Atomic Swarm Read online

  6 till early hours – Yet More Revision!!!

  Thursday 17 June

  Revised with Popey tonight. Can’t believe he’s off to start his job next week. We were both a bit sad. Friends forever xxx

  Did I mention I was revising?!!?

  Friday 18 June

  EXAMS

  Thursday 24 June

  EXAMS

  Friday 25 June

  EXAMS

  Saturday 26 June

  ***FREEDOM*** :-)

  This is what freedom looks like:

  11 a.m. – Hair appointment (I know, get me!)

  12 p.m. – Me and Moe sunbathe.

  4 p.m. – Tea with maths fellows of Jesus.

  5 p.m. – Mysterious meeting with Prof. Kinjo! Not really – think he just wants to say bye – me being star Japanese student! :-)

  7 p.m. – Meet gang – Lumpy, Alexander, Moe’s lot. No Popey, though – as he’s already started his job!

  10 p.m. – Fireworks at Christ Church.

  Jackson was about to fire up his tablet and look again at the maths team photo. He was particularly keen to look at Popey again as she’d seemed quite keen on him. Then he spotted the pack of photos that had come in his dad’s package and started to shuffle through those instead.

  He flicked through a procession of school photos of himself in uniform and shamefully noted that his haircut had hardly changed in five years of school photographs. There was a Polaroid of him, his mum and his dad at home, and snaps of his parents cuddling on the sofa. Then he came across several older photographs that Jackson suspected were taken in Oxford. There were two of his mum dancing around in a kitchen with a Japanese girl he recognized as Moe, from the drawing in his mum’s diary, and there were several more of the two girls together, one of which showed them having a picnic with the members of the maths team. The picture wasn’t very clear, but Mr Pope’s distinctive baseball cap and shades were unmistakable. And, unless Jackson was imagining things, he and his mum were pressed up against each other for the photo and laughing.

  Jackson wasn’t sure how he felt about the picture, with his mother cuddling up to someone who wasn’t his dad. Jackson decided it was best just to press on.

  He opened the next diary. It was three years after the previous one and covered two years. He found little of interest in the first few months beyond appointments with names he didn’t recognize, and a few comments that suggested she was working in an office. Then he came to an entry in April.

  Thursday 11 April

  5 p.m. – Interviewing for a position in another department. Should be able to use my Japanese translation skills.

  Can’t believe I’ve been at The Jam for six months…

  The Jam Company! As a kid, Jackson had imagined the place his mother worked as a kind of Charlie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory – but with jam. He’d never thought that her job there – in the accounts department – required her to speak Japanese.

  He continued to look through the diary. To begin with the entries were a lot sparser than in the previous diary. There were one or two brief entries a month – meeting times at The Jam, notes for a complaint about the state of the bus station at Cheltenham where Jackson remembered she used to commute to daily for her job. One entry made Jackson stop and re-read it a few times.

  Friday 23 August

  Sometimes I wonder whose side we’re on!

  Inside the page was a return bus ticket to Cheltenham. It was a strange entry, Jackson thought, because he couldn’t imagine what she meant by it.

  The bus ticket gave him an idea and he started up the browser on his tablet computer and did a search for The Jam Company in Cheltenham. Nothing caught his attention. Now he came to think of it, he didn’t remember any details about the place other than its name and that she travelled to Cheltenham and back to work there. So why wasn’t it coming up in the search?

  To Jackson and his dad she’d always referred to it as The Jam Company. But once or twice in the pages of her diary, she’d used a nickname – The Jam.

  Jackson entered ‘The Jam +Cheltenham’. A reference to Chilli Jam came up first, followed by some music venues. He waded through several pages of links that inspired nothing but frustration, then, from nowhere, a reference that mentioned GCHQ. Jackson knew straightaway what GCHQ was. It featured heavily in one of his favourite books – The Bletchley Bomb. The book, which had belonged to his grandfather, told the story of code-breaking in the Second World War. GCHQ was the name of the British government’s code-cracking headquarters.

  Jackson clicked on the link. It led to a page filled with information about what it called the government’s centre for communications. Jackson’s eye was drawn to one particular sentence:

  Among insiders, the ‘company’ has gained the nickname ‘The Jam’ because the new GCHQ building is shaped like a doughnut and what goes on inside it is the jam in the doughnut.

  One part of Jackson was astonished. If he understood things correctly, his mother had worked for the British government’s code-cracking department in Cheltenham and not a factory making preserves. But another part of him found it made perfect sense – she had been a brilliant mathematician and had even written in code the Pi poem that she’d given to Jackson on his seventh birthday. It was a code that he’d had to break in order to receive his present.

  He read on and slowly the picture of his mother’s job as a code-breaker began to form. She translated phone calls between Japan and Britain and, although Jackson wasn’t sure who the phone calls were between or why she had to translate them, it was clear that she was passing on her findings up the line at GCHQ. But if that wasn’t enough of a shock for Jackson, then the following entries definitely were.

  Thursday 24 October

  Mr Yakimoto coming to London. And I discovered it. ME!

  Friday 25 October

  Popey works for us! I can’t believe it. The boss just introduced him into one of our meetings.

  Thursday 7 November

  Been working with Mr Pope all week. He’s been working for us in our ‘London Office’ since he left Oxford.

  Oh, and he invited me to dinner!

  Wednesday 13 November

  Everything lovely with Popey.

  Tuesday 19 November

  I’m very worried!

  They’ve assigned Popey to the Yakimoto job.

  Monday 25 November

  My Mr Pope meets Yakimoto in ten weeks.

  I have to listen in and tell the boss when to move in.

  Jackson noticed a distinct lack of anything written in the diary for several weeks.

  Monday 10 February

  Too upset to have written in my diary until now.

  They’ve taken Popey.

  I can hardly write his name without crying.

  Thursday 10 February

  News from Japan not good. Had confirmation that Popey was taken there.

  I blame myself – I can’t help it.

  I will always treasure the night we spent together before he met that man.

  Thursday 6 March

  Still no news from Japan company contact.

  Tuesday 18 March

  12 p.m., St Stephens – Memorial Service for Popey.

  Thursday 27 March

  I’m PREGNANT.

  Hard to get my head around.

  I can’t believe Popey will never meet his child.

  Jackson felt numb. His mother’s discovery of her pregnancy – 27 March – was seven months before Jackson was born. She was pregnant, with him! It followed that there in the pages of his mother’s diary was the identity of his real father – Mr Pope, Popey from her university days. But while it was the one piece of knowledge he thought he wanted to know more than anything else, any relief it might have given him had been crushed by the revelation that followed – his real father was dead. The cryptic understatement of his mother’s diary entries made the precise chain of events difficult to decipher, but, as Jackson understood it, his mum and Mr Pope were invo
lved in some kind of sting operation involving a Japanese man called Mr Yakimoto – an operation that had ended with the abduction and death of Mr Pope in Japan.

  Jackson grasped the third and final diary in his hands. He’d see what the Web would throw up about Yakimoto later, but right now he was desperate to read on.

  He looked at the year stamped in gold on the front cover. It was a full ten years on from the end of the previous diary. It was the year his mother died.

  Jackson flicked slowly through the entries, not wanting to reach the end of this final diary, knowing what it would bring. The first few months were ordinary: a few notes about meetings at The Jam to pay bills, a nice sketch of Jackson’s dad, who Jackson was somehow relieved to read was now part of their lives, watching TV. About halfway through his mother’s routine scribbles took a disturbing turn.

  Friday 27 April

  Yakimoto is coming back!

  Friday 11 May

  I’ve been asked to consult on the Yakimoto meet.

  I don’t know if I can bring myself to take part…

  Monday 21 May

  I’m in! I’m doing it. And this time we’ll get him!

  Thursday 24 May

  Feeling guilty. I’ve been working silly hours.

  Jackson is very sweet about it, but I know he hates me coming in so late.

  Tuesday 12 June

  Three days to go.

  I’ve listened to as much phone traffic as I can. It’s out of my hands now.

  This one’s for you, Popey.

  Friday 15 June

  Tried to sleep but couldn’t…

  Think I was followed home. I’ll tell my department head tomorrow.

  This entry was accompanied by a doodle of a Japanese man. Jackson’s mother had used up lots of ink from her biro on his long flowing black hair. His round spectacles had been inked in so they looked shaded in blue, and his angular face gave him a harsh appearance. Jackson was in no doubt it was Yakimoto.

  Jackson turned over the page, but he knew he would find nothing. Saturday 16 June. The date was seared into his memory. It was the date of his mother’s death.

  Up until this moment, Jackson had believed his mother had been killed in a hit and run. Now he was facing a new and even more hideous truth – that she had been murdered by the same man who had killed his real father.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jackson had a few more minutes to ponder over the wording of the email.

  Brooke was meant to have collected him from outside Simmons Hall at 8 a.m. for their trip to the island of Martha’s Vineyard. Jackson was waiting outside when she called at 8.15 to say she was still packing gear with her father and would be an hour late. Jackson had offered to help out, but she’d told him J.P. was in one of his moods and while she could not escape it he could.

  Jackson sat on the pavement outside the dorm building, happy to have a spare hour to continue his research into Yakimoto. It felt like he’d read everything there was to know about every Mr Yakimoto in Japan last night. He’d narrowed his search down to one man who fitted the bill – a businessman who had been investigated many times for alleged links to the Yakuza, apparently Japan’s most famous criminal organization. But by the time Jackson had finally put his head down, at around 5 a.m., the information he’d managed to find on his parents’ mysterious killer was, at best, sketchy.

  In spite of the little amount of sleep he’d managed to get, he had woken up with a plan. His search for the Japanese gangster might be proving difficult – but he knew someone who might have more luck.

  He finished his email to the Kojima twins and touched SEND.

  What most impressed Jackson about the Englishs’ fifteen-bedroom beachside house on the island of Martha’s Vineyard was Brooke’s tepee.

  The tall conical structure sat at the end of a long lawn, just a few metres from a small private beach. It was covered with sections of grass matting and animal pelts that spiralled down from a twig crown, giving it the appearance of a helter-skelter.

  ‘It’s an exact replica of the tepees used by the Wampanoag Indians, the original inhabitants of this island. My friend John is a direct descendant of one of the tribes. He helped me build it.’

  The island was little more than an hour from Boston by boat and yet, looking out from the sand towards the flat expanse of sunset-orange ocean, Jackson imagined he could have been a castaway on a desert island.

  ‘I never really thought about Indians living on islands,’ said Jackson.

  Brooke smiled. ‘They still live here! John and his family live on a reservation up on the peninsula. Many people believe the Wampanoag are the heart of the island. When the early settlers chased many of them off Martha’s Vineyard, strange things started to happen like floods and violent storms. They’ve been welcome here ever since.’

  It was so Brooke, thought Jackson, to have the run of a beautiful house but choose to sleep in a tepee.

  It wasn’t hard to see why. It was very peaceful here, even the waves were whisper quiet, lapping on to the beach almost apologetically, a few metres from where the two of them sat. Jackson dug his toes into the sand. It was only warm on the surface, cold underneath. A bit like how he felt right now, to tell the truth. The AI project had eventually turned out well and he was glad to be here on the island to help Brooke and J.P., but underneath all he could think about was what had happened to his mother. He felt numb.

  It must have showed on his face.

  ‘Whatever is going on between you and your dad,’ Brooke remarked softly, ‘you know you can always talk about it to me if you need to.’

  ‘He’s not my real dad,’ said Jackson firmly. ‘That’s what he had to tell me.’

  At first, Brooke said nothing, but Jackson could see the surprise in her eyes.

  ‘Do you know who is?’ asked Brooke, eventually breaking the silence.

  Brooke was his best friend, and part of Jackson desperately wanted to tell her – to let out all the shocking things he’d found out in the last couple of days. But there was so much he didn’t know himself. Who had Mr Pope been anyway, when he was alive? He’d done a search on his name last night and found nothing. And then there was Mr Yakimoto – even thinking of his name made Jackson feel sick to the pit of his stomach. No, he couldn’t tell Brooke anything just yet. Not until he knew more himself – it was easier that way.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure who he is, Brooke – but I’m working on it.’

  ‘OK. But if there’s anything I can do to help –’

  ‘Like I said,’ responded Jackson, cutting Brooke off, ‘I’m working on it.’

  The sea was glassy smooth. If it wasn’t for the keel of J.P.’s ship, The Oceanaut, slicing through it at an impressive rate of knots, Jackson believed its surface would be undisturbed until it touched Europe.

  Things aboard the boat were busy, though. Goulman had called in sick yesterday, much to J.P.’s annoyance, and the professor had drafted in the son of a friend who introduced himself as Matty. J.P., Jackson and the new guy were busy readying Verne. They hoisted the spherical white robot on to the end of a small crane which swung out over the stern of the boat, and began running final tests via an indestructible-looking rubberized tablet PC which was plugged into Verne’s belly by a thick red cable.

  Getting Verne to the crane had been a challenge – Verne was a lot heavier than Jackson had expected. J.P. had explained that, in order to keep the remote underwater machine balanced when under the sea, Verne needed to carry a lot of weight. Matty had complained that he was suffering from a dodgy back and J.P. was too intent on directing manoeuvres to be of any real help, so Jackson had spent most of the half-hour journey from Edgartown inching the 130-kilogram machine across the deck. If Salty, the boat’s captain, and quite possibly the strongest old-age pensioner Jackson had ever seen, hadn’t come to his aid, J.P.’s experimental aquatic robot might well still be sitting in his crate.

  Salty had later invited Jackson to join him on the ‘flying bridge’
.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know much about boating,’ said Jackson. ‘What’s a flying bridge when it’s at home?’

  ‘You know what a crow’s-nest is?’ said the old man, through all of three teeth and a white beard that clung to his face and neck like a barnacle.

  ‘I do! It’s the bit at the top of a ship’s mast that you stand in and shout when you see the pirates coming!’

  Salty burst out laughing and then proceeded to cough and splutter before forming a mouthful of something foul, which he promptly spat over the side of the open platform.

  ‘Brooke said you were funny, lad!’

  ‘Oh, did she? What did she say?’

  ‘That you have the smarts to match any of the Doc’s hangers-on, but an accent that makes you sound as dumb as a crayfish.’

  ‘Are crayfish dumb?’

  ‘God-awful stupid! They’ll eat the hook off your line.’

  ‘Is there such a thing as a clever fish?’

  Salty swivelled round in his fighting chair, keeping one hand on the ship’s chrome wheel. ‘Don’t go thinking we’re anything more than guests out here, boy. There’s a million creatures below us right now who is wily enough to drag us down there to join ’em, if they ever feel the need.’