“Thank you so much for letting me know, Martin. Did he work with you on the CMS too?” Penny asked, playing the naïve card.
“No, my dear. I tried to get him to work with us after I got his resume from you, but they delegated his skills to the Alice team. I suppose they needed more expertise than us,” he teased.
Penny knew there was an endearing competition between the scientists and engineers of the two detectors since the super Collider’s inception. She had contacted Martin Westdijk when the threats started against the Institute, using the premise that Albert Tägtgren was her brother-in-law. With subterfuge she convinced Westdijk and his colleagues that Albert would be the right acquisition for their cause, to facilitate his infiltration of the laboratory effectively.
“My husband is going to take this very hard,” she sighed, sounding positively morose.
“Again, my dear Penny, my sincerest condolences. I told him that very morning to wait for me so that we could have dinner, but he chose to leave in the middle of the day,” the old professor complained. “Agh, had he only stayed till I got off he would never have taken that bloody road.”
“Oh, Martin, we shouldn’t bemoan things we cannot change, especially things that are not our fault,” Penny consoled the old man she met years ago when he worked with her husband on a project in the Netherlands. She fondly recollected their late nights in the recreational room, playing billiards and drinking. Not one for particle physics she would just sit and listen to their playful arguments about quantum gravity and Einstein’s unified field theory. It was fascinating how much they knew, eventually sounding like inebriated gods challenging the science of Creation. But after the end of the project their roads just drifted apart over the years to come; that was, until Penny needed a favor from Professor Westdijk to get Albert into CERN. If he only knew what the Swedish engineer was really doing there.
“Well, Martin, thank you again for giving me the real story. I don’t trust the media or the police with the truth, as you know,” she said, lighting one of her long, slender cigarettes.
“You are welcome. I know. Your family deserved to hear it from a friend, not some bloody investigator or reporter. I bid you adieu, my dear Penny. We’ll speak soon once I have some time off to catch up, yes?” Professor Westdijk said.
“That’d be lovely, Martin. My love to Gerda.”
Penny sat bewildered, resting her chin on folded hands as she leaned on her elbows. It was too uncanny that her spy ended up dead right after he spoke to the media, after he spoke to Sam Cleave. Her heart raced with rage. Sam Cleave had betrayed her trust. It was not the first time he was associated with questionable organizations. Reputedly he was a member of the Brigade Apostate, a clandestine order of scientists, soldiers, historians and moguls — in fact, influential men and women the highest of their respective disciplines and vocation. She did not know what they stood for, really, but any club that recruits so many brilliant people in so wide a spectrum globally was to be wary of, she thought.
Penny picked up the phone. “Caitlin, please get Foster to come and see me. Thank you.”
Christian Foster was a free agent — quite literally. He worked for the Cornwall Institute on many occasions before but respectfully declined becoming a permanent fixture in their security arena. He worked by contract only and strictly adhered to specific rules. Sometimes he would even take on assassination jobs, but they left a bad taste in his moral mouth. Christian was just what his name implied. His God-fearing ways made him very trustworthy, but for those organizations who needed a little chilli with their serving of punishment, he was not the best chef. He loathed unnecessary violence.
“Christian, so good of you to come,” Penny nodded as the man she summoned knocked on the open door of her office.
“Good afternoon, Miss Richards. How are you?” he smiled.
“I’m not too well, I’m afraid. That is why I need to discuss something with you,” she said cordially. “Please, sit.”
“That is the downside of my reputation, regrettably,” he replied as he sat down opposite her at her desk.
“What is that?” she asked, gesturing to her assistant outside the doorway.
“My name only comes up when something unpleasant is afoot,” he lamented. “It would have been nice to be called to rescue someone for a change.”
Penny looked at the very attractive Nordic looking man. He was remarkable on so many levels, even more by his dress sense. “Well, Christian, I never find it unpleasant to be paid a visit by you, if that is any consolation,” she flirted lightly.
“It is quite the reprieve for me, yes, for what I am usually summoned for,” he chuckled. “What is on your mind, Miss Richards?”
Penny sighed. She took the time to look at his exceptionally tall and powerful frame, clothed in all black. Around his neck hung a diamond Christian cross, the crusts of the pristine gem embedded in silver or steel, the difference of which was indiscernible to Penny’s untrained eye. Nevertheless it was beautiful against the black background of his Oriental shirt.
“We hired a journalist to do a harmless interview for us. Now the man he interviewed has perished under suspicious circumstances and the journalist has disappeared. But he vanished after being seen on a security monitor trespassing in a section of CERN he had no permission for, Christian,” she informed him, feeling uncomfortable under his narrow grey eyes. “He was seen recording footage of something rather valuable to this institute, something that needed to remain undiscovered,” she explained.
Christian’s gaze tore from Penny. He looked up at the ceiling, mulling the information over. Christian Foster’s ash blond hair fell to his chest, looking even lighter against his dark clothing. Penny admired his angelic semblance.
‘If he were an angel, I bet he’d be Michael,’ she thought, just before his face sank back to lock eyes with her.
“Do you have a credit card trail, something to steer me to a point of origin from where I might track him? I doubt the nuclear laboratory in Switzerland would have any trace of him that they would be willing to share with me?” he asked Penny.
“Actually, Christian, that was precisely the route I was going to suggest you employ to start you on your way. Would that be too difficult for you?” she asked innocently, masking her reverse psychology with a tone of accommodation.
“No, it is doable, Miss Richards. I was just hoping not to have to resort to guile to obtain my information,” he shrugged with a smile. “Besides, it would take a great deal more time than to just find a last stay or purchase to locate him.”
“I understand. That was my thought exactly. The problem is that my hackers and investigating staff could not find any evidence of card activity or cell phone communication since Sam Cleave disappeared,” she said.
“Perhaps he was killed as well,” Christian suggested.
“That also crossed my mind, especially since he had gathered an immense amount of detail about our covert operation. Still, I need to find him, dead or alive, just to make sure what hand he is holding in this very sensitive gamble,” Penny explained.
“I see,” Christian Foster yielded finally. “Let me get my paperwork to your secretary in an hour and as soon as I received payment accordingly, I shall commence my search.”
He rose from his chair and straightened his clothing, towering over her. Penny shook his hand, always her favorite part of meeting with him, “Be in touch, Christian. You expertise is invaluable in this matter and we will be grateful for your swift and urgent attention.”