THAT EVENING JÉRÔME FELL ILL. At first he felt nauseous. The restaurant was full, so he tried to forget about it and carried on as usual. The ten intact lobsters were exquisite, and there was no call for any more. In spite of the unpleasant incident that morning, everything went smoothly – as was expected at Troisgros.
It was getting on for ten o'clock when the nausea worsened and was coupled with a headache. Then Jérôme noticed he was losing concentration. He had omitted to put the finishing touches to one of the dishes, and had forgotten to tell his apprentice what to do next.
Jean Jérôme was enough of a professional to know when to pull the plug. He was feeling truly awful. He handed responsibility to his deputy, an ambitious and talented chef who'd learned her trade in Paris under Ducasse. He was just popping outside, he told her. The kitchens backed on to the garden: when the weather was good, diners were taken there on arrival and served their aperitif with canapés. Later they were led into the restaurant through the kitchens, catching a glimpse of the proceedings and sometimes a demonstration by a chef. Right now the discreetly lit garden was deserted.
For a few minutes Jérôme paced up and down. Through the large windows he could still see the bustle of the kitchens, but he was having trouble focusing for more than a few seconds at a time. He couldn't get enough air, and there was a weight on his chest. His legs felt like jelly. He sat down at one of the wooden tables. His thoughts returned to the events of that morning. His hair and face had been splattered with the lobster's insides. He was sure he must have inhaled a bit or swallowed some fluid. He'd probably caught a drop on his tongue when he licked his lips.
Perhaps it was the thought of the lobster, but before he knew it, he was vomiting violently over the plants. As he sat there, bent double, retching and choking, he thought it was probably for the best. At least he'd got rid of it. Now all he needed was a glass of water, and he'd feel much better.
He dragged himself to his feet. His head spun. His forehead was burning and he was gazing into a spiral. He sat down again. You've got to get up, he told himself You need to check that things are all right in the kitchen. It was vital that nothing went wrong. This was Troisgros, after all.
He managed to stand up and take a few dragging steps, then darkness overwhelmed him.
18 April
Vancouver Island, Canada
Anawak could feel his eyes reddening and swelling, while the skin round them creased. Struggling to keep his head upright, he stared at the monitor. Ever since Canada's west coast had been plunged into chaos, his eyes had barely left the screen, yet he'd sifted only a fraction of the data – electronic evidence that owed its existence to one of the most groundbreaking inventions in animal behavioural science. Telemetry.
In the late 1970s, scientists had come up with a revolutionary new method for monitoring animals. Until then there had been no accurate means of collecting data on a species' distribution or its patterns of migration. How animals lived, hunted and mated, what they needed or wanted were all matters of speculation. Of course, thousands of animals were being watched around the clock – but almost always under circumstances that made it impossible to predict how they would normally behave. Monitoring an animal in captivity was like observing a man behind bars: there was no way of telling how it lived when it was free.
But attempts to observe animals in their natural habitat were similarly unsuccessful. The creatures either took flight or failed to show up in the first place. Animals tended to see more of the scientists than the scientists did of them. Some of the less timid species – chimpanzees or dolphins, for example – put on shows for their observers, displaying aggression or curiosity, and sometimes even flirting or striking a pose, making objective conclusions all but impossible to reach. Once they'd tired of performing, they'd disappear into the jungle, take off into the sky or dive into the depths, where they'd resume their natural behaviour – except no one could see them.
It was the mystery that biologists from Darwin onwards had been longing to solve. How could we understand the ability of fish and seals to survive in the cold dark waters of the Antarctic? How could humans see inside a biotope that was sealed with layers of ice? What would the Earth look like from the sky, if we crossed the Mediterranean on the back of a goose? How did it feel to be a bee? How could we measure the speed of an insect's wings and its heartbeat, or monitor its blood pressure and eating patterns? What was the impact of human activities, like shipping noise or subsea explosions, on mammals in the depths? How could we follow animals to places where no human could venture?
The answer came in the form of a technology that allowed haulage companies to locate each of their lorries, and helped drivers to pinpoint streets in towns they'd never seen. It was a modern invention that everyone knew and used, without realising that it would revolutionise zoology: telemetry.
In the late 1950s, US scientists had already started to develop ways of electronically tagging animals. Not long afterwards the US Navy was using the technology on trained dolphins, but the experiment failed because the tags were too heavy: it was no good hoping to gain accurate information on dolphins' natural behaviour from tags that affected their movements. The initiative ground to a halt, but the invention of the microchip heralded a breakthrough. In no time ultra-light cameras and tags the size of chocolate bars were being used to transmit relevant data from the wild. The animals carried on as normal, roaming through the rainforests or swimming through the pack-ice in McMurdo Sound, unaware of the fifteen grams of equipment they were carrying. At long-last grizzly bears, dingoes, foxes and caribous were divulging their secrets. Scientists were initiated into their ways of life, mating rituals, hunting habits and migration patterns. They could even fly across the world in the company of white-tailed eagles, albatrosses, swans, geese and crows. At the cutting edge of technology, insects were fitted with miniature devices that weighed a thousandth of a gram and were powered by radar waves. They could send back their signal at double the frequency, allowing the data to be received from distances of more than seven hundred metres.
Most of the tracking was done by satellite. The system was as simple as it was ingenious. The signal from the transmitter was sent into space, where it was received by ARGOS, a satellite-based system run by the French space agency CNES. From there it was transmitted to headquarters in Toulouse and on to a terrestrial station in Fairbanks, USA, for forwarding to other institutions worldwide. The data reached the end-user in less than ninety minutes.
Research into whales, seals, penguins and turtles soon developed into a distinct field of telemetry. The planet's least-known and most fascinating habitat was opened up to view. Data could be recorded at considerable depth on ultra-light transmitters, which registered temperature, length of dive, distance from the surface, location, direction of travel and speed. Frustratingly the signals could only be received from the water's surface, which meant that ARGOS was blind where the depths were concerned. Humpbacks spent a good deal of their lives within a few kilometres of the Californian coast, but surfaced for an hour a day at most. While ornithologists could see and monitor a stork in flight, marine scientists were cut off from their subjects while they were under water. For a complete understanding of marine mammals, they needed cameras that kept rolling at all times – but the Pacific was too deep for any diver, and submersibles lacked the necessary agility and speed.
Eventually the solution came from scientists at the University of California in Santa Cruz, who invented a tiny, pressure-resistant underwater camera. They tried the device on an elephant seal and some Weddell seals and finally a dolphin. In no time they came across the most amazing phenomena. Within a few weeks their understanding of marine mammals was transformed. If only whales and dolphins had proven as easy to tag as other animals, everything would have been perfect. Instead it was virtually impossible. So Anawak was left with far less data than he would have liked – yet at the same time he had more than he could handle. Since no one knew what was important, ev
ery piece of information was significant – and that meant evaluating thousands of hours of images, audio recordings, readings, analyses and stats.
'Project Sisyphus' was what Ford had called it.
But at least Anawak had plenty of time to devote to it. The station's reputation had been restored, and yet Davie's was closed. The waters off the west coast of Canada and North America were restricted to large vessels only. The disaster that had hit Vancouver Island had been repeated along the coast from San Francisco to Alaska. During the first wave of attacks, over a hundred smaller craft had been sunk or severely damaged. The number of casualties had fallen over the weekend, but only because no one was prepared to set sail unless they owned a freighter or a ferry. The media was awash with conflicting reports. Even the death toll was uncertain. Various government-appointed emergency-response teams had been brought in to deal with the situation, which meant that the skies were filled with helicopters whirring up and down the coast, laden with soldiers, scientists and politicians peering down at the ocean, each more helpless and bewildered than the next.
It was standard procedure for emergency committees to draw on outside advisers, and that was what the Canadian authorities had done. Vancouver Aquarium was co-opted as the hub of all science-based operations under the leadership of John Ford. Almost every marine-science or research institute was placed under his control. For Ford it was a weighty burden: he was leading a mission without knowing what it was. There was a protocol for everything from catastrophic earthquakes to terrorist nuclear attacks, but no one had prepared a brief for this. Ford lost no time in proposing Anawak as an additional adviser. If anyone in North America or Canada could understand what was going on inside a whale's head, it was him. And surely that was where they'd find their explanation. Whales were supposed to be intelligent, so had the creatures all gone mad? Or was something else affecting their behaviour?
Yet even Anawak, of whom so much was expected, was unable to help. He'd begun by assembling all of that year's telemetric data from the Pacific coast. Twenty-four hours ago he and Alicia Delaware had started to analyse the material, helped by staff at the aquarium. They'd pored over positioning data and listened intently to hydrophone recordings but they still had nothing to show for it. None of the whales had been carrying tags when they set out from Hawaii and Baja California towards the Arctic – with the sole exception of two humpbacks, who'd lost their transmitters almost as soon as they'd started migrating. The video shot by the woman on the Blue Shark seemed to be their only piece of evidence. They'd studied it at the Station with the help of some skippers who were adept at recognising flukes. After replaying the footage and magnifying the images, they'd identified some of the attackers: two humpbacks, a grey and several orcas.
Delaware had been right: the video was a valuable clue.
Anawak's aversion to her had soon evaporated. Delaware had a big mouth and seldom stopped to think before she spoke, but beneath her brash manner was an intelligent, analytical mind. Besides, she had time to help. Her parents lived in the British Properties, an exclusive district for Vancouver's elite. They gave her anything she wanted, but were hardly ever there. Anawak suspected that their financial generosity was an attempt to make up for their lack of interest, but their daughter didn't seem to care – she could spend their fortune and do as she pleased. Things had worked out perfectly: Delaware saw working with Anawak as an opportunity to back up her studies with practical experience, and he needed an assistant now that Stringer was dead.
Susan Stringer…
Every time he thought of her he was overcome with guilt for having failed to save her. He had told himself that nothing he or anyone else could have done would have freed her from the orca's jaws, but the uncertainty remained. What good were all his papers and articles about intelligence in marine mammals if he couldn't understand a whale's thought processes? Was it possible to convince an orca to let go of its prey?
He reminded himself continually that orcas were animals – highly intelligent ones, but animals all the same. And prey was prey.
But orcas didn't prey on humans. Had the whales eaten the people drifting in the water or just killed them?
Anawak sighed. He wasn't making any progress. The burning in his eyes was getting worse. Half-heartedly he picked up another disk of digital images, then put it back. He couldn't concentrate. He'd spent the whole day at the aquarium, discussing findings or calling people, and now he felt drained. Wearily he switched off his computer. It was gone seven. He got up and went in search of John Ford. The director was in a meeting, so he called in on Delaware, who was studying satellite data.
'Fancy a juicy whale steak?' he asked glumly.
She looked up with a smile in her eyes. She'd swapped her blue glasses for contact lenses, but her irises were still suspiciously violet. Apart from the buck teeth, she was actually very attractive. 'Sure. Where do you want to go?'
'The snack bar on the corner's not bad.'
'Snack bar?' she said in amusement. 'I don't think so. Come on, I'll treat you.'
'There's no need.'
'Let's go to Cardero's.'
'Christ!'
'They do great food.'
'I know, but firstly, I can pay for myself, and secondly, Cardero's is… well, it's…'
'It's fabulous?
Cardero's was situated amid the yachts of Vancouver's Coal Harbour. It was a big place with large windows and high ceilings – one of the trendiest outfits in town. The restaurant offered stunning views and good west-coast cuisine, while the adjoining bar was filled with the young and chic, laughing and sipping drinks. In his frayed jeans and laded sweater Anawak could hardly have been less appropriately dressed, but he always felt uncomfortable and out of place in smart restaurants. He couldn't deny that Delaware belonged there, though.
So, Cardero's it was.
They took his old car and drove to the harbour. They were in luck. It was usually necessary to book at Cardero's, but one table was empty. It was a little removed from the bustle of the main restaurant, which was perfect for Anawak. They ordered the house specialty – salmon baked with soy, brown sugar and lemon on a cedar plank.
'OK,' said Anawak, once their order had been taken. 'What have we got?'
'Nothing,' said Delaware. 'I'm baffled.'
Anawak rubbed his chin. 'Well, maybe I've found something. The video footage put me on to it.'
'My video footage, you mean.'
'Yes,' he admitted, and added ironically, 'We're all very grateful.'
'Well, you should be, if it's given you a lead.'
'It's the whales we identified. Only transient orcas were involved in the attacks, not a single resident.'
'You're right.' She wrinkled her nose. 'We haven't heard anything bad about residents.'
'The Johnstone Strait was clear of attacks – even though it was full of kayaks at the time.'
'So the threat's being posed by the newcomers.'
'By transients, and maybe offshore orcas too. The grey and the two humpbacks on the video were all transients. All three whales spent the winter in Baja California – we've got it all on file. We emailed pictures of their flukes to the institute in Seattle, who confirmed that the whales have been seen there several times in recent years.'
'So what's the big deal? Everyone knows that greys and humpbacks migrate.'
'Not all of them.'
'I thought…'
'Something weird happened the second time we went out that day. I'd practically forgotten about it after everything else. We were desperate to get the people off the Lady Wexham, but the boat was sinking and a group of greys was trying to ram us. I couldn't see any of us getting out of there alive, let alone saving anyone. Then two more greys appeared alongside us, and lay there in the water until the others backed off.
'Were they residents?'
'Yes. A dozen or so greys stay on the west coast all year round – they're too old for the gruelling journey. When the herds arrive from the south, th
ey make a big show of welcoming the old guard back into the fold. One of the two whales was an elderly grey that lives here. He definitely didn't want to hurt us – far from it. In fact, I think we owe those whales our lives.'
'Unbelievable. To think they protected you!'
'Tut, tut, Licia.' Anawak raised an eyebrow. 'You of all people projecting human intentions on a whale.'
'After what I saw three days ago I'm ready to believe anything.'
'I wouldn't say they actually protected us, but it seemed as though they kept the other whales at bay. They weren't keen on our attackers. All in all, we could reasonably infer that only migrants are affected. No matter which species we're dealing with, the residents appear harmless. They seem to know that the others are deranged.'
Delaware scratched her nose. 'It would fit. A large number of whales went missing in the middle of the Pacific on their way here from California. The aggressive orcas live in the middle of the ocean too.'
'Precisely. So whatever has caused the change in their behaviour, we'll find it – in the deep blue sea, miles away from anywhere.'
'The question is, what?'
'We'll work it out,' said John Ford, who had materialised beside them. He pulled up a chair and sat down. 'The sooner the better – before the politicians and their perpetual phone calls drive me nuts.'
'I NOTICED SOMETHING TOO,' said Delaware, as they were eating their dessert. 'I can see how the orcas might have enjoyed themselves, but it can't have been fun for the others.'
'What makes you say that?' asked Anawak.
'Well,' she said, through a mouthful of chocolate mousse, 'imagine how you'd feel if you kept running into something and trying to knock it over. Or flinging yourself on top of something with lots of hard edges and corners. The chances are, you'd hurt yourself.'
The Swarm Page 21