Clearly, Eurenergy did not trust him; which was, he had to admit, understandable. He did have every intention of giving them the information, just not on an exclusive basis.
He studied the mathematical symbols and lines of figures on the screen. To anyone other than a specialist in the field of particle physics, the equations would have been totally meaningless — sets of squiggles as indecipherable as Egyptian hieroglyphics. But to Newman, the screenful of information was as easy to interpret as a musical score in the hands of Mozart.
‘But my God!’ he thought, ‘Fortescue’s thinking had been weird, so utterly radical!’ He could only wonder at the sheer genius of the man who, over a century ago, had created an atomic theory three decades ahead of its time and via an entirely different and beautifully simple route. It was staggering.
He ran through the basic history in his head. Just as the Second World War broke out in Europe scientists across the world were beginning to realize the power held within the atom. A couple of years later, Lise Meitner and Otto Frisch laid out the theory for fission — a nuclear process for creating vast amounts of energy from splitting uranium with neutrons.
But, twenty years earlier, unknown to anyone, Fortescue had envisioned a nuclear process that released even greater amounts of energy from a quite different procedure. He and Rutherford had then apparently developed experiments to test it.
It was all here in this file, all here in the twenty-odd pages of notes Fortescue had with him on the Titanic. And it had almost reached the States, almost initiated a nuclear weapons development programme before the First World War.
But why, Newman wondered, hadn’t Rutherford continued the research after the Titanic went down? Why wasn’t the programme reinitiated? Was Fortescue carrying the only available sample of the enriched ibnium? Perhaps Rutherford could have refined more, but the British government had lost heart. Yeah… that was one possibility. Another was that without Fortescue the bomb could not be made. He was, after all, a formidable physicist, a far greater scientist than Rutherford. That must be it, Newman concluded. Fortescue was the real brains behind this, and when he died the bomb died with him, only to be resurrected in a different form a generation later.
He gazed at the screen, transfixed by the equations. A cold chill ran down his spine. ‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘No, No… that can’t be right!’ He tapped the mouse, froze the equations and retraced his reasoning, finger to the screen.
‘What the…?’
He pushed back his chair and started to pace, his head filled with mathematical figures, symbols, numbers. ‘Fortescue had discovered cold fusion!’ Cold fusion — a way to harness nuclear power at room temperature using only everyday chemicals to make it work. Even today it was the ‘Holy Grail of modern physics’. He was talking to himself again, his voice quiet, incredulous. He stared around him in a daze. ‘How is that possible?’
He strode back to the computer, sat, scrolled down the scanned-in pages and stopped abruptly. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He closed his eyes and kept them closed. A crazy part of him thought that when he opened his eyes again, the Mac would tell him something different.
He opened them, read through the clustered figures and slammed his fist down on the desk so hard it sent a tremor of pain along his arm to his shoulder. ‘It’s not all here! For Christ’s sake! It’s not all here!’
Newman had no conscious awareness of time passing. He existed now in a bubble of his own cerebral creation, an ocean of mathematics roiling like the real one beyond the window. Once he had spotted the enormous leap forward Fortescue had made, he could not rest. He saw that some of the work was missing, but this would not stop him. He had to at least try to fill in the gaps… to make it all fit together.
By the time he had fully reasoned through what was there in the short collection of papers, dawn was breaking, autumnal sun slithering over the oceanic horizon, revealing clusters of yachts in the swell.
Rubbing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair straining to hear any sounds of movement from the rooms below. Then he booted up his laptop and dialled the connection he had made the night before. As the computer found the uplink to the satellite, he checked his account. The promised deposit had been made. Excellent.
The laptop produced a series of clicks and bleeps, then a message flashed across the screen: ‘Connection Green: Signal Strength 84 %’. Not great, but good enough, Newman thought and started to type again. He wrote: ‘As promised. Here is the interpretation of the work found at REZ375. It has exceeded my expectations and I’m sure it will yours. Please have your scientists confirm interpretations and authorize second payment within twenty-four hours.’
A few minutes passed and a response came. ‘Receipt acknowledged. Will update you in due course.’
Newman yawned, feeling incredibly tired. A strange sound came from the desktop Mac. It took him a few moments to realize that it was an in-coming Skype call. He brought up the management screen, found the Skype icon, clicked it, then scanned the name of the caller. It simply said: ‘EURENERGY’. He hovered the cursor over the green ‘connect’ symbol and a woman’s face appeared.
Even though they had never met, Newman recognized her immediately. It was Glena Buckingham herself.
‘My people picked up your encrypted call to us last night concerning the find at REZ375,’ she said. ‘I then had a call from Van Lee. He impressed upon me the fact that you were very excited and that you had complied with our wishes to interpret the find.’
Newman took a deep breath before replying. He felt incredibly nervous. This woman exuded an indefinable power, and it terrified him. ‘Your, er… colleague was very insistent,’ he said.
‘I told him to be, professor; and he is indeed a very persuasive man.’
A sound came from behind Newman. He half turned to see Jimmy coming in through the door, another tray in his hands. Van Lee walked two paces behind him. Jimmy put the fresh tray on the table, lifted the old one and walked out, closing the door behind him. Van Lee stood close to the coffee table, arms folded across his chest. He’d changed into a tracksuit and trainers and he smelled of sweat.
Newman swung back to the screen. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to hear I didn’t sleep last night and I have something very, very interesting for you.’
Buckingham raised an expensively groomed eyebrow.
‘I take it this line is secure?’
‘Couldn’t be more so.’
‘Could I have some of that coffee?’ Newman turned to Van Lee.
The man tilted his head and was about to make a flip response but changed his mind.
A few seconds later Newman had a mug in his hand and had taken a gulp. Then he explained what he had discovered.
Buckingham said nothing, just let him speak. When he had finished she remained silent for ten seconds, fixing Newman’s eyes. ‘Cold fusion. You have proof?’ she said finally. ‘You’re able to show me your working? Clear notes explaining everything in detail?’
‘I can send it all to you now.’ He lifted the document from a file on the management screen and dumped it into the Skype ‘send’ box.
It arrived almost instantly. Newman could see Glena Buckingham open it and start to read. It was identical to the one he had sent to the Chinese submarine.
Van Lee had poured himself a coffee and was seated in a sofa on the far side of the room from the desk, his eyes fixed on the back of the professor’s head.
Newman understood that he should say nothing, nothing at all. Let the work speak for itself. There was no need for him to add anything. But as the minutes passed, his anxiety mounted. Buckingham was studying the information, her face bone hard.