The God Particle
Page 25
Everything had seemed to be going so well. He had seen the Chief Security Officer leaving his hut, on the way back to the control room with his two henchmen, so he had not terminated him there and then, as was the original plan. He sent one of his men into the security office to monitor the progress of his passenger train, while he went to the main building to initialise the Collider start-up procedure. He was halfway through the sequence when the guard ran in to tell him that the prisoners were escaping. He immediately dispatched both men to put a stop to it, while he went to the security office to orchestrate proceedings via a two-way radio.
Expecting to find it empty, he was surprised to see the Chief Security Officer in his seat, eyes glued to the monitor, watching the drama unfold. He was about to alert his team when he noticed Deiter in the doorway attaching a suppressor to his handgun. Without a word, Deiter closed the door behind him, sat down next to the petrified man, put the muzzle to his forehead and pulled the trigger. Then, after deciphering the ink blot image on the wall behind him, he calmly returned his gaze to the screen.
His frustration at seeing Ajay rescuing Tom and then the others had turned to a seething rage by the time his men had reached the scene. Why hadn’t he killed the little bastard when he’d had the chance? What was even more annoying was the fact that these highly-trained killers, who he’d paid a small fortune for, wouldn’t win a prize in a duck shoot at a fairground let alone hit a moving target. He watched helplessly as Tom and Serena escaped down a service tunnel. Then Ajay hit the floor and he almost jumped out of his seat with excitement. Unfortunately, his elation was short-lived as he noticed the two policemen returning fire.
‘Kill them! Kill them!’ he shouted into the radio-mic. But, to his disgust, instead of putting up a fight, his two operatives high-tailed it back down the tunnel.
He slumped back in his chair, deflated. But then he realised that, although Tom and Serena were still on the loose, he could track them using the face recognition software installed in the CCTV cameras. He leant forward and flicked through the screens, picking the two of them up as they headed back to the accommodation block. Surely they weren’t going to hide in there?
The cameras tracked them entering their rooms, only to exit seconds later. Obviously they’d gone to retrieve something. Morantz’s file, maybe? But Deiter couldn’t see any evidence that either of them were carrying it. He watched as they surreptitiously made their way through the complex, checking each corridor before making their moves. The CCTV screens in the security office changed as they left one surveillance zone and into the range of another camera.
‘Where are you going?’ Deiter said out loud to himself. He checked the plan of the facility on the wall against their movements. They seemed to be heading for the visitor centre. But why? It didn’t make any sense. He checked the map again. No, not the visitor centre – the private airstrip behind it.
***
The detour to their rooms to collect their passports was a necessary risk. Although private air travel affords its passengers a greater degree of flexibility and less red tape, documents would still need to be checked and verified by the receiving airport on arrival. New York’s Long Island MacArthur Airport was no different.
Although still some two hundred miles and three hours by car from MIT, Tom felt like he was going home and, with it, came a sense of security. They had chosen the regional airport over JFK, LaGuardia or Newark for two specific reasons. Firstly, Tom was unsure whether the manhunt Deiter had alluded to extended to international boundaries. If it did, they would have a better chance of avoiding detection through a smaller provincial airport where officials tended to be more parochial.
Secondly, it was the nearest airport to their destination and time was of the essence. The Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider (RHIC) was located at Brookhaven National Laboratory in Upton, less than twenty-five miles away from the airport.
The RHIC was the only other particle collider in existence and, although smaller than its Swiss counterpart, the electromagnetic fields generated during its operation still made it the world’s second largest man-made magnet.
During their incarceration, Tom, Frederick and Serena had theorised that, if the butterfly effect of the LHC had instigated the polar reversal in the first place, then, hypothetically speaking, if a similar force were generated in an opposing geographical area, then the resultant reaction could slow down the polar progression enough to give the Earth time to adjust to its new environment, lessening the destructive phenomena they had witnessed over the last few days. Stopping the polar reversal itself was impossible; it would be like a swimmer trying to halt a cruise liner in mid-voyage. However, by using the RHIC as a tugboat to pull the Earth’s magnetic core the other way, then, in theory…
That’s all it was, though. A theory, Tom thought to himself. He went over their masterplan again as he reclined in the black leather seat in the French-built Dassault Falcon. But what options did they have left? He had to rely on his scientific doctrine in the hope that it bore fruit.
He looked across the aisle to the seat opposite him, where Serena was curled up in a tight ball, like a cat asleep in front of an open fire. They had cleaned and dressed each other’s wounds using the rudimentary first aid kit on board and now sported matching crepe bandages, which could pass as sweatbands at a quick glance. Tom noticed Serena’s shoulders shuddering; she was either sobbing or having a bad dream. Either was understandable given what they had just been through. He tried to reassure her.
‘It’s alright, we’re safe now,’ he said, but there was no answer.
He picked up the in-flight satellite phone and placed a call. Towards the end of the conversation, he realised he was slurring his words through exhaustion. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since leaving American soil and, with the adrenalin-fuelled activities over the past couple of days, he was totally spent. The last thoughts he had before drifting off were of Frederick and Ajay and he did something he seemed to be making a habit of recently – said a silent prayer for them.
***
‘Welcome to the United States of America,’ came the pilot’s voice over the intercom, stirring the two passengers from their deep slumber. ‘Please put your seatbelts on and return your chairs to an upright position as we will be landing shortly. Thank you.’
Tom awoke, disoriented. He cleared the sleep from his eyes and took in the plush features of the private jet: polished walnut trim, finest Italian calf leather seats and thick-pile carpet.
When they had discussed their plan back in the Bunker, Tom expressed his concern that its success was dependent on them getting out of the country and that they would probably be arrested as soon as they stepped foot in either Geneva or Zurich airport. Frederick pointed out that, as Director General of CERN, he had at his disposal the two Dassault Falcons, one of the few perks of the job. They could file a flight plan under an alias and explain the mix-up as a clerical error once they were on American soil. Their US passports should help expedite the repatriation.
‘Morning,’ said Serena, stretching her arms over her head to wake herself up.
‘Is it?’ Tom replied groggily.
‘Well, not strictly speaking,’ she replied, yawning. ‘My watch says it’s eleven o’clock in the evening, but then you Americans are a bit backward. Six hours, to be precise. So that would be… five o’clock Eastern Daylight Time.’
‘Don’t you class yourself as a US citizen?’
‘Only when it suits.’
‘You do hold an American passport, though, don’t you?’ A note of anxiety edged into Tom’s voice.
‘It’s a little bit late to be asking those sorts of questions, Mr Halligan,’ Serena replied. ‘We’re about to touch down in the good ol’ US of A.’ To placate him, she reached into her breast pocket and produced the navy blue booklet emblazoned with the bald eagle coat of arms.
‘You had me worried for a minute, there.’
She smiled impishly. ‘You’re so easy to wind
up.’
Tom was looking out of the window as the surprisingly large terminal building of MacArthur Airport came into view. It had recently undergone an expansion programme thanks to the patronage of Southwest Airlines.
‘Will there still be somebody at the facility by the time we get there?’ It was Serena’s turn to be anxious.
‘I phoned ahead and spoke to Charles,’ replied Tom. ‘He’s keeping a full team on stand-by, so we can fire up the collider as soon as we get there.’
‘Charles?’
‘Charles Brannigan. He’s the Research Director at the Brookhaven National Laboratory. I did some work there for my dissertation when I was a mere student at MIT. Nice chap, you’ll get on well with him. He’s sending a car to pick us up.’
The wheels of the Falcon kissed the runway, before landing with a resounding thud. The tyres screeched on the tarmac and the noise inside the cabin increased as the airbrakes were applied. They taxied off to the right of the main glass and steel structure, where the charter flights gates were, towards an apron, pock-marked by other private jets. A Marshaller guided them into a slot in front of a low-rise building before indicating to the pilot to cut the engines.
Once stationary, the door to the cockpit opened and out stepped the co-pilot, dressed in his crisp white short-sleeved shirt and neatly-pressed black trousers. He looked as fresh and alert as he had when they’d boarded some eight hours earlier.
‘I trust you had a pleasant flight, Herr Direktor?’
Tom was a little taken aback by the moniker. ‘Er… yes, thank you. I must admit, I was so beat I slept most of the way,’ he said rather awkwardly, feeling the need to justify why he hadn’t stayed awake to appreciate their flying skills.
‘Do you want us to wait here for you, or should we return to Geneva?’ asked the co-pilot.
Tom, unsure how long they would have to spend at Brookhaven, told him to return to CERN and he would call when they needed picking up. He was getting to like the extravagance of personal air travel. How could he ever go back to the cattle market of scheduled flights?
The co-pilot pulled a lever and the cabin door opened with a hiss, the steps automatically unfolding onto the apron. He directed them to the nondescript single-storey edifice, which doubled as the arrival and departure hall for executive passengers, and bid them a safe onward journey.
Tom’s nerves were frayed as he stepped through the sliding doors into the brightly-lit building, holding onto Serena’s hand for comfort and reassurance. How on Earth had he gotten into such a position? Prior to taking up the role at CERN, the most trouble he’d been in with the authorities was a speeding ticket and a verbal warning for marijuana possession when he was a teenager. Now, suddenly, he was a fugitive from the Swiss police, an escapee from a homicidal maniac and possibly about to be arrested for entering his own country illegally.
They made their way over to the immigration booths and joined the smallest queue. Tom peered around the only person in front of him to look at the official stamping the passports. He was a prematurely grey-haired man in his early fifties, with a lean face, steely-blue eyes and hooked nose. Tom was trying to work out whether he’d chosen the right person by comparing him to the other immigration officers, when the man in front of him moved forward. Tom resigned himself to his fate; changing lanes now would immediately draw attention to himself and arouse suspicion.
He squeezed Serena’s hand tighter. She seemed to be keeping her composure better than he was; her expression hadn’t changed since leaving the plane, and she appeared relaxed and confident. He made a mental note to himself never to take her on at poker.
‘Next.’ The official beckoned for Tom to come forward.
Tom handed his passport through the letterbox window, his hand trembling ever so slightly. The officer didn’t seem to notice. He turned to the photograph page, checking it against Tom’s physical features. Satisfied with the match, he scanned the barcode, which brought up Tom’s biometrics and travel data. He tapped away on the computer keyboard, then read the results on the screen.
‘Which flight did you come in on, Sir?’
‘Private jet from CERN, Switzerland.’
Tom’s response elicited another flurry of typing, after which the Customs officer checked his screen again.
‘Sir, I have the manifest from that flight and your name doesn’t appear to be on it. Were you travelling with a Professor Morantz and a Miss Serena Mayer?’
‘Yes… erm… I mean, no… I mean yes,’ replied Tom, perplexed. ‘I was flying with Miss Mayer, but not Professor Morantz. He died and I took his place… I don’t mean on the aeroplane. Although I did take his place on the plane, he just didn’t die on it. He died at work, but I wasn’t there when it happened… I just took over from him. So the person who booked the flight must have booked it before he died, but then I came along and she probably forgot to change the name... Does that make sense?’
The official just stared at Tom. A trickle of sweat ran down the centre of his back. He was convinced that, any second now, the man behind the bullet-proof screen would call out for reinforcements and Tom would be surrounded by armed security guards, who would drag him off to some windowless interrogation room.
However, without another word, the officer raised his hand and stamped the passport before handing it back through keyhole window to Tom. He reached to take it, but the official held onto it.
‘Sir, next time, get your paperwork in order before you fly,’ he said curtly. ‘Otherwise, you may be refused entry.’
Tom pulled a little harder, managing to wrest the passport from the other man’s grip. ‘Sorry, of course I will. And thank you.’
He had to pace himself leaving the booth. He didn’t want to seem too eager, but he did need to get away as quickly as possible in case the immigration officer changed his mind. What he actually wanted to do was run as fast as his legs would carry him. Having exercised immense self-control, he waited around the corner for Serena to join him.
A few minutes later she sauntered up to him. ‘Well, that was easy enough.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ he replied. ‘I must have lost two stone and aged ten years in the last fifteen minutes. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Still on edge, he grabbed Serena by the arm and hurried her past the baggage collection hall, through the ‘Nothing to declare’ channel and out onto the arrivals concourse, where he spotted a familiar face. Being met at the airport reminded him of the first time he’d seen Ajay. How long ago was that? Less than a week, but it seemed like a lifetime to Tom. He made his way over to a rather rotund man who was still scanning the crowd of arriving passengers.
‘Looking for somebody in particular?’ he asked the man.
The man’s annoyance at having his concentration broken by a total stranger was evident on his face. He turned to the interloper, intending to give him a piece of his mind. In an instant, the frown vanished and his features were transformed by a huge grin as he recognised his young friend.
‘Tom, ya wee bastard! You’ll give an old man a heart attack, sneaking up on him like that,’ he admonished in a thick Scottish accent, before throwing his arms around Tom in a massive bear hug.
The two men embraced, rocking backwards and forwards, oblivious to anybody else around them. Eventually, the older man pushed Tom to arm’s length to inspect him. ‘Ya have ne changed a bit. How long has it been? Seven, eight years?’
‘More like ten and you always was a liar.’
‘Well, maybe you’re a wee bit skinnier, then, if I’m going to be honest.’
‘That’s more than I can say about you,’ Tom replied patting the older man’s paunch.
Serena, feeling a little awkward about being side-lined for so long, cleared her throat.
Tom broke away from the other man and straightened his clothes. ‘Sorry. Jed, this is Serena Mayer. Serena, this is my good friend Professor Jed Campbell. Although, I have to say, he’s not your stereotypical academic.’
‘Please, call me Serena.’
Without letting go of her hand, he turned to Tom. ‘Is she ya girlfriend?’
‘Jed! You always were as subtle as a brick,’ Tom chided.
‘And he always had a good eye for the ladies,’ Jed countered, turning his attention back to Serena.
Serena’s crepe bandage had slipped slightly, revealing an angry red welt. Jed turned her hand over to inspect her wrist. ‘Kinky. You two into that S & M, are ya?’
‘Sorry?’ Tom replied, baffled by the comment.
‘Ya know, bondage and all that.’
Tom realised what he was alluding to. ‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘Quite the opposite. It’s a long story.’
‘Aye, that’s what you say!’ Jed winked in Tom’s direction. ‘Whatever floats ya boat. Ya know me… I’m not one to judge… Did I tell ya about that time I was in Bangkok?’
Tom shook his head slowly. ‘Maybe later. We’d better be going before you say something that will really embarrass me.’
‘No suitcases?’ Jed observed.
‘No, we had to leave in rather a hurry,’ Tom replied without going into too much detail.
‘Well, if you need anything, anything at all, just let me know,’ Jed volunteered obligingly.
Tom considered asking for a change of clothes and some toiletries, but settled for his more immediate needs. ‘A sandwich and a coffee would be good. Can we grab one on the way?’