Just then Jannick hurried out, his pasty face framed by thinning white-blond hair, exuding a kind of uncoordinated anxiety.
‘Is Rolls Royce here yet?’ he asked. ‘We can’t delay much longer – Schmidt from Der Stern has begun to mutter about trumped-up theatrics.’ Arguably the most important guest of all, the rep from the aviation department of British Rolls Royce Group – superconductivity potentially having a direct impact on future aviation – hadn’t arrived yet. They were interrupted by the ping of an elevator. Both Matthias and Jannick swung round as a tall, extremely thin man in a Savile Row suit, swinging a briefcase, stepped out of the elevator and hurried into the conference room. He was followed by a sinewy, deeply tanned compact man – who paused, smiled at the two scientists then, after pointing at his nametag, joined the others waiting behind the door.
Matthias swung back to Jannick. ‘Destin Viscon, International Alliance Industries? Never heard of him.’
‘French, I’m guessing. Ready, Herr Professor?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ He started towards the door but Jannick stopped him.
‘Wait! The scarf…’ the Dane said. Reluctantly, Matthias pulled the ratty multi-coloured scarf off and handed it over.
Klauser stared at the blank page he’d just inserted into his typewriter then at the window, the bottom of which was misting up with condensation – it had started snowing. Finally, with a sigh, he looked across at last year’s calendar that still hung on the back of the door – 1981. January was an impossibly buxom brunette posing on a sunlit beach in a purple bikini. There was something wholesomely old-fashioned about her allure that reminded him of his youth. Behind her an ocean wave about to crash hung suspended for all eternity. That’s how summers used to feel – as if they were never going to end, he thought.
Also on the desk was a page of hand-scribbled notes: four names linked in a flow chart.
The watch manufacturer – Christoph von Holindt
The murdered gypsy –Yojo?
The priest – Father Naverres
The banker – Thomas Mueller
The meeting in the graveyard?
It read like some perverse shopping list, Klauser decided, as he got up and pulled out an old plastic yo-yo he’d inherited from his son after the divorce. Slipping the knot over his index finger, he started to play with it as he strolled round the room. It was his method of brainstorming. After five laps he realised he’d reached a mental impasse with the case. Reluctantly he wound the yo-yo back up. There was one thing, and one thing only, that would empty his mind enough for the next leap forward. He reached over and turned Miss January’s photo to the wall, then picked up the phone and dialled his favourite brothel.
Matthias stepped onto the podium, his nervousness evaporating as he slipped into the role of performer. Despite a certain shame, as if such pleasures were by necessity furtive, he loved an audience. After a deep breath he leaned forward, searching for a face he knew, found one, focused on her then smiled. The hook. The journalist – a woman from Le Monde he’d once given an interview to, smiled back. With a flourish Matthias lifted the microphone off its stand.
‘Superconductivity – the Holy Grail of energy!’ He paused dramatically, his voice booming off the curved wall. ‘It’s what we all aspire to, the ability to create limitless energy at room temperature. To play God. And Lord knows we could do with someone playing God in these godless times,’ he joked, parodying his own aggrandising, a tactic that helped win over the sceptics.
‘As you are all aware, this has been what I have dedicated fifteen years of my life to, working towards designing a superconductor that can operate on a commercial scale at room temperature. A superconductor that would transform the energy industry practically overnight, introducing a whole new realm of plasma physics – from the creation of hypersonic speeds in super-fast bullet trains, to jets that will be able to span the globe in a matter of hours, to small generators that could potentially supply whole continents, to affordable space travel. I would argue that such a breakthrough is imperative for the future of mankind if we are going to be able to sustain the growth of both industry and the world population.’
The audacity of his statement ignited a murmur that ran through the room, but this was exactly the effect he intended, a theatrical declaration that would make them sit up in their seats. Matthias paused, again running his gaze across the faces watching him – making it personal, as he milked the audience’s reaction.
Three rows from the front Destin Viscon was watching closely – the physicist’s hubris, his obvious enjoyment of holding court, the blind confidence. The inside information he had was that von Holindt was indeed potentially only months, maybe weeks from achieving his goal, but how much was bluff to secure funding? Destin had already assessed the personnel attending – DARPA was there, as was Roche, as well as a rep from the leading UK weapons manufacturers. Von Holindt had serious interest, and Destin serious competition. The physicist’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
‘I wish I could tell you I’d cracked the code – but I believe that pleasure is only months away. What I can tell you is that I have achieved a Meissner effect and reached superconductivity at twenty-five kelvin using a ceramic-based alloy. And that is what I intend to demonstrate today.’
In front of him was a table with what appeared to be a child’s toy train track – a simple loop of conventional magnetic material joined together to make a track. Several toy trains, painted with the name of Matthias’s research company, sat beside a small flask of liquid helium. Matthias lifted one of the trains.
‘Inside this train is a magnetic coil wrapped round the conducting alloy. I will now cool it to twenty-five kelvin with the liquid helium… Carefully he opened the flask of helium and spooned it into the tiny train, then placed it onto the track of conventional magnetic material. As expected the magnetic field, triggered by the superconductor within the train, reacted to the magnetism of the train track and the train hovered a good twenty millimetres over the track. With a push of his finger the train sped on its way round and round the loop, frictionless and magically hovering over the track. No matter how many times he demonstrated superconductivity in this manner it was always wondrous to Matthias, as if he were manipulating the very rules of nature. Immediately a forest of hands shot into the air. Matthias pointed to the journalist from Scientific American, the most sceptical in the audience, knowing if he won him over, he would win the support of the rest. The journalist, a balding man in his late fifties, rose to his feet.
‘Herr Professor von Holindt, how do we know that the superconductive alloy is ceramic based?’
‘The composition of the alloy and its structure will be published the first of next month, along with an account of the research. You are welcome to a preview of that article, Mr Hawthorn.’
‘You are obviously very confident.’
‘Confident? I would say singularly driven and, although I do not intend to suffer the same fate as Icarus, I take some solace in the fact that his wings were evidently not powered by superconductivity.’ A smattering of laughter rippled through the audience. Just then the female journalist took the floor. She stood, the impact of her manicured beauty rippling through the onlookers. ‘Herr Professor von Holindt, may I say how wonderful it is to see you restored to your entrepreneurial spirit since the tragic death of your wife.’ Her professionally charming voice rang through the room.
Matthias’s heart sank at the mention of Marie, remembering the way the paparazzi had harangued him at the time. Ignoring his reaction, the journalist continued smoothly, ‘But what I’d really like to know is: now that your father, Herr Christoph von Holindt, the patriarch of the famous Holindt Watch Company, has had a severe stroke, won’t you be expected to give up your research and take over the family business?’
‘That is between my father and myself.’ Matthias gave a forced smile. ‘However, if there are any genuinely interesting technical questions, I can be found in the recept
ion room next door beside some excellent champagne and canapés.’
She rolled off him then reached for a cigarette. Klauser, fighting the soporific flush of post-coital bliss, watched her, comforted by her familiar bulk. Not a beautiful woman, but a well-built solid kind of woman, who, in another world, he might have ended up marrying. As it was, Celine had been his regular for over a decade and there were few secrets between them. She lit up, then got back onto the bed, the mattress groaning a little from her weight. A white circle of smoke floated across his vision as she exhaled, sailing its way up towards the ceiling.
‘Why go to all that trouble to hire a professional assassin to kill a gypsy? An itinerant no one – I mean, the guy wasn’t even Swiss. Unless he had some vital information, information that could cause a great deal of damage to someone?’ Klauser mused to himself.
‘Jesus, Helmut, of all my clients you’re the most like a woman: you always talk after sex but never before. I should charge you extra,’ Celine grumbled.
Ignoring her, he continued: ‘And why the Holindt store? He couldn’t have been thinking seriously of breaking in; he didn’t even have a crowbar.’
‘Holindt, the watch company?’
‘Yeah. I have to say it’s the first time I’ve been called to pick up a dead gypsy in the Altestrasse.’
‘I know von Holindt…’
Helmut sat up and stared at her, her dyed blonde hair mussed up around the fine bone structure, broken only by the drama of her over-wide mouth.
‘You know von Holindt?’
‘Sure. He’s one of our “party” group. They’ve been coming here for years. Stopped about eighteen months ago. Always the same three men, and baby, if you’re a shark in this ocean, these guys are killer whales – nasty role play, torture games really – without the blood.’
‘And you do this?’
‘The money is good. Very good. These three, they’re real players. I can’t tell you who they all are, they’re always masked when we girls enter the room. But I do know von Holindt is one, one of the girls recognised his body from an individual client session. Another one has red hair – red pubic hair,’ Celine said, interrupting the rather vivid images that were starting to crowd out Klauser’s thoughts. ‘But the other, he’s the real bully, you get the feeling the girls are playing out scenarios he’s lived – and they’re not pretty.’
‘Nice guy.’
‘Nice doesn’t pay, sweetie. This Johnnie wears a bull’s mask, really ornate, covering his whole face. It’s like that’s part of the turn-on, to be completely enclosed from the neck up. Then I realised it wasn’t just his way of hiding his identity – it was his identity. When he puts that mask on he becomes the bull.’ Celine wrapped her hand hopefully round his flaccid penis. He removed it.
‘How old?’
‘Mid-sixties, judging by the rest of him and average height, maybe five ten? And I can tell you he’s not circumcised, but that’s not going to help you, is it?’
Klauser winced. He hated to think of Celine with another man, but this was worse: the idea of her having to service such perversity – he wanted to protect her, ridiculous he knew, but he couldn’t help it. Noticing, she leaned over and kissed his nipple, then smiled up at him.
‘He’s the real puppet-master, this bull guy. The others are always kow-towing to him.’
Klauser thought about Christoph von Holindt, about his public profile, his well-publicised charity works.
‘Christoph von Holindt, the epitome of the good bürgher… A scandal like that could ruin him.’
‘Which is why it’s better that these guys express their dark side in a professional arena. Truly, us girls deserve medals. We’re more than just glorified social workers and pleasure workers – we’re exorcists.’
At which Klauser began to laugh – until he realised Celine wasn’t joking.
Several waiters circled the chatting journalists and researchers, carrying trays of champagne and canapés. Matthias stood by the huge window looking out over Zürich, a glass in one hand. He’d just finished a short interview for Der Stern when the sudden scent of perfume made him swing round.
‘So is the rumour true that you dance about the laboratory naked playing the flute when you’re really inspired?’ The same female paparazzi journalist pushed another full glass of wine into his hand while relieving him of his empty one.
‘An outrageous claim, but actually true – except for the naked part… ’ Again, Matthias found himself stammering slightly. He peered short-sightedly at her nametag. ‘Fraulein… ?’
‘Names are so defining,’ she murmured seductively. ‘I know nothing about science, but I love musicians, especially when they’re tall and extraordinary-looking.’ She smiled carnivorously at him then pulled a business card from her jacket pocket.
‘Here, for when you feel like playing more than just the flute.’ She pressed the card into his hand, but by the time he looked up again she was gone, and in her place was the man Jannick had pointed out earlier. At about six foot five he stood over Matthias, a threatening presence despite the grin that now ran over his fleshy lips.
‘Great pitch. You guys really got the goods?’ he asked in English, his accent American.
‘The research speaks for itself.’ Matthias stepped back; over six foot himself, he wasn’t used to this sensation of looking up.
‘I’ve read it; it looks kosher.’ The American swung a huge, bear-like hand towards Matthias. His grip was assured and a little dangerous.
‘Colonel Guy Peterson. I’m here to represent US interests, official US interests. Congratulations, Herr Professor, I’m not often impressed.’
Matthias withdrew his hand – the colonel made him feel slightly claustrophobic, as if his sheer mass were squeezing him out of the room. Matthias couldn’t help noticing that the people standing closest to them had stepped away, as if Peterson might be known to some of them. He wished they’d vetted the guest list a little more thoroughly.
‘DARPA and I have a history,’ he said, not bothering to disguise his tone.
‘Herr Professor, you are being deliberately naive. Both you and I know the immense potential superconductivity at standard room temperature could bring to the military field. Tanks and armed vehicles that don’t require refuelling, super-fast weapons, fighter jets, laser guns… Need I go on?’
‘You’re wasting your time. DARPA knows I’m opposed to the military application of superconductivity. Perhaps you should have done your own research a little more efficiently?’
Matthias turned and was about to walk away when Peterson grabbed him by the elbow.
‘From what I hear Daddy’s closed the bank.’ His voice was soft enough for just Matthias to hear. ‘And you and I both know that the use of superconductivity in the military field is inevitable. When it happens, I strongly suggest it would be in your own interests, and in the interests of Switzerland itself, that the application should fall into the hands of the good guys.’
‘The good guys?’ Matthias said, shaking his arm free. ‘Surely that’s a matter of opinion.’
‘It’s a matter of fact, Herr Professor.’
Matthias hesitated, just for a second, but it was the opening Peterson was looking for; he leaned forward and now Matthias could smell the expensive aftershave. ‘We are willing to fund the next stage of your research in its entirety, the only proviso being that DARPA would have sole ownership of any patents or superconductors devised within the laboratory for at least ten years.’
It was outrageous, a prison sentence for all innovation Matthias might devise, but it was also a clear indication of how much his work was valued. Suddenly Matthias didn’t feel so bad; his personal stock, as well as that of his laboratory, had just shot up. There was a change in the atmosphere around him, as if the people near him sensed serious business was being discussed. Over Peterson’s broad shoulder Matthias caught the gaze of Destin Viscon, the businessman he’d met at the door. Within audible distance, he appeared intensel
y interested in Matthias’s conversation. Matthias glanced back at the American.
‘Sorry, not for sale.’
For a moment Peterson looked at him blankly, then his expression transformed into one of quiet fury.
‘You’re naive and you will fail,’ he hissed, as if damning him, then raised his voice so that it could be heard by others. ‘I’ll leave my number with your assistant in case you change your mind.’ Without looking back, he pushed his way through the throng and out of the room.
Matthias reached for another glass of champagne. All he really wanted to do at that moment was to get back into the laboratory and dive back into the relatively uncomplicated world of atomic structures and chemical equations. Philosophising was dangerous; he couldn’t afford to project, far better to focus on the immediate and immense task just in front of him. He was a scientist, and a man of practical application dedicated to solving an enigma. The aftermath of discovery was not his concern – then superconductivity would belong to the world. He wondered what Marie would have advised. Unlike him she had been a believer in the higher nature of man. A Catholic, his wife had struggled with his atheism and was convinced that Matthias’s passion for molecular physics was a spiritual calling. Initially he’d argued with her, and then over the years indulged her to the extent that he’d found himself wondering whether she was right: perhaps it was a spiritual calling. But the sheer pointlessness of her death had shattered all of that.
The Stolen Page 6