Hester dropped through the building’s core at five hundred feet per second, the elevator slowing to a stop as it reached the end of the official line, the floor which would be used as sanctuary by the President in the event of anything unusual happening, inside the building or in the big, bad world beyond. He inserted his key into the control panel, twisted it, entered a PIN on the keypad, had his retina scanned. The elevator shuddered, then dropped down two floors. Hester took a radiation meter, clipped it to his lapel. And he went out.
To the reactor.
The black heart of Vierte.
It was hot, always steaming in this hell on Earth. The technicians wore lead-lined orange jumpsuits with lightning logos - two silver bolts on a black field - on their shoulders.
‘Where’s Salem?’
The head technician, Hugo, answered ‘He went up to the library, sir, just a couple of minutes ago.
This can’t end well. ‘Is his research done?’
Hugo consulted a screen, one with a marching graph, red arrows appearing and disappearing as they drew his attention to neutron levels, thermal outputs and risk of meltdown. He checked that data against notes on his clipboard.
‘Almost. I believe that he has sufficient data for his research. It will likely take weeks to analyse, even on our supercomputer uptown. But he will probably want to collect as much additional quantum data as possible before we go...’
‘Before we go bang. Talk me through the mechanics of that. One more time.’
‘Of course, sir. Consider the moderator, graphite. It is essentially the very substance as we use in pencils, the carbon that makes all living things function, the stuff of coal and diamonds. The graphite slows down the neutrons as they speed out from the uranium to react with nuclei and cause fission, the creation of new nuclei. Barium, plutonium, what have you. The process was discovered by Meitner, Strassman and Hahn back in Germany in 1938.’
‘German innovation. Of course.’
‘Yes, and this is how reactors have worked since the very first, Chicago Pile-1 back in 1942. Water is the most common moderator today. But you can’t beat carbon.’
‘Go on. Please.’
‘Once we withdraw the fuel rods, pure uranium, from the moderator, then we have another Chernobyl, another Fukushima. But this time right here, directly under Wall Street, Manhattan.’
‘How long?’
‘The process will take some time to make ready, sir. We have already begun making arrangements following the order from the Leader. The process is happening, but slowly, and reversible. On receipt of the final command, the moderator will be fully removed and it will be thirty minutes to chain reaction. Meltdown. Irreversible.’
‘Will you have enough time to escape?’
‘No, sir. I will remain here to ensure completion.’
You’re mad! ‘Very good. Keep it up. I must see Salem now.’ I must ensure that I have that thirty minute warning. Stay close to the congressman on Saturday night!
He left the technicians and their fiery insanity and entered the elevator. From hell to heaven.
The library was a place that Hester didn’t visit often. Not more than once a week, anyway. It wasn’t to his ‘taste’.
But Salem the accountant loved it there. All the Vierte moneymen and traders did. After a hard day spent making millions in commission by shoving rich men’s money around rigging interbank Libor rates and repo rates and fixing gold prices and crushing small investors, after all that, they liked to spend some money, touch the edge.
The main room was an immense library, walls of books on polished oak shelves, first editions of all the greatest stories, from Gutenberg’s first bible to Shakespeare, Hemingway and Orwell, around a central area filled with leather couches and a circular bar. Lighting was subdued and dance music - Daft Punk - filled the air. Maybe twenty customers tonight, bottles of Jack or Grey Goose or Krug, lines of cocaine on glass tables, and fish, escorts. Manhattan’s most expensive. Some of the women danced, some drank, some exposed breasts and giggled. All had happy faces on but there was a melancholy about them. The men were the big swinging dicks, the kings of the trading floors, buying size, hunting elephants all day. They were at play now, junked up, no downside. There were some male playthings too, the well-toned guys who graduated from Abercrombie, laughing too loud at the female traders’ jokes.
Glasses clinked.
The mailman, wearing his finest pinstripe suit, did a meander around the room, taking orders, building a book. Put an ounce of Colombia’s finest on the tape, they said. Okay, he said. After finishing his circuit, he made a call on his Darkphone.
At the far end of the space was a large statue from India, a Kama Sutra scene of a man intertwined with three women so it was impossible to tell where one began and another ended.
Behind the statue was a door with a security guard. Beyond that were the unspeakable rooms.
Hester shuddered, then saw Salem, sitting at the bar counter with a laughing, dark-haired woman who rubbed his bald head. He stood and stared until Salem sensed his gaze, turned, whispered to the woman so she left. Hester joined him at the bar, ordered a sparkling water.
‘You won’t have a drink?’
‘Not until everything is done. Maybe Sunday. I need to talk to you about your research.’
‘When do I need to shut it down?’
‘You have until tomorrow. The building will be crawling with agents the rest of the week and we don’t want any nuclear spikes registering.’
‘Won’t they read the reactor anyway?’
‘No, it’s well-shielded and if they detect any stray neutrons, they’ll put it down to Big Bill, the federal reactor under Battery Park, the one that powers all the Government facilities in New York, the one that so nearly went Bang! on 9/11. So, do you have enough data?’
‘I think so. It’ll take months to crunch the numbers, but I’m confident that we can develop a quantum model of economics. I’ve been observing neutrons and quantum particles popping in and out of existence for months now and collating their duality with stock market fluctuations, currencies and commodity prices.’
Hester decided that he did need a drink after all, ordered a vodka martini, dirty with some olive water. He held a hand up to Salem, waited for his drink and took a long taste.
‘That’s better. Now, you’ve lost me. What does all this mean?’
‘You know of Schrödinger’s cat?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Erwin Schrödinger, back in 1935, created a paradox to try to explain how two events can coexist at the quantum level. Cat in a box with a vial of poison. The poison may or may not be released by a quantum event, a radioactive decay occurring. Until the box is opened to the observer, the cat is simultaneously alive and dead.’
Hester finished his drink, called for another.
‘And what does all this have to do with economics?’
‘That’s the fascinating part. A real world example is the gambler. Until the last race is over or the final card is turned, the gambler exists in both possible worlds, gain and loss. What we’re doing here is all very experimental, but we’re aiming for an economic model where boom and bust can coexist, permanently. Profit and loss become one. No more cycles, collapses, depressions. Even better, we’re also examining the Heisenberg uncertainty principle and how it applies to the stock market. Basically, we can’t know both position and momentum at the one, specific time and by simply observing an event, we alter it. If we combine, Heisenberg with Schrödinger, well...’
‘Well, what?’
‘Well we’re looking at an economy that is both boom and bust but no observer can tell which. Only we and our friends will know. It’s what the markets have been waiting for.’
Salem talked on as Hester felt the alcohol radiate across his nervous system. This is insanity, quite clearly madness. But Sam is utterly committed to the project. What does that say?
‘Off. Tomorrow.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Today, 10am.’
‘Yes, thank you. Now, one more thing?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Ah, we have had a special delivery this evening,’ he nodded towards the door to the private area, inner circle only. ‘Some virgins are waiting back there. They are, hmm, most beautiful, perfect. Maybe you might, em, relax? Prepare for the events ahead?’
Hester ordered a third martini.
Morning came. Sophie was long gone when Jacob woke, a note on the kitchen counter, Gone fishing. Jacob felt a little disoriented in his own home, so he left early, enjoyed being alone as he walked to Wall Street. Crazy times. But he went the long way, west towards the Brooklyn Bridge for a coffee at the Seaport, so many of the buildings here covered in scaffolding and boards at ground level, fixing up after Hurricane Sandy. He bought a pack of cigarettes, smoked two in the clean morning air, liking the sensation of just sitting there, watching the ferries come in from Staten Island and Brooklyn, the gulls wheeling by, the glimpses of Ellis Island and Lady Liberty over towards Jersey. Then he strolled south along the water before joining the flow of upside dreamers, flocking to the temples of Mammon, prince of hell.
Jacob continued his valuations, made excellent progress. His only cause for delay was taking time to savour the wonders. He would never have the opportunity again, though Julia had assured him that, after the valuation was complete, Vierte would put the best works on show.
He finished the twentieth century collection, the lion’s share. Then he started on the late nineteenth century works. As he leafed through the folders, getting a quick appraisal of the breadth of the art, he stopped at a little painting. It was perfect, a masterwork. It was familiar.
He remembered then, and his heart paused for long enough to make his blood boil from lack of oxygen. His brain pounded with an instant, dreadful migraine. His world was torn.
He stepped back, found his phone and called his mother. She lived up in Westchester, away from the grind, with the trees and the squirrels and the Columbo reruns. No answer. End call. Try again. It double-buzzed again and again and again. There was no active voicemail, as she couldn’t grasp the concept.
So he put his phone aside and went back to his work. His hands shook, so he breathed deeply, practised mindfulness techniques, slowed the jitters.
Sophie didn’t call about lunch, so he left the building and went to Chipotle, where he joined a line and wondered whether he should go back or just run. They’ll hunt me down. He got a burrito bowl with chicken, brown rice, black beans and green salsa and took it over to Zuccotti Park, where he picked at it. He tried calling his mother again, still no answer. He got worried and had the feeling of being watched.
He plodded back to Vierte. Afternoon stretched towards evening and he got through the art, everything valued. All good. He went to the window and stretched, called mom again.
‘Hello? Jacob?’
‘Mom, thank God. I was worried.’
‘I was out with the girls, forgot my phone. I forget so many things these days, I think the phone radiation is affecting me, I -’
‘Mom, sorry, I need a favour.’
‘You need another loan?’
‘No, look, just listen for a minute, please. You know that painting that grandpa had? The one he brought back from the war?’
‘Yes. Your father never stopped talking about it. I’d love to have seen it.’
‘But there’s an old photo, grandpa’s living room, he and grandma are posing and the painting is behind them, really clear. Can you find it? Please?’
‘Well, I’m pretty sure it’s in that old shoebox with all the others. You said you were going to scan them all for me. When can you do that?’
I love you, mom. Don’t make me want to kill you. ‘Soon. Listen, can you find the photo and take a picture on your phone and send it to me? Right away?’
‘Oh, Jacob. The Rockford Files is about to start. You know I like that show.’
‘Mom, you’ve seen it a million times.’
‘But I keep forgetting the plot.’
‘Mom,’ his voice angry now, ‘just find the goddamned picture and send it to me. It’s really important.’
‘You don’t have to shout, Jacob. Fine. I’ll find it.’
‘Thank you.’
So he paced by the window, the gathering gloom matching his mood, until his phone pinged.
She’d found it. The photo was good. It was true, real. The painting that his grandfather had once owned was now in the possession of Vierte. He stared at his phone screen, zoomed in on the detail, wondering what exactly this meant. He felt something cold and smooth against the back his neck. As he turned his head, to glimpse a face, fifty thousand volts of electrical charge passed through his body and he collapsed in a sorry heap.
The funeral went as funerals go. Tears, prayers, cold earth, the unavoidable bitterness of death and how it affects the living.
Riverside Drive, the Church of the Intercession, the only functioning cemetery in Manhattan - the island’s real estate just too damned precious to be wasted on the dead. Only a church catering to the one percent could afford the luxury.
The congressman’s wife was inconsolable. My baby! Cathy! Oh Sam, what will we do? He watched her mascara run, black streaks, felt disgusted by her. But she was meeting requirements: her anguish was necessarily public. Perfect. You’re my alibi to get out of Vierte before the place goes pop. Your suicide will be a shocking tragedy. When I rush home and find you there on your bed, overdosed, sick, a sleeping beauty who just couldn’t take the world’s cruelty any more. Everyone will feel so sorry for me. Or maybe you’ll die? And Julia will offer me some comfort, perfect first lady material. Who’d guess she was my sister, is that what makes the sex so mindblowing, the dirty little secret? I’ll have Julia by my side. And I’ll be ready then, ready to eat the world. Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
‘Mr Speaker. Sir!’ Detective O’Brien was at his shoulder.
The group of mourners, about twenty people plus security, drew closer to the open grave as the coffin was lowered into the earth. A lone blackbird sang from a nearby cedar tree.
‘Oh, sorry Danny. I was in a different place.’
‘Can’t blame you, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Some disturbing news from downtown.’
‘Oh?’ I don’t need this.
‘The Homeland Security teams have been arriving and they’re scanning the area for nuclear, chemical and biological threats.’
Oh, that’s all it is. ‘Go on.’
‘Sir, a nuclear spike has been detected in the vicinity. We don’t know any more at this time. I thought you should know.’
‘Thank you.’ Goddamned Salem and his Schrödinger economy. Let it go up the chain of command and then there will have to be disclosure of the federal reactor. Could we pin everything on that? I wonder.
He turned back to the grave, moved closer as his wife threw a red rose in after the coffin, picked up a handful of dry brown dirt. She went to jump in, but he grabbed her arm in time. She fell down, but he had her, Danny and some others coming to his aid. She looked at him through tear-reddened, puffy eyes and in there, in among the pain and grief and bewilderment, there was a look.
You think I did this? Baby, you have so got to go.
Sophie was shattered after a long morning at the food markets, followed by a longer afternoon at the stove. Her day started with a 6am trip to New Fulton Fish Market, not at its convenient longtime location of Fulton Street, just a couple of blocks away, but to its new location way up in the Bronx. Like any Manhattanite, she was a little scared about leaving the island, if only for a couple of hours. Rod normally did the buying, back - back in the past.
The day before, Hester had assigned her a driver and town car, He’ll make sure you’re okay up there, a Vierte debit card for purchases and told her that he couldn’t wait for Saturday night, with the President coming down, and the Vice President, and they’re both big gourmets and art lovers, apparently, No pressure, so. She laughed, took the two best sous chefs with her.
‘I like the city at this hour,’ she said.
The purple sky, the fresh chill.
In the market, she got her old mojo back, forgot how much she loved the sourcing side of the restaurant business. This is important. She saw some familiar faces, a couple of Manhattan’s top chefs and restaurant managers. They didn’t see her. Bastards.
They spent their time walking the aisles, taking notes on what they wanted and where they would get it, planning to come back and make purchases Friday morning, marvelling as chefs do at every possible Atlantic fish species, plus a few from inland fisheries, the Caribbean and even farther away.
Lined up on icy beds were barracuda, barramundi, black grouper, blue marlin, bluefish, bronzini, carp, catfish , clams, cockles, cod , conch, crab, crawfish, Dover sole, eel, flounder, fluke, grouper, halibut, John Dory, king crab, king salmon, soft shell crabs, lobster, mahi mahi, marlin, monkfish, mullet, octopus, orata, oysters, parrot fish, perch, pike, pollock, pompano, red grouper, red snapper, shark, shrimp, skate, sea bass, snapper, sole, squid, sturgeon, swordfish, tilapia, trout, tuna, wahoo, whitefish, whiting.
Sophie and her team tried some oysters with a squeeze of lemon from every supplier before making a collective decision. She put in an order for fifty dozen, to be confirmed on Friday, delivered to Vierte Saturday morning. Price agreed, she used her card to pay fifty percent deposit. Her driver took the oysterman’s ID details in a little notebook. She took a couple of dozen to work on presentation and serving.
She treated the team to breakfast at a little stand that sold fried cod in batter with chunky chips, malt vinegar and sea salt. It was amazing, the crispy batter giving way to the firm white meat inside, the chips just perfectly soggy, soaking up the brown vinegar off the newsprint paper, London-style.
Then they chose the wild Atlantic salmon supplier, put in an order there for Friday’s best of the catch. An expensive commodity, when compared to the farmed version, but the difference in natural colour - You know that farmed salmon are fed with cancer-causing artificial colour in their pellets? There doesn’t tend to be much krill in their shit-choked estuaries - texture and, above all, flavour was worth every cent.
Finally, they sourced the most tender scallops that Sophie had ever tasted, straight out of Venus, like little lumps of salty butter, melting on the tongue. The guy at the stand was from Massachusetts, Provincetown, he said, right up at the tip of Cape Cod. Had a little frying pan, fried up samples on a gas stove with a big smile on his face. He got his order.
The left New Fulton and walked across to Hunts Point meat market, the world’s largest food distribution centre. This was meat heaven, the chilled smell of blood and flesh, something primeval. And you could see it in the faces of the men and women who worked here. We have the meat, we are the leaders of the tribe. All that was missing was a big fire in the middle of every endless aisle, some guys in white coats dancing around it. Seemingly endless rows of pig carcasses, lamb, beef cuts, hanging turkeys, boxed chickens, duck, veal sides, kosher this, halal that and every kind of offal and by-product imaginable.
They decided on their venison, farmed in Kansas and found a supplier of wild duck, bought up all his stock. Sophie chose some excellent pork, Berkshire hogs from Minnesota, their marbled meat just like the Japanese Kobe beef. They tried a little pulled pork in a soft roll, just some salt for flavour. Perfect.
‘We want to achieve this tenderness, guys, but without the sugar. We’ll have salt, pepper and a little sage. And time. We’ve got nice marbling in this pork. Can we push it to twenty-four hours in the oven?’
Finally they picked their pheasants. They’d already been hanging for three days, so they’d be perfect by Saturday.
All the meat was paid for and would be delivered that day. Prepping could be done on Thursday and Friday, along with some of the vegetables, allowing plenty of time Saturday to focus on the seafood and presentation.
They were back to Wall Street by eleven, after fighting the mid-morning traffic the full length of Manhattan, samples of the seafish in the trunk. And they got to work, shucking oysters, arranging the open shells on plates of crushed ice, introducing fancily-sliced lemon, increasing the room temperature to reflect fifty extra human bodies, seeing how long the ice lasted. Sophie brought in the head waiter and a couple of his best workers and they talked about the course of business, the presentation, all the tiny details. He knew what he was doing, a formal East European type, trained in Vienna. Her team worked on the salmon and scallops.
She tried calling Jacob to see if he wanted to join them for lunch, but his phone was off the grid. She shrugged and ate with the waiters. Much later, as she planned out the next three days, hour by hour until Saturday evening, the security guy, Hester, came round with a message.
‘Mr Johnson asked me to let you know that his phone is malfunctioning.’
‘Oh,’ said a tired Sophie. ‘That figures.’
‘And also to let you know that he’s left the building. With Julia. Some business uptown.’
‘Oh. Okay. Thanks.’ Jesus, Jacob, what was I thinking?
Hester left her there, alone with her notes. She wrote something, not sure what, just to do something. The ink ran out.
‘For fuck’s sake!’