The Stolen Read Free Page B

Laboratory had discovered six alloys that were superconductive at higher and higher temperatures – a superconductive material at room temperature being the ultimate goal. And despite being the heir apparent to one of the most successful watch dynasties in Zürich, Matthias was determined to be the first in the world to break through the temperature barrier.
    Only two days to go to the big pitch, he reminded himself as he grabbed his briefcase. The laboratory was to give a press conference – part of a fundraising campaign the physicist had embarked upon to underwrite the next round of research and begin to free himself financially from his father. It was essential he demonstrated to potential backers that he was on the brink of discovering a superconductor at room temperature – a discovery that would immortalise him as well as free the world from a dependence on carbon-based fuels. As one of the leading scientists in the field he knew it wasn’t far from becoming a reality.
    From a light in a window to the right of the front door Matthias could see that Jannick Lund, his Danish assistant, must have worked all night. He’d known Lund, ten years his junior, was competitive when he hired him, but he’d underestimated the Dane’s hubris and impatience. Jannick felt success wasn’t earned as much as fought for and at first this had served Matthias’s methodology and the two scientists complemented each other. But Jannick had grown tired of the methodical and endless retesting of potential superconductors, a job allotted to the underlings of the laboratory. He was ambitious and was keen to break away from Matthias’s ideas and try out his own. Ironically, his ambition had been the reason why Matthias hired him in the first place, but lately Matthias had sensed resentment from the younger scientist.
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    The doctor, a Romanian in his late thirties, pumped the rubber band wrapped around Keja’s arm and read her blood pressure. Latcos, her son, watched anxiously; it hadn’t been easy to persuade the doctor to visit the small ghetto of twenty or so homes that had housed the Kalderash family and its extended relatives in the tiny suburb of Timişoara since the Communist regime. But the doctor, who’d had a Rom grandfather, finally came after Latcos told him who his mother was – Keja the poetess – a gypsy whose songs had touched even the
gadjé
world.
    Latcos stood just behind him, worrying that the doctor might inadvertently violate the strict hygiene beliefs of
marime
. The doctor himself was considered unclean – it was testimony to the intensity of Keja’s illness that Latcos had brought him into the house at all. A slim, handsome man of twenty-eight, Latcos peered out from under his black hat, his light green eyes startling against his dark skin, his four-year-old son Zarka peeping up at the doctor. Keja had fought against the visit – herbs and amulets had always been enough, but since Yojo’s disappearance her defences had crumbled. Her brother was lost, she’d known first thing that morning when a wave of light shot through her, when she’d felt the moment his soul left the earth. She was sure he was dead, but no word had reached the family yet. Distraught, Keja had blamed herself. She should never have given Yojo the name, summoned from those terrible memories she’d kept buried for so many decades. But her brother had reminded her of the stories of the miracles, of how the holy relic could cure as well as destroy, and so, in a moment of weakness, she’d given him the first signpost to a path that could either destroy or enrich the family.
    The doctor began packing up his equipment, avoiding her gaze, as if he had a secret to hide, as if her death might be an obscenity.
    Shutting him out, she closed her eyes and drifted away from the constant gnawing at her abdomen, taking herself back to a camp they had once made in the