The God Particle

by Daniel Danser

  The hotel doorman, dressed in a dark green tailcoat and top hat, was standing by the side of the car before it had time to come to a full stop.

  ‘Good evening, Herr Volker. It’s very nice to see you again,’ he said, opening the door on Frederick’s side. Tom waited patiently while he did the same for him.

  ‘And this is a colleague of mine, Professor Halligan. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him, as long as the food is up to standard,’ Frederick chided the doorman, who was obviously used to the banter.

  ‘I spoke with the head chef personally this morning, who told me that he was awaiting a delivery of the finest lobsters in the whole of Switzerland,’ retorted the doorman.

  ‘On your head be it! Lobster it is!’ Frederick pressed some money into the doorman’s hand as he held the door to the hotel open.

  How did he do that with such fluidity? Tom mused to himself.

  They made their way through the ornate reception, with its stuccoed ceilings and gilt detailing, and to the Windows restaurant, which was located at the front of the hotel overlooking Lake Geneva.

  The Maître d' was waiting to greet them.

  ‘Bonsoir, Herr Volker, it’s a pleasure to see you again,’ he beamed, as they approached him.

  ‘Salut, Pierre,’ Frederick used the informal greeting between friends.

  ‘Your usual table, Sir?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but led them to a table by the window.

  ‘Thank you, Pierre. I’d like to introduce you to Professor Halligan, who’s just joined us from America,’ Frederick said, as they were being seated.

  Pierre nodded cordially at Tom and handed him the menu.

  ‘A little bird told me that you have some particularly fine lobster on the menu this evening,’ Frederick said slyly.

  ‘You are as well-informed, as usual, Herr Volker. If you’ll just excuse me for a moment...’

  Pierre backed away from their table, turned and marched through a door at the far end of the restaurant, returning seconds later with a large platter covered with a silver cloche. He removed the lid and presented them with two of the biggest lobsters Tom had ever seen. Their claws were tied with elastic bands but they were very much alive, obviously having just been lifted out of their holding tank in the kitchen.

  ‘Maine lobster,’ Pierre told them proudly. ‘Flown in from America today.’

  Frederick chuckled. ‘I must say, Tom, they look a lot fresher than you did when I saw you earlier.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’ll give you that one,’ Tom replied, sheepishly.

  Pierre was still holding the tray out to them, waiting for a decision.

  ‘Not for me, thank you Pierre,’ said Tom, making his mind up. ‘It wouldn’t be very patriotic of me to eat one of my fellow Americans.’ He had never been very good with ‘live’ food at restaurants; he just didn’t have the killer instinct, he supposed.

  ‘I have no such qualms about eating one of your compatriots,’ Frederick snorted. ‘Tell Chef Michelle I’d like it grilled with beurre noire and lemon juice.’

  ‘And for you, Sir?’ Pierre cocked his head towards Tom.

  He quickly scanned the menu and plumped for the filet mignon, served on a bed of truffle-oil mash and sautéed morel mushrooms. ‘Medium-rare,’ Tom added, before Pierre had time to ask.

  ‘And could you tell the Sommelier that we’d like a bottle of ice-cold Sancerre and a bottle of his finest Châteauneuf-du-Pape,’ Frederick concluded, without consulting the wine menu or Tom.

  With that, Pierre discreetly left them to their deliberations, returning his prize catch to the kitchen to be despatched.

  Tom took in his surroundings. The restaurant certainly lived up to its name - the vista was spectacular. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the front gave diners the best possible view of the imposing Jet d’Eau fountain, rising 450 feet into the air. Illuminated by spotlights on the shoreline, it resembled a magnificent Arabian stallion’s white tail, rising majestically from the lake.

  The restaurant’s décor was no less impressive. Elegant crystal chandeliers reflected in mirrored walls above sumptuously studded charcoal leather seats, like stars above a pitch-black firmament, cleverly contrived to give diners the impression that they were eating outside.

  ‘So, what do you think of our little operation so far?’ Frederick asked, snapping Tom’s focus back to the dignified gentleman seated opposite him, whom he couldn’t help but like.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly bigger than the facility at Brookhaven and more… interesting,’ said Tom, non-committedly.

  ‘Interestingly good or interestingly bad?’

  ‘Both, I think. You’ve certainly managed to gather together an influential group of eminent physicists, who are clearly at the peak of their individual specialities. But they don’t seem to be working as a team.’

  ‘In-ter-est-ing,’ Frederick dragged the word out into its syllables.

  Tom wondered if he’d said too much. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped the mark…’

  ‘Not at all, in fact I think you’ve hit the nail right on the head,’ Frederick cut in.

  Tom smiled at Frederick’s heavily accented colloquialisms.

  ‘I’ve suspected as much since the death of Erik Morantz,’ continued Frederick. ‘Deiter’s a very good scientist, but a very bad man-manager.’

  ‘You could say that again!’ Tom interjected, but then regretted his forwardness.

  ‘It takes a very special person to take all the brain-power in one room and mould it into a unified intelligence. Morantz had the ability to do it, and that’s what I see in you, Tom.’

  ‘How did Professor Morantz die?’ Tom asked, side-stepping the compliment. ‘You can’t always believe what you read in the papers.’

  Frederick gave a heavy sigh. ‘Of course, you have a right to know…’ He paused as the wine waiter filled the glasses with a choice of the red or white wine Frederick had ordered. ‘Erik was a brilliant scientist. It’s really because of all his hard work that we have achieved as much as we have. But, towards the end, things were getting on top of him. As I told you when I first met you, there had been a few operational setbacks, which he took personally. We had a problem with one of the heat shields a few months back, which was luckily detected in time, otherwise we would have had a major catastrophe on our hands. There had been other minor breakdowns in the past, but not on the scale of the heat shield failure. They’re all in the report I’ve asked Deiter to provide you with. You should have it on your desk in the morning.’ He took a large gulp of the white wine he had chosen.

  ‘Surely a few setbacks, even one as serious as the heat shield failure, wouldn’t drive a man to take his own life?’ Tom queried.

  ‘I believe the balance of his mind was disturbed,’ Frederick announced gravely. ‘There is a fine line between genius and madness and I think, unfortunately, Erik crossed that line. The afternoon before he died, he came to see me. He was very agitated. He was like a man possessed; ranting on about how we need to destroy the collider before it destroys the world, and that Deiter knew all about it and was letting it happen. He said that he had proof and was going to go to the media if we didn’t stop the experiments immediately. The poor man - obviously some kind of breakdown.’

  ‘So, what did you do about it?’

  ‘I tried to placate him, of course. I told him that we’d shut down the collider immediately and look at the evidence to see if there was any truth in it. He seemed to calm down and we agreed to go through the data the next morning. That was the last time I saw him alive. He must have gone back to his apartment - your apartment - more disturbed than I realised, because they found him the next morning. He’d taken an overdose of sleeping pills washed down with a bottle of whisky.’

  ‘And the evidence he said he had?’

  ‘Nothing. The police searched everywhere – his apartment, office, computer – but they found nothing. Again, further proof of a deranged mind, I’m afraid. A tragic loss to us all.’
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br />   Frederick looked forlorn; he had obviously cared deeply about the man. A heavy silence fell between the two men, which was fortunately broken by the arrival of Pierre and their food.

  He wished them ‘bon appétit’ whilst placing their respective dishes in front of them.

  ‘I just hope that tastes as good as it looks,’ Frederick said, smiling at Pierre.

  Tom tried to lighten the mood by changing the topic of conversation. ‘Why is there a statue of an Indian god at the entrance of the control centre?’

  Frederick chortled. ‘You mean Shiva the Destroyer?’

  Tom frowned, which made Frederick laugh even more.

  ‘I bet, at this stage, you’re wondering what you’ve let yourself in for,’ Fredrick mused.

  Damn right, Tom thought, but didn’t say anything.

  Frederick continued. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not all bad. He’s also known as Shiva the Transformer. In Hinduism, he is regarded as the most powerful deity - his role is to destroy the illusions and imperfections of this world, paving the way for beneficial change. According to Hindu belief, this destruction is not arbitrary, but constructive. Shiva is, therefore, seen as the source of both good and evil and is regarded as the one who combines many contradictory elements.’

  ‘But why is he here?’

  ‘Shiva takes many forms,’ Frederick explained. ‘The one we have at CERN is Shiva Nataraja, or Lord of Dance. It is believed that he performs a cosmic dance to destroy a weary universe and make preparations for the god Brahma to start the process of creation. The symbolism of the dance is a metaphor for the cosmic dance of subatomic particles that we observe and analyse every time we operate the collider.’

  ‘Okay, two out of three. I’ve got the “what” and the “why”, but who put it there?’

  ‘It was given to us by the Indian government in 2004, to celebrate the research centre’s long association with their country. Don’t forget that, if it wasn’t for a certain Indian physicist, CERN would probably not exist and we wouldn’t be here, enjoying this delicious meal. So, I’d like to propose a toast…’ Frederick raised his glass. ‘To Satyendra Bose.’

  Tom clinked his glass against Frederick’s. ‘Satyendra Bose,’ he repeated.

  Frederick noticed that his plate was almost untouched, whilst Tom had nearly finished his meal. ‘I’ve been doing all the talking and neglecting Chef Michelle’s culinary masterpiece. I will be in trouble.’

  They finished their meals in relative silence, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. They made small talk, but neither man felt obliged to fill the pauses between conversations. To Tom, it felt like he’d known Frederick for years; the stately man had a certain way of making him feel relaxed in his presence.

  ‘And how do you like your accommodation?’ Frederick asked, as he finished his last mouthful of lobster.

  ‘I’ve lived in worse.’ Tom thought about his student flat back at MIT.

  ‘It’s as temporary as you make it,’ Frederick replied. ‘Some people prefer to stay on campus because they are closer to their work. Erik was one of them. Others move out to the suburbs of Geneva, so they can have a distinct work-life balance. I am a strong advocate of the latter, and I’d recommend you do the same. I have a little place overlooking the lake. Why don’t you come round for dinner? My wife makes a wonderful Schweinshaxe mit Sauerkraut. Mrs Volker is always scolding me for not bringing my work colleagues home.’

  Mrs Volker. Up until now, Tom had regarded Frederick as either a widower or confirmed bachelor.

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ Tom said, not having a clue what the dish was. ‘I’d love to.’

  Pierre was hovering in the background and saw his opportunity to clear the table.

  ‘Give Chef Michelle my compliments,’ said Frederick. ‘That certainly was the best lobster I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘And mine. The steak was superb,’ Tom echoed the sentiment.

  ‘Could I interest you in the dessert menu?’ Pierre asked, looking from one diner to the other.

  Tom was the first to answer. ‘Not for me, thank you. I couldn’t eat another morsel.’

  ‘Could we just have the bill when you’re ready, Pierre?’ said Frederick. ‘I would think my colleague is exhausted, it’s been a long day for him.’ He turned his attention back to Tom. ‘I understand, from Deiter, that there will be a full operational trial tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, it should give me an insight into just what I’ve let myself in for.’

  ***

  Louis was waiting for them, by the car, at the entrance to the hotel. He quickly extinguished his cigarette when he saw them coming.

  ‘They’ll be the death of you,’ Frederick told him, reproachfully.

  The return journey to CERN was even quicker, due to the lack of traffic. Louis pulled up outside the accommodation block; it was just after midnight. Frederick wished Tom goodnight and Tom thanked Frederick for a most enjoyable evening. Then he watched as the car left the compound.

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘I think we’ve found our man.’ Frederick sat at the head of the large, polished mahogany table, addressing the five men and one woman that occupied the other seats to his right and left.

  He had dropped Tom off at his quarters. However, instead of going directly home, he had instructed his driver to take him to an underground car park on the far side of the compound, where there were very few buildings and even fewer people to see him enter the lift, wait for the doors to close, insert a key into the control panel and press the ‘alarm’ button. Instead of the lift ascending to one of the three marked floors, the arrow indicated that he was going down.

  After descending for almost a minute, the doors opened to reveal a brightly-lit, sterile, white corridor, at the end of which were two anonymous doors. The one on the right led into a windowless room where the meetings were convened; the one on the left, which could only be opened from this side, led into the underground maze of corridors and service tunnels that made up the bulk of the CERN complex. Volker had personally overseen the addition of this section to the architect’s plans and referred to it as the Bunker. Apart from the people waiting for him in the room, the builders and the architect himself, nobody else was aware of its existence.

  The others were already seated and chatting amongst themselves by the time he entered the room.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ said the woman.

  ‘He’s intellectually capable of understanding our purpose and compassionate enough to support our motives,’ replied Volker.

  ‘But that’s what you said about Professor Morantz,’ the gentleman to his immediate left piped in.

  Frederick sighed. ‘I believe that, given time, I could have persuaded Erik round to our way of thinking. It was just unfortunate that we didn’t get that opportunity.’

  ‘And if your new recruit doesn’t support our ideals, what do we do then?’ the woman queried.

  Frederick looked around the room at the blank computer screens on the walls before resting his gaze back on the woman. ‘We’ll have no option but to replace him,’ he said with some finality.

  ‘How sure are you that the experiment tomorrow will not be successful?’ asked a man on his right, changing the subject.

  Frederick looked to the man on his left for the answer. ‘I have placed a small device on one of the coolant tanks, which is designed to cause a small leak when the Collider reaches maximum power. I have every confidence that the maintenance crew will discover the seepage and the operation will be closed down again, for a number of months, whilst they check that everything is in working order.’

  The man who had asked the question nodded his approval.

  ‘Now, if there are no more questions, I’d like to reconvene this meeting in two days’ time.’ Frederick looked at each one of the people sitting around the table in turn. He had known them for more years than he cared to recall and, as he looked at the age lines etched in their faces, it only served to remind him of his own mortality. Getting no re
sponse, he bid them all a goodnight and left the room.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tom was exhausted. He suspected it was a combination of disrupted sleep, jetlag, excellent food and nearly a full bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. All he wanted to do was sleep until his body told him it was time to get up, but he had scheduled a meeting with Serena Mayer for 8 am the next morning to go through the previous day’s data. Perhaps she’d understand if he didn’t make it, but then again he didn’t want to give the wrong impression.

  He made his way to his apartment, past all the other nondescript doors, following the numbers printed on the walls to ensure he didn’t get lost. The corridors were soulless and identical – one false turn and he would find himself walking around in circles in this concrete maze.

  He opened the door with his key and surveyed his living room; it didn’t look any more homely than he remembered. And then a shiver went down his spine as he recalled something that Frederick had said over dinner, which didn’t really register at the time. ‘He must have gone back to his apartment - your apartment - more disturbed than I realised because they found him the next morning. He’d taken an overdose of sleeping pills washed down with a bottle of whisky.’

  He was literally stepping into a dead man’s shoes and probably sleeping in a dead man’s bed, come to think of it. He closed the door behind him, wondering where they had found Erik’s body. If he were to take his own life, where would he do it? The bedroom would be the most comfortable place, or maybe the sofa. But then again, the kitchen would be more practical.

  The loud knock on the door nearly gave him a coronary, shocking him out of his reverie.

  ‘Professor, sahib,’ came the voice. ‘It’s Ajay. I picked you up from the airport this morning.’

  Tom opened the door to see Ajay’s smiling face. He was carrying what looked like a thick, black, leather-bound photo album under his arm.