Ice Lake (31 page)

“It’s a clock,” Honigwachs noted. He quickly waved his hand as though to dismiss the obvious. “You can see for yourself that it tells the time, but it’s also a cosmic clock. Remarkably, it simulates the location of the planets at any one moment. Over the course of one year, the earth orbits the sun. Uranus takes seven years. The moon goes around the earth every twenty-eight days, that sort of thing. I had it commissioned myself.”

“You’re an astronomer?”

The question caused Honigwachs to smile, perhaps with more than an ounce of conceit. He had been
speaking with the passionate intensity of a hobbyist. “Not my science, Cinq-Mars. My little toy reminds me of the great quests of our time. It’s a reminder to nurture the broadest possible view. Here, at BioLogika, our preoccupations have to do with understanding and manipulating the body’s immune system. Elsewhere, physicists are hunting for the origins and composition of the universe. One journey is connected to the other, I suspect.”

“How so?” The conversation was drawing Cinq-Mars to a heightened level of wakefulness, which was useful to him, as potent as coffee. In the department he rarely had the opportunity to philosophize about the nature of the species or time’s arrow. In Honigwachs, he sensed a peer, although for no particular reason he was not warming to the man.

The president leaned back and swivelled a trifle in his chair. “I wouldn’t want to bore a man like you.”

Cinq-Mars smiled. “Am I to take that as an insult?”

Honigwachs hesitated, then released a burst of laughter. “It’s not intended that way, Detective. I mean only that I don’t want to take up your valuable time.”

A rumbling in his stomach provoked Cinq-Mars to stand, and he moved over to the window, drawn by the view. Fresh snow made the panorama exquisite, the settlements below him mere outposts in a vast wilderness. He focussed his eye on the bright orange hut where Andrew Stettler had been found beneath the floorboards in the icy water. “Cosmology is a pursuit of mine, sir. Yesterday I was out on the lake with a fishing line going down through the ice. By raising and lowering the line, I moved moisture from the frigid water of the lake, to the cold air under the floorboards, and to the warmth of the cabin. Fascinating, really, to watch the ice crystals form and expand. Simple minds are easily entertained, perhaps. You’ll pardon me if I’m rambling, sir, I’m suffering from fatigue this morning.
Yesterday—it was fascinating—as if watching a galaxy form in miniature. Something you said interests me, Mr. Hogginworks—”

“Honigwachs,” the president corrected him. “It can be tricky, I know.”

“My apologies again. No excuses. I’m hopeless with names. Though it seems that I’ve heard yours before.”

The executive smiled. “I’m curious now. What did I say of interest?”

“You said, as I came in the door, ‘At long last we meet.’ I find that curious. As if you believe that we should have met previously.”

“We move in the same circles, you and I.”

Cinq-Mars tilted his head slightly, looking down the slope of his nose at the man in his leather seat, in the saddle of his success. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah, but we do. You are the great Cinq-Mars, horse trader
par excellence,
known to produce the finest polo ponies in this part of the country. I, on the other hand, play. It’s a wonder we haven’t met, actually, from my point of view. I’ve seen you around. I already know you by reputation.”

Cinq-Mars shot a glance at the trophies on top of the bookshelves and cabinets. He was so weary, it had not struck him that the equestrian silverware might be for polo. He kicked himself for being so obtuse. He looked back at the man and studied him with keen scrutiny.

“Imagine me with a helmet, Cinq-Mars, in my gear, on horseback.”

“I’ve seen you. The name comes back to me now. I just never knew how to pronounce it. You’re a two-goal player.”

“Ah! I’m flattered,” the man said, and he did seem pleased. “You’ve placed me. This spring we must talk horses. I’ll need a fresh colt to start developing.”

“We’ll talk.” Cinq-Mars returned to the chairs in front of the desk, settling into a different one this time.
“Tell me, I’m curious—how do you connect cosmology to the biological sciences?”

With his elbows on the arms of his chair, Honigwachs touched the fingertips of both hands together, a meditative posture. “I thought you were here to discuss poor Andrew. The sciences! Yes, they seem to move in tandem, have you noticed? Throughout the ages, if one area of science advances, then progress also occurs in other disciplines. At least, that’s my shorthand version.”

Cinq-Mars nodded as though he expected, and wanted to encourage, more.

“We live in a time warp, Cinq-Mars. That’s my theory. That’s the meat of the matter. Do you know how a star—our sun, for instance—sinks into the time-space continuum?”

“Yes,” Cinq-Mars said. Which was true, he did.

“I believe that we haven’t come to terms with what this really means, with how it confines us to a condition in which we live out of time. That warp, that gravitational bend in time—that’s the realm we inhabit. It pulls us into the past, keeps us there. What will be will be, I suspect, because it has already been. We don’t have a future, only the perception
of future.
The secrets of the cosmos are being revealed, Detective, the secrets of the biological sciences are rapidly being discovered, more or less in tandem, because the time has come—we are passing through the appropriate space—for such revelations. It’s inevitable. All these things are already known, and have been known ahead of time. It’s just a matter of stumbling across the appropriate information. Of catching up to time.”

Crossing a foot over the opposite knee, the man gave his ankle a scratch through his sock.

“A simple theory, really,” Honigwachs continued. “Sufficiently outrageous that I tend to keep it to myself. Essentially, the space traveller who does not age relative to those left behind on earth is living in real time.
It’s the aging and dying on earth who are caught in the time warp, out of sync, muddled in the ignorance that comes with being strapped to the past. That will not change, but it seems to me that on rare occasions humanity passes through a grid where we do manage a paltry catch-up, a smidgen of progress, so that we live closer to the speed of light. Now appears to be one of those epochs, or spaces. More accurately, space-times. Best understood if we can agree that there is no
now,
only a
then
which carries the appearance, the artifice, the conceit, of being
now.
Sometimes we stumble onto
then.
We find ourselves on the threshold of an extraordinary age of discovery. Everything on earth—customs, cultures, politics, everything—is on the brink of change during such times. I know that you’re here on serious business, Cinq-Mars, so I’ll leave you with that.”

Cinq-Mars liked the theory. While it was flaky, and could easily be reasoned into submission, he admired the mind willing to deploy the rational in service of the outlandish, to see what might float free. The theory was also, Cinq-Mars intuitively recognized, married to the ego of its progenitor. “Mr. Horningwachs—” he began, then paused.

The man allowed his smile to fade slowly, uncertain if he had been sideswiped or not. “Honigwachs,” he corrected him again. “It’s not
that
hard.”

“Sorry. Honigwachs. I’ll remember that now. Mr. Honigwachs, forgive my memory. Last night I got shot at. Getting shot at makes me lose sleep and losing sleep makes me irritable. When I’m irritable I eat too much. It’s an old habit, a bad one. Eating too much puts me out of sorts. When my stomach goes out of whack, my brain follows suit. I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness.”

Honigwachs touched his fingertips to his chest. “There’s nothing to forgive, I assure you.”

Cinq-Mars jumped to his feet at that, suddenly a jack-in-the-box of energy and motion. “There is! If I
were on the ball I’d discuss your theories of the universe. See how you melded those together with polo and horses. I’d question your use of the grey colt as your second horse when clearly he gets winded early—though, like you, I admire his initial speed—and I should be asking about the security concerns at BioLogika now that your Head of Security is dead. Instead, I can’t even keep your name straight.”

The president rose as though to see him to the door. “Everybody can have an off day.”

“On the other hand, since I’m here, let’s get to the bottom of this. Are you not alarmed that your Head of Security has died a violent death? Alarmed, I mean, for the welfare of your company.”

Cinq-Mars was glad that the president did not know what to make of the interloper in his office, what to take seriously or how much he should dismiss. Honigwachs was a man given to command, and to control, and yanking that scaffolding out from under him amused the detective. His tired state didn’t help, an upset stomach was certainly a nuisance, but Cinq-Mars was a great believer in turning liabilities to work in one’s favour, which he was doing now.

“I was so shocked by the death, I just never gave it any thought. I assumed that it was unrelated to BioLogika,” the president admitted.

“Why would you do that? What else could it be related to?”

Honigwachs shifted around a little. “I don’t know. I assumed, I guess, that it was either a random act of violence, or maybe something personal. We have security concerns, yes, but never anything that’s attracted violence.”

“Do your security guards wear guns?”

“I suppose they do,” Honigwachs admitted.

“So you do allow for the possibility of violence, for a possible need to resort to physical force.”

“The guns are a deterrent, I suppose,” Honigwachs argued.

“A deterrent to whom, may I ask?”

“I don’t know. Mischief-makers.”

Cinq-Mars smiled. He was only too happy to take him up on that one. “Armed mischief-makers?” he asked.

“You know what I mean,” Honigwachs contended.

“I don’t.” Cinq-Mars took a deep breath, then said, “I have a better use for your grey, your second mount. He’d be superior on the hunt, able to pace himself, and yet still make good use of his speed on a dash. As it happens I believe I can put you next to a buyer. Then you’d need a replacement. But here’s a coincidence! I have an animal, a four-year-old filly, who’s not going to be sold to anyone less than a two-goal player.”

“So that’s what this is about,” Honigwachs caught on. “You’re selling me a horse. I’ve heard that horsemen have to keep their wits about them around you.”

“Everything in life is a horse trade, sir. Are you a scientist?”

“That’s how I was trained. My role has evolved over the years.”

“How so?”

“Early in my career I grew frustrated with the slow pace of research funding—and the precariousness of funding—so I became involved in that aspect of the work.” The lilt of his voice was rising, becoming more animated, as though talking about himself had launched him on a speech. “Years later, I still haven’t gotten back to my research.”

“I see.” Cinq-Mars stood and roved around the room, admiring in particular the sports trophies placed on high. “What sort of security matters would involve your Head of Security, sir?”

“We’re a biotech concern, Detective. We have a variety of issues.”

“Educate me.Your Head of Security has been
murdered. Shot through the throat. Dumped in the lake. Not a pretty sight. I need to know who might have an interest in penetrating your security.”

“So you
are
here about Andrew. Yes, I can see where these matters might become your business.” The president shook his chin slightly, gazed upward and pulled his hands apart. “They’re numerous.” He brought his hands together again, knitting the fingers as though to diagram the complexity. “Any biotech firm must be wary of forced entry. We have drugs here, and the ingredients for drugs, desired by the illegal drug trade. We have dangerous materials. For instance, we wouldn’t want some dumb crook releasing a virus into the atmosphere. In addition, any biotech firm has to be vigilant about special interest groups. Specifically, animal-rights advocates can be a nuisance. But our primary concerns, Mr. Cinq-Mars, revolve around internal and external espionage.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we are on the leading edge of biotechnology. We develop and hoard secrets. Our research into cancer and
AIDS
will be beneficial to mankind, and will also create wealth. That’s the nature of the beast. We have competitors, Mr. Cinq-Mars, who’d dearly love to learn what we are doing. They try to keep tabs on our progress. They’d like to have access to what we know. Our information, our research, our knowledge is an exceedingly valuable resource. Combating espionage is the number-one priority for anyone who heads up our security department. Now that we have a vacancy, maybe I can interest you in the job.”

His hands thrust into his pants pockets, Cinq-Mars rattled his keys. He did not acknowledge the offer, which he assumed to be in jest. “Is Hillier-Largent Global a competitor, Mr. Honigwachs?”

The man turned at the sound of the name as if Cinq-Mars had scraped chalk ona blackboard.
‘‘Global.
Hillier-Largent is about as global as my left buttock. Both those clowns worked here, Sergeant-Detective.”