‘Would you like another drink?’
‘No.’ He pressed his fingers to his mouth and suppressed a burp. ‘I must get on. Thank you.’ He bowed slightly, in an old-fashioned way. ‘It really has been most interesting to see your work.’ He stopped and stared again at the executed murderer in his glass box. ‘What exactly did he do, this poor fellow?’
‘He killed an old man who caught him stealing his electric blanket. Shot him and stabbed him. He was on death row for twelve years. When his last appeal for clemency was turned down, he was executed by lethal injection.’
‘Barbaric,’ muttered Leclerc, although whether he meant the crime, the punishment, or what she had made out of it, she was not entirely sure.
AFTERWARDS LECLERC SAT in his car on the opposite side of the street, his notebook on his knee, writing down as much of what he had just been told as he could remember. Through the window of the gallery he could see people milling around Gabrielle, her small dark figure lent an occasional touch of glamour by a camera flash. He decided he rather liked her, which was more than he could say for her exhibition. Three thousand francs for a few bits of glass with a horse’s skull scribbled on them? He blew out his cheeks. Dear God, one could buy a decent working animal – the whole thing, mark you, not just the head – for half that amount.
He finished writing and flicked back and forth through his notes, as if by a process of random association he might find some clue that had so far eluded him. His friend at CERN had taken a quick look at Hoffmann’s personnel file and Leclerc had jotted down the highlights: that Hoffmann had joined the team operating the Large Electron- Positron Collider at the age of twenty-seven, one of the few Americans seconded to the project at that time; that his head of section had considered him one of the most brilliant mathematicians on site; that he had switched from the construction of the new particle accelerator, the Large Hadron Collider, to the design of the software and computer systems needed to analyse the billions of pieces of data generated by the experiments; that after a prolonged period of overwork his behaviour had become sufficiently erratic for his fellow workers to complain, and he had been asked to leave the facility by the security department; and that finally after extensive sick leave his contract had been terminated.
Leclerc was fairly sure that her husband’s mental breakdown had come as news to Gabrielle Hoffmann: another of her endearing qualities was an obvious inability to lie. So it seemed Hoffmann was a mystery to everyone – his fellow scientists, the financial world, even his wife. He circled the name of Hugo Quarry.
His thoughts were interrupted by the noise of a powerful engine, and he glanced across the road to see a big charcoal-coloured Mercedes with its headlights on pulling up outside the gallery. Even before it had come to a stop, a bull-like figure in a dark suit jumped out of the front passenger seat, quickly checked the road ahead and behind and then opened the rear door. The people on the pavement, with their drinks and cigarettes, turned round lazily to see who was emerging, then looked away without interest as the unknown newcomer was escorted swiftly through the doors.
9
Even when we are quite alone, how often do we think with pleasure or pain of what others think of us – of their imagined approbation or disapprobation; and this all follows from sympathy, a fundamental element of the social instincts. A man who possessed no trace of such instincts would be an unnatural monster.
Hoffmann’s non-existent public profile had not been achieved without effort. One day, quite early in the history of Hoffmann Investment Technologies, when the company still only had about two billion dollars in assets under management, he had invited the partners of Switzerland’s oldest public-relations firm to breakfast at the Hotel President Wilson and offered them a deal: an annual retainer of 200,000 Swiss francs in return for keeping his name out of the papers. He set only one condition: if by any chance he was mentioned, he would deduct 10,000 francs from their fee; if he was mentioned more than twenty times in a year, they would have to start paying him. After a lengthy discussion, the partners accepted his terms and reversed all the advice they normally gave their clients. Hoffmann made no public charitable donations, attended no gala dinners or industry awards ceremonies, cultivated no journalists, appeared on no newspaper’s rich list, endorsed no political party, endowed no educational institution and gave no lectures or speeches. The occasional curious journalist was steered for background to the hedge fund’s prime brokers, who were always happy to take the credit for its success, or – in cases of extreme persistence – to Quarry. The partners had always kept their full fee and Hoffmann his anonymity.
It was, therefore, an unusual experience, and frankly an ordeal for him to attend his wife’s first exhibition. From the moment he stepped out of the car and crossed the crowded pavement and entered the noisy gallery, he wished he could turn around and leave. People he suspected he had met before, friends of Gabrielle’s, loomed up and spoke to him, but although he had a mind that could perform mental arithmetic to five decimal places, he had no memory for faces. It was as if his personality had grown lopsided to compensate for his gifts. He heard what others were saying, the usual trite and pointless remarks, but somehow he didn’t take them in. He was conscious of mumbling things in reply that were inappropriate or even downright odd. Offered a glass of champagne, he took water instead, and that was when he noticed Bob Walton staring at him from the other side of the room.
Walton, of all people!
Before he could take evasive action, his former colleague was making his way through the crowd towards him, determined to have a word, his hand extended. ‘Alex,’ he said, ‘it’s been a while.’
‘Bob.’ He shook his hand coldly. ‘I don’t believe I’ve seen you since I offered you a job and you told me I was the devil come to steal your soul.’
‘I don’t think I put it quite like that.’
‘No? I seem to recall you made it pretty damn clear what you thought of scientists going to the dark side and becoming quants.’
‘Did I really? I’m sorry about that.’ Walton gestured round the room with his drink. ‘Anyway, I’m glad it all turned out so happily for you. And that’s sincerely meant, Alex.’
He said it with such warmth that Hoffmann regretted his hostility. When he had first come to Geneva from Princeton, knowing no one and with nothing except two suitcases and an Anglo-French dictionary, Walton had been his section head at CERN. He and his wife had taken him under their wing – Sunday lunches, apartment-hunting, lifts to work, even attempts to fix him up with a girlfriend.
Hoffmann said, with an effort at friendliness, ‘So how goes the search for the God particle?’
‘Oh, we’re getting there. And you? How’s the elusive holy grail of autonomous machine reasoning?’
‘The same. Getting there.’
‘Really?’ Walton raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘So you’re still going on with it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Gosh. That’s brave. What happened to your head?’
‘Nothing. A silly accident.’ He glanced over towards Gabrielle. ‘I think maybe I ought to go and say hello to my wife…’
‘Of course. Forgive me.’ Walton offered his hand again. ‘Well, it’s been good talking to you, Alex. We should hook up properly some time. You’ve got my email address.’
Hoffmann called after him, ‘Actually, I haven’t.’
Walton turned. ‘Yes you have. You sent me an invitation.’
‘An invitation to what?’
‘To this.’
‘I haven’t sent any invitations.’
‘I think you’ll find you have. Just a second…’
It was typical of Walton’s academic pedantry, thought Hoffmann, to insist on such a minor point, even when he was wrong. But then to his surprise, Walton handed him his BlackBerry, showing the invitation plainly sent from Hoffmann’s email address.
