Robert Harris - The Fear Index

Quarry paused in his tale to let Leclerc’s cheap ballpoint catch up with his flow of words.

And to answer his other questions: no, he was not sure exactly when Gabrielle had moved in with Hoffmann: he and Alex had never seen one another much socially; besides, he had been travelling a lot that first year. No, he had not attended their wedding: it had been one of those solipsistic ceremonies conducted at sunset on a Pacific beach somewhere, with two hotel employees as witnesses and no family or friends in attendance. And no, he had not been told that Hoffmann had had a mental breakdown at CERN, although he had guessed it: when he went to the loo in his apartment that first night, he had rummaged through Hoffmann’s bathroom cabinet (as one does) and found a veritable mini-pharmacy of antidepressants – mirtazapine, lithium, fluvoxamine – he couldn’t remember them all exactly, but it had looked pretty serious.

‘That didn’t put you off going into business with him?’

‘What? The fact he wasn’t “normal”? Good Lord, no. To quote Bill Clinton – not necessarily a fount of wisdom in all circumstances, I grant you, but right in this one – “normalcy is overrated: most normal people are assholes”.’

‘And you have no idea where Dr Hoffmann is at this moment?’

‘No, I do not.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘At lunch. The Beau-Rivage.’

‘So he left without explanation?’

‘That’s Alex.’

‘Did he seem agitated?’

‘Not especially.’ Quarry swung his feet off the desk and buzzed his assistant. ‘Is Alex back yet, do we know?’

‘No, Hugo. Sorry. Incidentally, Gana just called. The Risk Committee is waiting for you in his office. He’s trying to get hold of Alex urgently. There’s a problem, apparently.’

‘You surprise me. What is it now?’

‘He said to tell you that “VIXAL is lifting the delta hedge”. He said you’d know what that meant.’

‘Okay, thanks. Tell them I’m on my way.’ Quarry released the switch and looked thoughtfully at the intercom. ‘I’m going to have to leave you, I’m afraid.’ For the first time he felt a definite spasm of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He glanced across the desk at Leclerc, who was regarding him intently, and suddenly he realised he had been gabbling away much too freely: the copper didn’t seem to be investigating the break-in any more so much as investigating Hoffmann.

‘Is that important?’ Leclerc nodded at the intercom. ‘The delta hedge?’

‘It is rather. Will you excuse me? My assistant will show you out.’

He left abruptly without shaking hands, and soon afterwards Leclerc found himself being conducted back across the trading floor, preceded by Quarry’s glamorous red-headed gatekeeper in her low-cut sweater. She seemed in a hurry to get him out of there, which naturally made him slow his pace. He noticed how the atmosphere had changed. Here and there around the room several groups of three or four were gathered in anxious tableaux around a screen, with one person seated, clicking on a mouse, and the others leaning over his shoulders; occasionally someone would point to a graph or a column of figures. And now Leclerc was reminded much less of a seminary and more of doctors assembled at the bedside of a patient displaying grave and baffling symptoms. On one of the big TV screens a network was showing pictures of an aircraft crashing. Standing beneath the TV was a man in a dark suit and tie. He was preoccupied, sending a text message on his mobile phone, and it took Leclerc a moment to recollect who it was.

‘Genoud,’ he muttered to himself, and then more loudly, moving towards him, ‘Maurice Genoud!’ at which Genoud looked up from his texting – and was it Leclerc’s imagination, or did his narrow features tense slightly at the sight of this figure bearing down on him from his past?

He said warily, ‘Jean-Philippe.’ They shook hands.

‘Maurice Genoud. You’ve put on weight.’ Leclerc turned to Quarry’s assistant. ‘Would you excuse us a moment, mademoiselle? We’re old friends. You’ll see me out, won’t you, Maurice? Let me look at you, lad. Quite the prosperous civilian nowadays, I see.’

Smiles did not come naturally to Genoud; it was a pity he bothered, thought Leclerc.

‘And you? I’d heard you’d retired, Jean-Philippe.’

Leclerc said, ‘Next year. I can’t wait. Tell me, what on earth do they do here?’ He gestured to the trading floor. ‘Presumably you can understand it. I’m too old to get my head around it.’

‘I don’t know either. I’m just paid to keep them safe.’

‘Well you’re not doing a very good job of it!’ Leclerc clapped him on the shoulder. Genoud scowled. ‘I’m only joking. But seriously, what do you make of this business? A bit odd, wouldn’t you say, having all that security and then allowing a complete stranger to wander in off the street and attack you? Did you install it, I wonder?’

Genoud moistened his lips before replying, and Leclerc thought, he’s playing for time; that’s what he used to do back in the Boulevard Carl-Vogt when he was trying to think up some story. He’d distrusted the younger man ever since the days when Genoud was a rookie under his command. There was, in his opinion, nothing that his former colleague would not do – no principle he wouldn’t betray, no deal he wouldn’t cut, no blind eye he wouldn’t turn – if he could make sufficient money and stay just within the law.

Genoud said, ‘Yes, I installed it. What of it?’

‘There’s no need to get all defensive. I’m not blaming you. We both know you can surround someone with the best security in the world, but if they forget to use it there’s nothing you can do.’

‘That’s true. Now if you don’t mind, I ought to get on with my work. This isn’t the public sector, you know – I can’t stand here gossiping.’

‘You can learn a lot by gossiping.’

They moved towards reception. Leclerc said, man-to-man, ‘So what’s he like, then, this Dr Hoffmann?’

‘I hardly know him.’

‘Enemies?’

‘You’d have to ask him.’

‘So there’s no one here dislikes him that you’ve heard about? No one he’s fired?’

Genoud didn’t even pretend to think about it. ‘No. Enjoy your retirement, Jean-Philippe. You deserve it.’

The risk committee of Hoffmann Investment Technologies met for the second time that day at 16.25, Central European Time, fifty-five minutes after the opening of the US markets. Present were the Hon. Hugo Quarry, chief executive officer; Lin Ju-Long, chief financial officer; Pieter van der Zyl, chief operating officer; and Ganapathi Rajamani, chief risk officer, who took the minutes and in whose office the meeting was held.

Rajamani sat behind his desk like a headmaster. Under the terms of his contract he was not permitted to share in the annual bonus. This was supposed to make him more objective about risk, but in Quarry’s opinion it had simply had the effect of turning him into a licensed prig who could afford to look down his nose at big profits. The Dutchman and the Chinese occupied the two chairs. Quarry sprawled on the sofa. Through the open blinds he watched Amber leading Leclerc towards reception.

The first item noted the absence, without explanation, of Dr Alexander Hoffmann, company president – and the fact that Rajamani wanted this dereliction of duty officially minuted was, to Quarry, the first indication that their chief prig officer was preparing to play hardball. Indeed, he seemed to take a grim delight in laying out just how perilous their position had become. He announced that since the last meeting of the committee, some four hours earlier, the fund’s risk exposure had increased dramatically. Every warning indicator in the cockpit was flashing red. Decisions needed to be taken fast.