The God Particle (5 page)

It was a hive of activity in the control room; technicians
were monitoring a bank of 46-inch LED screens that covered an entire wall of
the large, rectangular room. Each monitor displayed a different graph or
scrolling set of figures highlighted in either green or red. It reminded Tom of
the images he’d seen as a child of the NASA control centre during the lunar
landings, except this was much more high-tech. The room itself was divided into
four by semi-circular work stations or islets, each housing five consoles and
each one being operated by an individual specialist.

‘As you can see, we are in the middle of testing the
alignment of the proton beams,’ Frederick explained.

‘How many people work at the facility?’ Tom queried.

‘We employ over two and a half thousand full-time and
fifteen hundred part-time staff across the entire complex.’

Tom let out a low whistle.

‘It may sound a lot, but you have to take into consideration
that we are totally self-sufficient, we have our own hospital and fire brigade
on site. We grow most of our own produce, farm our own meat and dairy products,
purify our own water and even generate our own electricity. We are, for all
intents and purposes, a small town unified by a single goal. And you, Tom, are
its new Mayor.’

The gravity of his new position struck home.

‘When you put it like that, it’s quite…’ Tom paused,
searching for the right word.

‘An honour?’ Frederick offered.

‘Daunting, I was going to say.’

Frederick gave a genial laugh. ‘Let me introduce you to your
deputy Mayor.’

They went over to a small syndicate of people huddled around
a conference table in the centre of the room.

‘Apologies if I’m interrupting, but I’d like to introduce
you to Tom Halligan, our new Director General,’ Frederick announced to the
group, resting a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

The gathering turned to face Tom in unison.

‘And this is Dr Deiter Weiss,’ Frederick pointed out the man
in the middle of the huddle. ‘If there’s anything you need to know about the
facility, Deiter’s your man.’

Tom put out his hand to shake Deiter’s. There was a brief
pause and, for a split second, Tom had the uncomfortable feeling that Deiter
was just going to leave Tom with his hand suspended in the air. But then he
moved forward and grasped the outstretched hand in a vice-like grip.

‘It’s a pleasure to be working with you, Professor Halligan.’
Deiter’s face was impassive, but Tom could sense the insincerity in his voice.

‘The
pleasure
is all mine,’ Tom countered,
emphasising the word ‘pleasure’. Did he spot a flicker of annoyance cross
Deiter’s face? The two pugilists parted, retreating to the safety of their own
corners.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ continued Frederick, ‘I’ll leave
you in Deiter’s capable care to get you acquainted with the rest of the team. I
shall pick you up at eight and I’ll take you to my most favourite restaurant in
Geneva.’ With that, Frederick left the control room.

There was an awkward silence. Frederick had left a void in
the room that Tom felt compelled to fill.

‘So, how are the tests going?’ Tom directed his question at
Deiter. Again, a pregnant pause, a second too long, like a bad comedian
misjudging his timing when delivering the punchline.

‘We have initiated the alignment sequence and everything
seems to be working perfectly.’ The voice breaking the silence didn’t come from
Deiter, but from an attractive, auburn-haired woman standing just to the left
of him.

Tom turned to face the person who had saved him from an
embarrassing situation. ‘And you are?’

‘Serena Mayer.’ This time, it was she who volunteered her
hand first and Tom shook it gently. As he looked at her, he couldn’t help but
notice her brilliant green eyes, almost feline.

‘And what is your speciality, Miss Mayer?’

‘Please call me Serena. I am the Director of Statistical
Analysis.’ She spoke with an accent Tom had difficulty identifying.

The group started to disband and drift back to their
workstations, leaving Deiter as her chaperone.

‘Perhaps, when I’ve settled in, we could go over the figures
from today’s test?’ Tom enquired.

She glanced furtively at Deiter.

‘I can provide you with all the information you require,’
Deiter interjected.

‘I’d prefer to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth,’ Tom
replied, emphatically.

‘As you wish,’ Deiter conceded.

‘I’ll catch up with you later then,’ Tom said, turning his
attention back to Serena. She nodded and left the two men to sort out their
differences.

By late afternoon, the jetlag had kicked in and Tom’s head
was pounding. He had taken a couple of paracetamol earlier, but they had done
little to ease the pain behind his eyes. He excused himself from the meeting
that he had been invited to attend and made his way to his accommodation.

The apartment was in keeping with the minimalist ethos that
seemed to underlie the architect’s vision of a research facility. The beige
walls and fawn carpet reminded him of an inexpensive hotel room. The living
room had been appointed with the bare minimum amount of furniture required to
make its occupant feel comfortable, but not at home.

A large, square, orange sofa dominated the room, with a
small, imitation wood table and chair tucked into one of the corners. A laptop
computer sat on top of it, its screen open with the words, ‘Welcome to CERN,
Professor Halligan’ scrolling across the monitor in luminous green writing. The
opposite corner was filled by a TV, CD player and telephone on a matching
imitation wood unit.

The kitchen, with its patio doors leading out onto a
quadrangle, was functional and had been equipped with all the necessary
appliances, cutlery and crockery. The ‘theme’ continued into the bedroom and
consisted of a double bed, dressing table, wardrobe with full-length mirror and
two bedside cabinets on which stood nightlights. The en-suite bathroom was just
that.

Ajay had deposited his suitcases on the bed and had left a
note on top of one of them, which read,
‘I am in room 454, please come when
you want me to finish the stories’.
Putting the note in his pocket, Tom
moved the suitcases onto the floor and lay down on the bed. As much as he
wanted to, he was far too tired to listen to Ajay’s narrative.

***

The distant sound of buzzing seemed to grow louder and
louder. At first, Tom couldn’t work out what it was or where he was, as he
groggily opened his eyes and saw the unfamiliar furniture. Then his brain
caught up and he realised he must have fallen asleep. The buzzer rang again,
longer this time. His brain told him it was the door bell and he must answer it
in order to silence the noise, but his body was having difficulty actioning the
request. It rang again. He managed to swing his legs off the bed and stand up,
shakily. This time there was a knock followed by a familiar voice.

‘Tom, are you in there?’ It was Frederick.

‘Coming!’ Tom managed to reply, his brain and body finally
working as one.

He opened the door to see a concerned face.

‘This is the second time today that I thought I’d lost you,’
Frederick smiled.

‘Sorry, I must have dozed off. What time is it?’

‘A quarter past eight. I’ve booked a table for us at nine,
so you’ve got enough time to have a shower, if you want.’

‘Thanks, I will.’

‘Okay, I’ll come back for you in half an hour. I need to
have a word with Deiter, anyway.’ Frederick closed the door behind him.

Tom studied his face in the bathroom mirror; he was looking
all of his 36 years. Despite his nap, and having slept on the plane, he was
pale and dark circles had appeared under his eyes. He stripped off and let the
steaming hot shower revive him.

Frederick, as punctual as ever, rang the doorbell just as
Tom finished dressing. Noticing what Frederick had on earlier, Tom had chosen
to wear dark trousers with a Dolce & Gabbana blazer and matching tie,
mentally tipping his hat to his brother’s impeccable dress sense.

‘Much better, my dear boy,’ said Frederick, and made a show
of inspecting him.

‘Thanks, I feel almost human again,’ Tom replied.

‘Good, because the restaurant I’m taking you to only caters
for humans. Although there are other restaurants I know that are less
particular, if you prefer?’

‘It’s your call,’ replied Tom laughing. ‘I’m in your hands.’

They were driven the short distance into the centre of
Geneva in the back of Frederick’s Mercedes. His driver, Louis, seemed to know
all the short-cuts to avoid any traffic hold-ups and they arrived at the
entrance to the Hotel d’Angleterre in less than fifteen minutes.

The hotel doorman, dressed in a dark green tailcoat and top
hat, was standing by the side of the car before it had time to come to a full
stop.

‘Good evening, Herr Volker. It’s very nice to see you
again,’ he said, opening the door on Frederick’s side. Tom waited patiently
while he did the same for him.

‘And this is a colleague of mine, Professor Halligan. You’ll
probably be seeing a lot of him, as long as the food is up to standard,’
Frederick chided the doorman, who was obviously used to the banter.

‘I spoke with the head chef personally this morning, who
told me that he was awaiting a delivery of the finest lobsters in the whole of
Switzerland,’ retorted the doorman.

‘On your head be it! Lobster it is!’ Frederick pressed some
money into the doorman’s hand as he held the door to the hotel open.

How did he do that with such fluidity? Tom mused to himself.

They made their way through the ornate reception, with its
stuccoed ceilings and gilt detailing, and to the Windows restaurant, which was
located at the front of the hotel overlooking Lake Geneva.

The Maître d' was waiting to greet them.

‘Bonsoir, Herr Volker, it’s a pleasure to see you again,’ he
beamed, as they approached him.

‘Salut, Pierre,’ Frederick used the informal greeting
between friends.

‘Your usual table, Sir?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but led
them to a table by the window.

‘Thank you, Pierre. I’d like to introduce you to Professor
Halligan, who’s just joined us from America,’ Frederick said, as they were
being seated.

Pierre nodded cordially at Tom and handed him the menu.

‘A little bird told me that you have some particularly fine
lobster on the menu this evening,’ Frederick said slyly.

‘You are as well-informed, as usual, Herr Volker. If you’ll
just excuse me for a moment...’

Pierre backed away from their table, turned and marched
through a door at the far end of the restaurant, returning seconds later with a
large platter covered with a silver cloche. He removed the lid and presented
them with two of the biggest lobsters Tom had ever seen. Their claws were tied
with elastic bands but they were very much alive, obviously having just been
lifted out of their holding tank in the kitchen.

‘Maine lobster,’ Pierre told them proudly. ‘Flown in from
America today.’

Frederick chuckled. ‘I must say, Tom, they look a lot
fresher than you did when I saw you earlier.’

‘Okay, okay, I’ll give you that one,’ Tom replied,
sheepishly.

Pierre was still holding the tray out to them, waiting for a
decision.

‘Not for me, thank you Pierre,’ said Tom, making his mind up.
‘It wouldn’t be very patriotic of me to eat one of my fellow Americans.’ He had
never been very good with ‘live’ food at restaurants; he just didn’t have the
killer instinct, he supposed.

‘I have no such qualms about eating one of your
compatriots,’ Frederick snorted. ‘Tell Chef Michelle I’d like it grilled with
beurre noire and lemon juice.’

‘And for you, Sir?’ Pierre cocked his head towards Tom.

He quickly scanned the menu and plumped for the filet
mignon, served on a bed of truffle-oil mash and sautéed morel mushrooms.
‘Medium-rare,’ Tom added, before Pierre had time to ask.

‘And could you tell the Sommelier that we’d like a bottle of
ice-cold Sancerre and a bottle of his finest Châteauneuf-du-Pape,’ Frederick
concluded, without consulting the wine menu or Tom.

With that, Pierre discreetly left them to their
deliberations, returning his prize catch to the kitchen to be despatched.

Tom took in his surroundings. The restaurant certainly lived
up to its name - the vista was spectacular. The floor-to-ceiling windows
along the front gave diners the best possible view of the imposing Jet d’Eau
fountain, rising 450 feet into the air. Illuminated by spotlights on the
shoreline, it resembled a magnificent Arabian stallion’s white tail, rising
majestically from the lake.

The restaurant’s décor was no less impressive. Elegant
crystal chandeliers reflected in mirrored walls above sumptuously studded
charcoal leather seats, like stars above a pitch-black firmament, cleverly
contrived to give diners the impression that they were eating outside.

‘So, what do you think of our little operation so far?’
Frederick asked, snapping Tom’s focus back to the dignified gentleman seated
opposite him, whom he couldn’t help but like.

‘Well, it’s certainly bigger than the facility at Brookhaven
and more… interesting,’ said Tom, non-committedly.

‘Interestingly good or interestingly bad?’

‘Both, I think. You’ve certainly managed to gather together
an influential group of eminent physicists, who are clearly at the peak of
their individual specialities. But they don’t seem to be working as a team.’

‘In-ter-est-ing,’ Frederick dragged the word out into its
syllables.

Tom wondered if he’d said too much. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve
overstepped the mark…’

‘Not at all, in fact I think you’ve hit the nail right on
the head,’ Frederick cut in.

Tom smiled at Frederick’s heavily accented colloquialisms.

‘I’ve suspected as much since the death of Erik Morantz,’
continued Frederick. ‘Deiter’s a very good scientist, but a very bad
man-manager.’

‘You could say that again!’ Tom interjected, but then
regretted his forwardness.

‘It takes a very special person to take all the brain-power
in one room and mould it into a unified intelligence. Morantz had the ability
to do it, and that’s what I see in you, Tom.’

‘How did Professor Morantz die?’ Tom asked, side-stepping
the compliment. ‘You can’t always believe what you read in the papers.’

Frederick gave a heavy sigh. ‘Of course, you have a right to
know…’ He paused as the wine waiter filled the glasses with a choice of the red
or white wine Frederick had ordered. ‘Erik was a brilliant scientist. It’s
really because of all his hard work that we have achieved as much as we have.
But, towards the end, things were getting on top of him. As I told you when I
first met you, there had been a few operational setbacks, which he took
personally. We had a problem with one of the heat shields a few months back,
which was luckily detected in time, otherwise we would have had a major
catastrophe on our hands. There had been other minor breakdowns in the past,
but not on the scale of the heat shield failure. They’re all in the report I’ve
asked Deiter to provide you with. You should have it on your desk in the
morning.’ He took a large gulp of the white wine he had chosen.

‘Surely a few setbacks, even one as serious as the heat
shield failure, wouldn’t drive a man to take his own life?’ Tom queried.

‘I believe the balance of his mind was disturbed,’ Frederick
announced gravely. ‘There is a fine line between genius and madness and I
think, unfortunately, Erik crossed that line. The afternoon before he died, he
came to see me. He was very agitated. He was like a man possessed; ranting on
about how we need to destroy the collider before it destroys the world, and
that Deiter knew all about it and was letting it happen. He said that he had
proof and was going to go to the media if we didn’t stop the experiments
immediately. The poor man - obviously some kind of breakdown.’

‘So, what did you do about it?’

‘I tried to placate him, of course. I told him that we’d
shut down the collider immediately and look at the evidence to see if there was
any truth in it. He seemed to calm down and we agreed to go through the data
the next morning. That was the last time I saw him alive. He must have gone
back to his apartment - your apartment - more disturbed than I
realised, because they found him the next morning. He’d taken an overdose of
sleeping pills washed down with a bottle of whisky.’

‘And the evidence he said he had?’

‘Nothing. The police searched everywhere – his apartment,
office, computer – but they found nothing. Again, further proof of a deranged
mind, I’m afraid. A tragic loss to us all.’

Frederick looked forlorn; he had obviously cared deeply
about the man. A heavy silence fell between the two men, which was fortunately
broken by the arrival of Pierre and their food.

He wished them ‘bon appétit’ whilst placing their respective
dishes in front of them.

‘I just hope that tastes as good as it looks,’ Frederick
said, smiling at Pierre.

Tom tried to lighten the mood by changing the topic of
conversation. ‘Why is there a statue of an Indian god at the entrance of the
control centre?’

Frederick chortled. ‘You mean Shiva the Destroyer?’

Tom frowned, which made Frederick laugh even more.

‘I bet, at this stage, you’re wondering what you’ve let
yourself in for,’ Fredrick mused.

Damn right,
Tom thought, but didn’t say anything.

Frederick continued. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not all bad. He’s
also known as Shiva the Transformer. In Hinduism, he is regarded as the most
powerful deity - his role is to destroy the illusions and imperfections
of this world, paving the way for beneficial change. According to Hindu belief,
this destruction is not arbitrary, but constructive. Shiva is, therefore, seen
as the source of both good and evil and is regarded as the one who combines
many contradictory elements.’

‘But why is he here?’

‘Shiva takes many forms,’ Frederick explained. ‘The one we
have at CERN is Shiva Nataraja, or Lord of Dance. It is believed that he
performs a cosmic dance to destroy a weary universe and make preparations for
the god Brahma to start the process of creation. The symbolism of the dance is
a metaphor for the cosmic dance of subatomic particles that we observe and
analyse every time we operate the collider.’