“A great man once said that science lights a candle in the darkness of ignorance and fear. I have lit my candles here in Nevada, in Siberia, in Australia, in Canada and in northern Africa. My research centres specialise in fast-track, radical endeavours. I am particularly proud of the work being undertaken here, Jennifer.”
“Thank you, Mr Hartfield.”
Here it comes, she thought. The rub.
“I had a research centre in Scotland, once upon a time. It was my first. It was bombed back in 2003.”
“Yes, West Lothian,” said Jennifer. “My father worked there before moving to Oxford.”
“Your father?” he asked.
“David Proctor. He is an artificial life researcher.”
There was a long pause. Jennifer examined her nails. “Mr Hartfield,” she said, “is this about my father?”
Hartfield smiled. “My dear young lady, you are quite perceptive. Like your father. Have you seen him recently?”
“Not in five years.”
“Pardon me. I do not mean to intrude.”
Jennifer shrugged. “We don’t get along, I guess. Separated by a common language.”
“The language of science?”
“No, I meant English. You know, he’s a Brit, I’m an American.”
“But you were raised in England.”
“I did my growing up over here.”
Hartfield’s on-off smile surfaced again. “Jennifer, your father may be in some danger.”
“Danger? What kind of danger? Physical danger?”
“It pains me to say this, Jennifer. I believe your father has fallen in with the wrong people. I knew your father a long time ago. Somebody has tricked him. Now he is in danger.”
Jennifer wanted to leave the pavilion and enter the artificial sunshine once more. “What can I do?”
Hartfield turned to her. “Talk to him. Tell him to be careful. Tell him to stay in Oxford.”
Jennifer Proctor, who was twenty years old, had never dealt with a man like Hartfield before. But she was fiercely intelligent. “Mr Hartfield, may I ask you something directly, and you’ll forgive my frankness?”
“By all means.”
“Does the danger come from you?”
Hartfield laughed – like his smile, it was fake – and stood up. He shuffled his legs to stir their blood. “I must go. Can I rely on you impress upon your father the severity of the situation?”
She nodded once. He touched the rim of his nine-gallon hat and walked away.
When he was gone, Jennifer listened to the wind of the air conditioning system. She thought about her dream again. She thought about her father running down smoke-filled corridors calling for his dead wife.
Best Served Chilled
FIB Headquarters, Brussels
Sunday, 10th September 2023
Saskia Brandt examined her reflection. It was unfamiliar. She reached down and splashed some water over her face. There was something wrong. The water soothed the burn on her forehead. She touched it with her finger. It still throbbed; it still retained its heat, its energy.
Something wrong.
You are a detective, she scolded. Detect.
There was a bottle of hand-soap near the sink. The label read ‘Föderatives Investigationsbüro’, the Federal Investigations Bureau, German section.
She recalled the day’s events.
She had taken the lift to 51st floor and walked to her office. She had greeted some people. It was a hot day. Brussels was enjoying an Indian summer. Once in her office, she had told the computer to open the blinds…
“Yes, Saskia.”
“Dim the lights.”
“Yes, Saskia.”
Saskia wiped away the last of her tears. The window wall darkened. There was a picture on her desk: Simon, her English boyfriend. It rested on top of an antique blotter from the 1920s, which rested upon an austere wooden desk, which backed against the window wall.
“Why is it so hot in here? Lower the temperature by five degrees.”
Saskia took off her blouse and flapped it. The heat seemed to lean against her.
“The air conditioning is broken,” said the computer.
Saskia groaned and paced the room. From two corners, cameras followed her movements. Each kept a tight watch on her mouth.
“What happened?”
“I do not know. A repair man should arrive soon. Perhaps you could take a cold shower.”
She stopped and looked at one of the cameras. For the computer, her expression was statistically infrequent and quite unreadable. “Thanks for the advice.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Where is my secretary? Why didn’t she report it?”
There was a pause as the computer interpreted her words, a task made difficult by the jump in context. “Your secretary is on holiday. You are also on holiday.”
Saskia grunted. Her holiday had been one day old when she had been called by Jobanique, her immediate superior, who had an urgent case. Her boyfriend, Simon, had been cooking pasta for a romantic meal and, without discernible romance, thrown the pot across the room. Saskia’s forehead had been splashed and burned. She had walked from the room with a coldness that told both of them it was over, finally. When she had found a taxi for the airport, she had lain on the back seat and cried. But Simon had not seen her.
From Marseilles she had flown to Paris and caught a connecting flight to Brussels. The proverbial sleepless night in the flat. The so-typical call to her mother. The predictable whisky at four in the morning watching the rain. How stereotypical. How ordinary.
She walked into the second anteroom. It was a small kitchen. There was a refrigerator. It contained cold, still mineral water. She pulled the handle and her secretary fell out. A bottle of water rolled out too. Its label read ‘best served chilled’. As for the secretary, she was dead.
The Return
West Lothian, Scotland
Sunday, 10th September 2023
Around midday, the rain eased. A car arrived at the Park Hotel. The ruin of the West Lothian Research Centre lay beneath its foundations. Its entrances were capped. It lay dormant. No longer were approaching vehicles checked, visitors searched, or the expansive woodlands patrolled. The hotel was open for business as a retreat for writers and anglers.
Inside the
