Zero Point

By Charles Hillier

Murdo Macleod, scientist and former spy, has made a discovery that will change the world. Foreign agents discover his secret, and his life is in danger. He recruits his grandson Alex for protection, but Alex has been discharged by special forces with post traumatic stress and has his own problems. Zero Point is a fast action thriller in which no-one can be trusted and nothing is as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Hillier
• Release date: May 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301629121

Charles Hillier

Charles Hillier is a lawyer living in Kent, England. Aside from his recently published thriller Zero Point, Charles has written a novel which he is preparing for publication. Other projects include a thriller about the war in Afghanistan, a collection of essays on fly-fishing and various short stories.

Book preview

Zero Point

Charles Hillier

Copyright 2012 by Charles Hillier

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

 Acknowledgements

This story was inspired by ‘The Hunt for Zero Point’ by Nick Cook, to whom grateful thanks are due.

References to Fermat’s Last Theorem were drawn from ‘Fermat’s Last Theorem’ by Simon Singh.

 Prologue

Trinity College, Cambridge, England. Trim lawns in quadrangles are a patchwork of green, darkened here and there by geometric shadows thrown by tall, honey grey buildings. Spring sunshine has dried the last of the morning dew. It is Saturday. College is empty of students and staff, save for one solitary figure, alone in his rooms on the third floor of Nevile’s Lodge. This man is neither student nor staff, though he has been both for periods of his life. These rooms have been a home for many years, and remain occupied in recognition of services rendered. They have also served as a place of work. Now they are a place of secrets.

There is a small sitting room with a bed in one corner. Next to the bed, there is an armchair and a small leather settee. Opposite, a mahogany dining table stands against the wall, sides folded down, with a single chair. At one end of the room there is a work surface on which there is a small two-ring stove and a kettle. Opposite the door, an arch leads to a second room of about the same size. Two benches side by side fill the centre of the room. Shelves crammed with books, pamphlets and periodicals cover every available inch of wall space. On the far wall a window with leaded lights looks onto the courtyard below.

Covering the surfaces of one of the benches there is an arrangement of electrical wires, batteries, vacuum tubes and other devices. A complex tangle of wires leads to the other bench where there are two computers and a small printer. All morning the man has been adjusting the equipment, and making calculations. He is ready to begin his experiment. He presses a key on one of the computers and the electrical circuitry comes to life. Exactly two minutes later the computer completes its calculations. Moving to the second bench, the man touches several keys of the other computer, and waits. Within seconds the printer begins to chatter and a single page of script leaves the machine. The man picks it up and reads. His eyes widen in excitement at what he has seen. He reads it again.

Well, I’m blowed, he says. Lifting his head to stare into the middle distance, he says it again, louder, and is more animated. "Well, I’m blowed. I’ve done it! There can be no doubt this time, no doubt at all. I’ve actually done it!"

He moves, with remarkable speed for a man of his great age, into the sitting room. With the sheet of paper crumpled in his hand he clutches both arms to his chest with glee and, eyes closed, arches his body backwards, then doubles up as if in pain. In the centre of the room he straightens, then dances a little jig, singing, I’ve done it! I’ve done it! I’ve done it! Tra-la-la-la la-la! I’ve done it! I’ve done it! I’ve done it! Tra-la-la-la la-la! He dances with arms held out, straight, in front of him, jerkily waving the piece of paper as a Morris dancer waves his handkerchief, then turns in a geriatric pirouette. He holds out his arms to envelope an imaginary partner, and the pirouette becomes a slow waltz to his own rendition of The Blue Danube—Da dada da-dum, tee-tum, tee-tum, da dada da-dum, tee-tum, tee-tum—until, breathless and pink-faced, he sinks into the armchair. He sits for several minutes until his breathing is normal, and his expression grows serious.

When he is quite recovered, he gets up and walks through to the other room. Standing at the window, he stares out over Great Court across the rooftops of the city he knows so well. How strange that he should have had this success, the pinnacle of all his achievements, the day after his specialist had told him that his cancer was terminal. How poignant that he had been given just six months to live, and would never see the practical results of what he had just done.

I must mark the date, he says out loud, to no-one in particular, for there is no-one else present. For now I know. From today, from this moment, the world will never be the same.

He stands at the window, staring out, for a very long time.

One

Like the seed of a sycamore spinning gently to the ground, the severed leg turned circles, oozing clouds of blood as it sank to the sea bed, putting up little puffs of sand on impact. It had begun. Once again I would play out the scene of my personal hell. I knew I was asleep, that it was only a dream, like all the others. But it made no difference. It was real, and it was happening again, now. Like anything I’d done a hundred, a thousand times, I knew all the moves. They were pre-ordained, and I could see every step of the way. It was a slow dance, with cries of hurt, pain and loss instead of music. Then there was blood in the grey dawn, and Johnny, and then nothing but the images that return and return and return.

I knew I would wake at the very moment when Johnny slipped away, a shapeless mass.

And I knew I would open my mouth and not find breath for the scream I wanted to scream—the scream that would never be heard.

Then I was bolt upright in bed, breathing hard, the sweat cold on my naked skin. I had no awareness of passing from sleep to consciousness. I picked up my watch from the bedside table and realised I’d slept for eight hours. This was new. I suppose I should have been grateful. Perhaps I could put off another visit to O’Connor a little longer. That was the aim. Come back if you must, the friendly Irish psychiatrist had said, but go it alone for as long as you can. It was my problem now. I had to deal with it.

I lay there, naked under the rumpled single sheet, gathering my thoughts, waiting for my breathing to return to normal. One day, one step, at a time, O’Connor had told me. Fine—but it had been six months now. Why did it have to take so long? I slid my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, sheet draped in my lap. I took a Lucky Strike from the pack next to the alarm clock, put it between my lips, lit the end and inhaled deeply, staring at the gold plated lighter in my left hand, the gift my mess mates had given me when I’d been discharged from the service—a failure.

Finished, over the hill.

Past it.

A broken reed.

That’s what they’d said, more or less.

‘We don’t need you any more, but thanks.’

‘Here’s a rail ticket—see you around.’

Then came the whispers. Nothing was said to my face, but it got back to me on the grapevine. What really happened? He wasn’t wounded, was he? He had nothing to show for it. It’s all in the mind. It’s a try-on. Not made of the right stuff, see?

So I asked myself for the hundredth time, pointlessly, the question all failures ask themselves—where did it all go wrong? As if I didn’t know. It was at Al Meina. It all went wrong at Al Meina.

I smoked the cigarette through with my eyes closed, savouring the taste of tobacco in my dry mouth. I stubbed out the end, stood up, tossed the sheet onto the bed, and walked slowly to the bathroom rubbing the last of the sleep from my eyes as I stepped into the shower, flinching as the cold water hosed into my chest. It always took a while to warm up, but I didn’t mind. Better this than the bath. I hadn’t been able to take a bath, not since Al Meina.

I still wanted, I’d always wanted, to make something of my life. But what, and when? In my late twenties I was marking time, and for now I was doing what I could. The security consultancy I’d started up was doing okay. Sometimes, through my London contacts, I’d get some Embassy work, looking after diplomats, low profile stuff. The Yanks were particularly good, thanks to my friend Bill, First Secretary at the US Embassy in London. Repeat business. Good payers. The self-defence classes were going well. They were nearly all young women. Some of them would flirt, which was fun. So was my teaching course, training night club bouncers. The worst jobs were private business. Someone’s stealing the petty cash. We don’t want to involve the police. My husband is seeing somebody. I want a photograph. Beggars are not generally choosers, and I took what I could get.

Today, and for the rest of the week, I would be engaged in none of these things. As I towelled myself dry I was looking forward to the week ahead. My grandfather had rung me yesterday to say he was going on a trip, to Stockholm, then New York. He wanted me to come with him. I was puzzled at first. Why should he want me along to hold his hand? Then he told me that he’d just had a minor operation, nothing serious, and certainly nothing for me to worry about.

Well then, can’t you put off this trip for a while? I’d asked him.

No, I can’t. I agreed, months ago, to present an award at one of their conventions.

Which one?

Roughly translated—they’re the National Society for the Advancement of Science and the Arts. A bit like our Royal Society. Their Secretary is an old friend of mine. I can’t let him down. It would be too late for them to find a replacement.

What about Rosemary? I’d asked him. Rosemary was my twin sister. Now divorced, she had moved in with grandfather and kept house. Our parents were both dead.

She’s doing something else, and can’t come, he’d said.

What’s this New York trip?

It’s a seminar for nuclear scientists. It’ll just be the usual crowd. I’m doing a repeat of my lecture on the Higgs boson, with up-dates.

Did you tell your specialist you were jetting off round the world?

He said keeping busy would help the healing process, and I’d be fine as long as I didn’t lift anything. That’s where you come in. I shall need you to carry my bag.

Since grandfather was one of the foremost scientists in the western hemisphere, this kind of trip was a regular occurrence, in spite of his age. He’d retired some years ago, but still went off several times a year for meetings or seminars, often as one of the principal speakers. Nor did it surprise me that, in spite of my protests, he insisted on paying my expenses. So it had been agreed. I had no teaching this week, and was able to re-arrange the few appointments I had. It would be good to get away, get out of London for a few days.

Meet me at the Hilton Hotel at Heathrow. Pack a small case, enough for five days, and don’t forget your passport, grandfather had said. Wait for me in the lobby at ten o’clock. I’ll find you.

Will do, I’d told him. See you then.

As I was still ahead of time I dressed in no particular hurry. When I went into the hall I found two items of mail on the mat, the phone bill, and a second, larger, official-looking brown envelope. I put the phone bill unopened on the table by the door and opened the other envelope. It contained a letter and another document. At the top of the first page was an official seal that read ‘In the High Court of Justice—Divorce Registry’. As I scan-read the contents of my wife’s divorce petition the words and phrases came off the page like blows:

The Petition of Sally Elizabeth Law shows that...The Petitioner and the Respondent were married on the...There are no children of the marriage...The marriage was initially happy but the Respondent has undergone a change of character and has behaved so unreasonably that the Petitioner can no longer reasonably be expected to live with him...When the Respondent returned from active service in Iraq he was distant and withdrawn...given to violent outbursts...

That’s when I lost it. With a grunt of rage I tore the papers into shreds and flung them against the wall. I was pacing the room, breathing hard, my hand shaking as I lit the cigarette that, like magic, had appeared in my hand.

So—she’d decided to go through with it. I looked around for something to smash, all the while trying to recall O’Connor’s advice. ‘Breathe deeply, count your blessings. Remember that you have most of your life ahead of you. Forget the past. Don’t allow it to destroy the present, or your future.’

Forget the past—easy for him to say. There are some things you can’t forget. I’d seen things that...Anyway, I couldn’t forget my feelings for Sally. I was still carrying that torch. It was a big torch—an Olympic flame of torches.

I smoked my way back to what passed, these days, for normal, still pacing the floor, and stubbed out the cigarette in the ash-tray by the front door. Picking up my bag, I turned for one last look around, and left.

By 8.45 a.m. I’d hailed a cab and was on my way. From this part of town, I’d make the airport in less than an hour. I wore a dark blue suit with matching tie and a white shirt. If I was going to play the part of my grandfather’s valet, I may as well look the part.

The air was cool and fresh. Patches of blue sky were visible between candy floss clouds of cumulo nimbus. Here and there the streets were still wet from overnight rain. I was about to ask the driver if I could smoke, but thought better of it. The ‘No Smoking’ sign was a big one, and looked new. Perhaps at the airport. I’d started up again in the service, as soon as I’d come out of hospital. First smoke I’d had since I was fifteen, when my swimming coach had caught me and chewed me up big-time. Once the swearing had stopped, and the guy had come down off the ceiling, it was, ‘Quit smoking, or quit trying to swim for your country’. So I’d quit then, and I’d quit again one day.

One day, one step, at a time.

When the cab stopped outside the Heathrow Hilton I paid the driver, grabbed my bag and made my way into the large airy lobby. There was no sign of the old man, but it was only nine-fifty. I went over to one of the leather sofas in the centre of the lobby where I could be seen and sat down. I took out my cigarettes and lit one, reasoning that since no-one had actually shoved a ‘No Smoking’ sign up my nose it might just be okay. Inhaling deeply, I blew smoke into a cloud over my head. One of the hotel flunkeys came over.

Excuse me, sir, he said, But this is a no smoking area.

A little worm of irritation stirred in my gut.

Really? I said. I drew in another lungful, blowing out more smoke. I didn’t see any sign.

There is a sign in the lobby, sir, over there, as you come in, and one on the door.

Then you ought to make the bloody thing more obvious. I stood up, thinking the smarmy little prick would back off. He wouldn’t.

I’ll speak to the manager about the sign, sir, he said. Meanwhile you may smoke outside in front of the building, or I must ask you to put out your cigarette.

Then I was in his face. Look, laddie, I started, but just then I heard my grandfather’s voice.

Alex, my dear boy.

Oh, hi grandpa,

You’d better put that out, he said, indicating my cigarette, Or they’ll have your guts for garters.

That’s what my friend here was just telling me. Happy to oblige, I lied, staring the flunkey in the eye as I stubbed out the cigarette in the ash tray he held out. He turned and went about his business.

While we shook hands I took in my grandfather’s appearance. It had been—what?—four, no, five months since I’d last seen him, and I thought he’d changed. He still stood ramrod straight, but looked thinner than I remembered, a little careworn. He wore a grey suit, brown shoes and a tie that was dark red. The suit seemed to hang off him a little, as it had been made for someone a size or two bigger. The glint in his eye was still there, and all things considered he looked pretty good for eighty-five.

How are you? I asked him.

I’m fine, top form, he said, briskly.

"But the operation—you are okay?"

My dear boy, of course I am. Just one of those things people my age get. I told you, I’m as right as rain. How’s Sally?

She’s divorcing me.

Oh dear—oh dear, he said, crestfallen. I’m very sorry to hear it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. And if you need to talk, well, you know.

Yes, of course. Thanks.

Offering his support in this calm and understated way was typical of the man who’d brought up my sister and I after our parents had been killed by a drunk driver. Rosemary and I had been nine when we’d gone to live with grandpa and nana Marjorie.

Shall we sit down? grandpa suggested. We sat next to each other on the brown leather sofa. We’ve got about an hour before we check in, he said. "Our flight’s at twelve-forty. We stay in Stockholm tonight. Tomorrow we go to New York. The seminar there begins on Wednesday and winds up on Thursday. That’s when I do my piece. Friday is free, so we can be tourists for the day. You can