Read Online The Stolen by T. S. Learner - Free Book Online Page B

superconductivity in this manner it was always wondrous to Matthias, as if he were manipulating the very rules of nature. Immediately a forest of hands shot into the air. Matthias pointed to the journalist from
Scientific American
, the most sceptical in the audience, knowing if he won him over, he would win the support of the rest. The journalist, a balding man in his late fifties, rose to his feet.
    â€˜Herr Professor von Holindt, how do we know that the superconductive alloy is ceramic based?’
    â€˜The composition of the alloy and its structure will be published the first of next month, along with an account of the research. You are welcome to a preview of that article, Mr Hawthorn.’
    â€˜You are obviously very confident.’
    â€˜Confident? I would say singularly driven and, although I do not intend to suffer the same fate as Icarus, I take some solace in the fact that his wings were evidently not powered by superconductivity.’ A smattering of laughter rippled through the audience. Just then the female journalist took the floor. She stood, the impact of her manicured beauty rippling through the onlookers. ‘Herr Professor von Holindt, may I say how wonderful it is to see you restored to your entrepreneurial spirit since the tragic death of your wife.’ Her professionally charming voice rang through the room.
    Matthias’s heart sank at the mention of Marie, remembering the way the paparazzi had harangued him at the time. Ignoring his reaction, the journalist continued smoothly, ‘But what I’d really like to know is: now that your father, Herr Christoph von Holindt, the patriarch of the famous Holindt Watch Company, has had a severe stroke, won’t you be expected to give up your research and take over the family business?’
    â€˜That is between my father and myself.’ Matthias gave a forced smile. ‘However, if there are any genuinely
interesting
technical questions, I can be found in the reception room next door beside some excellent champagne and canapés.’
    Â 

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    She rolled off him then reached for a cigarette. Klauser, fighting the soporific flush of post-coital bliss, watched her, comforted by her familiar bulk. Not a beautiful woman, but a well-built solid kind of woman, who, in another world, he might have ended up marrying. As it was, Celine had been his regular for over a decade and there were few secrets between them. She lit up, then got back onto the bed, the mattress groaning a little from her weight. A white circle of smoke floated across his vision as she exhaled, sailing its way up towards the ceiling.
    â€˜Why go to all that trouble to hire a professional assassin to kill a gypsy? An itinerant no one – I mean, the guy wasn’t even Swiss. Unless he had some vital information, information that could cause a great deal of damage to someone?’ Klauser mused to himself.
    â€˜Jesus, Helmut, of all my clients you’re the most like a woman: you always talk after sex but never before. I should charge you extra,’ Celine grumbled.
    Ignoring her, he continued: ‘And why the Holindt store? He couldn’t have been thinking seriously of breaking in; he didn’t even have a crowbar.’
    â€˜Holindt, the watch company?’
    â€˜Yeah. I have to say it’s the first time I’ve been called to pick up a dead gypsy in the Altestrasse.’
    â€˜I know von Holindt…’
    Helmut sat up and stared at her, her dyed blonde hair mussed up around the fine bone structure, broken only by the drama of her over-wide mouth.
    â€˜You know von Holindt?’
    â€˜Sure. He’s one of our “party” group. They’ve been coming here for years. Stopped about eighteen months ago. Always the same three men, and baby, if
you’re
a shark in this ocean, these guys are killer whales – nasty role play, torture games really – without the blood.’
    â€˜And you do