The Fear Index

Hoffmann’s appearance, he allowed no flicker of it to show on his smiling face as he took over from Paccard and led le cher docteur up the stairs to the dining room.
    The atmosphere beyond the tall doors was that of a nineteenth-century salon: paintings, antiques, gilt chairs, gold swag curtains; the Empress herself would have felt at home. Quarry had reserved a long table by the French windows and was sitting with his back to the lake view, keeping an eye on the entrance. He had a napkin tucked into his collar, gentleman’s-club style, but when Hoffmann appeared, he quickly pulled it out and dropped it on his chair. He moved to intercept his partner in the middle of the room.
    ‘Professor,’ he said cheerfully for the others to hear, and then, more quietly, drawing him slightly apart, ‘where the bloody hell have you been?’
    Hoffmann started to answer but Quarry interrupted him without listening. He was fired up, eyes gleaming, closing the deal.
    ‘Okay, never mind. It doesn’t matter. The main thing is it looks as though they’re in – most of them, anyway – and my hunch is for closer to a billion than seven-fifty. So all I need from you now, please, maestro, is sixty minutes of technical reassurance. Preferably with minimal aggression, if you think you can manage that.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘Come and join us. You’ve missed the grenouille de Vallorbe , but the filet mignon de veau should be divine.’
    Hoffmann didn’t move. He said suspiciously, ‘Did you just buy up all Gabrielle’s artwork?’
    ‘What?’ Quarry halted, turned, squinted at him, perplexed.
    ‘Someone just bought up her entire collection using an account set up in my name. She thought it might be you.’
    ‘I haven’t even seen it! And why would I have an account in your name? That’s bloody illegal, for a start.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the clients, then back at Hoffmann. He looked utterly mystified. ‘You know what? Could we talk about this later?’
    ‘So you’re absolutely sure you didn’t buy it? Not even as a joke? Just tell me if you did.’
    ‘It’s not my kind of humour, old man. Sorry.’
    ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’ Hoffmann’s gaze swept jaggedly around the room: the clients, the waiters, the two exits, the high windows and the balcony beyond. ‘Someone’s really after me, Hugo. Out to destroy me bit by bit. It’s actually starting to bug me.’
    ‘Well yes, I can see that, Alexi. How’s your head?’
    Hoffmann put his hand to his scalp and ran his fingers over the hard, alien lumps of the stitches. He had a throbbing headache, he realised. ‘It’s started hurting again.’
    ‘Okay,’ said Quarry slowly. In other circumstances, Hoffmann would have found his English stiff upper lip in the face of potential disaster amusing. ‘So what are you saying here? Are you saying perhaps you ought to go back to the hospital?’
    ‘No. I’ll just sit down.’
    ‘And eat something, maybe?’ said Quarry hopefully. ‘You haven’t eaten all day, have you? No wonder you’re feeling peculiar.’ He took Hoffmann by the arm and led him towards the table. ‘Now you sit here opposite me, where I can keep an eye on you, and perhaps we can all change places later on. Good news out of Wall Street, incidentally,’ he added, sotto voce. ‘Looks like the Dow’s going to open well down.’
    Hoffmann found himself being helped by a waiter into a seat between the Parisian lawyer François de Gombart-Tonnelle, and Etienne Mussard. Quarry was flanked by their respective partners, Elmira Gulzhan and Clarisse Mussard. The Chinese had been left to fend for themselves at one end of the table; the American bankers, Klein and Easterbrook, were at the other. In between were Herxheimer, Mould, Łukasiński and various lawyers and advisers exuding the natural bonhomie of men charging hourly fees while simultaneously enjoying a free meal. A heavy linen napkin was shaken out and spread over Hoffmann’s lap. He was offered a choice of white or red wine by the sommelier – a 2006 Louis Jadot Montrachet Grand Cru or a 1995 Latour – but refused both. He asked for still water.
    De Gombart-Tonnelle said, ‘We were just discussing tax rates, Alex.’ He broke off a tiny piece of bread roll with his long fingers, and slipped it into his mouth. ‘We were saying that Europe seems to be going the way of the old Soviet Union. France forty per cent, Germany forty-five per cent, Spain forty-seven per