by Will Adams
‘I can find it.’ He frowned at a thought. ‘I don’t suppose you put trackers in your SatNavs, do you?’
‘I can’t trace them for you, if that’s what you’re asking. Not from here. They handle all that out of Head Office.’
‘Okay,’ said Walters. ‘Not to worry. And not a word, right?’
‘Are you kidding?’ she said, tucking her money away. ‘They’d fire me in a heartbeat.’
TWELVE
I
Pelham lived in a converted malting house a short drive north of Cambridge. He parked in his designated slot by a grass bank and led them inside. Compared to the well-tended lawns and communal areas, his ground-floor apartment was a mess. He waved a hand in vague explanation or excuse for it as he led them into his shelf-lined study, crowded and dark with books and journals, many more stacked in precarious tall heaps on the floor, like a child’s recreation of the Alps.
They went straight to the printer, fearful that the Newton papers wouldn’t have made it; but they were there, waiting for them in the out-tray. The printer, however, had tried so hard to capture the lush sepia background of the originals that it had drenched the cheap printing paper in yellow and black ink, blurring Newton’s handwriting badly, making it even harder to read and surely diminishing its value as evidence should they need to show it to a sceptic.
Pelham spread the pages on his desk, opened curtains to improve the light. ‘What are we looking for?’ asked Rachel.
‘Anything that sticks out,’ said Luke.
‘That’s helpful.’
Pelham tapped the bottom of the sixth page. ‘How about this?’ he asked.
Luke glanced over. Like the other pages, it was mostly alchemical citations. But Pelham was right: there was something very different in its bottom left quarter.
Received from E.A.
12 plain panels and blocks SW, 2 linen rolls
S T C, E S D, L A A, B O J
Papers J.D. J.T.
On completion, E.A. asks that ye whole be in SALOMANS HOUSEwell concealed.
‘E.A.?’ asked Pelham. Who’s E.A.?’
‘No idea,’ said Luke, squinting closer. ‘You think it could be “F.A”? Newton was friends with a Francis Aston at Cambridge.’
‘It’s not an “F”,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s an “E”.’
‘Then I don’t know,’ said Luke. ‘Newton’s mother’s maiden name was Ayscough, but I can’t think of any Edwards or Elizabeths among his cousins.’
‘Ebenezer?’ suggested Pelham. ‘Ezekiel?’
‘Let’s come back to it,’ said Rachel. She pointed to the second line. ‘“12 plain panels and blocks SW, 2 linen rolls.” Any ideas?’ Luke shook his head. Pelham too. ‘Then what about these groups of letters?’ she asked, pointing to the third line.
Luke pulled up a browser on Pelham’s laptop. ‘Read them out for me,’ he said. He typed them in as she went, four clusters of three, then ran a search. But Google gave them nothing. ‘What’s the next line?’ he asked.
‘Papers J.D. and J.T.,’ said Rachel.
‘J.D. couldn’t be my old mate Doctor Dee, could he?’ asked Pelham. ‘I mean he was a John, so to speak. And for sure it gives us an alchemical link.’
‘He was dead eighty years by 1690.’
‘He may have been. Not his papers. In fact …’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I think I know who E.A. is.’
‘Who?’ asked Rachel.
‘A bunch of Dee’s papers went missing after his death,’ said Pelham. ‘Notes on his conversations with Enochian angels mostly.’
‘His what?’ asked Rachel.
Pelham grinned. ‘Dee was convinced he could use the Book of Enoch to communicate with angels. He thought he could open the gates of heaven from the inside and so precipitate the Apocalypse and the Second Coming. But first he needed to find an honest medium.’
‘Oh, was that all?’
‘He tried a few. None worked. Then he hired the great Edward Kelley. A complete rogue and one of my major heroes. He wasn’t satisfied with fleecing Dee rotten; he also convinced him that the angels had ordered them to swap wives for the night.’ Pelham laughed loudly. ‘Hats off, eh?’
‘And Dee bought it?’ asked Rachel, incredulously.
‘Damn right,’ said Pelham. ‘You don’t fuck with Enochian angels.’
Luke shook his head. ‘What’s this got to do with E.A.?’
‘The Dee papers that went missing,’ said Pelham. ‘There was no sign of them for years. Decades. Then one day this old couple bought a wooden chest in an estate sale. It looked empty, but they kept hearing noises inside, so they jemmied off its bottom and found a secret compartment stuffed with strange bundles.’
‘Dee’s missing papers,’ said Rachel.
‘Give the girl a coconut,’ said Pelham. ‘Anyway, the husband dies and the widow remarries some new guy who knows a man who likes that kind of thing.’
‘Who?’
Pelham tapped the initials. ‘Elias Ashmole,’ he said.
Rachel frowned. ‘The founder of the Ashmolean Museum?’
‘That’s the one. And I’ll tell you something else: Ashmole claimed some of the papers were burned by a maid.’ He shook his head. ‘Maids who value their jobs don’t throw random sheaves onto the fire. So what if Ashmole kept certain papers back to send them on to Newton? What if he blamed the maid to explain the gaps in the record?’
‘Were Ashmole and Newton friends?’ asked Rachel.
Pelham nodded at Luke. ‘He’s the one writing the book.’
Luke shook his head. ‘Not friends, no. But they were contemporaries, and they worked in the same fields; and for sure they knew of each other. They were both early members of the Royal Society, for one thing. And they were Britain’s two leading alchemists. Ashmole published one of the great alchemical compendiums: the Theatrum Chemicum Britannicum.’
‘And Newton would have known of it?’
‘God, yes. His own copy is at the University of Pennsylvania. I saw it a couple of years ago when I was over there for a conference. Newton had dog-eared half the pages, and scrawled annotations over the rest, a certain sign that he thought extremely highly of it.’
‘So Newton rated Ashmole,’ said Rachel. ‘Would it have been mutual?’
Luke laughed. ‘Best I can tell, Newton wrote these pages sometime around 1693. That’s four or five years after the Principia Mathematica came out, give or take. The Principia changed the world, particularly for the educated elite like Ashmole.’ Hardly anyone alive had been able to follow Newton’s mathematics, but anyone could grasp the basic point. The universe had been made mechanical. The heavens were suddenly predictable and therefore no longer to be feared as the message boards of capricious and wrathful gods. ‘“Nature and Nature’s Laws lay hid in night,”’ said Luke. ‘“God said Let Newton Be, and all was Light.”’
Pelham squinted at him. ‘Wasn’t Pope paid to write that?’ he asked.
‘Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true,’ said Luke. ‘Trust me on this: if Ashmole had owned something extraordinary, something mathematical, particularly something alchemical, Newton would have been his man.’
Rachel had pulled up a biography of Ashmole on the laptop.
‘Sorry to be the one to toss in the monkey wrench,’ she said. ‘But Ashmole was dead by ’93. He died in May ’92.’
‘That still fits,’ said Luke. ‘It just makes whatever this was a bequest rather than a gift.’
‘Something Ashmole couldn’t bear to part from while he was alive,’ suggested Rachel.
‘Or something too explosive to share,’ said Pelham.
Luke nodded. ‘That would explain those guys from earlier.’
‘But what the hell is it?’ asked Rachel. Only silence followed her question, however. ‘Maybe if we knew more about Ashmole,’ she said. ‘All it really says here is that he founded the Museum. What else did he do?’
‘I know someone who could help,’ said Pelham. ‘Olivia something, forget her
surname. Runs the Museum of the History of Science in Oxford. I put on an exhibition with her a few years back, about the transition from alchemy to chemistry.’
Luke shook her head. ‘Why would she know about Ashmole?’
‘Because her museum’s in the original Ashmolean building,’ said Pelham. ‘And she’s an historian of science. So she’s bound to know something, right?’
‘Or maybe there’s an easier way,’ said Rachel, pointing to the bottom line, reading it out aloud: ‘On completion, E.A. asks that ye whole be in SALOMANS HOUSEwell concealed.’ She looked up at them both with a mischievous grin. ‘You don’t suppose it could still be there, do you?’
II
A navy blue Range Rover was waiting for Croke on the tarmac of London’s City Airport. A shaven-headed young man in pale slacks, a short-sleeved blue shirt and mirror sunglasses was leaning against it, hands casually in his pockets. Croke went over to him. ‘Morgenstern, right?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Thanks for arranging Cambridge.’
‘No sweat.’ Morgenstern was trying to play it extra cool, perhaps regretting his earlier gushing over the Vice President. He opened the Range Rover’s rear door, invited Croke inside.
‘What about my men?’ asked Croke, as Manfredo struggled down the jet’s steps with his suitcases.
‘I was told to help you,’ said Morgenstern. ‘No one said anything about your crew.’
‘Fair enough.’ He went back to tell Manfredo to find rooms and wait for instructions, then joined Morgenstern in the Range Rover.
‘Crane Court, yeah?’ asked Morgenstern.
‘Crane Court,’ agreed Croke.
Morgenstern leaned forward to give their driver his orders then buzzed up the internal glass screen for privacy. ‘We’re evacuating it right now,’ he said. ‘Should be ready for searching by the time we get there.’
‘How long will that be?’
He shrugged. ‘We’ve had to close down Fleet Street. Traffic’s going to get crazy. We’ll use sirens where we can, but they’re only so much help in a gridlock.’
‘Give you time to explain how this works,’ said Croke.
Morgenstern nodded. ‘First thing you need to know is that counterterrorism in England used to be run by London’s Metropolitan Police; but they kept screwing up, so it got split off into a new body.’
‘The National Counterterrorism Taskforce?’
‘That’s the one. Second thing you need to know is that, around the same time as the NCT was being set up, the UK Supreme Court ordered the release of some highly-confidential documents that the CIA had shared with various agencies here. The intel itself was nothing, to be honest. Embarrassing rather than harmful.’
‘But it was the principle,’ suggested Croke.
‘Exactly. It was the principle. The Brits had given us their word they’d keep this shit secret. Suddenly it’s all over the front page. What are they going to release next? The name of one of our agents? The Internet companies and banks who share their customers’ data with us? Footage of an enhanced interrogation?’
‘Could be a problem.’
‘Damned right. But what could we do? Britain’s our ally, and we can’t withhold intel just because their justices, in their supreme fucking wisdom, are complete pricks. Besides, the Brits have some top sources themselves. What if they cut us off in retaliation? In pissing matches, everyone gets their feet wet. So we put our heads together and designed a mutually acceptable solution into the new NCT. Still with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s British-run, of course; and all the full-time personnel are Brits. Mostly ex-policemen, from when it was part of Scotland Yard; though they’re recruiting more and more from the SAS and MI5, places like that. Thing is, because of the Supreme Court decision, we can’t risk giving them our best raw intelligence; so what we do instead is we second people like me from the State Department, the CIA, the NSA and Homeland Security. We all have high-level clearance and therefore unrestricted access to our best intelligence.’
‘So if you learn anything of use to the NCT, you can let them know,’ nodded Croke. ‘And, because there’s no physical documentation, the courts can’t order it released.’
‘Exactly,’ said Morgenstern. ‘Unfortunately, as it turns out, our intel is sometimes so ultra top secret that even that’s too much of a risk. So what we do in those situations is we help our British colleagues plan their operations, then we tag along to make sure they have all the information they need in real time.’
Croke frowned. ‘You’re telling me that we get to plan and run NCT operations? And their guys just do the dirty work?’
‘Essentially, yes.’
‘And they go along with this?’
‘Are you kidding? They’re grateful. Amazing what fear will do. But this is pretty sensitive territory, as you can imagine, especially as there have been some malicious rumours recently, accusing us of using this arrangement to pursue our own agenda, go after low-level hackers, critics of our foreign policy, that kind of shit.’
Croke smiled. ‘As if.’
‘Exactly. As if.’
‘So how will it work today?’
‘Simple. We’ll fix you up in an apartment in Crane Court, give you access to whatever you need. Me and my Brit counterpart will run the actual search. I’ll come brief you every half hour. You tell me what you need done next, I’ll make sure it happens.’
‘And your counterpart won’t object?’
‘We have extremely good relationships with these guys,’ said Morgenstern. ‘Our arrangement stipulates that we only have to share our intel with people we’ve vetted thoroughly and feel comfortable with. Naturally, we only feel comfortable with those who share our broad outlook of the world; and then only after we’ve had them over in the States for six months’ evaluation and training. Trust me. By the time they get back here, they might as well be ours, born and bred.’
Croke nodded. ‘Are there many of you?’
‘You mean Americans? Just twenty. But that’s plenty, believe me. Think of us as project managers rather than operational staff. We get to draft in whomever we like: civilian contractors, the army, regional police forces. And they don’t get to ask why or say no. The moment we cite national security, they have to give us whatever we want.’
Croke laughed. ‘Now that’s a Special Relationship,’ he said.
THIRTEEN
I
Walters could sense Kieran growing uneasy in the back as they sped towards Cherry Hinton Science Park. He met his eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
Kieran scratched his beard. ‘It’s just, what are we going to do with them once we’ve found them?’
‘We’re going to make sure they can’t blab, of course,’ said Walters.
‘Yes. But what does that mean exactly?’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘Fuck,’ said Kieran, looking a little sick. ‘Is that really necessary?’
Walters glared at him. ‘You’d rather they put you inside for the rest of your life?’
‘But they can’t,’ said Kieran. ‘They can maybe do us for arson. That’s about it.’
‘What about the old bat?’
‘That was an accident. She fell.’
‘Sure. And you think that’s what Luke what’s-his-name will tell the filth, do you? Bollocks. He’ll say we pushed her.’
‘He’ll say you pushed her,’ muttered Pete.
‘You think that will save you?’ scoffed Walters. ‘They’ll charge us with being there in commission of a crime, meaning we’ll all be equally liable for her death. And who was it that actually set the fire?’
‘Only because you told us to!’ Kieran protested.
‘Yeah. And that worked wonders at Nuremberg.’
‘Shit,’ muttered Pete. He looked almost as unhappy as Kieran.
‘Don’t sweat it,’ said Walters, turning into the science park. ‘It’s going to be fine, trust
me. I’ve done this sort of shit before. I know what I’m doing. We just need to find them, that’s all.’
He pulled up in front of Goldstone Laboratories, got out before they could argue, jogged up the front steps and through the sliding glass doors into reception, where an old granddad with watery eyes was sitting behind the desk. ‘Listen, mate,’ he said, striding up to him. ‘Wonder if you can help me. You’re not going to believe this, but my wife lent her Renault to my arse of a son last Friday. Little bastard only comes home with a dent in the front bumper. Thought we wouldn’t notice. Bloody eighteen year olds, eh?’
Granddad grunted. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Anyway, I ask him where he did it, he spins me this load of old cobblers like you wouldn’t believe. So I ground him, tell him he’s not leaving his room until he comes clean. Takes him until this afternoon to talk. Got to give him credit for that, I suppose. He came here sometime last week, apparently, to pick up some new bird of his. But he managed to ding the back of this red Beemer soft-top in your car park while he was at it. Swears blind he didn’t do it any damage, and also that he left a note. My arse. Why leave a note if you didn’t do any damage, I ask. Didn’t have an answer to that, did he? Anyway, I just wanted to check. If this Beemer needs any repairs, I’ll make sure the little runt pays for every penny. You know anyone who drives a car like that?’
‘A red BMW convertible?’ frowned granddad. ‘Mr Redfern is driving one at the moment. But I haven’t heard anything about any damage.’
‘Mr Redfern. That wouldn’t be old Ronnie Redfern, would it? Is he working here now?’
‘No. Pelham. Pelham Redfern.’
‘He’s not here now, is he?’
‘He left a couple of hours ago.’
‘But he’ll be in tomorrow, yeah?’
Granddad shrugged. ‘I’d imagine,’ he said.
‘Great. I’ll give him a bell in the morning, maybe drop by. Thanks for the help.’ He went back out, climbed back in the SUV. ‘Name’s Pelham Redfern,’ he said.