliably, and with no currently known side effects.”

  The Pro-Vice-Chancellors looked at each other, their expressions unreadable, and then turned back to Rolle. “What are you doing about it?” Professor Lovell asked.

  “And just as importantly, what do you expect of us?” Dr Cannon added, leaning forward and bringing all of her attention to bear upon the two men.

  Michael opened an old paper pad to begin taking notes as Professor Rolle began outlining their strategy.

  “Primarily, we’d like your permission to continue developing this application without publication,” Professor Rolle said, looking between the two Pro-Vice-Chancellors.

  “I think that can probably be arranged,” Dr Joanne Cannon agreed. “Due credit would of course be given to the role the University has played in the development of this new energy source,” she pointed out, “but that can wait for the appropriate time.”

  “We’re concerned about the intellectual property rights of this chemical. The students obviously want to protect their work, but don’t want to advertise its abilities, nor its creator,” the professor continued.

  “We can have the university handle that. We can put a Patent Application in along with a pile of others. The students will have full credit, of course, but with the normal footnote regarding assistance by the university,” Dr Cannon suggested.

  “Talking about credit,” Michael said. “We would really appreciate it, Professor Lovell, if you could give us a hand with our finances. We’re obviously going to have some income and expenses, and we’d like to make those as private as possible. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes, that should be an interesting project,” the professor agreed, smiling and nodding as he looked around the table. “I think a small number of off-shore accounts to begin with. We can then discuss whether Bearer Bonds or Commodity Trading, or a mix of the two, would be better avenues for the clandestine movement of funds,” he told them, clearly relishing the idea of setting up such facilities.

  It would be three hours before they left the office, during which both Pro-Vice-Chancellors had cancelled other engagements to remain in the meeting.

  November 16th

  It was nine in the evening and the street lights cast eerie shadows across the narrow Senate House Passage and Trinity Lane situated deep in old Cambridge. A mist moved languidly between the buildings of Trinity College and the Old Schools, and then into the forecourt car park, cold, damp, and threatening a frost.

  The car that glided into the car park of the Old Schools where the Vice Chancellor’s offices were situated did so in as near silence as its electric motor allowed, while the sound of the doors opening and closing were muted by good technology as much as by the mist that clung to the vehicle.

  Two fit young men got out of the car first and looked about them with careful precision before one of them opened the rear passenger door to allow an older man to stand. He squared his shoulders and softly thanked the first two men before walking into the vestibule of the building.

  “I appreciate your seeing me at such short notice, Brian,” Sir Richard Phillips, the Vice Chancellor of Cambridge University told his guest as they shook hands before moving into the warm and cosy offices within.

  “Your note conveyed both urgency and secrecy,” Brian said, walking into the pleasant offices of the Vice Chancellor and stepping towards the buttoned leather wing chairs that waited for them beside the large fireplace.

  “I do so hope that it’s secrecy. You know how much I love a good conspiracy,” Brian admitted, looking about him. A small round table stood between the two chairs, two glasses of rich red claret already poured from a cut crystal decanter that stood to one side, half full.

  Brian was a tall man in his late forties, a peppering of grey in his hair furthering his credentials as a man of seniority and good judgement. His jaw was broad and firm, his hands large, his grip firm. His accent was perfectly British, his suit was Savile Row, his shoes; Milan. His tie, blue with yellow and red stripes, was loudly Trinity College, Cambridge.

  “Well, it’s yes to both those,” the Vice Chancellor chuckled. “I hope my students can’t see through me so easily,” the older man said, taking his own seat and sighing as he enjoyed the heat of the fireside and a sip of the wine.

  “Well, such insights have helped me in my career, so I wouldn’t suggest it’s something you’r
e doing personally,” Brian smiled. “But I do have a car waiting. I have to be in Bristol early tomorrow,” he explained before savouring his own glass of wine.

  “Alright then,” Sir Richard nodded. “I wanted to alert you to one of our endeavours and its implications,” he began. “Completely confidential; this can’t go further than these four walls,” the Vice Chancellor explained.

  “My, my, Sir Richard. This sounds very intriguing,” Brian murmured, his attention sharpening.

  “Some of our students have discovered something quite extraordinary, something so extraordinary, that it will likely change everything we consider normal in the world,” Sir Richard explained.

  “They haven’t found another Boson, have they?” Brian asked.

  Sir Richard waved that away. “This goes much further than that, and has immediate practical applications. So practical in fact, that we’re going to test it in about a week from now.”

  Brian looked at him shrewdly. “And this is going to cause me some grief I assume. Am I right Sir?”

  “I’m afraid that you’re probably right. I think it will cause problems internationally too, Brian. But it can’t be helped. If we want to keep this for Britain, then we need the time and space to develop it on our own, without politics, authorities, big business or international subterfuge from getting in the way.”

  “A bit dangerous, that, isn’t it?” Brian asked. “Wouldn’t it be better if you just let our people have it, right now? Then we can do the testing and make sure it’s safe from poaching too.”

  “If life were that simple, Brian. This discovery is going to cause problems, huge problems. I would suggest that you don’t want to be seen to be involved in this until it’s a done deal and the cards are laid down, face up,” Sir Richard warned him.