‘This is the second time today that I thought I’d lost you,’ Frederick smiled.
‘Sorry, I must have dozed off. What time is it?’
‘A quarter past eight. I’ve booked a table for us at nine, so you’ve got enough time to have a shower, if you want.’
‘Thanks, I will.’
‘Okay, I’ll come back for you in half an hour. I need to have a word with Deiter, anyway.’ Frederick closed the door behind him.
Tom studied his face in the bathroom mirror; he was looking all of his 36 years. Despite his nap, and having slept on the plane, he was pale and dark circles had appeared under his eyes. He stripped off and let the steaming hot shower revive him.
Frederick, as punctual as ever, rang the doorbell just as Tom finished dressing. Noticing what Frederick had on earlier, Tom had chosen to wear dark trousers with a Dolce & Gabbana blazer and matching tie, mentally tipping his hat to his brother’s impeccable dress sense.
‘Much better, my dear boy,’ said Frederick, and made a show of inspecting him.
‘Thanks, I feel almost human again,’ Tom replied.
‘Good, because the restaurant I’m taking you to only caters for humans. Although there are other restaurants I know that are less particular, if you prefer?’
‘It’s your call,’ replied Tom laughing. ‘I’m in your hands.’
They were driven the short distance into the centre of Geneva in the back of Frederick’s Mercedes. His driver, Louis, seemed to know all the short-cuts to avoid any traffic hold-ups and they arrived at the entrance to the Hotel d’Angleterre in less than fifteen minutes.
The hotel doorman, dressed in a dark green tailcoat and top hat, was standing by the side of the car before it had time to come to a full stop.
‘Good evening, Herr Volker. It’s very nice to see you again,’ he said, opening the door on Frederick’s side. Tom waited patiently while he did the same for him.
‘And this is a colleague of mine, Professor Halligan. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him, as long as the food is up to standard,’ Frederick chided the doorman, who was obviously used to the banter.
‘I spoke with the head chef personally this morning, who told me that he was awaiting a delivery of the finest lobsters in the whole of Switzerland,’ retorted the doorman.
‘On your head be it! Lobster it is!’ Frederick pressed some money into the doorman’s hand as he held the door to the hotel open.
How did he do that with such fluidity? Tom mused to himself.
They made their way through the ornate reception, with its stuccoed ceilings and gilt detailing, and to the Windows restaurant, which was located at the front of the hotel overlooking Lake Geneva.
The Maître d' was waiting to greet them.
‘Bonsoir, Herr Volker, it’s a pleasure to see you again,’ he beamed, as they approached him.
‘Salut, Pierre,’ Frederick used the informal greeting between friends.
‘Your usual table, Sir?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but led them to a table by the window.
‘Thank you, Pierre. I’d like to introduce you to Professor Halligan, who’s just joined us from America,’ Frederick said, as they were being seated.
Pierre nodded cordially at Tom and handed him the menu.
‘A little bird told me that you have some particularly fine lobster on the menu this evening,’ Frederick said slyly.
‘You are as well-informed, as usual, Herr Volker. If you’ll just excuse me for a moment…’
Pierre backed away from their table, turned and marched through a door at the far end of the restaurant, returning seconds later with a large platter covered with a silver cloche. He removed the lid and presented them with two of the biggest lobsters Tom had ever seen. Their claws were tied with elastic bands but they were very much alive, obviously having just been lifted out of their holding tank in the kitchen.
‘Maine lobster,’ Pierre told them proudly. ‘Flown in from America today.’
Frederick chuckled. ‘I must say, Tom, they look a lot fresher than you did when I saw you earlier.’
‘Okay, okay, I’ll give you that one,’ Tom replied, sheepishly.
Pierre was still holding the tray out to them, waiting for a decision.
‘Not for me, thank you Pierre,’ said Tom, making his mind up. ‘It wouldn’t be very patriotic of me to eat one of my fellow Americans.’ He had never been very good with ‘live’ food at restaurants; he just didn’t have the killer instinct, he supposed.
‘I have no such qualms about eating one of your compatriots,’ Frederick snorted. ‘Tell Chef Michelle I’d like it grilled with beurre noire and lemon juice.’
‘And for you, Sir?’ Pierre cocked his head towards Tom.
He quickly scanned the menu and plumped for the filet mignon, served on a bed of truffle-oil mash and sautéed morel mushrooms. ‘Medium-rare,’ Tom added, before Pierre had time to ask.
‘And could you tell the Sommelier that we’d like a bottle of ice-cold Sancerre and a bottle of his finest Châteauneuf-du-Pape,’ Frederick concluded, without consulting the wine menu or Tom.
With that, Pierre discreetly left them to their deliberations, returning his prize catch to the kitchen to be despatched.
Tom took in his surroundings. The restaurant certainly lived up to its name — the vista was spectacular. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the front gave diners the best possible view of the imposing Jet d’Eau fountain, rising 450 feet into the air. Illuminated by spotlights on the shoreline, it resembled a magnificent Arabian stallion’s white tail, rising majestically from the lake.
The restaurant’s décor was no less impressive. Elegant crystal chandeliers reflected in mirrored walls above sumptuously studded charcoal leather seats, like stars above a pitch-black firmament, cleverly contrived to give diners the impression that they were eating outside.
‘So, what do you think of our little operation so far?’ Frederick asked, snapping Tom’s focus back to the dignified gentleman seated opposite him, whom he couldn’t help but like.
‘Well, it’s certainly bigger than the facility at Brookhaven and more… interesting,’ said Tom, non-committedly.
‘Interestingly good or interestingly bad?’
‘Both, I think. You’ve certainly managed to gather together an influential group of eminent physicists, who are clearly at the peak of their individual specialities. But they don’t seem to be working as a team.’
‘In-ter-est-ing,’ Frederick dragged the word out into its syllables.
Tom wondered if he’d said too much. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped the mark…’
‘Not at all, in fact I think you’ve hit the nail right on the head,’ Frederick cut in.
Tom smiled at Frederick’s heavily accented colloquialisms.
‘I’ve suspected as much since the death of Erik Morantz,’ continued Frederick. ‘Deiter’s a very good scientist, but a very bad man-manager.’
‘You could say that again!’ Tom interjected, but then regretted his forwardness.
‘It takes a very special person to take all the brain-power in one room and mould it into a unified intelligence. Morantz had the ability to do it, and that’s what I see in you, Tom.’
‘How did Professor Morantz die?’ Tom asked, side-stepping the compliment. ‘You can’t always believe what you read in the papers.’
Frederick gave a heavy sigh. ‘Of course, you have a right to know…’ He paused as the wine waiter filled the glasses with a choice of the red or white wine Frederick had ordered. ‘Erik was a brilliant scientist. It’s really because of all his hard work that we have achieved as much as we have. But, towards the end, things were getting on top of him. As I told you when I first met you, there had been a few operational setbacks, which he took personally. We had a problem with one of the heat shields a few months back, which was luckily detected in time, otherwise we would have had a major catastrophe on our hands. There had been other minor breakdowns in the past, but not on the scale of the heat shield failure. They’re all in the report I’ve asked Deiter to provide you with. You should have it on your desk in the morning.’ He took a large gulp of the white wine he had chosen.