The Swarm

by Frank Schätzing

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, on the way to the NTNU, Johanson listened to the news, but there was nothing he hadn't heard already. People and boats were going missing in different parts of the world, giving rise to endless speculation but no satisfactory explanation.

  His lecture was scheduled for ten. Enough time to read his emails and glance at the post. It was pouring with rain, and the grey sky hung heavy over Trondheim. He'd scarcely turned on the lights and sat down at his desk with his coffee when Olsen poked his head round the door. 'It's never-ending,' he said, 'all this bad news.'

  'You mean the missing boats? I was going to ask you about that yesterday, but I forgot.'

  Olsen came into the room. 'Are you going to offer me some coffee?' he said, looking around intently. Curiosity was one of Olsen's useful but slightly wearisome traits.

  'It's all next door,' Johanson told him.

  Olsen leaned into the adjoining office and asked for a coffee at the top of his voice. Then he sat down and let his eyes rove round the room. Johanson's secretary marched in, slammed a mug in front of Olsen and stalked back to her desk.

  'What's wrong with her?' said Olsen, surprised.

  'I pour my own coffee,' said Johanson. 'It's all laid out. Flask, milk, sugar, cups…'

  Olsen took a noisy gulp. 'So you didn't listen to the news?'

  'I heard it in the car.'

  'Ten minutes ago there was an emergency newsflash on CNN. I've got a telly in my office – I keep it on all day.' The overhead lighting shone on Olsen's emerging bald patch. 'A gas tanker's exploded off the coast of Japan, then two container ships and a frigate collided in the Strait of Malacca. One of the ships sank, the other isn't seaworthy, and the frigate's gone up in flames. It belonged to the military. There was an explosion.'

  'Christ.' Johanson warmed his hands on his mug. 'As far as the Malacca Strait is concerned,' he said, 'I can't say I'm surprised. It's astonishing there aren't more accidents.'

  'Sure, but it's quite a coincidence.'

  Three stretches of water competed for the title of busiest waterway in the world: the English Channel, the Strait of Gibraltar and the Strait of Malacca, which formed part of the main route between Europe, South East Asia and Japan. Six hundred tankers and freighters passed through the strait each day, and sometimes the channel between Malaysia and Sumatra carried as many as two thousand vessels. The strait was eight hundred kilometres long, but its narrowest point was only 2.7 kilometres wide. India and Malaysia had urged the tankers to use the Lombok Strait further south, but their pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Taking a detour would decrease the profit margin, so 15 per cent of international shipping continued to stream through the Malacca Strait.

  'Does anyone know what happened?'

  'Not yet.'

  'How awful.' Johanson sipped his coffee. 'So, what's all this stuff about disappearing boats, then?'

  'Oh, that. You haven't heard?'

  'Well, if I had, I wouldn't ask,' said Johanson. His temper was starting to fray.

  Olsen lowered his voice. 'It turns out that swimmers and small fishing-boats have been going missing for some time in South America, but the media didn't report it – or not in Europe, at least. They say it started in Peru. The first person to disappear was a fisherman. His boat was found a few days later, a little reed craft, drifting out to sea. At first they thought a wave had caught him, but the weather's been perfect for weeks. Since then, people have been vanishing left, right and centre. The latest victim was a trawler.'

  'Why hasn't anyone mentioned it?'

  Olsen spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'Because no one likes to advertise this kind of thing. Tourism's crucial to the region. And, anyway, it was happening on the other side of the world.'

  'But the jellies made the news.'

  'Oh, come on, Sigur, that's totally different. American citizens have died. Plus a German, and God knows who else. And now a Norwegian family has vanished off the coast of Chile. One of the local companies organised a deep-sea angling trip – one minute they were all on the trawler and the next they were gone. Norwegians, for God's sake! That kind of thing's always reported.'

  'OK, I take your point.' Johanson leaned back in his chair. 'Did no one radio for help?'

  'There were a few distress signals, nothing more – the boats that went missing weren't exactly high-tech.'

  'And no sign of a squall?'

  'For Christ's sake, Sigur, no. At least, nothing that could sink a vessel.'

  'And western Canada? What's going on there?'

  'You mean those boats that were in collision? No idea. According to one witness, they got into a fight with a bad-tempered whale. Who knows? The world's a cruel place… Now how about another coffee? Actually, I think I'll get it myself.'

  DRY ROT WAS EASIER to get rid of than Olsen, but eventually he left. Johanson checked his watch. Nearly time for his lecture. He rang Lund.

  'Skaugen has contacted other teams working in exploration,' she said, 'oil companies all over the world. He wants to know if anyone's found anything similar.'

  'Like the worms?'

  'Exactly. He thinks the Asians know at least as much as we do.'

  'Why?'

  'You said it yourself. Asia is trying to exploit gas hydrates. I thought that's what they told you in Kiel. Skaugen wants to sound them out.'

  It wasn't a bad idea, thought Johanson. If the worms were crazy about hydrates, the companies that wanted the hydrates would have come across them too. The trouble was … 'I can't imagine the Asians will be open with him,' he said. 'They'll be as cagey as he is.'

  'So you don't think Skaugen'll mention it?'

  'Certainly not the whole story. And especially not now.'

  'But what else can he do?'

  'Well…'Johanson scrabbled for words '. . . I don't mean to insinuate anything, but suppose someone decided to build a unit regardless of the worms.'

  'Impossible!'

  'Just supposing.'

  'But I told you, didn't I? Skaugen's taking your advice.'

  'All credit to him. But this is money we're talking about. Some people would decide it's OK to pretend not to know about the worms.

  'You mean they'd go ahead and build the unit?'

  'You never know, it might go smoothly. And if it didn't… Well, a firm can be liable for technical incompetence, but not for methane-eating worms. Sure, they knew about them beforehand, but who could prove it?'

  'Statoil wouldn't hush up a thing like that.'

  'Forget Statoil. Take the Japanese. Selling methane would be equivalent to an oil boom, if not better. They'd be unbelievably rich. You can't honestly think they'd want to show their hand.'

  'I guess not.'

  'Would Statoil?'

  'Look, this is getting us nowhere,' said Lund. 'We need to find out the truth before anyone else does. If only we had some independent observers who couldn't be traced back to Statoil. Like…' She made thinking noises. 'Couldn't you ask around a bit?'

  'In the oil industry?'

  'At universities, institutes – people like your friends in Kiel. Aren't hydrates being studied all over the world?'

  'Yes, but-'

  'And how about marine biologists? Deep-sea divers?' She was sounding excited now. 'Maybe you should take over the entire thing! We could set up a new division for you. I'll call Skaugen right away and ask him for funding. Then we can-'

  'Whoa! Not so fast, Tina!'

  I'm sure it would be well paid, and it wouldn't mean much work.'

  'It'd be bloody awful. And there's no reason why you lot shouldn't do it.'

  'You'd do it better. You're neutral.'

  'Come off it, Tina.'

  'Instead of arguing with me, you could've rang the Smithsonian three times already. Please, Sigur, it'd be easy… You've got to see it our way. We're a big multinational with vested interests. The minute we start asking questions, hundreds of environmental groups will pounce. They're waiting for something like this.'

 
'I see. So sweeping it under the carpet would be in your interest?'

  'You can be bloody annoying at times, Sigur.'

  'So people keep telling me.'

  Lund sighed. 'What do you think we should do, then? As soon as people know about it, they'll think the worst. And you can take my word for it, Statoil isn't going to build this unit until we've found out more. But if we start making official enquiries, the news will get out and we'll be in the spotlight. Our hands will be tied.'

  Johanson rubbed his eyes and glanced at his watch again. It was gone ten. 'Tina, I have to go. I'll ring you later.'

  'Can I tell Skaugen you'll do it?'

  'No.'

  There was silence. 'OK,' she said finally, in a small voice.

  Johanson took a deep breath. 'Will you at least give me time to consider it?'

  'You're a sweetheart.'

  'I know. That's my problem.'

  He gathered up his papers and hurried to the lecture-hall.

  ROANNE, France

  Jean Jérôme was looking critically at twelve Brittany lobsters. He looked critically at most things. He owed his scepticism to the establishment for which he worked. Troisgros prided itself on being the only French restaurant to have kept its three Michelin stars for over thirty consecutive years. Jérôme had no desire to go down in history as the man who broke that tradition. He was responsible for seafood, Troisgros's lord of the fish, so to speak, and he'd been on his feet since dawn.

  His wholesaler had been up even longer – his day began at three in the morning in Rungis, an otherwise unremarkable suburban town fourteen kilometres outside Paris that had transformed itself almost overnight into a mecca of haute cuisine. Spread over four square kilometres and fully lit, it was the place for wholesalers, restaurateurs and anyone else who spent their life in a kitchen to purchase their ingredients. Produce from all over France could be found there: milk, cream, butter and cheese from Normandy, high-quality vegetables from Brittany, and aromatic fruits from the south. Oyster farmers from Belon, Marennes, the Arcachon basin, and tuna fishermen from St Jean-de-Luz would thunder down the autoroutes to deliver their freight on time. Refrigerated lorries laden with shellfish jostled with vans and cars on the roads. Top-quality produce was on sale in Rungis before anywhere else in France.

  But not all top-quality produce was the same. The lobsters, like the vegetables, came from Brittany, but some specimens were more enticing than the rest Jean Jérôme picked them up one by one and studied them from every angle. There were six in each of the large polystyrene crates lined with seaweed. They were alive, of course, but barely moving, which was only natural, since their pincers had been tied.

  'They're good,' said Jérôme.

  That was praise indeed, coming from his lips. In fact he was exceptionally pleased with the lobsters. They were on the small side, but fairly heavy to make up for it, and their shells were a shiny dark blue.

  Then he came to the last pair. 'Too light,' he said.

  The wholesaler frowned. With one hand he picked up a lobster that had met with Jérôme's approval, and in the other he held one of the rejects. He weighed them against each other.

  'You're right, Monsieur,' he said, in consternation. 'I do apologise. But there's not much in it.'

  'True,' said Jérôme. 'A little difference like that wouldn't be noticed in a seaside cafe – but this is Troisgros.'

  'Please accept my apologies. I can go back and-'

  'That won't be necessary. We'll see which of our guests has the smallest appetite.'

  The wholesaler apologised again.

  A short while later Jérôme was in Troisgros's magnificent kitchens, getting to grips with the evening menu. He had put the lobsters in a tub.

  When it was time to blanch them, he asked for a large pan of water to be heated. Speed was of the essence when dealing with lobster- as soon as it was caught, its flesh began to lose flavour. Blanching stabilised it, and killed them. Later, when it was almost time to serve them, they would be cooked through. Jérôme waited until the water reached boiling-point, then dropped a lobster head-first into the pan. The air inside its body cavity escaped in a high-pitched scream. Then he drew it out and put it aside. One by one he repeated the process… nine, ten… He reached for the eleventh, lighter than the others, and lowered it into the steaming water.

  He pulled it out, and swore under his breath.

  What on earth had happened to the creature? Its shell had been ripped open and a claw had fallen off Jérôme snorted with rage. He put it down on the work surface and nudged it gently on to its back. The underside was damaged, and a slimy white substance filled the shell where the meat should have been. He turned to the pan and stared into it. Blobs of something that bore no resemblance to lobster flesh were floating in the water.

  There was nothing he could do about it, and besides he only needed ten. Jérôme never risked buying too little – he had a reputation for getting the balance just right. It was important to know precisely how much of everything would be needed – in the interests of economy, of course, but also to have sufficient in reserve. Once again, the strategy had paid off.

  But it was annoying all the same.

  The tub caught his eye. There was one lobster left, the second of the pair he hadn't liked. But there was no time to worry about that now – into the pan with it.

  Wait! He hadn't cleaned the water.

  A thought struck him. The diseased lobster had been lighter than the others. This live lobster felt lighter too. Maybe it was infected with a virus or a parasite. Jérôme took the twelfth lobster out of the tub and laid it on the work surface. Its long antennae slanted back along its body twitching constantly, while its bound claws moved feebly. When lobsters were removed from their natural habitat, they tended towards lethargy. Jérôme prodded it gently and bent down to it. A transparent substance was oozing from the joint where the carapace met the segmented tail.

  What the hell was that?

  Jérôme crouched close to it.

  The lobster raised its upper body and its black eyes seemed to fix on him.

  Then it burst.

  THE APPRENTICE WHOM JÉRÔME had put to work scaling fish was only three metres away from the scene, but a narrow wall unit stacked with utensils obscured his view of the stove. The first he heard was a bloodcurdling scream. Then Jérôme staggered backwards, clutching his face. The apprentice darted towards him, and both men lurched into the cupboard behind them. Saucepans jangled and something crashed to the floor, shattering.

  'What is it?' the apprentice asked, panicking. 'What happened?'

  The other chefs came running. The kitchen was like a well-organised factory in which each worker carried out a particular task. One was responsible for game, another for sauces, a third for pates, a fourth for salads, a fifth for patisserie and so on. For a moment everything was thrown into confusion. Then Jérôme lowered his hands and pointed a trembling finger towards the work surface next to the stove. A thick transparent substance was dripping from his hair. Blobs covered his face and a stream ran down his neck. 'It – it exploded at me,' he gasped.

  His apprentice took a step forward and looked with revulsion at the lobster fragments. Only the legs were still intact. A claw lay on the floor and the jagged edges of the shell gaped open. 'What did you do to it?' he whispered.

  Jérôme's face was distorted with disgust. 'I didn't do anything!' he yelled. 'It just burst!'

  They fetched towels for him to wipe himself clean. The apprentice touched the substance with his fingertips. It felt taut and rubbery, but it disintegrated easily, dispersing over the worktop. Without stopping to think, he took a jar from the shelf and spooned in clumps of the jelly. Then he swept some of the liquid over the top and twisted on the lid tightly.

  Pacifying Jérôme posed more of a problem. In the end someone poured him a glass of champagne, and eventually he recovered some of his poise. 'Clean up that mess,' he commanded. 'I'm going to wash.'

  Immediately th
e kitchen staff started putting his workplace back to rights. They scrubbed the stove and the surrounding area, disposed of the lobster remnants, cleaned the pan and threw away the water in which the lobsters had spent the last hour of their lives. It went the way of all waste water – down the drain and into the sewers where it mingled with the other fluids that the town had flushed away.

  The apprentice took charge of the jar with the jelly. He hadn't thought what to do with it so he asked Jérôme, who had returned to the kitchens in clean chefs whites.

  'Good idea to save some,' Jérôme said. 'God knows what it could be. Send it somewhere where they test that kind of thing. But don't mention the incident. It never happened. Not at Troisgros.'

  The story never left the kitchens, which was just as well as it would have shown the restaurant in an unjustly negative light. Troisgros wasn't to blame, but nothing was worse for a top-class restaurant than whisperings about its hygiene.

  The apprentice kept a close eye on the substance in the jar. When it started to disintegrate, he added more water because it seemed the right thing to do.

  It looked like pieces of jellyfish, he thought, and jellyfish needed water – in fact that was pretty much all they were made of In any case it seemed to do the trick. For the time being the substance remained stable. Troisgros made some discreet telephone enquiries, and the jar was immediately sent for analysis at the nearby university in Lyons. Two hours later, it landed on the desk of Bernard Roche, a professor of molecular biology. Even with the extra water in the jar, the jelly was disintegrating again. Only a few small clumps remained. Roche began to test it straight away, but the last blob dispersed before he could examine it in detail. He'd seen enough, though to identify some molecular compounds, whose presence surprised and bewildered him. One was a highly potent neurotoxin, but he couldn't be certain whether it came from the jelly or the water in the jar.

  The liquid, he discovered, was saturated with organic matter and all kinds of chemicals. Since he didn't have time to analyse it immediately, he decided to return to it in a few days' time. He put the jar in the fridge.