The Titanic Enigma (9 page)

‘Yeah, actually I will,’ Kevin Grant said and lowered himself into the seat as Lou stood to one side cradling his coffee.

‘It’s a short message,’ Derham commented. ‘Should that make it easier?’

‘The opposite, actually,’ Grant replied, barely paying the commander any attention. ‘The shorter the message, the less I have to go on to find the key. And . . .’

‘And?’

‘The dude who put this little baby together created such a convoluted key. It’s . . .’

‘You can crack it, though, right?’ Kate commented.

Grant looked at her as though she were mad. ‘Of course I can crack it. Might just take a bit of time, is all.’

‘I can keep this, yeah?’ Grant asked Derham.

The captain nodded. ‘But don’t flash it around.’

‘What? You reckon anyone one else will be able to decipher this? No friggin’ chance . . . sir.’

‘Confident guy,’ Lou said, returning to his seat as the kid left.

‘Has every reason to be. If anyone can make sense of any code known to man, he’s the one to do it. Never seen him beat yet.’

‘OK,’ Kate said. ‘So the rest of the papers?’

‘That takes a different set of skills. Come with me.’

*

Professor Max Newman, the chief scientist at the naval station, worked in a state-of-the-art facility that was all pristine metal benches and halogen lighting. Rows of slender
plastic machines lined one wall, their function a mystery to all but the initiated; flat screens displayed dancing numbers and geometric shapes.

The lab was empty and Newman evidently about to leave. He was clasping shut his briefcase as Jerry Derham tapped on the door.

‘Got a moment, professor?’ Derham asked.

‘I was about to head off, actually,’ Newman replied.

He was a tall, slender man. Bald, his forehead deeply lined, he possessed an air of carefully nurtured self-containment. He headed up his department efficiently but, according to reports,
clinically. He could not claim to have any friends here at the base or indeed elsewhere. He looked tired and self-absorbed.

‘Just wanted a quick word. Can you spare five minutes?’

Newman checked his watch and nodded. ‘Sure.’

Derham introduced Lou and Kate.

‘Ah, yes, working on the
Titanic
material. Pleased to meet you.’ He shook their hands. ‘Too cramped in here. Let’s go outside.’ He led the way to a bench
and they drew up stools.

‘We’ve got some papers we’d like you to take a look at,’ Derham began.

‘From the
Titanic,
I assume?’

The captain laid out the collection of photocopies on the shiny metal surface of the bench. Newman pulled on a pair of glasses and picked up the top few sheets. It was quiet in the room, nothing
more than a low hum from the machines and computers close by. From beyond the lab they could just discern voices, shoes on concrete floors, a lift door swishing open, then closing.

‘It’s a complete mess,’ Newman said after a moment, picking up a second set of sheets. He scanned them then laid them back down and started to mumble to himself as he repeated
the process with the rest. Finally, he tossed the last page on the bench, pulled off his glasses and looked up. ‘Utter nonsense . . . Means nothing.’

‘What!’ Kate exclaimed and turned to Lou.

‘These were taken from the wreck?’ Newman asked, as though Kate had not spoken.

‘Yes, but the details are classified at the moment, professor,’ Derham replied.

Newman sniffed. ‘Well, God knows why, it’s a crock. Written by a lunatic or a child, I’d guess!’

‘All of it?’ Lou asked, studying Newman’s face.

Newman put his glasses back on. ‘Well, the math itself is standard – most of it. This section –’ and Newman indicated the first three pages ‘– is a set of
equations describing radioactive decay. Nothing odd about that. But here –’ and he tapped a fingertip on one of the sheets ‘– it goes off at a ridiculous tangent.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure. As I said, a lot of it is nonsense.’

‘Explain,’ Derham said.

Newman shrugged. ‘Whoever wrote this knew some physics, but they . . . well, they seem to have had something of an overactive imagination. They make ridiculous, nonsensical leaps from a
simple, acceptable premise . . . like here.’ Newman pointed to the top page again. ‘Straightforward, undergraduate math . . . until bang!’ He pulled up the third page and then the
fourth. ‘Take this –’ he nodded to a photocopy of densely packed formulae ‘– might as well be Venusian!’

‘Does it pick up?’ Kate asked, eyeing the scientist suspiciously.

Newman moved some of the papers to one side and clutched up a handful of the remainder. He glanced through them, adding page after page to a growing pile on the bench. Pausing, he considered one
sheet. ‘Here, he’s gone back to some form of simple logic,’ Newman commented. ‘But then, Good Lord! Here . . . he’s off again. Look at this . . . it’s
nuts!’

He placed the remaining copies on the pile, slipped off his glasses again, rubbed his eyes and looked at the three visitors. ‘Sorry to disappoint.’

*

‘I don’t trust him,’ Kate said matter-of-factly as they walked along the corridor away from the lab.

Derham gave her a surprised look. ‘Why? The guy knows what he’s talking about.’

‘I agree with Kate,’ Lou said. ‘Don’t believe a word of it.’

They stepped into the lift.

‘Why? Why would Newman lie?’

‘No idea. Well, maybe one,’ Kate began. ‘Perhaps he just didn’t want to look stupid . . . but he is lying. We shouldn’t have left the papers with him.’

Derham raised an eyebrow. ‘What? So you’re telling me the chief scientist of the largest naval base in the United States, Professor Max Newman – who has a very high-level
security clearance indeed – is a liar and may also be grossly incompetent?’

‘I guess she is,’ Lou remarked.

Derham started to answer, but just shook his head.

‘I’d like a second opinion,’ Kate said.

‘Oh would you now? Our chief scientist doesn’t meet your spec?’ Derham retorted.

They left the lift and walked along the corridor that led back to the captain’s office. There was an uncomfortable silence between them.

‘Look,’ I didn’t mean to insult your precious—’ Kate began as they sat down, the door closing behind Derham.

He held up a hand. ‘It’s OK, you’re entitled to your opinion.’

‘Those papers are too important to ignore,’ Lou began.

‘I realize that. I had no intention of ignoring them.’ Derham frowned at Lou. ‘I’ve got nothing against a second opinion. Newman’s a good man, but he’s not
the oracle of all knowledge. I know some people at MIT. They’ll have to be security-screened first and the material will have to be divided up between at least two groups who are not in
communication with each other or aware they are working on linked papers . . . You still don’t look happy!’

Kate held Derham’s eyes. ‘By all means, get your contacts to go through them, but I would also like to try someone I know.’

‘They’ll have to be cleared.’

‘That won’t be necessary. He already has one of the highest clearances possible from the work he has done for the Pentagon.’

‘Who?’

‘It’s Professor Campion.’

Derham was stunned for a moment. ‘You know George Campion?
The
George Campion?’

Kate felt Lou’s eyes on her. She nodded. ‘He’s my godfather.’

Professor Max Newman placed his briefcase on the passenger seat of his white Ford Taurus and sent a text: ‘Significant discovery. Would like to share.’ Then he
pulled out of the car park, swung the car round and out onto the carriageway leading to the security post and the exit of Norfolk Naval Base.

The clock on the dash told him it was almost six thirty. He felt hungry and tired, but fired up with barely controllable excitement. He had known within minutes of seeing the papers Derham and
the other two had shown him that he had been offered the greatest opportunity to make a fortune he would ever have. He had also recognized the author of the document. It had to have been composed
by a man he had admired since he was a schoolboy – Egbert Fortescue, the exceptionally talented British scientist who had died tragically young, before he could join the elite club that
included Einstein, the Curies and Niels Bohr.

Out on Admiral Taussig Boulevard, Newman accelerated away and took a right. There he connected with his in-car Bluetooth and pushed a speed dial number. ‘I have it,’ he said
simply.

‘Meeting point Beta, half an hour,’ said a voice at the other end of the line and hung up.

*

Professor Newman parked on East Ocean View Avenue, Norfolk, clicked the remote to lock the car and headed into the brisk wind blowing off the Atlantic Ocean.

Down a side street the view opened onto an expanse of blue-grey water tipped by breakers, white in the moonlight. Newman turned right, crossed a narrow road and stepped onto the beach. Looking
behind, he could see a line of impressive waterfront homes, many of them dating back to the 1930s. Most were gabled and painted in bright nautical colours; a few had picket fences and white,
freshly painted wooden gates. There was no one about and except for the waves foaming over the sand it was almost totally silent.

A short jetty stood about a hundred yards away along the beach. The professor knew it from previous visits in daylight. It was an old and neglected relic projecting out a dozen yards into the
frothy ocean, the water beating about its corroding struts. Where it left the land there was a raised concrete platform a few feet above the sand. Newman strode towards it, ducking as he reached
the iron platform and crouching under a wooden beam. The jetty stretched overhead with enough headroom for him to stand comfortably. He sat and waited.

‘A cold evening,’ a man’s voice came from the blackness.

Professor Newman started to get up, but the man put a hand on the physicist’s arm. ‘It’s OK.’

Newman unclasped his briefcase and extracted a narrow blue plastic file.

‘You implied in your message that this was something pretty important,’ said the new arrival who stood quite still.

‘And it is,’ Newman replied indignantly. He had met this man, Sterling Van Lee, on a couple of occasions and had taken an instant disliking to him. ‘This –’ and
Newman waved the folder in front of him ‘– could be one of the most important discoveries in a century.’

Van Lee said nothing, just looked into Newman’s face. Their eyes had adjusted to the gloom under the jetty and they could make out each other’s features. He took the folder and
opened it.

‘A copy of the original documents written by Egbert Fortescue.’

‘Who?’

Newman closed his eyes for a moment. He was a man who had dedicated his life to learning, a man who had sacrificed love, family and money to reach the pinnacle of his chosen field of study
– nuclear interactions in radioactive sources. He hated ignorant people. ‘Egbert Fortescue was one of the greatest physicists who ever lived,’ Newman explained. ‘He worked
with Ernest Rutherford on an early nuclear theory. In fact, he was the real genius behind it.’

Van Lee continued to stare at him, expressionless.

‘Within these pages,’ Newman went on, ‘Fortescue describes an alternative form of nuclear energy, a way to enhance the power of the atom which is completely novel and totally
different to the methods developed two decades after his death and which led to the creation of the atomic bomb.’

‘And you can prove this?’

‘I’m almost there. I’ve only had these documents for a couple of hours.’

Newman eased himself up from the concrete ledge. Van Lee turned and walked out in front of him onto the beach carrying the file.

‘Contact me in the usual way if you need any guidance . . .’ the professor called after him.

‘Sorry?’

Newman started to speak again, then saw the gun Van Lee had drawn, its barrel very black in the darkness.

‘Do you really think I can just let you go?’

‘You’re going to kill me?’

Van Lee laughed and handed back the file containing Fortescue’s work. ‘Now why would I kill one of our most valuable assets, professor? Your brain is much more useful to us in one
very clever piece.’

One hour later.

Newman found himself in a comfortable room on the top floor of one of the waterfront houses. It had a large window with an expansive view over the wintery waters of the
Atlantic Ocean, and it was warm and quiet. In spite of the fact that Newman seriously resented being kept a prisoner here, he realized he could do little but to acquiesce.

They had taken a short drive to the house and were met at the door by one of Van Lee’s buddies, a short, flabby man with a shaved head and wearing a black suit and black tie. He had come
to the door with a gun in his right hand.

‘So what do you expect from me?’ Newman asked the men after he had been led to the room at the top of the house.

‘You’re a physicist, right? Top nerd at the base? We expect you to translate this gibberish into something even my friend here could understand,’ Van Lee said, flicking his
colleague a humourless smile. The two men made an odd couple. Van Lee was almost the complete physical opposite of his associate: tall, very fit, square-jawed and tanned.

‘Just made some soup,’ the flabby guy said. ‘You want some?’

Newman sighed. ‘I guess.’

Van Lee pointed to the professor’s briefcase. ‘May I?’ he said, his hand extended. It was, of course, a rhetorical question.

‘Just my laptop, work papers.’

Van Lee plucked Newman’s cell phone from the bag, pocketed it and handed back the briefcase.

After that they left him to his own devices. There was a Mac on a desk; next to that a scanner/printer. Professor Newman placed his bag beside the computer and pulled out his laptop, opening the
lid. He then placed the blue plastic folder of photocopied notes from EF’s box on the other side of the Mac.

It was no ordinary laptop. It was fitted with a modem, scrambler and long-range transmitter coded into a satellite link. Newman tapped a couple of keys and watched as the screen changed.