She switched off her phone and set to work. She had a mammoth task before her. However, it was the kind of task Sandy Jones relished.
Almost ten hours later, at around seven o’clock that evening, Jones rose stiffly from her chair, removed the bottle of malt whisky and one of the glasses she kept tucked away in her bookcase, behind a couple of the weightiest tomes. She poured herself a large tot. Then she walked to the window carrying the glass, and took a long swallow as she gazed unseeingly at the landscaped gardens outside.
She felt drained. Empty. She had known that she would discover something extraordinary. And she’d certainly done that. But Paul Ruders’ Theory of Consciousness was not what she had expected at all.
Jones had been through the paper in its entirety at least three times, scrutinizing every paragraph, every clause, every conclusion. She’d found even the language Paul Ruders had used to be difficult. It was certainly unlike any other scientific language that she had encountered. But she remembered the words of another American pioneer in the field of consciousness, Dean Radin, once a doctor of psychology at Princeton, who had told Jones that when the breakthrough did come the world would probably not have the language in current use to explain it properly.
Radin had likened the sheer monumental leap of faith involved in moving towards an understanding of the meaning of consciousness to the idea of time-hopping a great brain of the seventeenth century, such as Benjamin Franklin, bringing him to the present, then asking him to return to his own time and explain computer technology, even television and telephones, to the people of his age.
‘He would not have the language,’ Radin said. ‘He couldn’t do it.’
Jones had therefore expected Paul Ruders’ paper to be unlike anything she had ever seen and to involve an enormous leap into the unknown. In fact she’d found the language used, both in text and in the mathematics, the equations and the very form of the arithmetic and the phrasing, an enormously difficult challenge.
Ultimately Jones could barely believe her own assessment of Paul Ruders’ Theory of Consciousness. Its implications were more than wide-ranging. They were staggering.
She drained her glass in one. She was not yet satisfied with her efforts. She had to be absolutely sure. She would go through the Ruders Theory at least one more time before leaving her office. And only then would she decide what to do next. If necessary she would stay there all night.
Ed was waiting eagerly for her when she finally arrived home a few minutes before midnight.
‘I kept wanting to phone you,’ he said. ‘But I knew you’d be working.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she replied. ‘I should have called. I didn’t even tell you the package had arrived.’
‘I knew it must have.’
‘Yes. And I’ve been studying it ever since. I lost all track of time. There are one or two surprises, Ed.’
‘Come into the kitchen. I made some sandwiches. We can talk while you eat. I bet you haven’t had anything all day, again.’
Jones nodded absently. She only realized just how hungry she was when she started to eat, and the food, renewing her energy perhaps, somehow made it easier to talk.
Ed sat quietly while she did her best to go through her day’s work, and to describe what she had learned and the conclusions she’d come to. Ed wasn’t a scientist, but his long-time involvement with RECAP meant that she didn’t have to explain in the way she would otherwise have had to. She could take short cuts, throw equations and quite ground-breaking concepts at Ed, and be confident he would understand.
When she’d finished Ed reached across the table and brushed her hand with his fingers. The gesture touched her, even at that moment.
‘What are you going to do, Sandy?’ he asked.
Jones was still fumbling for a reply when the house phone rang. They both looked at the clock. It was just gone one. A little late for a social call.
The caller turned out to be someone from Sandy Jones’s past, an old Oxford acquaintance, whom she knew inhabited a world and moved in circles Jones had never expected to have dealings with. She hadn’t heard from him in years.
Ed looked at her enquiringly after she’d replaced the phone in its charger.
‘I’ve been invited to lunch in London tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘And, trust me, it’s not an invitation you turn down.’
Nonetheless, Jones did not really want to make a trip to London. She hadn’t satisfactorily sorted out her thoughts on the Ruders Theory and what to do about it. She would have liked the chance to talk it all through more with Ed, who was her only confidante. But at least, she felt, as she boarded the 9.05 Exeter to Paddington express, some vital questions might be answered.
The venue chosen for lunch was a surprise. The Ivy restaurant was, by and large, an in-place for in-people, an established celebrity haunt, and Jones did not consider that her lunchtime host was an Ivy sort of man. She would rather have expected to have been offered lunch at the Savoy Grill, or perhaps even more likely, a dusty Mayfair gentleman’s club.
The Honourable Jimmy Cecil, was a man whose background and calling could not have been more different from Jones’s own.
Cecil was the nephew of a peer, and a descendant of one of England’s oldest aristocratic families. He was also, Jones had been vaguely aware for many years, one of the most important men in Britain in terms of national security. But she did not know exactly what it was that Jimmy Cecil did, and was not even entirely sure which security force or government body Cecil was employed by. When Jimmy Cecil had left Oxford he’d talked vaguely in terms of having been seconded to the Ministry of Defence, Jones recalled. In the university’s own corridors of power, which remained considerable, the word had been that he was joining MI5. His name occasionally popped up here and there, usually obliquely, in the columns of the posher papers. And he seemed to hover permanently on the fringes of Government.
Jimmy Cecil was the kind of Englishman whose nature and purpose had not changed in centuries. Even as an Oxford undergraduate, Jones remembered him as a creature apart from the rest.
Cecil was already sitting at a corner table when she arrived, and stood up at once to greet her. He was tall and elegant, with a thick head of prematurely white hair swept back from his forehead in a boyish quiff. He wore a finely tailored, three-piece, pin-striped suit with waistcoat which could only have come from Savile Row, and was of a kind which had been worn by men like him for generations – with barely a button or a cuff altered in deference to whatever might be the current fashion.
‘I say, old girl, haven’t you put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ began Cecil, by way of greeting.
Jones muttered a vague affirmation and sat down.
Cecil poured her a glass of the claret he was already drinking, without asking what she would like, and leaned back in his chair.
‘So terribly good of you to come here all the way from Devon,’ he drawled. ‘I really am so very grateful.’
Jones smiled wryly. As if she would have been able to resist, she thought. Indeed, under the circumstances, as if she would have dared resist.
‘So, why don’t you just tell me why you wanted to see me, Jimmy?’ she asked, being deliberately blunt.
Cecil inclined his head graciously.
‘Oh you know, one thing and another. Saw you on the news, of course. Thought maybe you could do with a helping hand. A bit of advice.’
‘Really.’
‘Really. Well, to tell the truth, old girl, I thought we might be able to help each other out.’
‘Did you indeed?’
Cecil smiled wryly and shrugged his shoulders.
‘So,’ Jones continued, ‘I’ve told the world that I believe the American government, or certainly bodies close to it, might be involved in the explosion at Princeton and all that has followed. By summoning me here today—’
‘An invitation, old girl, not a summons,’ Cecil interrupted, his voice little more than a murmur.
‘By summoning me her
e today you have already indicated that I’m probably right about that. Am I?’
Cecil didn’t answer the question. His face gave nothing away.
‘I just wanted to give you the opportunity to share with me anything that you might wish, anything you might think I could assist with,’ he remarked obliquely.
He paused and took a sip of wine, then delicately wiped his lips with his napkin.
Jones remained silent.
‘The press have also, of course, shown a certain amount of interest in your recent gentleman companion. Ed MacEntee, I believe, is the name?’
‘Yes, he’s an old friend, that’s all,’ said Jones.
‘Indeed. And I understand there is a suspicion in certain circles, is there not, that he might have a copy of this theory, this theory of consciousness, which seems to have caused so much palaver?’
Jones felt her stomach lurch. How did Cecil know that? She had quite deliberately given no indication of it to the press.
‘People have died, Jimmy, because of Paul Ruders’ work,’ she said quietly. ‘People have been murdered. I was nearly murdered.’
‘Precisely, my dear. So it occurred to me, should there still be a copy of the Ruders Theory kicking about somewhere, and should you, by any chance have access to it, that you might need a little guidance in what the hell to do next.’
Jones’s pulse was racing. It took an enormous effort for her to stay calm, or at least appear to stay calm.
‘If I were to need guidance with anything, Jimmy, why on earth would I trust you? I think you know too much, for a start.’
Cecil raised an elegant eyebrow.
‘Come, come,’ he said.
‘I’m not taken in by you, Jimmy. I know this kind of intrigue is right up your street. It’s what you do. It’s what you deal in.’
‘Is it?’
A wicked smile played around Jimmy Cecil’s lips.
‘C’mon Jimmy. At least tell me this. Who was actually responsible for blowing up RECAP? Who decided to go that far? We know the FBI were involved. They wouldn’t have acted alone. So, if the American government really is implicated, then just how high up is the chain of command?’
‘Sandy, I’m a mere humble servant of Her Majesty. I abide by certain codes of behaviour. I couldn’t possibly put myself in breach of confidence. Even if I did know the answers to your questions.’
Jones sighed. She was still immersed in a highly dangerous game, she realized, and she barely even knew the rules. Jimmy Cecil was absolutely right. She did need help. She couldn’t handle it alone. But she knew she was going to have to lay some big cards on the table. She had no choice. She had suspected what lay ahead, and had actually more or less decided to do so even before arriving at The Ivy.
She leaned forwards in her chair. Jimmy Cecil, perhaps sensing the moment, also leaned forwards. Their heads were almost touching when Jones spoke again. She kept her voice low.
‘OK Jimmy, you’re right. I actually do have a copy of Paul Ruders’ Theory of Consciousness. I’m not telling you how I got it. It’s enough that I have it. I spent the whole of yesterday studying it and now I have to decide what to do with what I have learned. I am telling you this because, although I haven’t a clue whether I should trust you or not, I suspect you are extremely well qualified to advise me. I don’t …’
Jones paused, thinking not only about Paul, but about Connie, and Marion, and Ed, and even Ed’s idiot brother.
‘I don’t want to be responsible for the destruction of any more lives.’
Briefly, Sandy Jones looked down at the table. She was about to take a quite irrevocable step. She raised her eyes again and fixed her gaze on Jimmy Cecil.
‘You should know that I have a particular reason for no longer wishing to keep the existence of the paper a secret,’ she said, her voice still low. ‘A reason which I may or may not share with you today.’
Cecil did not respond. His face was absolutely expressionless. Instead he lifted his wine glass to his lips again, and beckoned to a passing waiter.
‘Shall we order?’ he enquired.
Jones could barely conceal her exasperation.
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ she said irritably.
‘It’ll be the steak and kidney pudding then. Though goodness knows what sort of pud they’ll come up with here, accompanied by sun-dried tomatoes and a rocket salad I shouldn’t wonder …’
Cecil guffawed. Jones was even more irritated.
‘If that’s how you feel about The Ivy, what are we doing here?’ she asked.
‘You’re a celebrity, old girl. Thought you’d fit in rather well. Stick out like a sore thumb at my club, that’s for sure. Particularly after your shenanigans yesterday. Don’t want prying ears, do we?’
So that was it, thought Jones.
When he’d completed the ordering, Cecil turned back to Jones with the air of a man who had given the matter in hand quite enough thought and had now made his decision.
‘Well, my dear, you have in your hands an extremely hot potato,’ he remarked conversationally. ‘I know you are aware of that, but I wonder if you have quite grasped the scale of it. In terms of who may perhaps have already taken action concerning the Ruders Theory, well, I think you should widen the list of suspects, as it were. In fact, you should probably think in terms of pretty much the whole United Nations.’
‘What?’
‘Well, not in name, of course. Not officially. But a number of the member countries have had a degree of involvement. Though they’d all deny it. As indeed I would totally deny that this conversation took place should you ever attempt to repeat it.’
Jones ignored that.
‘I can hardly believe what you’re saying,’ she muttered.
‘No? Well, I will tell you this, because I think you need to know a lot more before you make decisions which could have devastatingly far-reaching consequences. Britain is involved—’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Jones interrupted.
Cecil continued as if she had not spoken. ‘So is France, and several other European countries. So is China. So is Russia. So is Israel. Do you think for one second that the Israeli government wants any kind of link of consciousness between its people and those of Palestine?’
‘Well no, I suppose not. What are you getting at, Jimmy?’
‘Exactly that. Governments are ultimately controlled by individuals. A state like China exists in permanent fear of its people rising up and saying we aren’t going to take this anymore. Now, the thing about a link of consciousness is that it is more or less impossible to combat. It doesn’t rely on groups of people physically uniting, on being prepared to fight, or actively taking part in terrorism or a conventional revolution. It is quite simply a union of minds. Take one individual thinking a certain way and multiply by, say, 100 million. That is a force no government in the world could cope with.’
‘I know that,’ said Jones. ‘It’s one of Connie Pike’s sermons, actually. But I didn’t think the governments of the world were taking the idea of global consciousness so seriously yet. And certainly not on that scale. I had more in mind that a rogue US Government department was behind the RECAP explosion, and what has followed.’
‘My dear Sandy, here in the UK, probably the one thing that all the prime ministers I’ve personally known, from Tony to Boris, have agreed on is that the power of global consciousness could ultimately be the biggest threat there has ever been to national government as we know it. Think Berlin. The Wall fell in a week. You, of all people, must have asked yourself how that could possibly have happened? After all those years of hardcore communist rule. It was a straightforward example of the power of linked consciousness.’
‘Of course,’ said Sandy. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. There was no revolutionary army, no Che Guevara. And the worldwide web, with its ability to bring people together, had barely begun. So it’s already happened, without most people noticing. I’m not sure even Paul and Connie took their thou
ght process that far. But you are saying that our political leaders did?’
‘Indeed. It was regarded as just one of those things, though. Because we have never known how it happened. Not until now, perhaps, and the Ruders Theory. One can only imagine the situation that would arise if we fully understood what consciousness was and, even, heaven forbid, if we understood how to control human consciousness on a global scale. That’s the rub, old girl. Control!’
Jones was stunned. She had heard this kind of stuff from Connie and Paul, but Jimmy Cecil was a man at the heart of the UK government.
‘You have to realize that we are at a very crucial stage in time,’ Cecil continued. ‘We have the web now, which, as you implied, gives us a kind of access to global consciousness, in that it provides a regular and constant update on what is happening everywhere. Because of the web alone, governments cannot lie as easily as they once did – which is particularly relevant in countries without even the semblance of a free press. We can be instantly made aware not just of what is happening around the corner, but also on the other side of the world. Now that kind of knowledge can dramatically change the way we behave. Very unusual effects can be achieved by mutual coherence, very fast social and physical change. Thoughts can be swiftly catalysed. They can explode.’
The steak and kidney puddings arrived, together with a selection of perfectly appropriate vegetables. Jones willed the waiter to serve quickly.
Before recent events in America, Jones had always taken much of what Connie had had to say with a large pinch of salt. Connie, by the very nature of what she did, was something of a fantasist. Jimmy Cecil was a different proposition. An international mover and shaker who lived and breathed politics. And Cecil seemed to have explored the possible practical repercussions of the solving of the mystery of consciousness far more extensively than Jones had ever done. Prior to the last few days.
‘Do you remember the reason for the 1987 stock market crash?’ Jimmy Cecil continued. ‘It marked the beginning of computer trading, the mechanics of which turned the economic world on its head. The feedback system was suddenly so much faster. The system, as it was, just could not cope with the volume of deals.’
Cry Darkness Page 25
