‘Breaking your own rules, Professor?’ said Quarry, loosening his scarf. ‘Bit bloody rich.’
‘Forgot I had it with me.’
‘Like hell. Your place or mine?’
‘I don’t know. Does it matter? Okay – yours.’
To reach Quarry’s office it was necessary to cross the trading floor. The Japanese stock market would close in fifteen minutes, the European exchanges would open at nine, and already four dozen quantitative analysts – quants, in the dismissive jargon of the trade – were hard at work. None talked above a whisper. Most stared silently at their six-screen arrays. Giant plasma televisions with muted sound carried CNBC and Bloomberg, while beneath the TVs a glowing red line of digital clocks noiselessly recorded time’s relentless passage in Tokyo, Beijing, Moscow, Geneva, London and New York. This was the sound that money made in the second decade of the twenty-first century. The occasional soft clatter of strokes on a keyboard was the only indication that humans were present at all.
Hoffmann raised his hand to the back of his head and touched the hard puckered smile of his wound. He wondered how visible it was. Perhaps he should wear a baseball cap? He was conscious of being pale and unshaven and he tried to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze, which was easy enough as few bothered to look up as he passed. Hoffmann’s force of quants was nine-tenths male, for reasons he did not entirely understand. It was not deliberate policy; it simply seemed to be only men who applied, usually refugees from the twin miseries of academia: low salaries and high tables. Half a dozen had come from the Large Hadron Collider. Hoffmann would not even consider hiring anyone without a PhD in maths or the physical sciences; all doctoral theses were expected to have been peer-reviewed in the top fifteen per cent. Nationality did not matter and nor did social skills, with the result that Hoffmann’s payroll occasionally resembled a United Nations conference on Asperger’s syndrome. Quarry called it ‘The Nerd World’. Last year’s bonus brought the average remuneration up to almost half a million dollars.
Only five senior managers got offices of their own – the heads of Finance, Risk and Operations, along with Hoffmann, whose title was company president, and Quarry, who was the CEO. The offices were standard soundproofed glass cubicles with white venetian blinds, beige carpeting and Scandinavian furniture of pale wood and chrome. Quarry’s windows looked down on to the street and across to a private German bank, hidden from view behind thick net curtains. He was in the process of having a sixty-five-metre super-yacht built by Benetti of Viareggio. Framed blueprints and artist’s sketches lined his walls; there was a scale model on his desk. The hull would be lined all the way round, just below the deck, with a strip of lights he could turn on and off and change colour with his key fob while having dinner in port. He was planning to call her Trade Alpha. Hoffmann, who was happy enough in a Hobie Cat, worried at first that their clients might take this ostentation as evidence that they were making too much money. But as usual Quarry knew their psychology better than he did: ‘No, no, they’ll love it. They’ll tell everybody: “D’you have any idea how much those guys are making…?” And they’ll want to be a part of it even more, believe me. They’re boys. They’re a herd.’
Now he sat behind his model boat and peered over one of its three model swimming pools and said, ‘Coffee? Breakfast?’
‘Just coffee.’ Hoffmann went straight across to the window.
Quarry buzzed his assistant. ‘Two black coffees right away. And you should drink some water,’ he suggested to Hoffmann’s back. ‘You don’t want to get dehydrated.’ But Hoffmann was not listening. ‘And some still water, darling, and I’ll have a banana and some yoghurt. Is Genoud in yet?’
‘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?’
