He pulled open the curtains and opened the windows. Cold air filtered through. He shivered. At least it would freshen up the place. He sat down in an armchair and winced. He reached behind him and pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. He glared at it, then dialled the voicemail service and put the phone to his ear.
He took a sip of coffee while the mobile service went through all the options available to him. According to the mobile service, the message had been left the previous night. He waited, and then the message began.
‘Dan, hi – it’s Peter Edgewater here. Listen, I’m in a bit of a rush but you’re the only one who will really appreciate this – I’ve done it! I know who’s managing to produce white gold on a commercial basis! Listen, I’m just finishing a lecture tour in Europe at the moment but I’ll be back in a few days. I’m organising drinks with a few people I haven’t seen for a while so I can tell you all about it – let’s catch up, yeah? Give me a call and I’ll…’
Dan hit the button to hang up the call and threw the phone on the coffee table. He wondered why he bothered to have one. He really wasn’t interested in catching up with old friends so they could tell him how successful they were. It just reminded him how low he had sunk.
He leaned forward, picked up the phone and deleted the message. Dan glanced at his watch and grunted in satisfaction. The pub would be open in another hour.
Berlin, Germany
Peter hurried along the pavement in the direction of the hotel, his breath turning to vapour in the chill of the air. He shrugged the backpack further up his shoulder and thrust his gloved hands deeper into his jacket pockets, seeking out the last of the warmth from his body. ‘Note to self,’ he murmured, ‘next time, arrange lecture tours in the summer.’
Broad-shouldered, the man was athletic in build, tall and sinewy. He shivered in the bitter night though, and wished he had a few more natural layers of padding to cope with the cold German winter.
His attention was drawn to the familiar white and red of a Stella Artois sign protruding from the building on his left. Slowing down, Peter climbed up the two uneven narrow steps to an ornate hardwood door and pushed it open. Immediately, the cold of the night was forgotten as the warmth from the hotel’s reception area enveloped him.
A small, but effective, log fire burned in an elaborate fireplace set into the wall on his right, throwing out its heat across the room. To his left, a narrow doorway led to the hotel bar, which resonated with the sound of laughter and the soft clink of glasses as patrons eased out the creases of another day. Peter glanced at the bar, then made his way to the reception desk at the back of the foyer and let the backpack slide down his arm to the floor.
The receptionist, dressed in a navy blue suit with a white blouse, caught his eye as she took a booking over the telephone and motioned to him to wait. She finished the call and smiled.
‘Any messages?’ Peter asked as he removed his gloves.
‘One moment bitte.’
The receptionist turned to the computer and keyed in a command. She absently pushed her glasses up her nose as the screen refreshed.
‘A man was here asking for you earlier sir,’ she read from the screen. ‘He told the receptionist on duty he would telephone you. He didn’t leave his name.’
Peter frowned. The phone call was unexpected but, he reasoned, he’d met a lot of people over the past few weeks who would want to discuss his theories in more detail. He’d run out of business cards two days ago and had resorted to scribbling his name and phone number on catering napkins and beer mats to keep up with the demand of journalists, researchers and, he smiled, the occasional nut case.
He thanked the receptionist as he collected his electronic room key and shouldered his backpack once more before heading across the foyer to the elevator.
Stepping out on to the fifth floor, Peter walked across the hallway and inserted the swipe card to his hotel room, waited for the green light and the soft click of the lock, and opened the door. Reaching to his right, his hand automatically seeking the light switch, he yawned, closed the door behind him and ran his fingers through his hair.
The room was stuffy, the heating turned up high by the cleaning staff. He dropped the backpack to the floor, his shoulder aching with relief as the weight of the laptop and documents subsided. He closed the door behind him, tossed his swipe card onto the hardwood dresser and kicked off his shoes. He threw his jacket onto the bed, made his way over to the balcony door and pushed it open a little, letting the cold fresh air wash over him. Turning slightly, he reached down to the small refrigerator in the corner of the room and grabbed a cold beer.
‘Cheers,’ he said to the empty room, tearing off his tie.
Bending down to open his backpack, he noticed the answering machine light blinking. He punched in the access code and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder while he gathered up his notes. The message began to play, the soundtrack a busy street, before a heavily accented voice cut through the static.
‘Doctor Edgewater, you know who I represent. If you continue to insinuate that my employer’s organisation is in any way involved in matters pertaining to white gold and super-conducted precious metals, we will be unable to guarantee your safety on this lecture tour. We will harm you and your family if you persist.’
The message ended abruptly.
Peter slammed down the phone in disgust and disbelief. He had expected a few idiots on the lecture tour, but not threats – not yet. He hadn’t even discussed the really controversial claims as he found himself still debating whether it was worth the trouble he could cause for himself. Now this. Someone was actively watching him and his research.