Footsteps come from the corridor and a woman who looks to be in her sixties knocks at the open door and peeps round.
“Come in, Florence.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Professor, but can you sign this mandate?” She hands him a piece of paper, which he scans before scribbling a signature at the bottom.
“Florence, this is Robert Strong. He’s a visiting physicist from the UK.”
“Oh, yes,” she says and holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you. In fact, I’ve got some papers I’ll need you to sign as well – just a few admin details – when you get a minute. I can bring them up to now if you like.”
“No, that’s okay,” I step out into the corridor. “Where’s your office? I come by later.”
“Just along the next corridor on the right.”
“Okay, thanks. See you later.”
“Hey, Robert!” Rene’s voice calls from the other end of the corridor. “Where’s our coffee?”
“Just a minute!”
I look back at my father, who’s leaning over the desk, drawing something on a piece of paper. He hands it to me. “Meet me there after the shift. We can’t talk here.”
I take the paper, glance at the map he’s sketched, and fold it away.
“You better go now.”
“YOU ALRIGHT?” ASKS Rene when I reach the coffee machine.
“Yeah, fine,” I say as casually as I can. “Just having a look around.”
THE TESTS RUN smoothly for the rest of the day, and I do my best to engage with them, but it’s difficult to concentrate. I can hardly believe I’ve finally met him.
Jack leans towards me and whispers, “You okay?”
“Alright, everyone,” Von Clerk’s announces, before I can say anything. “That’s it for the day. See you all on Monday for a 9am launch.” The chatter bubbles up around the room.
I force a smile at Jack, reach down for my rucksack and join the crowd heading for the exit.
“Eight o’clock, tonight. Remember?” says Rene as we reach the car park.
“Eight o’clock.”
He grins as he walks off, eyeing my bike. I take my time putting on my helmet, waiting for the crowd to clear, then check the map my dad gave me and set off.
Exit through the main gate on the French side, along the highway, then turn right up a long bumpy farm track between gentle rolling green fields. On the left, further up the hill, is a small white church, gravestones barely rising above the overgrown grass surrounding it. Beyond, a few houses are scattered around the hillside.
I pull up to the church beside a tired looking silver Volvo. He’s sitting on a bench at the edge of the small cemetery, overlooking the hillside. A buzzard lands on the eaves of the church, its beak hooked, the arc of its head smooth as a shepherd’s crook. It peers down at me as my boots crunch on the gravel.
My dad looks up, watching me approach. I sit down beside him and look out over the land. The grass is mossy and tufty and sprinkled with boulders. Sheep are grazing on the lower slopes, and in the distance, the buildings of CERN jar a little with the serenity.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says.
“You can’t believe it? Until last week, I thought you were dead.”
“I know. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.” He turns to face me. “You look just like her.”
“Does she know?”
“No.”
“Why did you do it? Why did you make us believe you were dead?”
“When I first graduated, I got a post with a private UK company working on ways of refining plutonium extraction for power. It turned out that the company was a front for the Soviets’ weapons research. When I found out, I resigned. We’d almost completed the research and they weren’t prepared to see me walk out. It turned nasty – they knew all about you and Marion. When the threats started, that’s when Victor Amos showed up.”
“What did he do?”
“He gave me a way out that kept you safe. But it was a high price. If the Soviets were to believe I was dead, I couldn’t let anyone know – not even your mother.”
“But what about afterwards? The cold war ended years ago.”
“ORB kept telling me there were still threats. Soviet defectors, spies and scientists were being quietly bumped off for decades without anyone noticing.”
“But you could have found some way to let us know you were still alive.”
“Too risky. At least, the way it was, she had a chance to move on. You both did. Anyway, circumstances kind of overtook me.”
“What do you mean?”
He glances in my direction, but doesn’t meet my eye. “I suffered from depression. I was committed to a psychiatric unit for eighteen months after I tried to take my own life.”
“What?”
“There didn’t seem any point. I’d lost you and your mother, I was living a fake identity, a fake life. I was no one. Besides, I was already dead.” He sighs and pushes a pebble about with his boot. “It couldn’t have been easy for you, Robert. I wish I’d been there for you. I’m sorry that I wasn’t.”
“So am I.”
We sit there together, lost in our memories.
“You really think the experiments are dangerous?” I ask eventually.
“There’s increasing evidence that we’ll create strangelets, although the Council would deny that they would cause any harm. But we haven’t tested the ring at these high energies. If we do produce strangelets and there are any structural breaches in the ring, any at all, then they could interact with normal matter. And that would be it. Game over.”
Sweat gathers in the nape of my neck. I wish more than anything that I’d never known anything about all this.
“What convinced you to do this?” he asks.
“There are a lot more papers out there with three sigma results than I realised. Then I found a paper by Thorpe which the Council refused to accept.”
“Ah.”
“I went to see him in hospital, to talk to him about it, but I could only speak to his wife. She told me he was convinced, before.”
“How is he?”
“It’s CJD. He’s not going to get better.”
He looks out over the tranquillity, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Poor bastard.”
He turns to me. “So how are we going to do this?”
“I need to get into the Operator’s Room in the Computer Control Centre.”
“Do you have security clearance?”
“Not yet. I met Helena Standford the other day –”
“Don’t expect any favours from her. Leave the clearance to me. I’ll see what I can do.”
“There’s only one person on duty there at a time, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“I’ll need a distraction. Something to get them out of there while I plant it.”
He nods, considering. “Okay. I’ll meet you tomorrow to discuss the details. Not here. A friend of mine has a small fishing boat up in Versoix, and the weather’s meant to be good all day. We could take the boat out on Lake Geneva, maybe catch some fish.”
“Sounds good. Where is Versoix?”
“It’s only about ten kilometres northeast of the city. It’s easy to find. Probably best if we go separately.”
“Okay.”
He gets to his feet. “I’ll be there about one o’clock, at the docks.”
“Alright, see you then.”
I watch as he gets into his car and drives away.
A gentle breeze picks up from the slopes and ruffles the blades of grass. I close my eyes and let it wash over me. A million leaves move with the wind and the birdsong hushes to stillness.
When I open my eyes, I’m not alone.
At the other side of the cemetery, beyond the moss-covered headstones, a man is sitting on a bench. A little dishevelled, in a long dark brown coat, his hair matted and black. His face is shadowed in stubble and lopsided, his mouth and eyelid drooping on the left. He gets up and walks with an
odd rolling gait, making his way out to the fields.
Shit. Did he hear us? I get to my feet and cross the cemetery, but there’s no sign of him. Just a buzzard, sitting on a fence post, which flaps into the air as I approach. Where the hell did he go?
I make my way to the bike, and glance back. The sweeping branches of the larch trees at the edge of the forest bob gently in the breeze.
Chapter Eleven
I THINK ABOUT going home and drinking a lot of whisky, but decide against it. I said I’d be there and I can’t afford to arouse any suspicion, and I could use the distraction. At ten past eight the bar is crowded, the din of many conversations fighting against the europop that blares from the speakers dotted around the room.
“Robert! Over here!” Rene is waving at me, his arm sticking up above the crowd of heads. I squeeze my way through, apologising in pidgin French as I go. I recognise a few faces from ATLAS in the corner.
“You made it!” Rene’s unbounded enthusiasm hasn’t sagged an inch. “I didn’t think you would come out, you know. It’s a good place, no?”
“Yeah, it’s a good place. Pretty busy.”
“What would you like to drink?”
Everything.
“Antoine is just going to the bar. HEY, ANTOINE!” he bellows, before turning back to me.
“A Grolsch, please.”
“And a Grolsch for the new team member! So, you enjoying it so far?”
“Yeah. It’s great.”
“Good.” He turns to the man to his right. “Hey, Frank, this is Robert Strong, from Romfield Labs.” Rene leans towards me and says in a low voice intended to be overheard, “Frank’s the one I beat in the squash championships.” He grins and Frank looks unimpressed. “I’ll just give Antoine some help with the drinks.” Rene bounces off into the crowd.
“Nice to meet you,” says Frank, smiling. I shake his hand. “I didn’t think they were allowing any more transfers in at this stage.”
“I just got lucky.”
“You must be. So, are you in ATLAS too?”
“Yeah. It’s quite something.”
“I know. I’ve been here for five years now and it’s still exciting. After the success of the last run, this next one should be something. We’ve had our share of challenges too, though. I was there when we had our first major disappointment, before the switch on.”
“The magnet quench?”
“Yeah,” he says. “A tonne of liquid helium leaked into the tunnel.”
“Didn’t they have to evacuate the place?”
“No, that was 2007. A magnet ruptured during a pressure test.”
“Oh, right.” At least they’ve tested their evacuation procedures.
Rene returns, balancing a tray laden with drinks and begins distributing them. Some of mine sloshes out of the glass. “Oops,” says Rene.
“That’s okay,” I take the glass from him and hold it to my lips to salvage as much as I can of what’s left. He grins and disappears into the crowd again.
I turn to Frank. “Does it worry you, all those safety breaches?”
He shrugs. “No, it’s all part of it. I suppose there’s an element of risk, but it’s small and, anyway, it will be worth it.”
I don’t think you mean that.
“So,” says a voice from behind me. “Where did you say you were based?”
I turn to see Helena, her head cocked to one side as she appraises me.
“Romfield Labs in the UK.”
“That’s what I thought. I worked there until last year.”
Bollocks.
“How come I never saw you?”
“I only just transferred in – I was working in SightLabs before that.”
“Oh, I read what happened – I can’t believe they closed it.”
“Tell me about it.” There’s a bag of worms writhing in my stomach. “So, eh... are you all set for Monday?”
“Well, it doesn’t feel like it. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do all the things on my list. Then again, I’m a bit of a perfectionist. Have you met Tony Maddox yet?”
“Who?”
She stares at me. “The Chief Scientist for Romfield?”
“Oh... no. Not yet.”
“He’s my ex-husband.”
Well, that’s just great. “Really? Do you two... still keep in touch?” I’m feeling uncomfortably hot.
“Yeah, every so often. He’s still a prick, but he’s not my responsibility anymore.”
“Oh. Right. Listen, would you excuse me? I need to go and make a phone call if I want to hang on to my relationship.” Another lie. It’s funny how easily they trip off the tongue with a bit of practice.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m so glad I’m out of all that.”
I make my way through the throng as the music changes and the crowd begins to bounce in unison. Brownian motion in action. I weave between them, suffering a few bumps and elbowings, before breaking out into the cool night air.
Rain glistens in the white glow from the streetlight. A car swishes past on the wet road and a couple scurries away, huddled under a coat spread over their heads. I pull up my collar and set off to the apartment.
Betrayal swells in my gut. This was never going to be easy.
My footsteps echo on the damp pavement as steam jettisons from a vent in a wall, smelling of grease, and a siren whines in the distance. The street is dark, mostly warehouses locked up for the night. The street lights seem dimmer than they should be, and too far apart. I glance back. There’s someone behind me; jeans and a hooded top. Probably nothing, just keep walking. But the quickening pace of his footsteps and the discord in my gut tells me it’s not nothing. He’s gaining on me. I glance back again – he’s ten feet away now. Fuck, he’s holding a handgun.
There’s nowhere to run – he’d take the shot – so I open my hands, a gesture of surrender. He’s agitated, and he looks like a druggie: pale and thin, his bony hand shaking as he steps up and points the weapon at my head. Black, unblinking eyes. A trickle of sweat escapes from his temple and leaks down his cheek. He says something in French, but I’m rooted to the spot, quivering.
He speaks again, raising his voice, his finger closing round the trigger, and the gun begins to tremble. Slowly I lower my right hand, reaching into my pocket and pull out my wallet. He’s welcome to my credit card with the measly limit and my supermarket clubcard. My CERN security card and Amos’s bank account details are in the apartment. I hold the wallet towards him, but he’s not looking at it. He’s looking past my right shoulder, his eyes widening, not just crazed, but scared. The shake in his hand gets worse. He might just kill me by accident. I have a thought then that surprises me. I don’t care. I’m not afraid. For the first time since the mountaineering accident, I glimpse that feeling of certainty. A memory of calm. A flash of white light – was that lightning? He backs away, his eyes still pinned to something behind me, mumbling, before he turns and stumbles into the shadows.
What just happened? Suddenly aware of my vulnerability, I turn, slowly, not sure if I want to see what scared the shit out of the druggie with the gun. There’s a man standing just a few feet away, slim, medium height, his arms by his sides, his loose dark hair falling to his shoulders. Beetle-black eyes. The rain patters on his dark T-shirt and baggy trousers, on the leather bands round his wrists and the tattoo on the side of his neck – a spider’s web, from what I can make out in the dim light. I didn’t hear him arrive.
I breathe out, a slow, juddering breath and start shivering, more than is justified for the temperature. “Thanks,” I mumble. “Whatever you did, thanks a lot. Merci.” He smiles with his eyes then turns and walks away. I watch him disappear down the street. Maybe he’s a gangster and the druggie was on his patch. He must be a hard man, to scare off a druggie with a gun. I turn and head home, with a note to myself not to come this way again after dark.
THERE’S A MESSAGE on my voicemail, which I must have missed with all the noise in the pub. I hold the phone t
o my ear with one hand and pour a whisky with the other, something to steady the nerves. It’s Cora.
“Hi Robert, I need to ask you something. Can you call me back?”
I dial her number and it rings out. I give it a few more whiskies before I try again, then stumble off to bed.
I DIDN’T SLEEP well. Odd dreams about dark streets. Death dressed up as a drug addict. And then...
I’m sitting alone on a bench by a small cemetery. In front of me, the hillside sweeps down to the valley below, where the collider lies under the fields, and at the edge of my vision, larch branches gently sway. A soft breeze picks up from the slopes and ruffles the blades of grass. I close my eyes and let it wash over me. A million leaves move with the wind, and the birdsong hushes to stillness. There’s no sound, apart from the breeze, but I know something is there, to my right. Coldness sweeps through me. Slowly, I open my eyes.
She’s there.
“What do you want, Sarah?”
Her lips move, but there’s no sound. She turns and walks into the forest. My breathing quickens, my body feels like it’s taken root, and I have to push through to get it to respond. I cross the cemetery, stepping around the broken monuments to people I never knew, avoiding the shallow grassy mounds where the dust of their bones mingles with the soil. She fades into the dimness of the trees. I stop just short of the edge of the forest, halted by a certainty. I don’t want to go in there. I peer into the half-light, but there’s no sign of her. I back away.
A SHARP BUZZING and painful beep, over and over and over, an assault on my ears. My senses reassemble themselves from wherever they were scattered. I emerge bleary and confused, slapping at the source of the insult until it falls and thuds on the floor. A phone. My phone. Answer it.
“Hello?”
“Robert? Can you talk?”
Not very well. “Uh-huh.” I’m lying back with my hand over my eyes. Why’s my head pounding? Oh, yeah. The whisky.
“Robert...” It’s Cora. She sounds upset. I lift myself up onto an elbow. “Are you alright?”
The Eidolon Page 17