THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY

by Peter Damon

  “Are you sure these aren’t just new debris caused by another collision?” the British man was asking, waving his hand dismissively, his tone of voice clipped but bored.

  “Sir, all these new objects have intelligence and communications facilities. They are not debris,” Reynolds stated categorically in response to a signal from General Mears in the White House.

  “We agree,” said the Chinese general. “But we have not been able to ascertain what they are for, or how they got there.”

  “If they didn’t get up there by themselves, then one of us took them up on one of our last missions,” General Mears noted. “Point is,” he said, overriding the others heated objections, “why aren’t we admitting it?”

  “Perhaps because we did not lift it ourselves,” suggested the Russian. “Perhaps someone in the UK, some private organisation, has a way of launching these objects.”

  “You’ve been reading too much gossip,” the British man claimed. “British students are well known for their student pranks,” he reminded everyone.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps your government believes it too, eh?” said the Russian.

  “Perhaps we’re just being cautious; Due Diligence and all that. Have we satisfied ourselves these objects are non lethal?” he asked, diverting that line of questioning.

  “We’ve received visuals from four optical telescopes, and none of these new objects appear to be remotely military. One of them doesn’t even have a receiver!” General Mears told the British man.

  “I am far more interested in how they got there,” the Chinese general spoke. “From where I sit, I believe one of us, or perhaps someone not at this meeting, has a hidden launch facility, one that our surveillance satellites cannot see.”

  That brought silence to the meeting as each senior man considered what that meant. No one was inclined to point out that such a facility would contravene signed agreements by their Heads of State.

  “We will divert further satellites to monitor those countries capable of launching such a vehicle.” General Mears stated.

  “As will we,” the others told him with pointed smiles.

  “We should meet again, sooner rather than later. My country does not like this state of affairs,” the Chinese general told them, understating the situation in his usual manner.

  “Well, I don’t see what I can offer,” the British man claimed. “Frankly, it was only by chance we saw some of the pictures. So unless one of you is going to keep Britain informed, I would suggest we bow out of this little get-together.”

  “The President is eager that Britain be a party to these discussions,” General Mears told him. “I’ll see that a copy of our intel is sent over to you straight away,” he offered.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Sir Arthur Coleman turned off the video link and turned his chair to look towards his subordinate, Stan Charway. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “The Russians think it’s us, the Chinese think it’s us, and the Americans don’t know what to think and are scared shitless,” Stan answered.

  “Quite,” Sir Arthur agreed, nodding his head, watery blue eyes unfocused as he thought. “What progress on your weather balloons?” he asked.

  “We’ve matched a suspected launch to each item that has appeared in orbit. Additionally, Jodrell Bank has noted another object heading away from earth, noisily sending data back to earth. We believe we have a launch location for that one too.”

  “So, UK is the source, eh?” Sir Arthur murmured.

  “It would appear so, Sir. Unless this was done as a diversion, perhaps, Sir”

  Sir Arthur shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Stanley. I think we have to conclude that we have a brilliant discovery on out turf, and that they want to keep it secret. Not doing a very good job of it so far, are they?”

  “No sir,” Stan agreed. “Although, to give them some credit, their method of launch is extremely quiet, compared to those of these other gentlemen,” he pointed out.

  “And they seem to have enrolled the student body as a whole to help muddy the waters somewhat,” Sir Arthur noted. “I have to assume such diversions are there to help mask further launches.”

  “I believe so Sir. ROLID has been briefed to alert the police to any suspicious weather balloon activity. I’m accessing their reports directly from the police database.”

  “Do the other gentlemen have our sources?” he asked.

  “Oh, no Sir. ROLID is ours and additional security has been placed around the data,” Stan said. “We don’t know if the technology has a profile similar to that of a weather balloon, or whether launches are being made to look like weather balloons, but that knowledge is ours and ours alone.” Stan explained.

  “Mm, I think our strategy has to change then, Stanley. I don’t think we want to share this with the Americans. I don’t think we want to share this with anyone,” he admitted.

  “I understand, Sir,” Stan nodded.

  “But at the same time, I shall need to know more. You must find out for me who are doing these magical things, Stanley. Find me the technology lifting these things. And quietly mind. We most definitely do not want to share this unless we have to.”

  As Stanley closed the door, Sir Arthur waited to hear the man go through his outer door, and then picked up the phone to talk to the Prime Minister. This might be what the Prime Minister had alluded to some weeks back. If that proved to be the case, then it was going to make one very loud bang at some stage, hopefully not too soon. Sir Arthur liked to schedule such events in his diary whenever possible.

  May 2nd

  Robert Hwang, owner of the Rising Moon Chinese Restaurant in the centre of Cambridge, walked back to the rear after having cleaned one of the tables and smiled towards his mother where she stood at the small bar pouring a beer for one of their customers.

  It was a mild evening and trade was good, predominately couples and the odd group of four.

  The door opened and four new customers appeared, Chinese men in Chinese-made suits, their curiosity about the inside of the small restaurant signalling this as their first and recent arrival in the country.

  Robert hurried forward with a welcoming smile. “A table for four?” he asked as he inclined his head towards them.

  “Do you speak Cantonese?” the leader asked in studied English.

  “My pardon, Sirs. I am third generation British. I know only English,” he said, adding a small bow as an apology for his failure.

  “No matter,” the man told him. “Yes, a table for four, towards the back of the room,” he was told.

  Robert led them to their table, feigning ignorance of the comments they made in Cantonese between themselves about how small and dirty the place was.

  Robert’s mother looked nervously towards him as he returned to the bar. “You go help in the kitchen, Mother. Have Li come out to help me on the tables,” he told her. And early the next day, he would arrange for the ladies to leave Cambridge. He wanted as few family members in Cambridge as possible while those four were there.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Cheryl caught the late evening EasyJet flight from Frankfurt to land at Stansted one hour later by her watch, but two hours later by local time.

  It had been cold in Frankfurt, but Stansted was wet, with a light rain that appeared to have settled in for the night.

  Tired and laden with her case, Cheryl wheeled it along the pavement to the bus stop and queued with a few others for the Cambridge bus. There weren’t that many at that time of night, that time of year, and she didn’t pay them that much attention, preferring to pick up on her emails and read the latest headlines from the online newspapers on her tablet.

  Syria had made further inroads into Turkey and there had been more suicide bombs in both Istanbul and Izmet. Afghanistan and Pakistan were still trading heated words, each threatening a new war, while North Korea opened yet another check point with South Korea, allowing more of their people to travel across the border. And the United Nation
s had failed yet again to agree on what should be done with what remained of Iran.

  The bus arrived and she watched her case stowed in the hold before she boarded the bus and chose an aisle seat half-way down the bus. An old gentleman with a beard sat in the seat across the aisle and turned his overhead light on so he could read his newspaper, folded to the crossword.

  “Doesn’t it itch?” Cheryl asked softly as the big diesel engine came to life beneath them and the coach eased its way from the curb to begin its journey.

  “These things are sent to try us,” Herbert Rolle admitted, touching it gently to make sure it was still in place, and trying not to inhale too much of the glue.

  “So what keeps you from your bed tonight?” she asked of him while she outwardly worked on her tablet. She could have just as easily been talking to someone on her mobile.

  A woman stood and walked past them to help herself from the coffee dispenser at the back of the coach and others on the coach began to relax, some turning to doze while others unravelled headphones to begin watching the TV program displayed on the small overhead screens.

  “Limited finances have forced us to change the plan,” he warned her. “We are going to need six million US Dollars in about two weeks, and then a space of at least four weeks before the balance,” he explained once the woman had returned to her seat, carefully nursing her small cup of coffee, and then he also rose, in his case to visit the lavatory, also at the back of the coach.

  Cheryl stopped looking at her tablet to stare out of the window, her mind full of the problems that the professor had just put on her plate. She should have known the original plan was too simple, too easy. Now, instead of one massive launch, one last and very visible blip on everyone’s screens, there would be two. That gave the authorities four weeks to discover everything they could from the first launch before they could all move out of reach with the second.

  “Can you do it?” Rolle asked as he bent to take back his seat, a hand combing his hair back.

  Cheryl wanted to tell him no. Instead, she reviewed her plan and began thinking of alternatives.

  Bringing a launch forward by four weeks was not the problem. Most of her clients already had their satellites completed and were running endless checks on the equipment to make sure everything worked. No, the real problem was with her.

  Launching just one unit early and leaving the others for a launch four weeks later, left her totally exposed. It only took one worker at any of her client offices to recall her visits, and mention it in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they would have her. Put her name to the project, and they would soon see her links to Rolle, to Michael, Gary and the others.

  What she needed was some way to segregate everything to do with the first launch, some way to make it appear as if a totally different organisation had done the launch, one without links to her, Gary, or anyone else in the team.

  They were on the outskirts of Cambridge when Cheryl nudged the professor awake to smile at his startled expression. He looked outside for a moment to judge where they were, then glanced towards the small woman, her smile putting him at ease.

  “I need another person, someone totally unrelated to the rest of us,” she told him.

  “He’ll not come to harm, will he?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “But it would be best if he came along with us at the end of it all,” she explained.

  Rolle nodded. He’d need to meet up with Michael again. Rolle didn’t know anyone not associated with the university.

  May 5th

  Michael was in Croydon, one of the larger and more industrialised suburbs of South East London. Here, outside the town centre where buildings rivalled those of London, but on a smaller scale, were well established houses that looked out on busy roads, high hedges, fences and double glazing providing some degree of privacy.

  Spring was in the air and the heavily pruned cherry trees lining the main road were showing signs of growing tired of their full of blossom.

  Michael had asked the taxi to drop him at the top of the road, and then waited for it to draw away before he crossed to the other side, his eyes alert for more than just traffic. A tram rolled by, full of commuters returning to their homes while commercial vehicles queued at the nearby traffic lights, waiting for them to change before moving sedately on, watched by the traffic camera on the corner of the junction.

  The house he wanted stood innocuously beside its twin, the garden well maintained, the netting in the windows looking just as smart, the guttering clean and tidy.

  He walked around the block twice before he felt comfortable enough to walk up the short path to the front door and ring the bell. The gate had been stiff and Michael wondered if that had been done on purpose, or whether it was truly rusted up by infrequent use. The flowers that bordered the path were roses, in need of pruning, their thorns a pointed deterrent to leaving the path that led to the porch and door.

  The front porch was well lit, while the door itself was sturdy and of oak. While Michael couldn’t see a camera he little doubted that there was at least one watching him, possibly two.

  Michael heard the door being unlocked and smiled as it edged open to reveal just a portion of a man’s face, an unshaven cheek and a single brown eye pressed to the gap.

  “Michael Bennett?” the man asked, half in excitement, half in surprise.

  “Hello John. How are things?” Michael asked with a smile.

  John Dalton had aged since he’d last seen him. His cheeks gaunt, his hair, thinning to the front, now long and un-kept at the back. His brown eyes were still strong and dark though, and his smile, rarely given, still infectious. He was thin, his clothes too large for his slender frame, skin wrapped tightly around the skeleton of his hands and bare feet.

  They had worked together for five years, five long years and the worst five years of Michael’s life. John seemed to be still living it. Michael looked about him and felt the pain of Wendy’s death all over again.

  John led the way to a long and narrow kitchen and, opening a cabinet, grinned as he brought out a half bottle of Johnny Walker’s Scotch whisky.

  “Not for me,” Michael shook his head. “A cup of coffee would suit me just as well,” he requested.

  “They didn’t ask you to come, did they?” John asked, suspending the making of a cup of instant coffee to cast Michael a worried glance, his hands shaking slightly.

  “No John. I haven’t spoken to them for years. Not since we were debriefed.”

  “Yes, well, that doesn’t mean they’re not still watching us,” John told him, visibly forcing himself to function once more, to add the sugar, the milk, the water. He had made it the way Michael had always liked it and Michael smiled his thanks before following the gaunt man into the sitting room.

  “I haven’t seen your by-line recently,” John told him, and it took a moment for Michael to realised John still read the newspaper.

  “I left a few months ago, late last year. I’m at the Cambridge Chronicle now,” he explained.

  “Oh, that would explain it then,” John nodded.

  “Are they watching you, John?” he asked mildly.

  “They’re watching everyone, Michael,” John answered with a vigorous nod. “Cameras everywhere. And they listen too; listen to all your calls, read all your mail. Nothing is secret, Michael.”

  “Are they watching you now?” he asked. “Can they hear us in here?”

  “Not here, Michael. Not in here. This house is safe, I’ve made it safe. Nothing works in here, Michael,” he was assured.

  “Because I’m on a private job, one we don’t want the authorities to know about,” Michael told him.

  John shook his head. “You shouldn’t Michael. They’ll find out. They always find out.”

  “I know. So I’m going to escape them. I’m going to go where they can’t see me, can’t hear me or touch me,” he explained.

  “Where’s that, Michael? Have you found somewhere safe?” John asked with a yea
rning in his voice.

  Michael swallowed. “Up there,” he told his old friend. “In space. I’m going to live in space where they can’t get me,” he murmured.

  John’s eyes widened and his breath momentarily held still. Then he reached out to his old friend, his expression changing. “Take me with you,” he begged. “Please Michael; take me with you.”

  “I need some help first. I need you to project manage a couple of things first. Can you do that?”

  John nodded. “Outfox them for the time it takes us to get away, eh? Have them looking in the wrong direction as we slip off into the night, eh? Oh yes, I can do that!” John told him, a grin suffusing his face. All of a sudden John was a different man, not haggard at all, but lean and sharp, like a hungry wolf.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Stan Charway sat at his desk and reviewed the latest intelligence from his network of operatives, just as he’d done for the last few nights; sifting through the silt to find the gold dust that would lead him to the lode.

  His operatives were everywhere. They existed in so many walks of life, awakened or put to sleep as circumstances required.

  Theirs was the job to have, he reflected. Whether it be a housewife in Brighton or a flower trader in Oban, all he asked of them was, when awoken, to send him an email each day telling him everything they had seen, everyone they had spoken to or had dealings with, everything they had heard. For this, they got paid a monthly fee, irrespective of whether he woke them or not; their pay was guaranteed.

  It was up to him to sift through the pages and pages of their diaries, sometimes re-reading long tracks, his mind juggling facts as he judged the relevance of what he read. He had software to help him that would search for phrases, names or occurrences, but in the end, the emails had to be read; read and understood.

  He didn’t finish until gone 3am, and by then he had two sheets of plain A4 covered in his small and precise hand; the details he had gleaned from everyone’s input.