The Fear Index (9 page)

‘Not yet, Hugo.’

‘Send him straight in when he gets here.’ He released the switch. ‘Anything happening out there?’

Hoffmann had his hands on the windowsill. He was staring down into the street. A group of pedestrians waited on the corner opposite for the lights to change even though there was no traffic coming in either direction. After watching them for a while Hoffmann muttered savagely, ‘The goddam tight-assed Swiss …’

‘Yeah, well just remember the goddam tight-assed eight-point-eight per cent tax rate they let us get away with, and you’ll feel better.’

A well-toned freckled woman with a low-cut sweater and a cascade of dark red hair came in without knocking: Hugo’s assistant, an Australian – Hoffmann couldn’t remember her name. He suspected she was an ex-girlfriend of Hugo’s who had passed the statutory retirement age for that position, thirty-one, and been found lighter duties elsewhere. She was carrying a tray. Behind her lurked a man in a dark suit and black tie with a fawn raincoat over his arm.

‘Mr Genoud is here,’ she said, then added solicitously, ‘How are you feeling, Alex?’

Hoffmann turned on Quarry. ‘You
told
her?’

‘Yes, I called her from the hospital. She fixed us a car. What’s it matter? It’s not a secret, is it?’

‘I’d prefer it if everyone in the office didn’t know, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure, if that’s what you want. You’ll keep it to yourself, Amber, right?’

‘Of course, Hugo.’ She looked at Hoffmann in puzzlement. ‘Sorry, Alex.’

Hoffmann raised his hand in benediction. He took his coffee from the tray and returned to the window. The pedestrians had moved on. A tram rattled to a halt and opened its doors, spilling out passengers along its entire length, as if a knife had been passed from end to end, gutting it. Hoffmann tried to pick out faces, but there were too many and they were dispersing too quickly. He drank his coffee. When he turned round, Genoud was in the office and the door was closed. They had been talking to him and he had not realised. He was aware of a silence.

‘Sorry?’

Genoud said patiently, ‘I was just telling Mr Quarry, Dr Hoffmann: I have spoken to several of my old colleagues in the Geneva police. They have issued a description of the man. Forensics are at your house now.’

Hoffmann said, ‘The inspector in charge of the case is called Leclerc.’

‘Yes, I know him. He’s ready to be put out to grass, unfortunately. This case seems to have him beaten already.’ Genoud hesitated. ‘May I ask you, Dr Hoffmann – are you sure you have told him everything? It would be wise to be frank with him.’

‘Of course I have. Why the hell wouldn’t I?’ Hoffmann didn’t care for his tone.

Quarry cut in: ‘I don’t give a shit what Inspector Clouseau thinks. The point is, how did this lunatic get past Alex’s security? And if he got past it once, can he do it again? And if he got past it at his house, can he get past it here at the office? That’s what we pay you for, isn’t it, Maurice? Security?’

Genoud’s sallow cheeks flushed. ‘This building is as well protected as any in Geneva. As for Dr Hoffmann’s house, the police say that the codes for the gate, the main door and possibly the alarm itself seem to have been known to the intruder. No security system in the world can protect against that.’

Hoffmann said, ‘I’ll change the codes tonight. And in future
I’ll
decide who knows them.’

‘I can assure you, Dr Hoffmann,’ said Genoud, ‘only two persons in our company knew those combinations – myself and one of my technicians. There was no leak from our side.’

‘So you say. But he must have got hold of them from somewhere.’

‘Okay, let’s leave the codes for now,’ said Quarry. ‘The main thing is, until this guy is caught, I want Alex to have some proper protection. What will that entail?’

‘A permanent guard on the house, certainly – one of my men is there already. At least two other men on duty tonight – one to patrol the grounds, the other to remain indoors downstairs. As for when Dr Hoffmann moves around the city, I would suggest a driver with counterterrorism training and one security officer.’

‘Armed?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘And what say you, Professor?’

An hour ago, Hoffmann would have dismissed each of these precautions as absurd. But the spectre on the tram had jolted him. Little flashes of panic, like brushfires, kept breaking out in his mind. ‘I want Gabrielle looked after as well. We keep assuming this maniac was after me, but what if it was her he wanted?’

Genoud was making entries on a personal organiser. ‘Yes, we can manage that.’

‘Just until he’s arrested, okay? Then we can all go back to normal.’

‘And what about you, Mr Quarry?’ asked Genoud. ‘Should we take precautions on your behalf as well?’

Quarry laughed. ‘The only thing that keeps me awake at night is the thought of a paternity suit.’

‘RIGHT,’ SAID QUARRY, when Genoud had gone, ‘let’s talk about this presentation – if you’re still sure you’re up for it?’

‘I’m up for it.’

‘Okay, thank God for that. Nine investors – all existing clients as agreed. Four institutions, three ultra-high net worths, two family offices, and a partridge in a pear tree.’

‘A partridge?’

‘Okay, not a partridge. There is no partridge, I concede that.’ Quarry was in great high spirits. If he was three parts gambler he was also one part salesman, and it was a while since that crucial part of him had been allowed its head. ‘Ground rules are: first, they have to sign a non-disclosure agreement regarding our proprietary software, and second, they’re each permitted to bring in one designated professional adviser. They’re due to arrive in about an hour and a half – I suggest you have a shower and a shave before they get here: the look we require from you is brilliant but eccentric, if you don’t mind me saying so, rather than sheer bloody crazy. You walk them through the principles. We’ll show them the hardware. I’ll make the pitch. Then we’ll both take them out to lunch at the Beau-Rivage.’

‘How much are we looking to raise?’

‘I’d like a billion. Settle for seven-fifty.’

‘And commission? What did we decide? Are we sticking with two and twenty?’

‘Don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know. That’s your call.’

‘More than the going rate looks greedy, less and they won’t respect us in the morning. With our track record it’s a seller’s market, but even so I say let’s stick with two and twenty.’ Quarry pushed back his chair and swung his feet up on to the desk in a single, easy fluid motion. ‘It’s going to be a big day for us, Alexi. We’ve waited a whole year to show them this. And they’re gagging for it.’

A two per cent annual management fee on a billion dollars was twenty million dollars, just for showing up to work in the mornings. A twenty per cent performance fee on a billion-dollar investment, assuming a twenty per cent return – modest by Hoffmann’s current standards – was an additional forty million a year. In other words, an annual income of sixty million dollars in return for half a morning’s work and two hours of excruciating small talk in a smart restaurant. Even Hoffmann was willing to suffer fools for that.

He asked, ‘Who exactly have we got coming?’

‘Oh, you know – the usual suspects.’ For the next ten minutes Quarry described each in turn. ‘But you don’t have to worry about them. I’ll handle that side. You just talk about your precious algorithms. Now go and get some rest.’

5

Hardly any faculty is more important for the intellectual progress of man than ATTENTION. Animals clearly manifest this power, as when a cat watches by a hole and prepares to spring on its prey
.

CHARLES DARWIN,
The Descent of Man
(1871)

HOFFMANN’S OFFICE WAS identical to Quarry’s except he had no pictures of a boat, indeed no decoration of any sort apart from three framed photographs. One was of Gabrielle, taken over lunch on the Pampelonne Beach at St-Tropez two years earlier: she was laughing, looking directly into the camera, the sun on her face, a white filigree of dried salt on her cheek from a long sea swim that morning – he had never seen anyone look so vitally alive; it raised his spirits every time he saw it. Another was of Hoffmann himself, taken in 2001, wearing a yellow hard hat and standing 175 metres below ground in the tunnel that would eventually house the synchrotron of the Large Hadron Collider. The third was of Quarry in evening dress in London receiving the award for Algorithmic Hedge Fund Manager of the Year from a minister in the Labour government: Hoffmann, needless to say, had refused even to attend the ceremony, a decision Quarry had approved of, as he said it added to the company’s mystique.

Hoffmann closed the door and went around the double-glazed walls of his office lowering all the venetian blinds and closing them. He hung up his raincoat, took the CD of his CAT scan from the pocket and tapped the case against his teeth while he considered what to do with it. His desk was bare except for the inevitable six-screen Bloomberg array, a keyboard and mouse and a telephone. He sat in his two-thousand-dollar high-backed orthopaedic swivel chair with pneumatic tilt mechanism and oatmeal upholstery, opened a bottom drawer and thrust the CD inside out of sight, as far as it would go. Then he closed the drawer and switched on his computer. In Tokyo the Nikkei Stock Average of 225 companies had closed down 3.3 per cent. Mitsubishi Corporation was off by 5.4 per cent, Japan Petroleum Exploration Company 4 per cent, Mazda Motors 5 per cent and Nikon 3.5 per cent. The Shanghai Composite was down 4.1 to an eight-month low. This is turning into a rout, thought Hoffmann.

Suddenly, before he realised what was happening, the screens in front of him blurred and he started to cry. His hands shook. A strange keening note emerged from his throat. His whole upper body shook convulsively. I am coming to pieces, he thought, as he laid his forehead on the desk in misery. And yet at the same time he remained oddly detached from his breakdown, as if he were observing himself from high up in the corner of the room. He was conscious of panting rapidly, like an exhausted animal. After a couple of minutes, when the spasm of shaking had subsided and he was able to catch his breath again, he realised that he felt much better, even mildly euphoric – the cheap catharsis of weeping: he could see how it might become addictive. He sat up, took off his spectacles and wiped his eyes with his trembling fingertips and then his nose with the back of his hand. He blew out his cheeks. ‘God,’ he whispered to himself, ‘God, God.’

He stayed motionless for a couple of minutes until he was sure he had recovered, then he rose and went back over to his raincoat and retrieved the Darwin. He laid it on his desk and sat down before it. The 138-year-old green cloth binding and slightly frayed spine seemed utterly incongruous in the surroundings of his office, where nothing was older than six months. Hesitantly, he opened it at the place where he had stopped reading shortly after midnight (Chapter XII: ‘Surprise – Astonishment – Fear – Horror’). He removed the Dutch bookseller’s slip, unfolded it and smoothed it out.
Rosengaarden & Nijenhuise, Antiquarian Scientific & Medical Books. Established 1911
. He reached for the telephone. After briefly debating in his mind whether this was the best course, he dialled the bookshop’s number in Amsterdam.

The phone rang for a long while without being answered: hardly surprising as it was barely eight thirty. But Hoffmann was insensitive to the nuances of time: if he was at his desk, he assumed everyone else should be at theirs. He let it ring and ring, and thought about Amsterdam. He had visited it twice. He liked its elegance, its sense of history; it had intelligence: he must take Gabrielle there when all this was sorted out. They could smoke dope in a café – wasn’t that what people did in Amsterdam? – and then make love all afternoon in an attic bedroom in a boutique hotel. He listened to the long purr of the ring tone. He imagined its bell trilling in some dusty bookshop that peered out through small whorled panes of thick Victorian glass, across a cobbled street, through trees to a canal; high shelves accessed by rickety stepladders; elaborate scientific instruments made of highly polished brass – a sextant, perhaps, and a microscope; an elderly bibliophile, stooped and bald, turning his key in the door and hurrying to his desk, just in time to answer the phone—