The End of the Road, page 12
Job done. There were arrangements to be made without further delay. It was only a short time after planning his strategy that he got his daily call from Nikitin.
“What’s happening?”
Arbutsev recapped on the Pole – enquiries were ongoing in Gdansk – and there appeared to be no irregularities with ship movements out of the port at the time, but also a body had been discovered in the estuary which, he thought, dated from the time of Ponomariev’s recorded disappearance.
“Have you seen it yet? We need a positive identification.”
“No sir, not as I speak, but I will go over there after our call, and take a look. If it all ties up, I will process the paperwork accordingly.”
“Not only will you do that, but I expect you to call me immediately. I have a few people looking over my shoulder to see what we do with this. It is more important than ever that we get this right and closed down.”
“I understand. I should be able to update you later today.”
Was this his boss’s tacit approval for his plan? That was the way he would choose to interpret it.
*
It was the first time that Dr Jakeman Roberts had had the opportunity to visit the new US London embassy in Nine Elms, south of the river. The building – a distinctive concrete and glass crystalline cube, with a semi-circular pond on one side and surrounded by extensive public green spaces, was open to the public in parts, but his appointment was with a division of the United States Commercial Service on the seventh floor. This little piece of America was off limits to all but those on official business.
Roberts had one of his quarterly meetings. As a rule, these would be relatively informal affairs over lunch somewhere in the West End, and he had been surprised that his contact, Chuck Barnes from the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, had called him into the office. Maybe the president had been complaining about the scale of diplomatic expenses claims in London. The security procedure for accessing the building and then getting to the seventh-floor reception had taken the better part of two hours, involving three stages of electronic scanning and physical searches. One of the first steps was the confiscation of his mobile, plus any other electronic gadgetry he might possess, from laptops to wristwatch-style fitness monitors.
His first reaction on meeting Barnes had been to ask why the appointment had been switched to the embassy. After all, the US government owned several properties in London arguably better suited to a clandestine rendezvous. The surroundings and the atmosphere seemed very formal – he felt relieved that he was wearing a jacket and tie, by chance.
He guessed an explanation would be offered at the start of the meeting and thought it wise not to anticipate what was about to unfold.
“Jake, great to see you. How’s the family, how’s Oxford? I keep meaning to have a weekend up your way. I have always wanted to see Blenheim Palace, it has so many connections with home.”
Roberts was now realising the greeting was not for his benefit. If Blenheim was so great, he could have got there months ago. He was also pretty sure that Barnes wouldn’t be looking him up if he was driving through the city. No, this relationship was purely professional.
“I called you in today because we have a special guest staying here for a couple of days. We’ve been talking business and your name came up in the discussion, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to make some introductions.
“Dr Jakeman Roberts of the Lauriston Foundation, Oxford University, meet Mr Robert Kleiner from the Department of Homeland Security.”
A tall thin man with greying hair and clipped moustache, in a regulation black suit and red tie, turned from the window where he had been admiring the view looking towards the Houses of Parliament.
“Hi Jake – call me Bob. Isn’t London wonderful? When you look at that view you understand why we do what we do and why it is all worth it.”
As a scientist Roberts was used to short, precise communication. This was not it. He didn’t know what Kleiner meant but didn’t want to appear rude.
He nodded and offered a weak smile.
Barnes got the conversation going.
“Don’t worry, Jake, I know this venue is different from our usual surroundings, but we have arranged coffee and rolls, nonetheless. Come and sit down.”
He gestured to a small meeting table at the side of the office desk.
“Let’s get straight to it. We’re getting really interested in your work with Desmond Kelly on the diamond battery project.” Kleiner stared right through him.
“I know you are a scientist and probably don’t get the commercial applications of your work, but it seems our contacts in the oil business back home are getting a bit jumpy. I had a long call a couple of days ago with Hector Birnbaum from Maximum Power, who just got back from seeing a presentation Kelly did in Berlin. Man is he pissed! They have a feeling, and hear rumours, that you guys are about to make a breakthrough that will totally change the global energy market and could put significant numbers of US jobs and investment at risk. Max Power stock could be junk in hours! The president thinks about economic issues almost above everything (other than the forthcoming elections) and has instructed us to get a grip of what’s going on. If you guys are making this happen, we either want to stop it or own it. Control is everything. So, tell us, Jake, what’s happening and how do we get involved?”
“Well… Bob, I have been keeping Chuck up to date with how work on the project has been going so I guess you already have the big picture. It is true that the past six months have been particularly important. Dr Kelly seems to have found a process to extract high levels of electrical energy from sections of encased spent nuclear fuel rods, which is a first. But the problem is, as I understand it, he has only managed to do it in laboratory conditions and, even then, I have no idea how he is managing to regulate the levels of charge he is achieving.”
“Dammit man! What do you mean, you don’t know? That’s why you’re there! You are his number two, you should fuckin’ well know – everything.”
“I know most of it, but not all. Not that piece which, as you say, makes the work commercially relevant. About six months ago, he reorganised the duties of the research team, leaving some of the most sensitive parts of the project with him personally. Knowing him as I do, he hates writing up the reports on the tests and these documents. Even in normal times tests aren’t usually registered on our system until six to nine months later. So I would say the information you want, if it exists, will only be known to Dr Kelly personally right now. As for the rumours, I guess that is just what they are – rumours. Kelly speaks at several international conferences on this topic and has taken a diamond brick to demonstrate its safety, but the vital science is always left out. If you look at the testing schedule of the project, although I personally have elements to contribute, even I don’t get a look in when he’s planning the assessments.”
“OK Roberts, let’s be clear – we are on the same team. The risks to us if other people get hold of this knowledge first are major. I’ve got Birnbaum, one of the president’s golfing buddies, breathing down my neck, threatening to send his Girl Friday over here with a bunch of lawsuits which will blow the Lauriston out of the water. We put you in there to ensure this technology failed. But the reality is it looks like it’s you who is failing because this thing seems to be getting traction. I have news for you, the days of your quarterly updates in cosy London restaurants have passed. We need to review your work for us and get this on a proper project footing. I want answers and you have to get them. Just in case you didn’t realise it, you are in a competition. The world is waking up to Kelly and everybody wants a piece of the action. Did you know your boss has a big friend in Moscow and they had dinner together in Berlin last week? Doesn’t look good. I am having my opposite number in MI6 talk to Kelly’s boss about this. We think there may be others interested as well, but as you say, that might be just rumour. Anyway, forget the rest of these clowns, go and get on it, get a result and we can all go home happy.”
“So, when you say get a result, you mean either get the full story or ensure the project is recorded as a failure?”
“That’s right. The watchword here is control. This is a massive global market. We are the biggest players, and we don’t want anyone else playing our game unless we are sure to win.”
“How do I contact you?”
“It will be through Chuck as always, only the communication is gonna be a bit more regular from now on, so you had better get out there and make a plan before your open-ended sabbatical from Stanford runs out.”
The meeting had been short. Kleiner’s purpose had been to make a point. He wasn’t going to weaken the effect through further qualification.
“That’s what I like – a short, focused meeting,” Chuck intervened. “You’re welcome to stay for the sandwiches, Jake, I think they are pastrami rolls.”
“It’s OK, Chuck. I’ve heard what I needed to hear. Guess I’d better get going. I don’t think I have time to lose.”
He nodded to Kleiner before heading for the elevator.
He had understood Kleiner’s message but hadn’t cared for his approach. He realised he was now being forced to spy on his colleagues, who he had the highest personal regard for. And for what? Time would tell. If he couldn’t get the information required, he would have to trash his boss’s work. These were both actions he would have done anything to avoid.
Weren’t the Brits allies of the Americans? That was a matter of debate and clearly not the case when it came to business.
*
Williams and Moore stopped at the old grocery shop on the outskirts of Havneby. Williams knew his weekend was likely to be longer than expected, especially in the company of Chemmy Moore. Better get the beers in. Bread, milk, coffee, butter, sausage, cheese and fruit. If he wasn’t going to be getting much sleep, he was determined to ensure he stayed well fed.
Moore waited in the camper van while Williams did the shopping. When he returned she was studying the tracker.
“What’s happening?”
“Nothing much.”
“There’s a surprise.”
“He has had the phone off ever since we started checking.”
“Because we are checking? Sounds like paradise to me.”
“It doesn’t help us much.”
“Doesn’t make a lot of difference as far as I can tell.”
“At least we would have known if he was receiving calls.”
“That’s not our brief. We need to find out who he is meeting in this godforsaken place.”
“Where is he now?”
“Looks like he hasn’t moved from the village inn in the centre.”
“We’d better go and at least do an eyeball tonight to keep Winston happy.”
Williams nodded, fired the camper into life and headed for the central car park.
As they approached, they saw a separate car park for the inn and easily identified the registration of Kelly’s hired Fiat.
“We’ll park up round the corner, and I’ll go in to do the ID. Do me a favour, Chemmy, put the kettle on. I’ll be wanting a coffee when I get back.”
His colleague gave him a withering look. They had arrived at dusk and the few streetlamps along the esplanade were lit. Williams zipped up his jacket and walked towards the inn. The restaurant appeared to have been built in a giant glass conservatory to the left as he approached, offering clear sightlines to any approaching visitor. Spotting his target was relatively easy. He had a head and shoulders portrait on his phone to aid identification but, as the restaurant was less than half-full, comparison with other diners was made at a glance. Kelly sat next to one of the main windows, deep in conversation with another man with a ruddy complexion and red and black checked shirt. He had no idea who he was but at the least he needed to get a picture so he could get London to run a trace. The main entrance gave way to a narrow hallway with a small, unmanned reception post, where the visitor’s book was the centrepiece with the room key rack on the wall next to it. There were two doors, left and right. Left certainly led to the restaurant, but he wasn’t sure about the right. Next to the reception post was a narrow steep stairwell which he presumed led to the guests’ bedrooms. The visitor’s book was open, showing the details of the day’s arrivals. Clearly no need for security here, he thought, and there was the name of ‘Desmond Kelly, Oxfordshire, UK’. Priceless too was the fact that the proprietor had neatly written the room number against the name.
Taking advantage of the moment when no one else was there, he took a picture of the open page and climbed the stair. Apparently, Kelly was in Room 4, front-facing, looking out on the car park where the Fiat was and beyond to the sea. The geography of the building told him the room window was the third to the right as you would see if standing outside the front door. At this stage, entering the room was not necessary but a cursory examination of the door lock told him it would be quick and easy if required. He had no brief to wreck the place in pursuit of his target anyway. He moved back to the landing to descend the stairs but had to wait, as someone was coming up. His heart was banging in his chest, but he didn’t know why. After all, he had never met Kelly, so there would be no cause for alarm. Anyway, being based in Germany he was adept at looking like a German tourist and spoke with a guttural twang reminiscent of people from the eastern state of Brandenburg. Fortunately for him, he found himself waiting for a Danish mother carrying her young son up to bed. They exchanged smiles as they passed. His final task was to look behind the door to the right of the reception and to his personal delight it was a bar. The part of a slightly confused German tourist suited Williams well. With a respectable girth, Hawaiian shirt, denim shorts and open-toed Birkenstocks he fitted the bill. With no one in the reception area, he walked into the restaurant, where he was quickly met by one of the waiting staff. Looking deliberately confused and still staring at his phone he asked for directions to ‘Langdalsvej’, a road name he had observed at random when he stopped for groceries.
“Can you tell me how to get to the campsite there?” he asked.
The waitress looked as if she didn`t know and went to ask a colleague, taking sufficient time for Williams to get the picture he came for. Another few minutes of affable confusion followed before he left, but not before a brief visit to the bar. Who goes drinking in Rømø? He wanted a closer look at the clientele. That was his excuse. It was the local brew he really wanted to sample. This was still a puzzle. Granted, the bar was not full, but its occupants didn’t look like the kind of people a venerable English professor would associate with. There were a couple of leather-jacketed bikers, an extended family devouring snacks and locked in animated conversation, and three boiler-suited workers from the local ferry line, presumably enjoying a bit of down time before going home. What he had seen so far, didn’t add up.
Why was Kelly here on his own and who was the guy he was having dinner with?
Returning to the camper, he was met with a frosty acknowledgement.
“You took your time.”
“I think I did pretty well. I eyeballed the target, picked up an image of some bloke he’s having dinner with and identified the position of his room.”
“And by the smell of it, found time for a beer, too.”
“Yes, well, put that down to curiosity, I needed to get the atmosphere of this place. This all seems pretty low-key to me. Where’s that coffee we talked about?”
“I’ve had it, thanks. Fix your own. I’ve set up my bunk so I will leave you to send the report back to Winston.”
Williams knew his colleague of old. In the years they had worked together they had found a way to get along without winding each other up. They spent quite a lot of their work time on shared projects and colleagues just assumed as a result that they must be an item. Chemmy was not a beauty but, to the uninitiated, looked as though she could still be up for a bit of ‘the other’ under the right circumstances. There were some who would have regarded a weekend trapped in the confines of a camper van in the middle of nowhere as a great opportunity for a bit of hanky-panky but it wasn’t on either of their minds. They had been called to this job on overtime, at the last minute, when both had alternative plans. What they were being asked to do must be important, even if they didn’t understand the reason. Being professional they needed to focus on the task in hand and the need to ensure that their cover story was credible.
