The Fear Index

by Robert Harris

  Moynier said, ‘A man next door swears he heard sounds of a struggle sometime around three. There’s also blood by the bed. I’m provisionally declaring it a murder.’

  ‘Smart work,’ said Leclerc.

  The pathologist coughed to cover his laughter.

  Moynier didn’t notice. He said, ‘I was right to call you? Do you think this is the man who attacked the American banker?’

  ‘I should say so.’

  ‘Well then, I hope you don’t object, Leclerc, but I was here first, and so I must insist that this is my case now.’

  ‘My dear fellow, you’re welcome to it.’

  Leclerc wondered how the occupant of this squalid room could possibly have come to intersect with the owner of a $60 million mansion in Cologny. On the bed the dead man’s possessions had been individually bagged in clear plastic and laid out for inspection: clothes, a camera, two knives, a raincoat apparently slashed at the front. Hoffmann had worn a raincoat like that when he went to the hospital, Leclerc thought. He picked up a mains adaptor.

  He said, ‘Isn’t this for a computer? Where is it?’

  Moynier shrugged. ‘There isn’t one here.’

  Leclerc’s mobile phone rang. It was in his jacket pocket. He couldn’t get at it through his damned rabbit suit. Irritably he unzipped the coveralls and pulled off his gloves. Moynier started to protest about contamination, but Leclerc turned his back on him. The caller was his assistant, young Lullin, who was still in the office. He said he had just been looking at the afternoon log. A psychiatrist, a Dr Polidori in Vernier, had called a couple of hours earlier about a patient of hers showing potentially dangerous schizophrenic symptoms – he had been in a fight, she said – but when the patrol got to her surgery he was gone. His name was Alexander Hoffmann. The psych didn’t have a recent address, but she had given a description.

  Leclerc said, ‘Did she mention whether he was carrying a computer?’

  There was a pause, a rustle of notes, and Lullin said, ‘How did you know that?’

  HOFFMANN, STILL CLUTCHING the crowbar, hurried up the steps from the basement to the ground floor, intent on raising the alarm about Rajamani. At the door to the lobby he stopped. Through the rectangular window he saw a squad of six black-uniformed gendarmes, guns drawn, jogging in heavy boots across the reception area towards the interior of the building; following them was the panting figure of Leclerc. Once they had passed through the turnstile, the exit was locked and two more armed police stationed themselves on either side of it.

  Hoffmann turned and clattered back down the steps and into the car park. The ramp up to the street was about fifty metres away. He headed for that. Behind him he heard the soft squeak of tyres turning on concrete and a large black BMW swung out of a parking bay, straightened and came towards him, headlights on. Without pausing to think, he stepped out in front of it, forcing it to stop, then ran around to the driver’s door and pulled it open.

  What an apparition the president of Hoffmann Investment Technologies must have presented by now – bloody, dusty, oil-smeared, clutching a metre-long crowbar. It was little wonder the driver couldn’t scramble out fast enough. Hoffmann threw the crowbar on to the passenger seat, put the automatic transmission into drive and pressed hard on the accelerator. The big car lurched up the ramp. Ahead, the steel door was just beginning to rise. He had to brake to let it open fully. In his rear-view mirror he could see the owner, transformed by adrenalin from fear into rage, marching up the ramp to protest. Hoffmann locked the doors. The man began pounding on the side window with his fist and shouting. Through the thick tinted glass he was muffled, subaqueous. The steel door opened fully and Hoffmann transferred his foot from the brake to the accelerator, overstepping it again in his anxiety to get away, kangarooing the BMW out across the pavement and swerving on two wheels into the empty one-way street.

  ON THE FIFTH floor, Leclerc and his arrest squad stepped out of the working elevator. He pressed the buzzer and looked up at the security camera. The usual receptionist had gone home for the evening. It was Marie-Claude who let them in. She put her hand to her mouth in dismay as the armed men rushed past her.

  Leclerc said, ‘I am looking for Dr Hoffmann. Is he here?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Will you take us to him, please?’

  She led them on to the trading floor. Quarry heard the commotion and turned round. He had been wondering what had happened to Hoffmann. He had assumed he was still with Rajamani and took his lengthening absence as a good sign: it would be better, on reflection, if their former chief risk officer could be persuaded not to try and shut them down at this critical moment. But when he saw Leclerc and the gendarmes, he knew their ship was sunk. Nevertheless, in the spirit of his forebears, he was determined to go down with dignity.

  He said calmly, ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’

  ‘We need to speak to Dr Hoffmann,’ said Leclerc. He was swaying from left to right, standing on tiptoe, trying to spot the American among the astonished quants who were turning from their computer screens. ‘Will everyone please remain where they are?’

  Quarry said, ‘You must have just missed him. He stepped outside to speak to one of our executives.’

  ‘Outside the building? Outside where?’

  ‘I assumed he was just going out into the corridor …’

  Leclerc swore. He said to the nearest gendarmes: ‘You three, check these premises.’ And then to the others: ‘You three, come with me.’ And finally to the room in general: ‘Nobody is to leave the building without my permission. Nobody is to make any phone calls. We shall try to be as quick as possible. Thank you for your co-operation.’

  He walked briskly back towards reception. Quarry chased after him. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector – excuse me – what exactly has Alex done?’

  ‘A body has been discovered. We need to speak to him about it. Forgive me …’

  He strode out of the offices and into the corridor. It was deserted. He had a funny feeling about this place. His eyes were searching everywhere. ‘What other companies are on this floor?’

  Quarry was still at his heels. His face was grey. ‘Only us, we rent the whole thing. What body?’

  Leclerc said to his men, ‘We’ll have to start at the bottom and work our way up.’

  One of the gendarmes pressed the elevator call button. The doors opened and it was Leclerc, eyes darting, who saw the danger first and yelled out to him to stay where he was.

  ‘Christ,’ said Quarry, gazing at the void. ‘Alex …’

  The doors began to close. The gendarme held his finger on the button to reopen them. Wincing, Leclerc got down on his knees, shuffled forwards, and peered over the edge. It was impossible to make out anything at the bottom. He felt a drop of moisture hit the back of his neck, and put his hand to it and touched a viscous liquid. He craned his head upwards to find himself staring at the bottom of the elevator car. It was only a floor above him. Something was dangling off the bottom. He drew back quickly.

  GABRIELLE HAD FINISHED her packing. Her suitcases were in the hall: one big case, one smaller, and one carry-on bag – less than a full-scale removal but more than just an overnight stay. The last flight to London was due to take off at 9.25, and the BA website was warning of increased security after the Vista Airways bomb: she ought to leave now if she was to be sure of catching it. She sat in her studio and wrote Alex a note, the old-fashioned way, on pure white paper with steel nib and Indian ink.

  The first thing she wanted to say was that she loved him, and that she was not leaving him permanently – ‘maybe you’d prefer it if I did’ – she just needed a break from Geneva. She had been out to see Bob Walton at CERN – ‘don’t be angry, he’s a good man, he’s worried about you’ – and that had been a help because for the first time really she had begun to understand the extraordinary work he was trying to do and the immense strain he must be under.

  She was sorry for blaming him for the fiasco of her exhibition. If he still
insisted he wasn’t responsible for buying everything, then of course she believed him: ‘But darling, are you sure you’re right when you say that, because who else would have done it?’ Perhaps he was having some kind of breakdown again, in which case she wanted to help him; what she did not want to do was learn about his past problems for the first time from a policeman, of all people. ‘If we’re going to stay together we’ve got to be more honest with one another.’ She had only come out to Switzerland all those years ago intending to work as a temp for a couple of months, yet somehow she had ended up staying and fitting her existence entirely around his. Maybe if they had had children it might have been different. But if nothing else, what had happened today had made her realise that work, even the most creative work, for her was no substitute for life, whereas for him she thought it was exactly that.

  Which really brought her to her main point. As she understood it from Walton, he had devoted his life to trying to create a machine that could reason, learn and act independently of human beings. To her there was something inherently frightening about that whole idea, even though Walton assured her his intentions had been entirely noble (‘and knowing you, I’m sure they were’). But to take such a vaulting ambition and place it entirely at the service of making money – wasn’t that to marry the sacred and the profane? No wonder he had started to behave so strangely. Even to want a billion dollars, let alone possess such a sum, was madness in her opinion, and there was a time when it would have been his opinion too. If a person happened to invent something that everyone needed – well okay, fair enough. But simply to gain it by gambling (she had never understood exactly what his company did, but that seemed to be the essence of it), well, such greed was worse than madness, it was wicked – nothing good would come of it – and that was why she needed to get out of Geneva, before the place and its values devoured her …

  On and on she wrote, forgetting time, the pen gliding over the hand-woven paper in her intricate calligraphy. The conservatory grew darker. Across the lake, the lights of the city began to glint. The thought of Alex out there with a broken head gnawed at her.

  I feel awful going when you’re ill, but if you won’t let me help you, or the doctors properly examine you, then there’s not much point in my staying, is there? If you need me, call me. Please. Any time. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I love you. G x

  She sealed the note in an envelope, wrote a large A on the front and carried it towards the study, pausing briefly in the hall to ask her driver-bodyguard to put her cases in the car and take her to the airport.

  She went into the study and propped the envelope on the keyboard of her husband’s computer, and somehow she must have pressed a key by accident, because the screen came to life and she found she was looking at an image of a woman bending over a desk. It took her a moment to realise it was her. She looked behind her and above, at the red light of a smoke detector; the woman on the screen did the same.

  She tapped a few more keys at random. Nothing happened. She pressed ESCAPE and instantly the image shrank into the top left-hand corner of the screen, part of a grid of twenty-four different camera shots, bulging outwards from the centre slightly, like the multiple images of an insect’s eye. In one, something seemed to be moving faintly. She adjusted the mouse and clicked on it. The screen was filled with a night-vision image of her lying on a bed in a short dressing gown, her legs crossed and her arms behind her head. A candle glittered as bright as a sun beside her. The video was silent. She unfastened the belt, slipped off the dressing gown, and naked held out her arms. A man’s head – Alex’s head, uninjured – appeared in the bottom right quadrant of the screen. He too began to get undressed.

  There was a polite cough. ‘Madame Hoffmann?’ enquired a voice behind her, and she dragged her horrified gaze away from the screen to find her driver framed in the doorway. Behind him loomed two black-capped gendarmes.

  IN NEW YORK at 1.30 p.m., the New York Stock Exchange began to experience such volatility that liquidity replenishment points increased in frequency to a rate of seven per minute, taking an estimated twenty per cent of liquidity out of the market. The Dow was off by more than one and a half per cent, the S&P 500 by two. The VIX was up by ten.

  1 Mary Shapiro, evidence submitted to Congress. The background detail of what happened on the US financial markets over the next two hours is entirely factual, drawn from Congressional testimony and the joint CFTC and SEC report, Findings Regarding the Market Events of May 6, 2010.

  17

  The most vigorous individuals, or those which have most successfully struggled with their conditions of life, will generally leave most progeny. But success will often depend on having special weapons or means of defence …

  CHARLES DARWIN, On the Origin of Species (1859)

  ZIMEYSA WAS A nowhere land – no history, no geography, no inhabitants; even its name was an acronym of other places: Zone Industrielle de Meyrin-Satigny. Hoffmann drove between low buildings that seemed to be neither office blocks nor factories but a hybrid of both. What went on here? What was made? It was impossible to say. The skeletal arms of cranes stretched over construction sites and lorry parks deserted for the night. It could have been anywhere in the world. The airport was less than a kilometre to the east. The lights of the terminals imparted a pale glow to a darkening sky corrugated with low cloud. Each time a passenger jet came in low overhead, it sounded like a rolling wave breaking onshore: a thunderous crescendo that set Hoffmann’s nerves on edge, followed by a whining ebb, the landing lights receding like flotsam between the crane spars and flat roofs.

  He treated the BMW with extreme care, driving with his face up close to the windscreen. There were a lot of roadworks, cables being laid, first one lane shut and then the other, creating a chicane. The turning to Route de Clerval was on the right, just past a distribution centre for auto parts – Volvo, Nissan, Honda. He indicated to turn into it. Up ahead on the left was a petrol station. He pulled up at the pumps and went into the shop. CCTV footage shows him hesitating between the aisles, then moving decisively to a section selling jerry cans: red metal, good quality, thirty-five francs each. The video is time-lapsed, making his actions seem jerky, like a marionette’s. He buys five, paying for them in cash. The camera above the till clearly shows the wound on the top of his head. The sales assistant subsequently described him as being in an agitated state. His face and clothes were streaked with grease and oil; there was dried blood in his hair.

  Hoffmann said, with a terrible attempt at a smile, ‘What’s with all the roadworks?’

  ‘It’s been going on for months, monsieur. They’re laying fibre-optic cable.’

  Hoffmann went out on to the forecourt with the jerry cans. It took him two trips to carry them to the nearest pump. He began filling them in turn. There were no other customers. He felt horribly exposed standing alone under the fluorescent lights. He could see the sales assistant watching him. Another jet came in to land directly over their heads, making the air tremble. It seemed to shake him from the inside out. He finished filling the last can, opened the rear door of the BMW and shoved it along to the far side of the back seat, stacking all the others in a row after it. He returned to the shop, paid one hundred and sixty-eight francs for the fuel and another twenty-five for a flashlight, two cigarette lighters and three cleaning cloths. Again he paid in cash. He left the shop without looking back.

  LECLERC HAD BRIEFLY inspected the body at the bottom of the elevator shaft. There was not much to see. It reminded him of a suicide he had once had to deal with at the Cornavin railway station. He had a strong stomach for that kind of thing. It was the unmarked corpses who looked at you as if they should still be breathing that got under his skin: their eyes always seemed so full of reproaches. Where were you when I needed you?

  In the basement he talked briefly to the Austrian businessman whose car Hoffmann had stolen. He was outraged, seemed to hold Leclerc more responsible than the man who had committed the crime – ‘I pay my taxes here
, I expect the police to protect me’ and so forth – and Leclerc had been obliged to listen politely. The licence number and description had been circulated as a high priority to every Geneva police officer. The entire building was now being searched and evacuated. Forensics were on their way. Madame Hoffmann had been picked up at the house in Cologny and was being brought over for questioning. The office of the chief of police had been notified: the chief himself was at an official dinner in Zurich, which was a relief. Leclerc was not sure what else he could do.

  For the second time that evening he found himself climbing multiple flights of stairs. He felt dizzy with the effort. There was a tingling in his left arm. He needed to get himself checked out: his wife was always nagging him about it. He wondered about Hoffmann and whether he had killed his colleague as well as the German in the hotel room. On the face of it, it seemed impossible: the safety mechanism of the elevator had plainly failed. But equally it was a remarkable coincidence, one had to say, for a man to have been at the scene of two deaths in the space of a few hours.

  Arriving at the fifth floor, he paused to recover his breath. The entrance to the hedge fund’s offices was open; a young gendarme was standing guard. Leclerc nodded to him as he went past. On the trading floor, the mood seemed not merely shocked – he would have expected that, after the loss of a colleague – but almost hysterical. The employees, previously so silent, were huddled in groups, talking animatedly. The Englishman, Quarry, almost ran over to him. On the screens, the numbers continued to change.