Greed, page 1
Marc Elsberg
* * *
GREED
Translated from the German by Simon Pare
Contents
Weighing Day
FIRST DECISION Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
SECOND DECISION Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
THIRD DECISION Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
FOURTH DECISION Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
FIFTH DECISION Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
SIXTH DECISION Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
SEVENTH DECISION Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
The Scent of Soil
Afterword and Acknowledgements
Q&A with Marc Elsberg
About the Author
Marc Elsberg is a former creative director in advertising. His debut novel, Blackout, a high-concept disaster novel, became a bestseller and one of the most successful thrillers of its kind in Germany. He has also given a TEDx talk on the subject of the horrors of an electrical grid failure. Blackout and his follow-up, Zero, were selected as Scientific Book of the Year in Germany. Blackout was named Thriller of the Month by The Times. His latest bestselling thriller, Greed, contains cutting-edge research on the economy. He lives in Vienna, Austria.
Also by Marc Elsberg
Blackout
Zero
For Alma, Alois, Anna, Elisa, Erik, Georg(s),
Itta, Kick, Lina, Matthias, Moritz, Nadine, Noah,
Paul, Phillip, Sebastian, Theo, Tibbe, Ursula,
Valerie and every other young person
Weighing Day
Dana wiped the sweat from her brow. She leaned on her scythe and surveyed the golden fields. The air was quivering in the midsummer heat. The bodies of the other mowers all around Dana swayed and twisted to the rhythmic swoosh of their scythes over the sea of waving heads of grain. It’s like a dance, Dana thought, a slow, contemplative dance of life and death – the infinite cycle of nature. Every swipe sent another swathe of grain toppling to the ground, the stalks collapsing like men in front of a firing squad. The reaping made a series of shifting steps in the landscape, and by the end of the day all that remained were dry spears poking randomly out of the soil like stubble on an old man’s wrinkled face. Scattered across the fields like tiny volcanoes stood stacks of sheaves, bundles of the precious grain that would feed Dana and her family through the winter and well into the following year. Until next spring, when the future would sprout from it again, just as it had year after year for generations.
It had been a good year for Dana and her family. The weather had been kind, and the cold winter had blanketed the seeds in the soil and frozen all the pests. The warm spring had then tempted the young shoots forth into the air, and the generous early summer rains had driven them upwards from the fertile soil. Storms, hail and fungal diseases had spared them, and there had been sufficient rain at the right times over the hot summer to endow them with the life force they would pass on to Dana and all the other villagers in the form of porridge and bread and maybe the occasional slice of cake.
She gazed over at Bill’s field in the distance where the heads of grain were dancing too. Dana wondered how he’d fared this year.
Weighing day was here. Once the sheaves had dried in the fields, Dana and her family gathered them together and carried them back to the farm. There, over hours of backbreaking toil, they threshed the grain from the chaff, then put the usual share in their granaries as food for the winter and seed for the following year. The remainder was poured into sacks and driven by ox-cart to the market in the local town. Dana was looking forward to the hive of activity there. She, Ann, Bill, Carl and the other farmers in the village would each sell their crop to the highest bidder and when they returned home that evening they would celebrate as they did every year.
Bill greeted them with a broad grin at the merchant’s scales. A stocky man with blue eyes and thick black hair, he was heaving his own sacks on to the scales under the trader’s beady eye.
‘Bet I brought in more than you this year,’ he said. ‘More than any of you.’
Dana shrugged. She didn’t care if she’d harvested more or less than Bill. She’d be satisfied if they could all make it through the winter and if her crop earned her enough money to send her children to school and make some urgent repairs to the house. She might even be able to afford a new cow.
The merchant weighed her produce too.
‘You had a good year,’ he said with an appreciative nod to Dana. ‘Your yields are much higher than Bill’s.’
‘We both had a good year,’ she answered. ‘No pests, no drought, no hail and no floods.’
She could tell Bill was disappointed and angry though. He’d always been desperate to be the best, even as a child. He would always measure himself against others, issuing challenges, preferring competition to play. He was determined to win every race and stand at the top of the podium. He farmed the same rich soils as Dana and grew the same grain. They had the same amount of land; they lived under the same sky with the same weather conditions. Bill worked just as hard as Dana and was equally good at what he did. He was a nice guy, in fact, and good-looking to boot. Dana was quite attracted to him, but she found his belligerent approach to life tedious, especially because she was more successful than he was.
‘There’s something fishy going on!’ Bill cried. ‘I slaved away all year, I did everything properly, but you still had a better harvest than I did – three years in a row now! How does this keep happening?’
These idiot men and their thin skins! Any minute now, he’ll be accusing me of witchcraft! Might be time to let him know my little secret, Dana thought.
FIRST DECISION
* * *
‘At the beginning of all life, a few self-copying chemical structures obey a mathematical principle that gives them an advantage.’
Will Cantor
1
The streets were on fire. Thick clouds of smoke drifted over the asphalt. Molotov cocktails exploded like falling meteorites in balls of flame and acrid smog. Occasional black ghosts darted through the fog, vanishing from one place only to reappear in another.
‘It’s full-scale war out here!’ roared Melanie Amado, ducking.
A dark mass of people emerged from the haze behind her. Heads, shoulders, placards and banners.
‘What do those say?’ Ed Silverstein asked, zooming in on the banners the demonstrators were holding up.
End greed! Homes for people, not property for speculators! Yes to universal basic income! I can’t afford a lobbyist! Peace now! Death to capitalism! Climate action now!
Amado clutched her microphone more tightly. ‘With the bursting of the corporate debt bubble, the risk of a financial crisis has reached a similar level to that of 2008. The climate crisis is escalating. Hundreds of thousands of people have poured into the streets of Berlin to merge with climate activists and protest against a new era of austerity designed to save banks and companies from bankruptcy. Who would’ve imagined a few short months ago that something like this could happen here? Suddenly, Greece is everywhere!’
The camera panned round to show a second force emerging from the smoke.
‘Skinheads in bomber jackets!’ Silverstein yelled into the camera. Some of them were wielding lengths of two-by-four and baseball bats. Foreigners out! Germany first! We are the people! Shaved heads and enraged faces filled the screen.
Alongside the action, Jeanne’s eyes glowed green as she applied mascara to her lower lashes. Parts of the enormous bathroom mirror doubled as a TV screen. The novelty fittings these luxury hotels dreamed up …
Meanwhile, Amado continued her report. ‘We’re receiving reports of similar scenes in citi
As Jeanne redid her upper eyelashes, Bloomberg TV switched to two excitable journalists in New York City. Alongside Jeanne’s reflection, police officers were chasing and beating protesters through billowing waves of smoke. Flares bathed this running battle in a demonic red light.
‘Whole neighbourhoods of a dozen American cities are ablaze after an alt-right sympathizer ploughed his car into a demonstration, killing three African Americans.’
Jeanne reached for her highlighter as Bloomberg TV showed images of warships, missiles being fired and smirking Asian politicians hurrying into meetings.
‘And there may be worse to come,’ explained the newsreader. ‘Manoeuvres by the Chinese fleet around Asia are riling China’s neighbours to the point of conflict. Saudi Arabia, Iran and Israel are escalating their proxy wars on the Arabian Peninsula, and we’ve heard the first threatening noises about deployment of nuclear weapons. Russia is stoking resentment in Eastern Europe. The global situation is at its most explosive since the end of the Second World War.’
Footage of dust-caked children bleeding among ruined buildings after a bombing raid somewhere in the Middle East.
Jeanne refreshed her lipstick.
Pictures of European and US politicians at lecterns, in wood-panelled rooms or around conference tables. ‘In this febrile climate, a long-planned meeting of foreign ministers in Berlin has been hastily upgraded to a crisis summit, and prominent politicians, central bankers and business leaders are converging on Germany from around the globe.’
Jeanne drew herself up to her full height, checked her hair and smoothed her silk evening dress, which had been tailor-made for her by Sook Dwala’s studio in Los Angeles. She could easily have passed for a model.
Ted Holden appeared in the mirror. Wearing a tuxedo, he was only a little taller than her and a few years older. Jeanne was momentarily confused. Was Ted on the news or genuinely standing behind her?
‘Ready?’ he asked. He was real.
She nodded as he ran his eyes almost imperceptibly over her body.
‘And now back to Mel and Ed in Berlin …’ Flames licked at the gutted carcass of a car.
2
In spite of the air conditioning, the stench of burnt material mingled with the aroma of the limousine’s leather upholstery. Will Cantor nearly retched. The car windows muffled the sound of smashing bottles, thunderous detonations and roared slogans outside. But how would they stand up to someone chucking a cobblestone? he wondered, clinging to the safety handle.
The car had slowed to walking pace. A short distance ahead of them a car was blazing at the side of the road. Will’s chauffeur, a stocky moustachioed German man in his mid-fifties, cursed.
Next to Will Cantor on the back seat, Herbert Thompson was holding his phone tightly in one bony old hand. ‘We’re driving through hell on earth, dammit!’ he rasped. ‘We’ll talk again later.’
Like so many elderly people, he seemed to have shrunk until his suit no longer fitted him. The shoulders were too broad and the sleeves hung from his arms in folds. He might have looked altogether lost on the luxurious leather seat were it not for the sense of coiled energy contained in his small frame.
Scraps of what the person on the other end of the line was saying filtered from the phone. ‘… most influential economists of the modern era … sabotaging your own scientific career …’
‘Rubbish!’ snapped Thompson. ‘This is the most important work I’ve ever done.’
The response was lost amid the noise of the demo.
‘My life’s work?’ cried Thompson. ‘This’ll be my first real achievement. These ideas will end the madness out there by creating greater equality and prosperity for everyone. They’ll listen to a Nobel Prize winner.’
‘… laughing stock!’ the voice screamed down the line.
Thompson pressed hard on the button to end the call and slid the notes for his speech back into the briefcase on his lap. ‘What an idiot!’ he barked. ‘He’s scared we’re going to tread on the toes of people like him.’ He squinted through the car window at the banners. ‘What do those say?’
‘“End greed! Death to capitalism!”’ Will said.
‘They’ve no idea what capitalism is, and yet they still blame it for everything that’s gone wrong with the world,’ Thompson said, then continued with a dry laugh, ‘Ha! We’re in just the car for a situation like this. If only they knew who was driving towards them right now …’
Will found the thought rather less amusing. If they had only known, the next Molotov cocktail would be landing right on the roof of their shiny limousine.
Thompson revelled in this kind of disturbance. He’d never been one to shy away from confrontation. Competition, the survival of the fittest as the basis of success, growth and wealth: his economic models illustrating these concepts had earned him the Nobel Prize twelve years previously. He was a living legend and VIPs, the powerful and the rich of this world sat up and took notice when he spoke.
Thompson’s phone display lit up. With an exasperated snort he took the call. ‘What now?’ he yelled. ‘I explained in detail that we have proof. Mathematical proof!’
Will pricked up his ears.
‘… save you from this stupidity …’
Thompson’s face was flushed with rage. ‘A paradigm shift is on its way. You won’t stop me making my speech – no one will.’ He switched off his mobile abruptly and put it in his pocket.
The chauffeur glanced round for guidance. A few cars were stuck in line behind them, the hindmost one swallowed up in an advancing wall of smoke. More figures emerged from the gloom.
Too stiff to turn around in his seat, Thompson asked, ‘Who is it now?’
Will peered out of the back window. ‘The banners say “Foreigners out” and “Germany first”.’ Some of the figures were making the Nazi salute. ‘Nazis!’ he cried.
Thomas shook his head slowly. ‘These neo-nationalist movements shouldn’t really come as any surprise. Dismantle the nation state over decades and soon all you have left is nationalism, and now it’s primed to blow up in our faces – national, international …’
His words were interrupted by something crashing into the rear window. Will recoiled in shock. Shards of glass, held together by the paper label, slid down the window. Not a petrol bomb, just a beer bottle.
Thompson had also flinched, but now he addressed the driver. ‘I’m on my way to make an important speech with the potential to end all this.’ He patted the man’s shoulder. ‘What was it Churchill said? “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” So keep driving, my good man.’
3
He was sitting in a hotel room in front of a screen full of lines of code when the message flashed up on the display of the sixth of eight old-fashioned-looking keypad mobiles arranged in two neat rows of four to the left of the computer. He’d drawn the semi-transparent orange-brown Venetian blinds and could therefore see very little of the city below. It could have been a metropolis anywhere in the world, but in this case it was Singapore.
He opened the message and immediately recognized who’d sent it. As usual, he didn’t know the sender’s real name – he was writing under a standard pseudonym. They had met on a regular Darknet platform where all kinds of specialists offered their anonymous services for hire. He was a hacker.
The message consisted of a single word: Icarus.
He booted up a second laptop. His fingers darted over the keys and within seconds he’d dispatched the order. Seven windows popped up on the screen so he could verify that his instructions were being executed correctly. The pop-ups showed folders with documents from a variety of email programs and servers via which his software had monitored every update in the months since his client had first made contact. It had also installed little time bombs in all the files in expectation of a simple command that would delete every single one, should that prove necessary.
