The Locke Cipher

by Gabriel Kron

  “Hello Clive, sorry to call you up here. Please have a seat,” Bannister said and sat back down behind his desk.

  “It's not a problem Simon, what is it? I’ve got a lecture in less than ten minutes,” Clive said looking at his watch.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m sorry but I’ve got bad news...” Bannister sighed. “There’s no easy way of saying this so I’ll be as brief as possible. The Rector called me late last night, very late in fact, and has instructed me to call you in here this morning and terminate your contract with us, effective immediately. I’m sorry, this is completely out of my hands.” Bannister sounded sincere, but that was little comfort for Clive.

  “Pardon?” Clive initially responded, “You’re firing me? Why?”

  “I argued this for well over an hour last night, but the Rector said that it wasn’t his choice either and that he was following orders from the Senate...”

  The management structure of Imperial College looked like a mass of committees above and below a single point of management who was called the Rector, the principal academic and administrative officer of the College. He was supported by a Management Board below him and reported to various committees — one being the Senate, the academic authority of the College—above him.

  “But for what reason?” Clive asked. “What reason warrants this? Cut backs?”

  Bannister sighed again and leaned back in his chair, he looked tired. “Cut backs I could understand, but it’s not that.”

  “What then?” Clive stood up and walked to the office window that overlooked the College green and the last remaining structure of the original college building, The Queen’s Tower. It was one of Clive’s favourite places and he would often climb the three hundred and twenty-four steps to the copper domed viewing gallery to eat the lunch his wife had made him.

  “Clive, all I can tell you is that it has something to do with your trip to Stuttgart. What happened over there?” Simon asked. He really did not want to lose Clive, who was one of the best lecturers the College had ever had. The students loved his dynamic style of delivery.

  “Something bad. Really bad,” Clive said and left it at that.

  “Clive, they want you gone today, but I know you’ll need some time to clear that office of yours, so I told them you would need until the end of the week.”

  Clive nodded and then quite suddenly without a word, he left Bannister’s office. He did say good-bye to Julie and wished her luck as he left.

  This was a new experience for Clive. He had never lost a job in all his working life. Now he had just been sacked. As soon as he got back to his office, he phoned home. He needed to talk to Brenda.

  _________________

  When I first woke up, my first thought was I’m not dead. Simple as that. I had been convinced that I was dying. The pain kept coming in waves, like a red hot poker being thrust through my side each time, but despite this, I had felt profoundly cold and distant. I remembered hearing my own groans echoing as I blacked out for what I thought was going to be the last time.

  I hadn’t died. I was in a bed that wasn’t mine. It wasn’t my room either. I was in someone’s bedroom, but not one I recognised, and it certainly wasn’t a hospital room or holding cell, not with the modern pine bed, wardrobe, bed side table and a proper set of curtains.

  As I tried to sit up I had an acute reminder of why I was here. The sensation of piercing heat and a million stabbing needles spreading quickly down one side of my body. I expected to see blood, but when I looked I was bandaged around my lower body quite tightly. I lay back down.

  Wherever I was it was quiet, and I was alone. As I strained to hear any signs of activity, only the sound of the outdoors, wind through the trees and bird song could be heard. I drifted back off to sleep.

  When I woke again it was still daylight, but it must have been a few hours later. With a hand held over where I’d been shot, I carefully eased my legs out of bed and sat up. I didn’t have a top on, but someone had thankfully dressed me in a pair of grey track suit bottoms.

  I sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes before trying to stand. I was worried I’d feel faint and fall, but it wasn’t too bad. Weak, yes, and a lot of pain, but not like before.

  The bedroom door wasn’t locked, and it felt strange that I thought it would be. At the end of the small corridor that had two other doors, was a landing on the stairwell of the house. There was a large skylight at the top and a wooden staircase, not elaborate but quite substantial that went up one more floor and down one to the hallway. Tall arched windows lined one side of the staircase and a few black and white landscape prints that I recognised as Ansel Adams were hung at regular intervals.

  Holding on tightly to the banister rail, I made my way slowly down the stairs. One at a time. The ground floor had a modest entrance hall with a polished stone floor of black and white checks.

  As I reached the bottom of the stairs I could hear activity towards the back of the house. Kitchen noises, a clash of pots and pans. At the same time, the front door opened and in walked a tall middle aged woman dressed in a professional trouser suit and court shoes. She saw me and immediately dropped her brief case and ran towards me.

  “Henrik!” she shouted. “Henrik! Komm’ schnell, ich brauche dich, jetzt, Henrik! “

  And then to me she said, “Oh no, no, no, you should not be out of bed. Sit sit, now, please.”

  “I’m all right, it’s okay,” I said. “Where am I? Please.”

  “No, no, you are not okay. Look,” she said pointing to my side. I looked down and saw blood. “You have opened your wound again.”

  A man appeared who I assumed must have been Henrik. They spoke quickly in German and the man went off again.

  “Okay Daniel. Come.” She helped me to my feet and we slowly walked to a large lounge where she pointed to a black leather sofa for me to sit on. I sat down and she started to undo the bandage around my waist and torso. I closed my eyes and winced at how sore I was.

  “Err, sorry, but can you tell me who you are and where I am?” I gritted my teeth as she began to remove one of the gauze dressings.

  “Of course. I am doctor Karin Friedmann and a mutual friend of ours, Clive, asked me to help you. You have been shot and lost a lot of blood. We brought you back here to our house. My husband, Henrik, is just getting the first aid box. Hold still please.” She carefully removed the gauze pad as Henrik came back with the first aid box. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  “Yes, I think I do, up to getting shot. I don’t remember much after that,” I replied.

  “Clive called me to come and help him with you. When I arrived you were in a bad way, had lost a lot of blood and were barely conscious. We should have taken you to the hospital, but Clive told me what had happened and convinced me not to, so we bought you here.

  “You are lucky to have a friend like Clive who knows people like us. Henrik is a retired doctor, he can still write prescriptions because he still looks after a few of his old patients who won’t go with the younger doctors. It was close at first, especially as you then got an infection. Luckily you were shot through the muscles alongside the stomach cavity, so no major organs were hit. A few millimetres left and you would have died without major surgery. It will be at least two weeks before you’ll be able to do anything remotely physical or you will tear the wound open again. Do you understand?”

  Henrik Friedmann looked older than his wife, by a good ten to twenty years; he carried his tall trim physique well. He opened the first aid box for his wife and then turned to me, checked both my eyes and took my pulse.

  “Good evening, Herr Bateman. It is good to see you finally wake up. Would you like something to eat perhaps? You must be very hungry, yes?”

  Food hadn’t yet crossed my mind, but now the reminder of it made me realise just how hungry I was. I accepted his offer.

  “Where’s Clive?” I asked as Henrik left us.

  “We convinced Clive that he should get out of Ger
many as quickly as possible for his own safety.” Whilst talking, Karin cleaned my wound, sprayed some local on and re-sutured it. “You won’t be going anywhere for a while. No-one other than Clive and ourselves know you are here and once you are strong enough and have recovered we will get you home.”

  Henrik returned with a tray of soup and bread which although I couldn’t eat much of it, was warming and filling. Whilst I was eating, Karin and Henrik told me more about themselves. Henrik Friedmann was a medical doctor and Karin Friedmann a doctor of physics, both involved in research at Stuttgart University. They had married when they were in their late twenties, had two children, both boys and both now grown up and pursuing their own professional lives, leaving Henrik and Karin with a half empty house.

  “We met Clive at one of the Royal Institution Christmas lectures in London about ten years ago. First few years we only met at the lecture, but one day Clive’s wife, Brenda, volunteered Clive to give us a private mid-night tour of the Science Museum and see one of the best views across London from the Queen’s Tower. Ever since we have exchanged tours,” Karin said.

  “Then we have kind of met already then. Do you go every year? I know Clive does,” I asked. “I went to the Voyage in Space and Time lecture.”

  Friedmann’s Residence. Day 7.

  The Friedmanns made up one of the downstairs reception rooms as a bedroom so that I didn’t have to climb the stairs. I slept the rest of the day and through the night and was beginning to feel a little stronger when I woke up. Henrik had told me that straight after he had stabilised me I had developed a fever and was delirious for days.

  Although physically I was wrecked, mentally I was feeling particularly sharp and focused. I knew that finding the Lockridge was the cause of the problem, but I didn’t know who was prepared to go so far to suppress it. In fact I didn’t know much and was beginning to formulate a list of questions I needed answers to:

  Who disclosed the discovery outside of the group?

  Who was trying to suppress it and why?

  Who else was at risk?

  What should I do next?

  These were aside from needing to talk with my family and friends to let them know that I was okay. My parents, who lived in their retirement bungalow in Selsey on the West Sussex coast, would already be worried. It was my usual routine to phone them on my return from being abroad.

  I felt the immediate need to telephone the Owlbeech Care home where Jack Welch lived. I needed to warn Rebecca and Jack as to what had happened.

  And I needed to talk with Clive, who had saved my life. I needed to thank him and make sure he was all right and try and figure out how this had got so far out of control.

  Carefully I made my way out into the back garden directly from my new bedroom. They had positioned the bed so that I could see the well-manicured lawn that surrounded two large apple trees. It was a brisk sunny morning. I tried to take a deep breath, which felt good at first, but then made my side hurt like hell again. Checking my bandage I was relieved that there was no new spotting of blood.

  I found Karin tending to a vegetable patch at the end of the garden beyond a proper old artisan well.

  “Guten Morgen Daniel. How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Good morning, a little better thank you. You have a great place here, and you’ve even got a well,” I said and as I looked back at the house I noticed that their roof was fitted with an array of photovoltaic solar panels.

  “Karin, would it be all right to use your telephone please?”

  “When Clive was here we agreed that no-one was to know where you are. Henrik has agreed you can recover here as long as it doesn’t bring trouble to our house, which considering what Clive has told us, is very likely if you are found,” Karin said as we walked back down the garden.

  “I understand. I will not reveal where I am, especially not after what the Embassy did.” As far as I was concerned, the British Consulate had informed the German police where I was in the Palace Gardens. I felt that I couldn’t trust any official organisation at the moment.

  “Good, we know that you must have family who will be worried, so we have an old mobile phone you can use with an unregistered pay-as-you-go sim,” Karin said and opened the tall glass panelled doors that led to their office. She opened a desk drawer and handed me an old Nokia phone. It was the kind that the battery would last at least a week.

  The office was well suited to that of doctors. There were the pre-requisite framed certificates, along with other family related photographs including graduation pictures. The room was wooden panelled with floor to ceiling built in bookshelves. The desk was old oak and had a Dell computer, telephone and a desk lamp. I’m sure the high backed leather chair was comfortable, but I found every position uncomfortable at the moment as my wounds throbbed and itched like hell.

  The computer was on and I promised a reluctant Karin that I wouldn’t log on to any of my accounts and just wanted to read the news pages. Whilst reading over the headlines I dialled my parent’s number, one of the few I could remember. It rang twice before Dad answered it.

  I had decided not to tell them the truth and so lied about how I had been injured, telling them I had been in a car crash. I could hear my Mum’s voice jump a couple of octaves when she heard that I was hurt. Reassuring them I was fine, I told them that I would be recovering for a while in Germany.

  “What about work son?” Dad asked.

  “Haven’t spoken to them yet. I’ll call after this, I’m sure Kevin will have covered it. In fact, Dad, I need to make more calls, I’ll call again tomorrow. Love to Mum. Bye.”

  Although I didn’t have any of my notebooks or even internet access to my contacts, I knew I could look up Clive’s details on-line.

  “Hello, Sinclair.” Clive’s wife Brenda answered the phone.

  “Hi, is Clive there please?”

  “Sorry, he’s out... Daniel? Is that you? Clive said you might call,” Brenda said and then asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Hmm, as all right as expected, thanks. When’s Clive back please?”

  “Much later tonight. He said to tell you something if you rang. He said to tell you that ‘this isn’t over yet’. He lost his position at the College today because of Stuttgart...” she explained how Clive tried to return to work and was promptly dismissed for supposedly bringing the college into disrepute.

  “I’ve never seen Clive so angry before, he’s really fired up about it. He’s meeting someone tonight, not sure who, but someone from your group. I’ll tell him you’ve called,” Brenda said and hung up.

  I wondered who Clive was meeting, and if the OTG might indicate who.

  I didn’t need to log in to see the OTG group so I typed the web address into the browser and waited, but the page never displayed. The browser said it was unable to locate the site.

  Where’s the group? The OTG had been online for nearly ten years and had built up an extensive library of posts, photographs, schematics, experiment data and a host of reference material. For it not to be on-line meant that the Yahoo server was down or it had been deleted.

  This isn’t over. Brenda’s words ran through my thoughts as I dialled Becs’ private mobile number.

  “Owlbeech Mental Asylum,” Becs answered in her usual non-serious way that had landed her in trouble in the past.

  “Becs, it’s Daniel, can you talk?” I asked. The sound of Becs’ voice was sweet, a soft light Irish sweetness that was music to my ears.

  I started telling her about what had happened in Stuttgart.

  “... I need to talk to Jack, is it possible? I need to tell him about ... about what happened to —” I found it hard to stay composed. I could feel a large lump in my throat as I welled up. “to Sophia and Johann Locke.”

  There was a long silence that I then realised was Becs also getting emotional.

  “Becs?” I said having taken a deep breath and regained my composure.

  “Dan... he’s gone. He died last Thursday night in h
is sleep, sorry.”

  “What! How?”

  “In his sleep. He was found Friday morning.”

  “What about a post-mortem, what was the cause?”

  “He was eighty four, Dan, they don’t do post-mortems unless they need to.”

  “Did he have any visitors that night?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t actually on duty. Why?”

  “Becs, I don’t like this, with what has happened, something doesn’t feel right. Something Dom said. Is there CCTV in Jack’s room?” I asked.

  “No, not in the rooms. The corridor’s covered, but not the rooms.”

  “I hope I’m wrong, but can you check it for the night Jack died? Please, it’s important and I really do hope I’m wrong.”

  The Owlbeech Lodge CCTV system was a fairly modern set up with the camera feeds being stored online for secure remote storage and ease of use. Becs would be able to quickly scan the relevant feed and hopefully belay my fear. She told me to phone back in fifteen minutes.

  “Did you find anything?” I asked.

  “I did. What does it mean Dan? He had a visitor at two thirty in the morning.” Becs sounded upset. “No-one is ever allowed in at such times.”

  “Bec, I think Jack was murdered...”

  Menwith Hill, UKUSA base, Yorkshire, England.

  On the moors of North Yorkshire above Harrogate is a US military base. Giant golf balls, known as radomes, shield the direction radio receiver dishes point inside.

  Its existence is denied by the UK and US governments, but its presence can’t be. It’s visible for miles around.

  From its position, it intercepts all international electronic communications and filters them through databases for keywords that might indicate a security threat, domestically, commercially or militarily to the nations under the 1945 UKUSA treatise.

  The treatise was initially designed only for the monitoring of international traffic, with the radomes being only part of the intercept process. Every phone call, fax, email, text, BBM, uplink, downlink and a few others written or spoken in every language are filtered through voice and text recognition packages and translators.