The Stolen (6 page)

The branches of the surrounding forest were half-tipped by the rays of the rising sun. A rabbit bolted in front of the caravan, its white tail disappearing into the undergrowth on the other side. Latcos came to a fork in the road. He stopped the engine and climbed out. There was an old wooden signpost in the centre and a neglected apple orchard in the middle of the fork – the abandoned land of a forgotten farm. Latcos stepped over the low wooden fence and picked several of the apples, still grasped tightly by the trees. He bit into one – the withered apple was delicious – then he squinted up at the road sign. The shape of the German letters looked right, and the Sinti who had told him the best way of getting across the border into Switzerland had described a fork like this. His eyes travelled down the signpost and settled on a small Rom sign carved into the wood: two carved strokes with a circle marking the one on the right. It was a
patrin
, a secret sign left for him by the others who had come before. He was in the right place; they would be in Zürich by the afternoon. He turned to watch the rising sun, a flat disc against which the gnarled branches rested, the twisted arms of old men against a red pillow, wondering what the end of the day would bring. Was his uncle still living? Would he find this lost half-brother? Just then Keja called from the caravan.

‘He's still alive, isn't he, Latcos?' She was lying on her side in the upper bed and he could see, even in the half-light, that her face was further marked by pain, a spider web of lines etched deeply into her skin. ‘The Nazi? He is still alive.'

Reaching up, he took her hand and stroked it.

‘Were you dreaming?'

‘Not dreaming,
seeing
. Now there's less time in front of me, the Past comes to steal my hope. But you know, don't you? You know whether he lives?'

‘I don't
know
. But I think there's a chance he's alive.'

Keja let out a great sigh. ‘No matter, he is cursed. I cursed him, you know, the most terrible curse of your great-grandmother's…' She sounded delirious. Latcos leaned over and touched her forehead. She was burning up. He reached for the morphine.

 

 

He was aggressively atheist, was Inspector Helmut Klauser. It was a reaction to his religious parents, country people who he believed had limited their lives and ambitions through the fear and superstition Christianity had imposed upon them. And the more horror he saw on the job, the more he thought he saw God for who he was – an absurd fairytale big daddy who would never rescue anyone, no matter how many times you asked, begged or pleaded. Yet now that he found himself facing a priest in a professional capacity it was hard not to like the earnest young man, his thin frame dwarfed by his robes, the shy stutter failing to hide the deep fear behind the large eyes. They sat in the detective's office the morning after the murder, the file on the dead gypsy open between them at a photo of the body lying in the morgue, the dead man's face clearly visible.

‘So, let me just get it straight for the record: you are Father Naverres and you are from the parish of Munsterhof. Does that mean you are based at St Peter's?'

‘Goodness no, there haven't been Catholic monks at St Peter's since the Thirty Years' War.' The priest smiled.

‘Sorry, I'm an atheist myself – one cassock looks just like the next.'

‘For an atheist perhaps,' the priest said dryly, ‘but many have died fighting over such differences.'

‘Another reason I'm an atheist.'

‘I will still pray for your soul.'

‘Thanks, but I wouldn't want to waste any more of your time, so let's get to the real reason you're here.' Klauser pushed the photograph across the table. ‘You recognise this man?'

‘Absolutely. He came to the parish about four days ago. He'd heard that I'd worked with his people.'

‘His people?'

‘He was a Kalderash gypsy – originally from the Ukraine, his people have been settled in Romania since the war. They are traditionally metalworkers, copper, gold… My fellow priests ridiculed me when I made the decision to try and reach out to the community: a gypsy in a congregation will clear a church quicker than a fire, they all said. All gypsies will lie to us, the
gadjés
, they claimed. They all regard this as their prerogative, they warned me. But I saw it as my spiritual duty, a calling if you like. I learned Romanes. I requested a posting in Subiu in Romania. Here, though, I work with the Jensch and Sinti.'

‘Fascinating,' Klauser said, trying to sound more interested, ‘but what did this particular gypsy want?'

‘He wanted me to write a letter for him – he was illiterate – to send to his sister if he was to be found dead.'

‘You have the letter?'

‘I sent it as instructed as soon as I heard about the murder.'

‘Can you tell me what was in it?'

‘That would be breaking my holy vow – the letter was a confession.'

‘And by not telling me you could be breaking the law.'

Stalemate. The priest directed his gaze somewhere above the detective's head as if searching for a possible halo.
He'll find no redemption there,
Klauser reflected. The young man's hands were clasped, knuckles white with tension, and fear rose off him like sweat. Some revelation in the letter had terrified him. Finally he spoke, his faltering voice barely a whisper.

‘The letter was an apology for failing to find the people who had stolen the great treasure of their family – he called it the statuette of Sara la Kali. And he said that if he died they should burn his
vurdon
as is the tradition, sell his house and paint the door so that his spirit wouldn't recognise it, and that his nephew should inherit his copper-making tools.'

‘Did the old man name the people who stole this… what did you call it?'

‘The statuette of Sara la Kali – the black Sara. She is the patron saint of the gypsies, famous for escorting Our Lady to shore and to safety in the town of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Gypsies from all over the world make the pilgrimage there. I had heard of the statuette – in Romania. An old woman told me of it once. It was the great secret of one of the clans there, so powerful that it was considered
bibaxt
– bad luck – even to whisper of it. It disappeared during the war.'

‘Interesting…' Klauser wondered what the priest wasn't telling him. ‘So, back to my original question, did the victim name the people he thought had stolen this
holy relic
?' He failed to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

‘No. But I think we can assume they are powerful in this town.'

‘Powerful enough to hire an assassin,' Klauser said. ‘So, did our victim have a name?'

‘Yojo, that was all he told me.' The priest looked back down at the photograph. ‘Was his death swift?'

‘Instant. I doubt whether he even knew.'

‘Then thanks be to God that I gave him his last rites.'

Surprised, the detective looked across at the young cleric. ‘That's a little unorthodox; he was only in his fifties. Why did he think he might die?'

‘He insisted.' Again, there was that gleam of terror.

‘They tried to kill him before they actually succeeded, didn't they?' Klauser hazarded. The priest didn't answer, but his face said everything. ‘Father, are you in need of police protection?'

‘Goodness no, I have higher powers protecting me,' he retorted, as if it were the detective who was in need of reassurance. And Klauser, to his chagrin, found himself feeling paternalistic towards the young cleric.

The large placard announcing the Kronos Laboratory Press Conference, Wednesday 13 January 1982, was placed outside the reception room of the Dolder Grand hotel, a white fairytale castle with turrets set high over Zürich on the Kurhausstrasse. Matthias loitered outside the door trying to relax, Jethro Tull blaring into the headphones of his Walkman. Dressed in a suit and the scarf Marie had knitted him years ago, a lucky talisman he seldom took off, he closed his eyes and let the music clear his mind. For a moment the world transformed into a kaleidoscope of shifting molecular structures – beautiful and sound in their spatial place and logic. A tap on the shoulder jolted him rudely back into the moment. An attractive woman in her late thirties looked up at him, grinning.

‘Good luck, Herr Professor, or should I say maestro?' she added cheekily referring to his swaying to the music. Taken aback, Matthias tried to place her.

Smiling at his confusion, she pointed to her nametag.

‘
Vogue
– I'm covering you as a von Holindt for the social pages, so your dancing skills are duly noted.' She winked then swirled round. With a sinking heart Matthias watched her sashay into the reception room; beautiful women terrified him, and it was still a surprise to him that he was attractive to women. As it was, his wife had originally seduced him, and in total, he'd only known a couple of women.
One like that would eat me for breakfast then spit me out for tea
, he concluded, determined not to be distracted. Through the half-open door he could see the rows of journalists, some seated already, dictaphones and notebooks at the ready. Now he felt the onset of stage fright. He glanced down at his presentation notes –
IBM can give them statistics, grind out the figures, but can they give them innovation?
No, Matthias reminded himself, beginning to pump up his confidence, Bern laboratories might present a good angle on the esoteric application of superconductivity, but when it came to commercial application… He tried to dismiss an intrusive sense of reality that threatened to undermine his bravado.
We will attract money but that might involve compromise and am I ready to compromise?
he wondered.
To sell out, to open Pandora's box on the whole question of superconductive weapons, even if the future of the company is jeopardised?

Just then Jannick hurried out, his pasty face framed by thinning white-blond hair, exuding a kind of uncoordinated anxiety.

‘Is Rolls Royce here yet?' he asked. ‘We can't delay much longer – Schmidt from
Der
Stern
has begun to mutter about trumped-up theatrics.' Arguably the most important guest of all, the rep from the aviation department of British Rolls Royce Group – superconductivity potentially having a direct impact on future aviation – hadn't arrived yet. They were interrupted by the ping of an elevator. Both Matthias and Jannick swung round as a tall, extremely thin man in a Savile Row suit, swinging a briefcase, stepped out of the elevator and hurried into the conference room. He was followed by a sinewy, deeply tanned compact man – who paused, smiled at the two scientists then, after pointing at his nametag, joined the others waiting behind the door.

Matthias swung back to Jannick. ‘Destin Viscon, International Alliance Industries? Never heard of him.'

‘French, I'm guessing. Ready, Herr Professor?'

‘As ready as I'll ever be.' He started towards the door but Jannick stopped him.

‘Wait! The scarf…' the Dane said. Reluctantly, Matthias pulled the ratty multi-coloured scarf off and handed it over.

 

 

Klauser stared at the blank page he'd just inserted into his typewriter then at the window, the bottom of which was misting up with condensation – it had started snowing. Finally, with a sigh, he looked across at last year's calendar that still hung on the back of the door – 1981. January was an impossibly buxom brunette posing on a sunlit beach in a purple bikini. There was something wholesomely old-fashioned about her allure that reminded him of his youth. Behind her an ocean wave about to crash hung suspended for all eternity.
That's how summers used to feel – as if they were never going to end,
he thought.

Also on the desk was a page of hand-scribbled notes: four names linked in a flow chart.

It read like some perverse shopping list, Klauser decided, as he got up and pulled out an old plastic yo-yo he'd inherited from his son after the divorce. Slipping the knot over his index finger, he started to play with it as he strolled round the room. It was his method of brainstorming. After five laps he realised he'd reached a mental impasse with the case. Reluctantly he wound the yo-yo back up. There was one thing, and one thing only, that would empty his mind enough for the next leap forward. He reached over and turned Miss January's photo to the wall, then picked up the phone and dialled his favourite brothel.

 

 

Matthias stepped onto the podium, his nervousness evaporating as he slipped into the role of performer. Despite a certain shame, as if such pleasures were by necessity furtive, he loved an audience. After a deep breath he leaned forward, searching for a face he knew, found one, focused on her then smiled.
The hook
. The journalist – a woman from
Le Monde
he'd once given an interview to, smiled back. With a flourish Matthias lifted the microphone off its stand.

‘Superconductivity – the Holy Grail of energy!' He paused dramatically, his voice booming off the curved wall. ‘It's what we all aspire to, the ability to create limitless energy at room temperature. To play God. And Lord knows we could do with someone playing God in these godless times,' he joked, parodying his own aggrandising, a tactic that helped win over the sceptics.

‘As you are all aware, this has been what I have dedicated fifteen years of my life to, working towards designing a superconductor that can operate on a commercial scale at room temperature. A superconductor that would transform the energy industry practically overnight, introducing a whole new realm of plasma physics – from the creation of hypersonic speeds in super-fast bullet trains, to jets that will be able to span the globe in a matter of hours, to small generators that could potentially supply whole continents, to affordable space travel. I would argue that such a breakthrough is imperative for the future of mankind if we are going to be able to sustain the growth of both industry and the world population.'

The audacity of his statement ignited a murmur that ran through the room, but this was exactly the effect he intended, a theatrical declaration that would make them sit up in their seats. Matthias paused, again running his gaze across the faces watching him – making it personal, as he milked the audience's reaction.

Three rows from the front Destin Viscon was watching closely – the physicist's hubris, his obvious enjoyment of holding court, the blind confidence. The inside information he had was that von Holindt was indeed potentially only months, maybe weeks from achieving his goal, but how much was bluff to secure funding? Destin had already assessed the personnel attending – DARPA was there, as was Roche, as well as a rep from the leading UK weapons manufacturers. Von Holindt had serious interest, and Destin serious competition. The physicist's voice interrupted his thoughts.

‘I wish I could tell you I'd cracked the code – but I believe that pleasure is only months away. What I
can
tell you is that I have achieved a Meissner effect and reached superconductivity at twenty-five kelvin using a ceramic-based alloy. And that is what I intend to demonstrate today.'

In front of him was a table with what appeared to be a child's toy train track – a simple loop of conventional magnetic material joined together to make a track. Several toy trains, painted with the name of Matthias's research company, sat beside a small flask of liquid helium. Matthias lifted one of the trains.

‘Inside this train is a magnetic coil wrapped round the conducting alloy. I will now cool it to twenty-five kelvin with the liquid helium… Carefully he opened the flask of helium and spooned it into the tiny train, then placed it onto the track of conventional magnetic material. As expected the magnetic field, triggered by the superconductor within the train, reacted to the magnetism of the train track and the train hovered a good twenty millimetres over the track. With a push of his finger the train sped on its way round and round the loop, frictionless and magically hovering over the track. No matter how many times he demonstrated superconductivity in this manner it was always wondrous to Matthias, as if he were manipulating the very rules of nature. Immediately a forest of hands shot into the air. Matthias pointed to the journalist from
Scientific American
, the most sceptical in the audience, knowing if he won him over, he would win the support of the rest. The journalist, a balding man in his late fifties, rose to his feet.

‘Herr Professor von Holindt, how do we know that the superconductive alloy is ceramic based?'

‘The composition of the alloy and its structure will be published the first of next month, along with an account of the research. You are welcome to a preview of that article, Mr Hawthorn.'

‘You are obviously very confident.'

‘Confident? I would say singularly driven and, although I do not intend to suffer the same fate as Icarus, I take some solace in the fact that his wings were evidently not powered by superconductivity.' A smattering of laughter rippled through the audience. Just then the female journalist took the floor. She stood, the impact of her manicured beauty rippling through the onlookers. ‘Herr Professor von Holindt, may I say how wonderful it is to see you restored to your entrepreneurial spirit since the tragic death of your wife.' Her professionally charming voice rang through the room.

Matthias's heart sank at the mention of Marie, remembering the way the paparazzi had harangued him at the time. Ignoring his reaction, the journalist continued smoothly, ‘But what I'd really like to know is: now that your father, Herr Christoph von Holindt, the patriarch of the famous Holindt Watch Company, has had a severe stroke, won't you be expected to give up your research and take over the family business?'

‘That is between my father and myself.' Matthias gave a forced smile. ‘However, if there are any genuinely
interesting
technical questions, I can be found in the reception room next door beside some excellent champagne and canapés.'

 

 

She rolled off him then reached for a cigarette. Klauser, fighting the soporific flush of post-coital bliss, watched her, comforted by her familiar bulk. Not a beautiful woman, but a well-built solid kind of woman, who, in another world, he might have ended up marrying. As it was, Celine had been his regular for over a decade and there were few secrets between them. She lit up, then got back onto the bed, the mattress groaning a little from her weight. A white circle of smoke floated across his vision as she exhaled, sailing its way up towards the ceiling.