Geneva, page 8
Pavel closes Mauritz’s drawer, creeps out under the billowing tendrils wafting across the walls of glass and closes the door behind him. 2.59 a.m. He watches Jan across the diameter of the hexagon; he’ll take the outer corridor first, tracking right, clockwise. Pavel descends the stairs and breaks left.
He slides along the corridor, in perfect synchronicity with Pager. He watches the torch disappear into the north stairwell, descending to patrol the lower level first. Without wasting a single second, Pavel heads towards Helen’s office. A shaft of moonlight slices across the floor, casting a silver-blue shard, severing her domain in two. He codes the door open and enters. The Schiller Institute intranet has its own high-security private server, but he has known for a while that Helen is working outside of that system, something expressly forbidden to all employees at Schiller. It is safe to assume that what he needs will be found on her hard drive. He is about to make a move to her desk when he notices, in the darkness, the tiny bead of a red light, flashing. What the hell? All cameras in the north wing have been disabled sequentially, he has made sure his back is covered, but this is something else. A webcam? Shit. No time to consider. He needs to get in and out. He pins himself to the wall, hiding in the shadows. Crouching below the line of the red light, he gets down onto his hands and knees and scuttles across the floor, disappearing under the desk. Snaking himself across a carpet of cables, he slides up into Helen’s seat without making a sound. His eyes remain glued to the red flashing light on the webcam. In his peripheral vision, a tiny movement causes his stomach to leap up into his mouth. He is not alone. He turns to stone, holding his breath as sweat beads his temples. He moves his eyes, trying to make out who or what is there in the room with him. Staring back are a pair of marble-black eyes and a halo of white. The black wall of glass reflects his own distorted face, caught in the act. You fool, you should have covered your head. Too late now. He exhales through his nose, punctuated by a thumping heart, and returns his focus to the desktop. Without waking the operating system, he slides a USB drive into the port with a click. A small box appears on screen with a command: ‘Download to disk without startup.’ Using his smartphone, he scrolls through Helen’s hard drive until he comes to an encrypted file. He taps in a command.
‘Unauthorised log-in, error code 976.’ A warning box appears on the screen and then another one pops up in red and flashes. ‘Error warning sent to user.’
Fuck. She’s set up an alert. Pavel closes the app on his phone. 3.11 a.m. Suddenly, he hears the elevator descending to the lower level. Jan Pager is on his way back up. Time to go. He removes the thumb drive and eases himself across the floor. The clouded moon is breaking through with pockets of light, dappling the floor and walls, but he’s already at the door. As he exits, his eyes flick to the webcam. The red light has turned green. It’s recording. Shit. The heat rises to his face and his throat constricts. In the blurred mirror of the glass wall, he sees Jan Pager’s torch on the move. Pavel makes a decision. He silently sprints down the corridor to his own office and taps in the code. He leaves the door open behind him; this will only take a second. He heads straight for his desk. Yanking open the bottom drawer, he reaches in. His hand scrabbles every inch of the space, groping for answers. His pistol has gone.
His heart is bursting out of his chest, triggered by a release of adrenaline, and the flight instinct takes hold. Pager’s light is approaching his office. He looks up above his head to a small ventilation hatch in the roof. Like lightning, Pavel climbs onto his desk and punches the grille open. He hauls himself up with all the strength he can muster. His feet disappear through the hole just as the beam of a torch scans the room. His hands press fast against the steel walls of the shaft as he strains to reach the vent at the top. His fingers find the lip and he pulls himself up. Out on the roof, the winter blizzard is blowing at gale force, ice and snow stinging his face and limbs. Pavel tenses and leans into the wind. He carefully replaces the roof hatch and slowly makes his way across the ice-encrusted roof. Heading towards the south side, he sees the woods in the distance. Both his body and heart are now cold as stone as he scales down the building and sprints towards his concealed vehicle. Soaked through to the skin and frozen to the bone, he reaches his car, fumbling for the key with frozen fingers. Safely inside, he whacks the heater to full blast and smashes his hands against the steering wheel in frustration. Leaning his head into the wheel, he attempts to calm down and thaw out. He reaches into his pocket to pull out the hip flask of whisky and takes a sip of the reviving liquor. Shit, he left his boots and coat inside. It’s too risky to go back now, the security cameras are operational, he’ll have to deal with that in the morning. For now, he needs to get away unseen – at least this turbulent night will help there. He has really screwed up. Helen’s computer may have alerted her of his attempted hack. And that webcam … This is messy, and Pavel is never messy.
But what really pierces him in the gut is that someone has been inside his office and stolen from him. They have diminished his power, but worse than that, they have exposed him. At the deepest level, Pavel Osinov’s instinct for self-preservation is primal, in a way that should put the fear of God into whoever did it. But there are many ways to destroy a person; a bullet is just one of them.
Chapter 18
The Landau Report
Is Altruism Dead?
Is anyone else tired of all the endless speculation and misinformation flying around on the internet? Anyone else tired of all the bad news? The politics, the self-obsession, all the doom-mongering and the complete and utter lack of altruism anywhere? I am. If you are someone who has one eye on real life and one ear tuned into social media, desperately listening to hear some good news but only being met with the breaking news of incessant negativity, then I’m here to throw you a lifeline.
The rumours are it’s not all bad. That something transformative is on the horizon. So I for one am intrigued to learn exactly what was presented at the top-secret Schiller meeting last night. As expected, only a select group of potential investors were in attendance, so one thing I do know is that this biotech must be ready to bring to market, it’s ready to move forward, so I feel we have a right to know exactly what this thing is and what it does. But like good children we will sit and wait patiently until it’s our turn to be told, right? Um … I don’t think so. If Mauritz Schiller truly has developed some earth-shattering tech that might change the face of medicine as we know it, we want to celebrate with him. For now, all I really have is the name: Neurocell. That and some tantalizing hints about what it might be able to do …
Let me start by asking you to consider this: how would you function without your smartphone? It’s always there in your hand, that therapeutic ping or whoosh as an email drops, the vibration in the pocket that makes you feel wanted, the serotonin release more potent than the human touch. You know exactly what I’m talking about as you read this with your thumb working overtime. OK, so now imagine you can go hands-free. Yes, we’ve already done that … right, Siri? Now, imagine Siri is inside your head. You don’t even have to speak, she’ll just register your thoughts as requests, as you reach for something, read your messages or look at a menu. Got that? And what else? Glance to the left and a window appears in your peripheral vision: texts, photos, web pages and whatever else you need. Death of the pub quiz!
Anyway, we will have to wait and see what Neurocell is really all about. But I’m hoping it’s worth the wait.
Today I will have exclusive access to Sarah Collier in a one-to-one interview. Professor Collier has been singled out to be our eyes and ears inside the Schiller Institute. In the next few weeks, Neurocell will be on everyone’s lips. But I’m getting to Sarah right now. I always promised you I would keep you informed, and that’s what I intend to do. We all want progress, we all want that miracle drug or piece of tech that will change everything. I want to find out what they have and why Sarah believes in it. Sarah is a notoriously private person, but I think if we are being asked to take her word as gospel with regards to Neurocell, then we need the truth, and that means asking some tough and personal questions. But don’t worry, Sarah, I’m a pussy cat, I don’t bite!
Check out Landauleaks.com for the full interview. Wish me luck.
Terri Landau
Chapter 19
Daniel
‘Daniel? Is it OK if I call you that?’
I’m riding shotgun with the Russian, my ski gear in the back. We’re on the road to Gstaad; yes, the place where all the royals and Madonna go to take selfies in salopettes. I’m sure the two of us will fit right in. We’ve been driving in silence for about an hour; he’s chewing and I’m pretending to write important emails on my phone.
‘Can I ask something personal?’
I’m really not feeling chatty. ‘Depends what it is?’
‘Why did Sarah retire when she was at the peak of her career?’ It’s a bold opener.
‘Yup, that is pretty personal, and my answer would be … probably best to ask her that question.’ He steps on the accelerator as we start the climb into the hairpin bends of the Rougemont valley, winding our way up the mountain. The snow is banked up on the side of the narrow pass as we enter a concrete avalanche passage.
I feel relieved. Sarah was much better this morning, much more herself. I didn’t want to leave her, but Helen has arranged to be there for the press interviews. She’s in good hands. A few more minutes of uncomfortable tension and I break the silence.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Just curious how it must be in a relationship with someone so … impressive.’ That’s bait, I guess.
‘Best keep your thoughts on the road.’ The retort is loaded with ‘stay in your lane’ but I suspect it gets lost in translation. Eventually, we pull up into a hotel car park on the outskirts of town. I get out of the car, unclip my Elan Wildcat rental skis from the roof rack and sit on the tailgate to pull on my Nordica Pro tech boots. Pavel emerges from the driver’s side already booted up, with a face like a slapped arse.
‘That was fast.’
He’s not really dressed for the mountain, jeans and a puffer. His skis have seen better days. The knackered bindings, repaired with duct tape, look like an accident waiting to happen. Although I suppose he must look at me and think ‘All the gear, no idea’.
‘Come on, let’s get up there. I need my fix of speed.’ I throw my skis over one shoulder and trudge off.
We grab a half-day pass at the Rübeldorf lift office and take the cable car to a mid-station. Then a short traverse down to a chair lift, and onwards and upwards to the higher altitudes towards Les Diablerets. The mountain looks deserted, and my palms start to sweat despite the cold.
‘There was a big storm last night. They haven’t had time to blast. I think half the runs might be closed until they have cleared the bulk of it.’ Pavel seems to be making excuses. Is he chickening out?
As we ride up in the chair lift, the view beneath our dangling feet is devoid of any skiers in the swirling snow below. Near the summit, the wind has picked up considerably and the visibility is virtually zero. Helmet on and goggles down, we are thankfully reduced to sign language. The chair suddenly stops in mid-air and we hang precariously from a cable encrusted with ice, which groans in the buffeting winds. A loud noise booms above us; the ice on the cable cracks and shatters above our heads, the shards raining down into the ravine below. I grip the safety bar, keeping my head low, and my gloves stick to the frozen metal. I peel them off, hunching further into a ball, protecting my face from the biting wind. Eventually, the chair lurches forward and we rise to the top. I indicate to Pavel that I will follow him and he speeds away, probably with the soundtrack to Live and Let Die playing in his head. My skis find the snow and I slowly move off on fairly shaky legs. The visibility is terrible; it’s a total whiteout. I can’t see the designated piste, or where the Russian has buggered off to. I slide forward cautiously, trying to remember all the technical details.
Suddenly, the ground beneath me seems to fall away and I am pelting down what feels like a wall of ice at a terrifying speed. I am out of control. I turn parallel to the right and dig in with my edges, slowing the fall, but the ice wall is unforgiving, and my skis are clattering, unable to grip the surface. I turn to the left, again no purchase. The sound of the wind is deafening.
The slope flattens and my acceleration slows as I feel the crunch and squeak of some packed powder beneath my skis. I shift into some more controlled turns. My thighs are burning like hell and my left ankle is agony, but I’m doing this. I have no choice; the only way is down. Through a pelting white veil of blizzard, I can vaguely see a figure waiting at the side. I think it’s him. As I approach, he nods then smirks at me as I pull up next to him, lungs exploding. I’m desperate for a rest, but he launches himself off again, pointing to the right. Not waiting to catch my breath, I do the same and soon realise we are at the top of a very steep icy schuss. I yield to gravity and squat to increase the free slide down to God knows where. Pavel is just about visible in front of me. The vibration of hard ice under my feet ricochets through my legs, sending shock waves up into my teeth. And then suddenly I’m not skiing, I’m falling. My body is propelled through the air for several seconds and all I can see is white. I’m a dead man.
Out of nowhere, the orange flash of a net hits me in the face. It’s the demarcation for the piste edge. My entire body flips and I’m thrown backwards as the tip of a ski catches a rock. The binding releases, spinning the ski at speed and hitting me in the face. I continue to pelt down an incline; the other ski plunges into a deep drift and yanks me around. I come to a jolting stop, my knee wrenching from the force. I bellow in pain, held in suspension over a deep ravine by the foot, like a hanged man. I flail, trying to find something to grip on to. The buried ski holds fast, but for how long? I feel the weight of my head and gravity pulling me down into the ravine.
Trying not to look down at the drop beneath me, I curl myself into a foetal position, fingers reaching until I feel something solid, a rock. Somehow, I haul myself to safety. I collapse onto my back, breathing hard. I stay there for what feels like minutes. Then a distant voice calls out to me.
‘Hold on, I’m coming!’ A few moments later and Pavel’s face appears in my eyeline. ‘Are you injured?’
I can just make out what he’s saying above the howling wind.
‘I don’t think so,’ I shout back. I remove my cracked goggles; thank goodness for the helmet. I’m seeing stars; the impact on my head was a close call, but I can move my neck, so I think I’m OK. I’ll be black and blue in the morning but at least I’m alive.
‘I need to get you down. You sure you’re not injured?’ Pavel yells over the blizzard.
‘I think I’m OK, but I have no skis.’
‘Don’t worry, I know what to do.’ Pavel grasps me around the waist, hauls me to my feet and leads me up the slope. We stagger over to where he has left his skis.
‘One each, take your pick.’
I lock my right boot into the binding and Pavel takes the left. My knee is throbbing but I don’t think it’s badly damaged. He holds me under his arm and around my waist, and like a pair of kids in a three-legged race, we slowly plough down to a slope-side restaurant about a hundred metres down the mountain.
Minutes later, I’m sitting at a small table, dripping onto the red check tablecloth as an open fire begins to thaw me out. I can’t stop shaking. The place is empty except for one surly barman. Pavel sits down opposite me, placing two mugs of vin chaud in front of us. I sip my wine in silence. For a good few minutes, we don’t exchange a word. I think we’re both in shock. But the hot wine works its magic and I sit back in my chair.
‘I think I need a bit more practice. Want to go round again?’ I smile, despite myself.
‘It was my fault. I knew the conditions were dangerous. We should not have gone.’ Pavel is staring at me.
‘Don’t worry, you nearly got me. Next time, eh?’
I’m not sure I deserve a next time. In that split second when I thought I was dead, I saw Maddie’s face and felt Sarah’s arms tight around me – then she let me go.
‘Sarah has Alzheimer’s. Early onset.’ Where did that suddenly come from? I can’t look at him. ‘That’s why she retired. She wanted to spend her last few years with me and our daughter, Maddie. We don’t know how fast she’ll decline.’
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea.’
‘It’s fine. It is what it is.’
‘I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Please don’t tell her that you know. She wants to keep things private. Especially here, with all this attention.’
The words are spilling out of me before I can think them through. I don’t tell him everything; some of this isn’t for him to know.
I watch the flames of the open fire spit and crackle. A log falls on the hearthstone and smoulders. I don’t move. I could happily burn here. At this moment, if I could change places with Sarah, I would.
I find my throat tightening into a sob. I try to swallow it back down and pretend the tears running down my face are drips from the thawing ice.
Chapter 20
Sarah
‘I hope you are feeling better after last night. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?’
I’m still in my dressing gown, in an armchair. Helen has her back to me as she makes coffee. If I’m honest, I still feel nauseous and dizzy. It’s like jet lag. I’m all cantankerous and on edge. But I lie and make my face look serene and in control.
