by Gabriel Kron
He sat and waited, mulling over the possible scenario that Detective Mueller was involved in criminal activity.
A young man in his early twenties came and escorted Wolf to the Operations floor. The images portrayed by the James Bond films, depicting the interior of SIS as some high tech, ultra-modern, glamorous establishment faded quickly as Wolf walked through. Instead, other than a higher than usual number of CCTV cameras and security gates, the décor of the SIS building was not much different to most modern office blocks. In fact, Wolf had seen far higher spec offices in the private sector. Most of SIS was just desks with computers on and nothing else except the odd map or two framed on the walls.
Operation Suite 4, assigned to Operation Bellring, lived up to the James Bond image a little more. A large oval table with numerous computer terminals occupied the centre of the main room. The wall at the opposite end had a large central display screen with several other smaller screens on either side. Another wall had old school pin boards and white boards. Four agents were tapping at their keyboards as Wolf was escorted through the room to a side office.
“Detective Wolf, thank you for coming over. Your Inspector speaks very highly of you,” General Rourke said leaning across the desk and shaking hands.
“Thank you, I hope I can be of help.” Wolf sat down and scanned the plain, sparse but modern office.
“I understand you worked with Detective Mueller. I knew him, he was a good man. His death is a great shame.”
Wolf was slightly taken aback that the General claimed to know Mueller. “I only worked for him a couple of times. Yes he seemed to be a good man as you say.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to share what he had just learned, not until the forensics had come back at least.
“Right, I am sure your Inspector has told you why SIS has taken an active interest in Bateman?” General Rourke asked.
“Only that it is concerning a nuclear threat. I assume we are talking about a dirty bomb threat?”
“No, we’re not talking about a dirty bomb, detective. We are talking about stolen documents and schematics to a nuclear device. That is all I am permitted to tell you. But let’s just say that during WWII the German scientists were far further advanced than we were with nuclear research and development—” General Rourke was interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Enter,” the General shouted. The door opened and a man in shirt and tie walked in.
“Sorry to interrupt Sir. You said to inform you straight away of anything new.” The man, walked over to the desk and handed the General a Manila folder with TOP SECRET stamped in red across the front.
“Thank you,” Rourke scanned the top sheet inside. “When I said get surveillance on his home. Who the fuck didn’t do it!”
“They were an hour too late sir.”
General Rourke closed the folder and took a breath.
“Okay, okay. Jesus — this Bateman’s like a cat, his lives must be running out,” General Rourke said mostly to himself. He then stood up and thrust his hand out again, “Thank you detective. Please go with Agent Cornell here and process your case files into the system.”
Despite an uneasy feeling, Wolf went with the flow and followed Agent Cornell into the Op room.
~~~
Once Detective Wolf had left General Rourke’s office, the General opened the folder SIS had put together on Sebastian Wolf. It read well and would make a fine curriculum vitae. Well qualified, worked up from uniform, decorated for bravery whilst on duty, twice.
Rourke took out his own mobile phone and dialled another of the numbers he never wrote down.
“I’ve got someone I’d like you to recruit—”
OTG meeting #2, Travelodge. Day 42.
At the OTG's next official meeting, Lee brought with him three circa 1936 Bosch starter motors as per the part numbers specified in the third notebook. Clive already had the requisite enamelled copper wire, diodes and some modern carbon brushes. Authentic 1946 brushes no longer existed, anywhere, world-wide, it seemed.
The Bosch motors were beasts, made for starting two and a half tonne diesel trucks. They would require some decent tools and a work bench more substantial than Clive and Brenda’s dining room table to do the necessary modifications.
From the descriptions given in the notebook, we knew that we were going to need a lathe and a milling machine. This wouldn’t normally be a problem. My own workshop at 32A Westcote Avenue was more than adequately equipped to handle the modifications necessary to the casing and armatures. Failing that, before being sacked, Clive would have been able to take advantage of the Imperial College’s well-equipped machine shops, with the latest in CNC tooling. Both of these options were now closed to us and we weren’t able to throw money at the problem either.
We had made fund raising for research into the Lockridge device almost impossible by refusing to go public on the internet. It was still too early to disclose and although the declaration of finding the Lockridge would generate a huge buzz through the other forums, it would also immediately alert our enemies.
“We’ve had limited success so far with a few private donations coming in, but not enough yet,” Wendy said.
“Did they cover the motors?” I asked, knowing how much Lee had paid.
“Nowhere near, sorry.”
“Trouble is we’ve nothing to show yet,” Lee added. “I know several avenues we can take once we have a working prototype, but no one likes funding ideas only.”
“This is obviously going to take some time to do. We’ve also got the Cipher to solve if we can and hope it’s something to do with getting these working,” I said and knew we had to resign ourselves to being patient.
Trouble was, how patient could I be before I tripped up and made a mistake, bringing those who had tried killing me before banging at our doors again?
Later after Lee and Wendy had set off for their marathon journey back to Wales and Clive and Brenda gone back home, I sat in bed with my laptop and began searching for somewhere to live. Somewhere I could hide and not be noticed by the authorities, but also somewhere that allowed me to set up a new workshop. I knew that proving the Lockridge device was real was going to be a major part of clearing my name and proving my innocence.
On the internet I followed several links to industrial properties and finally found one that was attractive. It was a secured open yard, and had three old shipping containers as storage units. I checked its location on-line, using the street view service. Located just inside the M25 between Dartford and Swanley, it looked like it was a problem site for access since a small quarry had been expanded and cut off the main track. Access was now via a small dirt track to the rear of the yard. This was all good as far as I was concerned. It meant that there wouldn’t be any passing visitors and also meant that the cost could be kept to a minimum.
The next day I spoke with Clive about the money I had retrieved from my safe. There was a little over six thousand pounds. Clive point blank refused to accept any payment, especially in light of meeting with the storage yards agent later in the day.
By the end of day, Clive had signed a six month tenancy for me, paid in advance in cash.
Westland House, West Sussex, England. Day 43.
Westland House would have been considered one of the Treasure Houses of England, had it not been one of the few English country houses still in true private ownership. Built in the 18th century, it was designed by Robert Adams and boasted gardens by Capability Brown. It was furnished with one of the largest collections of Chippendale in the world and an art collection of masters. Other Grand Houses like this now only survive by the grace of being open to the public like Longleat or Leeds Castle.
Westland House was secretly owned by the 45Com12 and was residence for the Chairman, at this time, Lord Copeland.
Lord Copeland entered the Cinnamon Drawing Room along with General Rourke. They had heard the distinctive bass note of Wilhelm von Hintze, the German Federal Minister for Foreign Affairs, before they even opened the do
or. He was telling George Greenway, the British Minister for Universities and Science, about his latest investment in Blitzschlag Gestüt, a thoroughbred racehorse stud farm on the outskirts of Berlin.
Around the drawing room were a dozen Wingback chairs. Only two were empty.
In the corner of the drawing room sat a uniformed technician working a MilSpec. radio spectrum analyser. The technician was scanning for any transmitting devices. The analyst raised a hand as the final two members arrived.
“It’s me,” General Rourke said as he withdrew his mobile and switched it off. The technician gave a thumbs up and activated a jamming signal across all frequencies before leaving the room.
“This is an extraordinary place you have here Francis,” Senator Reaves said raising his whisky glass.
“Just as much yours as mine, but yes it is wonderful. How’s the Ranch?”
“You’ll see next month.”
“Yes that's right, I will,” Lord Copeland said. “Gentleman, before we move onto today’s agenda, I am sure that your own intelligence gatherers have picked up traffic concerning the threat to our Energy portfolio. William?”
General Rourke sat forward to address the committee about the Lockridge threat again, “I received from a lone source that the Lockridge threat was not shut down in Stuttgart. Liang, your government should have taken out Bateman instead of Mueller. I still don’t understand the logic on that one. Anyhow, Bateman turned up again a few weeks later getting into a scuffle with a group of locals as he escaped back here to the UK. Obviously we have the German BKA hunting him for the Stuttgart murders, but there has been a further development that might seem to be a complication. It appears that Bateman is in possession of a set of notebooks. One of them is important. It is the original notebook from the inventor of the Lockridge device who adapted the research of Professor Walther Gerlach of the Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität-München, one of Adolf Hitler’s genius scientists, whilst working for him.”
General Rourke looked around the room. Only a couple of faces showed signs of actually knowing who Gerlach was, but no-one was yet putting the pieces together. “Professor Gerlach, gentleman, was a nuclear physicist and what he was researching was years ahead of the US and UK’s own projects. We believe that the notebook Bateman has carries information that relates directly back to Gerlach. Basically, Bateman can be seen as a nuclear threat. Or at least that’s what I’ve convinced British Intel of. Also that it is a real and present threat because the information in the notebook could reveal how to detonate any size of radioactive material regardless of whether it is below the so-called critical mass our own devices needed.”
“Does Bateman know this?” Justin Smith-Taylor asked, who had received a briefing that morning at the government’s COBRA meeting.
“He’s only concerned with the generator device, but SIS is only aware of the potential nuclear threat, not the Lockridge device,” Rourke said.
“And what happens when our MI5 have him in custody?” asked George Greenway.
“That’s simple. We want him extradited to the States, where he will disappear into our wonderful program of investigation for terrorists,” Senator Reaves said.
The Yard. Day 46
The Yard started to take shape within a couple of days of my being there. There was enough money left over to buy a few basic building materials such as plasterboard, timber and paint. The intention was to convert one of the containers into living quarters with office space that was only accessible through one of the other containers. The adjoining container would be set up as a workshop and laboratory, leaving a small court yard to the third container as storage. The space between the containers would be covered with a roof, offering at least a dry space outside.
I wanted security. It was good that this place was remote and awkward to get to. The metal freight containers were ideal. The site itself was surrounded by thick undergrowth that from my amateur gardening perspective looked like a thick mass of brambles, hawthorn and holly held back by a ten foot high galvanised steel fence, the type with the top of the metal verticals split into three sharpened spikes. The gate across the dirt track was the only open access with the gates just being a hinged section of fencing with a jockey wheel to support its weight.
There was no electricity, gas, water or drainage, so being off the grid was no longer an option, it was a reality.
By mid-afternoon Becs finally managed to find the yard, her Fiat 500 not really suited for the dirt track. I was so pleased to see her. We had been seeing more of each other again since being back in the UK.
Becs was dressed for work. Not as a nurse, but for helping here at the yard. She had on tight denim jeans, green Hunter boots and an old Lonsdale hoody. To top it off, she was wearing a black baseball cap with SWAT written across the front.
“Very sexy,” I said as she climbed out of the car. She did a little twirl and then jumped at me for a hug.
“Dressed for the occasion. Hungry? There’s curry in the car,” she said.
We sat in the car to eat. The freight containers had no windows, and LED lanterns were all I had for light inside at the moment.
“I’ve brought some camping bits over,” Becs said.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t sleep in a container.”
“I did and I won’t. They’re not for me and like I said, I won’t sleep here until you’ve made it fit for purpose. There’s a stove, kettle, a few plates and bowls and I’ve got that water barrel thing you asked for.”
“Thanks.”
“The police were at Owlbeech today with the patholist’s findings.”
“What’d they say?”
“That he was murdered. You were right.”
“Shit, I wish I wasn't. And this was the night I left for Stuttgart? How?” I asked, wondering if I really wanted to know.
“The pathologist found bruising around his nose and mouth consistent with suffocation which was also backed up by the blood toxicology. But they also found massive trauma to his legs, caused by repeated blunt object blows. The sick bastards tortured him before killing him and tucking him into bed!” Becs had stopped eating and was staring out of the window.
“They took out Jack and then went after me, except I didn't die when they wanted me to.”
“They’ve released Jack’s body. The funeral’s on Thursday morning, ten thirty.”
“I’d like to go. Where is it?” I asked.
“Seriously?” Becs exclaimed.
West Norwood Crematorium. 10:30am Day 49.
“Will there be many there?” I asked Becs as she drove us to West Norwood Crematorium in the residential suburb of South London.
“Don’t think so. I know the American Embassy was informed. They would normally try and contact any relatives, but from what he told me there isn’t anyone. He had a son who was killed in Vietnam so it could be just us. Sad really.” I glanced at Becs as she drove. She had a tear rolling down her cheek.
It was sad. Here was an elder of the community who had survived a World War, driven half way around the world and seen things that would fill conspiracy theory internet forums. Here was the man who had directed me to a device that was incredible and supposedly impossible. I had to keep reminding myself about what the Lockridge Device actually did and just how significant a self-running generator requiring no fuel was. Jack Welch had provided something that could hopefully be developed into a home generator. One that could be built by any back street mechanic using parts readily available. And his payment for this service? Torture and death.
We parked on Robson Street and walked in through the spice brown iron gates leading to the original old Gothic gates of one of London’s great Victorian cemeteries. Built over one hundred and seventy years ago, it was one of seven large cemeteries around London dubbed the ‘Magnificent Seven’.
Becs knew where she was going having attended many funerals here. It wasn't part of her job, but she felt obliged to pay her respects to those she had cared for in their old a
ge. I followed her through the sombre and peaceful manicured lawns, graves, monuments, family tombs and mausoleums.
“There’s an oak tree here somewhere that dates back to fifteen seventy something,” she said as we stopped to admire the view. There were gravestones and monuments in every direction. It seemed that nearly every headstone, cross and statue was at a different angle, and some of the headstones were in areas that weren’t manicured at all. The broken stones were slowly being reclaimed by Mother Nature as ivy, brambles, tree roots and the weather continually chipped away at the once dressed surface of the mason's craft.
Out the corner of my eye I saw movement amongst the old graves. A fox was making its way through the headstones, stopping every few graves to check around him. He looked straight at me and froze.
“Come on, we’d better get in there, it’s due to start any minute and they aren’t usually late,” Becs said and headed off towards the main crematorium doors. I looked back towards the fox, but he had taken the advantage of the distraction and vanished.
The chapel was a lot lighter than I was expecting and along with two others, we were the only guests. We made our way silently to the front of the chapel and sat two pews back.
“I wonder who they are?” I whispered to Becs.
“I don’t know. I’ll go and ask,” she said and before I could stop her she got up and walked over to the elderly man and younger women sitting at the front.
“Hi. I was one of Jack’s nurses…”
I could hear Becs easily from where I was, but not the responses she got.
As I sat there, a man dressed in typical black funeral attire, not too dissimilar to the suit I had borrowed, entered the chapel from behind the altar at the front. He looked quickly around the chapel and walked directly over to me.
“Sorry, I’m not related—” I began to say.
The man, in his early thirties, maybe late twenties, leant in close to me and whispered, “Daniel. Don’t turn around yet, but the pallbearers are CIA and are here to arrest you.”