The God Particle (14 page)

Tom and Serena exchanged glances. ‘I’ve made a copy for
you,’ Serena said quickly, rummaging in her briefcase. She took it out and slid
it across the desk to Frederick. Tom picked up their file from the desk and
secreted it in his flight bag.

‘Thanks, I’ll come back to you as soon as I’ve had a chance
to speak with them,’ he said absently, flicking through the pages.

‘Did you, by any chance, tell these colleagues about the
message I left on your voicemail this morning?’ Tom enquired, trying to sound
nonchalant.

‘No, I’ve been busy all morning trying to locate Ajay,’
Frederick lied. He had, in fact, phoned each one of them as soon as he’d heard
the message to arrange a rendezvous in the Bunker to discuss the document.

‘Any luck?’

‘No,’ said Frederick. ‘It’s very unlike Ajay to go missing.
We had some problems with him when he was a teenager, but what parent doesn’t?’
Frederick hoped that that wasn’t the reason he’d gone missing this time. ‘I’m
sure he’ll turn up sooner rather than later. There’s probably a girl involved
somewhere.’ Frederick stood up from behind his desk, indicating the meeting had
concluded.

Tom and Serena followed suit. Tom was debating whether to
shake the man’s hand or kiss him on the cheeks; he was still unsure what the
local custom was. However, the decision was taken away from him as Frederick
lumbered around the desk and caught hold of him in a man-hug, Tom responding
with the obligatory patting on the back. They released and Frederick turned to
Serena, arms still outstretched. She obliged – the embrace much gentler and
briefer.

‘Thank you for entrusting me with this information,’
Frederick held the door open for them. ‘As I said, I’ll be in touch.’

Tom and Serena said their goodbyes and made their way back
down the stairs to the golf buggy.

It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky,
casting long shadows on the ground. The cold breeze had upgraded itself to a
squall and had picked up some snowflakes along the way, which it deposited in
their faces as they drove away. Tom’s cashmere jumper offered little protection
against the biting wind. They didn’t say a word to each other until they were
in sight of the main office building.

‘So, what do you make of all that?’ Tom parked the buggy and
got out.

‘It’s a lot to take in,’ Serena got out the other side and
followed him up the steps.

‘I know. But do you think we can trust him?’

‘We don’t appear to have much option,’ Serena replied,
thinking back to Frederick’s elicitations.

There was a tense atmosphere in the Bunker that evening.
Everybody, apart from the woman, had been able to make it at short notice,
CERN’s two private jets having been dispatched immediately to collect them from
various locations across Europe.

The lights were dimmed and the wall-mounted monitors, which
Frederick had switched on prior to their arrival, were showing news reports of
the devastation caused by the earthquake in Istanbul. The volume had been
turned down, but that didn’t lessen the impact of the programme on the people
seated around the table. In fact, it had the opposite effect; taking away one
of their sensory faculties made them concentrate even more on the detail of the
images being broadcast.

Frederick watched their faces as they reacted to the scene
of a body being discovered by rescue dogs. It had been over twenty-four hours
since the initial quake and the incidences of survivors being found had
diminished exponentially.

The International community had reacted swiftly. Donation
centres had been set up in most countries overnight, with initial requests for
food, blankets and fresh drinking water. An appeal for money would come later,
but currently it wouldn’t be of much use to the hundreds of thousands of
homeless people trying to survive the harsh conditions of a Turkish winter.
Teams from the Red Cross and Blue Crescent had flown in and were facilitating
the construction of tent cities by the army, outside the affected zone.
Médecins Sans Frontières were in the thick of it, dispensing minor medical
treatment where necessary and setting up field hospitals for the more seriously
injured. The dead weren’t a priority. Bodies were being unceremoniously
stockpiled in the streets as there was nowhere left to put them.

The enormity of the aftermath pervaded everybody’s mood, as
they stared at the unfolding drama.

Frederick flicked a switch and the fluorescent strip lights
came on. Everybody blinked, adjusting their eyes to the sudden glare.

‘
We
are responsible for that,’ Frederick said
gravely. They turned to him, bewilderment etched on their faces. ‘I have here a
document,’ he held up the copy that Serena had given him earlier, ‘which was
compiled by Professor Morantz, just before his death. It clearly shows a
pattern of earthquakes that took place at exactly the same time the Collider
was operating at maximum capacity.’

‘Where did you get that?’ Deiter asked, sharply.

‘That’s not important. What is important is that the figures
have been independently verified. Based on this information, we have no option
but to conclude that the Collider is responsible for causing these
earthquakes.’ Shock replaced bewilderment on the faces in front of him.

‘But how?’ the man on his far right asked.

‘We know that the Earth’s molten iron core produces a
magnetic field which envelopes the planet,’ explained Frederick, ‘entering at
the South Pole and exiting at the North Pole. The outer core of the Earth is,
in effect, a giant molten magnet. What we have inadvertently created in the
Collider is the world’s second largest magnet. I believe that, when the
Collider reaches maximum capacity, the resultant electro-magnetic waves
interact with the Earth’s geomagnetic field causing instability. This imbalance
is then transferred through the Earth’s mantle to the tectonic plates, which
realign, causing an earthquake.’

‘Science 101,’ the man who had asked the question said,
nodding his head. ‘Magnets attract. How could we have missed such a fundamental
flaw?’

‘Because we were so preoccupied discovering new science that
we forgot about the old,’ Frederick said despondently.

‘Are you seriously asking us to believe that the Collider
produces enough electromagnetic force to pull the Earth’s core towards it?’ the
man opposite him asked sceptically.

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying at all,’ Frederick replied
patiently. ‘The Collider causes a butterfly effect. The Earth exists in a state
of fragile polar equilibrium; the tiniest influence on one part of the system
can have a huge effect on another part. The magnetic waves the Collider
generates upset the natural balance of the Earth, which leads to a chain of
events, the outcome of which can clearly be seen on those screens.’

They switched their attention back to the monitors. There
was a red banner running along the bottom of the bulletin with the words, ‘
Warning!
Viewers of a nervous disposition may find some scenes disturbing’
scrolling
across it. The images showed a bulldozer laden with corpses, its giant steel
caterpillar tracks trundling towards a deep trench. It stopped just short of
the hole, raised its bucket and tipped the bodies into the mass grave before
turning around to collect another load.

‘Can you prove it?’ Deiter cut in.

‘Our primary objective is to prevent anything like this
happening again,’ Frederick replied resolutely. ‘This document empirically
proves that the earthquakes are linked to the Collider, which is enough for me
to recommend to the Council that we close down the facility immediately. The
hows and whys can wait.’

He paused to gather his thoughts before addressing the group
again. ‘Gentlemen, we have to face the stark realisation that we have failed in
our mission to protect civilisation from itself. Our organisation was founded
by our forefathers with the sole edict of preventing such a catastrophe taking
place. Our myopic resolve to undermine the discovery of the God particle, by
whatever means necessary, has resulted in bringing about the very disaster we
were trying to avert. I take full responsibility for the part I played in
allowing the Collider to be built in the first place, my only defence being
that I truly believed that we would have been able to control it long enough to
misdirect those dogmatists, determined to split open the smallest known
particles with scant regard to the consequences.’

He paused again, letting out a brief sigh. ‘I will,
naturally, be stepping down as head of this cell, but first I must convince the
CERN Council to cease all future activity without alerting the media to our
intentions. I couldn’t desert my post without at least trying to rectify some
of the damage we have done.’

There were a few objectors around the table to Frederick’s
announced resignation. Deiter wasn’t one of them.

Frederick ignored the protests. ‘None of us are getting any
younger,’ he continued. ‘And, whilst maturity brings with it a degree of
wisdom, technology is moving at such a rapid pace that it takes a younger mind
to keep up with all the developments. It is to this end that I propose we
approach Tom Halligan to join us.’

There were a few proponents around the table. Again
,
Deiter
wasn’t one of them.

‘Look!’ one of the men facing the screens shouted. ‘If the
Collider was responsible for causing the earthquakes and it is currently
inoperative, how is
this
possible?’ He was pointing to the broadcast,
which had replaced the earlier warning with a newsflash banner reading
‘Reports
are coming in of a major earthquake in San Francisco’.

Everybody was perplexed – everyone, that was, apart from
Deiter. If Frederick and the others hadn’t been so absorbed in watching the TV
report, they would have been disturbed at the sight of Deiter, a triumphant
glint in his eyes, mouthing the words ‘It’s started, it’s started’ over and
over like some demonic chant.

Tom and Serena had parted on the steps of the main building
but had arranged to meet up later that evening, more for companionship than
anything else. Tom said he needed to catch up on some emails, whilst Serena
called it a day and went back to her apartment.

He made his way to his office through the control room.
There were a handful of technicians still there, but very little work was being
done – they were all watching CNN World News. Tom glanced at the screen; a wave
of guilt and remorse swept over him as he saw the homeless survivors, their
tear-stained faces, a portrait of shock and incredulity.

Then the images were gone, replaced by a helicopter’s
perspective of what was once an extensive bridge over a vast body of water,
with only the two supporting concrete and steel structures left at either end
of the span. Tom assumed it was the First Bosphorus Bridge, but then couldn’t
help thinking how similar it looked to the Golden Gate Bridge before
rationalising that all suspension bridges would look the same if subjected to a
massive earthquake.

Inspector Gervaux was sitting behind his desk again, much to
Tom’s annoyance. This time, however, he didn’t wait to be asked to vacate his
seat, as he saw Tom coming.

‘Ah, there you are. My officers have been looking for you,’
he said as Tom stepped into his office. ‘There have been some developments and
we would like you to clarify a few points down at the station.’

‘Is that really necessary?’ Tom replied, a little bemused by
the request.

‘I’m afraid so,’ the inspector said firmly. ‘I have a car
waiting, if you would like to follow me. Do you want to get your jacket? It’s
rather chilly outside.’

‘I don’t have one,’ replied Tom. ‘My clothes were vandalised,
if you remember.’ His annoyance at having to accompany the inspector was
showing through.

‘Ah yes, the break-in…’ The inspector left the words
floating ambiguously mid-sentence. ‘This way, please.’

He led Tom out of the building and around the corner. A
black Peugeot was waiting, the engine ticking over to enable its occupant to
keep the heater on.

‘You two already know each other,’ Inspector Gervaux said,
opening the rear door for Tom.

Sergeant Lavelle found it difficult to turn his bulky frame
in the driver’s seat, so acknowledged Tom with a grunt as he got in the car.

‘Nice to see you again, too,’ Tom responded, but the sarcasm
fell into the cultural divide.

Inspector Gervaux got in the back, beside Tom, who wondered
whether this was hierarchical protocol or just in case Tom tried to make a
break for it.
I really will have to stop watching those crime thrillers
,
he told himself.

The short journey to the police station took place in
complete silence. Tom watched out of the window as the landscape changed from
countryside to suburbia. The wind had died down but there was a lot more snow
in the air. A thin, white blanket covered the trees and rooftops, though it
hadn’t managed to pitch on the ground yet. Tom hoped he’d be able to get back
to the complex before it did.

They pulled up in front of an elegant four-storey building
in the heart of Geneva’s old district. Its brown stone façade and wrought iron
balconies were more befitting an upmarket hotel than a place where the city’s
lowlifes were guests. The only architectural features belying its image as a
luxury lodge were the bars on the ground floor windows.

As Sergeant Lavelle switched off the engine, Tom heard a
distinctive click indicating that the rear doors were unlocked. If he
was
indeed a criminal and had wanted to make a run for it, now would be his chance.
Instead, he waited patiently until the others had sorted out their paperwork
and personal belongings before opening his car door and stepping out into the
freezing night.

They made their way into the building in single file,
Inspect Gervaux at the front, Tom in the middle and the sergeant bringing up
the rear. Only the absence of handcuffs would affirm to a sharp-eyed onlooker
that he wasn’t being arrested. They walked past the duty sergeant dealing with
an early evening drunk, who had difficulty standing on his own two feet without
the assistance of the other two officers flanking him, and up a flight of
stairs to a suite of interview rooms.

Inspector Gervaux chose the nearest empty one, switched on
the fluorescent lights and ushered Tom in. The room was large, about the size
of Frederick’s office, but without the homeliness. Cream walls smelt of new
paint. Tom wondered what had happened to prompt the make-over. A single white
metal table sat in the centre of the room, its tubular legs bolted to the shiny
tiled floor. Three uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs were haphazardly dotted
around it. There wasn’t a two-way mirror covering one wall, as he had envisaged
there would be; instead, two CCTV cameras hung from the ceiling at either end
of the room to record both the interviewer’s and interviewee’s audiovisual
responses.

They took up their respective seats, Tom on one side of the
table, the two inquisitors on the other. He tucked the flight bag he was still
carrying out of sight, under his chair. Inspector Gervaux checked his watch and
said, in a louder than normal voice, that the time was eighteen thirty-three.
It took Tom a second to realise that the recording device must be voice-activated.

The palms of his hands were damp. He hadn’t felt nervous on
the way to the station, but now he was in this formal environment it was clear
that he was there for more than just a friendly chat. And, despite having done
nothing wrong, he felt the onus was on him to prove his innocence.

Sergeant Lavelle read him his rights.

‘Am I being arrested?’ Tom’s voice cracked.

‘Not at the moment. We have brought you in for questioning,’
the inspector informed him.

‘Could you please tell us your name and date of birth for
the record?’ the sergeant said in a monotone voice, clearly bored with having
to ask the menial questions. Tom could sense that he was desperate to be lead
interrogator, but that duty went to Inspector Gervaux.

‘Do you recognise this man?’ the inspector showed Tom a
picture of Ajay that had obviously been taken a few years earlier. It took him
a moment to identify what was different about him, before he realised he was
moustache-less.

‘Yes, that’s Ajay.’

‘Do you mean Anjit Bose?’

‘Yes, that’s his name, but I call him Ajay.’ Tom tried not
to sound pedantic. He didn’t want to antagonise these two so early on in the
interview.

‘And how do you know Anjit?’

‘I met him for the first time when he picked me up at the
airport when I arrived here.’

The inspector searched through his papers and retrieved a
slightly blurred photograph of an Asian talking to Tom; the MIT administration
building could clearly be seen in the background. He slid it across the desk.

‘And who are you with in this picture?’

It could have been one of a number of his undergraduates.
MIT had strong links with several South Asian countries. The first Indian
student had entered MIT just fifteen years after the Institute opened its doors
at the end of America's Civil War. Tom usually had two or three students from
that region in each academic year. The only similarities between the individual
in the photo and Ajay were the dark skin, black hair and slight build.

‘I couldn’t tell you, off hand,’ replied Tom. ‘It’s probably
one of my undergraduates.’

‘Is it Anjit Bose?’ Sergeant Lavelle piped in, desperate to
get in on the action.

‘No. I told you, the first time I met Ajay was when I got
here. I taught a number of South Asian students during my time at MIT. It could
be any one of them.’

Inspector Gervaux put the photo back, then tried a different
tack. ‘How well do you know Anjit?’

‘I wouldn’t say I know him that well at all,’ replied Tom,
‘as I told you when you asked me the same question in my office.’

‘Can you tell us what you did, on the first day you arrived
at CERN?’

Tom couldn’t work out where this was leading. He thought
back – it had only been two days ago, but it felt like months.

‘I arrived and was met at the airport by Ajay. He took me to
the complex, where I met Herr Volker, who introduced me to the team. I was
feeling a little jetlagged in the afternoon, so I had a nap before going out to
dinner with Herr Volker in the evening.’

‘And then what did you do?’

‘I went back to my apartment.’

‘Did you go straight to sleep?’

Tom suddenly realised where the line of questions were
leading. ‘No… I… er… I went to Ajay’s room.’

‘And why did you go there?’ the inspector asked evenly.

‘To look at his scrapbook,’ Tom replied meekly. He knew it
would sound implausible, even before he’d said it. Why hadn’t he made something
up? Why hadn’t he just told them they were discussing the merits of nuclear
thermodynamics in developing countries or something? They wouldn’t have known
the difference. But then again, if they had managed to arrest Ajay and he was
being interviewed in one of the adjacent rooms, their stories wouldn’t have
matched, which would make it look more suspicious than it was. No, as
ridiculous as it sounded, he had to stick with the truth.

‘Pardon?’

‘I went to look at his scrapbook. He is the grandson of
Satyendra Bose, who I’m a great admirer of.’ Tom tried desperately to make it
sound credible.

‘
Scrapbook?
What is
scrapbook
?’ the sergeant
asked Inspector Gervaux. There was a brief exchange in French between the two
detectives, followed by a peel of laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’ Tom asked irritably.

‘I explained to Sergeant Lavelle what a scrapbook was, and
he said that his four-year-old niece has one which she sticks pictures of
princesses in.’ The inspector’s smile faded as he asked his next question.
‘Professor Halligan, are you attracted to Anjit?’

The insinuation took Tom completely by surprise and knocked
his composure. He raised his voice. ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting, but
my sexuality has got nothing to do with you. But, just for the record, no, I’m
not gay.’

The gloves were off. It was Sergeant Lavelle’s opportunity
to impress his boss. He slammed his palms down on the tabletop.

‘What do you take us for?’ he shouted. ‘Do you think we are
bumbling fools, like your Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther movies? Do you
honestly expect us to believe that, after travelling all the way from America,
working a full day in the office and then going out for dinner in the evening,
you still had the capacity to visit a young man’s room? A man whom you say you
didn’t know very well, in the early hours of the morning, just to look at his
childish hobby?’

Putting it that way, Tom could see it from their perspective
and it didn’t look good for him. ‘I agree, it may sound far-fetched,’ he replied,
‘but it’s the truth. I have no reason to lie to you. You must believe me.’

‘Why did Anjit visit your room last night?’ asked Inspector
Gervaux. ‘I understand that you were in the company of…’ He took out the
notebook from his breast pocket and thumbed through the pages. ‘A Miss Mayer.’

‘What are you suggesting now? A ménage a trios?’ Despite his
predicament, Tom couldn’t help the gibe.

‘Professor, we are not suggesting anything. We are only
trying to establish the facts,’ the inspector replied calmly.

‘Okay,’ said Tom, letting out a heavy sigh. ‘Ajay came to
tell us about the earthquake in Istanbul. It’s a hobby of his.’

‘Like the scrapbook?’ the sergeant quipped, snidely.

Tom ignored the comment. ‘He thought we should know about
it.’ He considered his words carefully. He didn’t want to alert them to the
fact that he thought the Collider was responsible, at least not yet.

‘And why would you be so interested in the earthquake?’
Inspector Gervaux probed.

‘Because it’s such a monumental natural disaster,’ replied
Tom earnestly. ‘I should think everybody who’s seen the images has been moved
by the tragedy.’

‘Oui, c’est terrible,’ the inspector agreed. He rifled
through a few more pages in his notebook until he found the relevant entry.
‘Moving on to the break-in you had. You said that you had no idea who was
responsible, or what they could be looking for. Now that you’ve had a chance to
think about it, do you still maintain that to be the case?’

‘Yes, I’m still at a loss.’

‘Do you mind if we look in your bag?’

‘My what?’ Tom had forgotten all about the flight bag he’d
tried to conceal under his chair.

‘The bag you brought in with you,’ Sergeant Lavelle spoke
slowly as if he were speaking to a child.

‘Do you have a warrant?’ Tom thought about the implications of
them discovering the folder. To them, it would be a meaningless set of figures
with some scribbled notes of when a few earthquakes occurred. He should be able
to bluff his way around it.

‘Professor,’ said Inspector Gervaux, ‘as I said earlier, you
are not under arrest. You are merely helping us with our enquiries. Our
forensics team did a thorough search of your apartment and, whilst they
couldn’t find anything specific that would be of interest to an intruder, they
did find traces of an unusual chemical on your kitchen worktops, which we’ve
sent off to the lab to be analysed. We’re not sure, at this stage, whether or
not it is related to the explosion, but refusing to allow us to look in your
bag would only add to our suspicions that you are hiding something from us.’

Tom reluctantly reached under his seat and put the bag on
the table between them. Sergeant Lavelle stood up and rifled through its
contents. The clothes were of no interest to him, but he smiled as his fingers
brushed the leather folder. He extracted the file and passed it to his
superior, the expression on his face reminiscent of a Rottweiler retrieving a
stick for his master.