PROLOGUE
BERN, SWITZERLAND, DECEMBER 1905
THE WOMAN MADE HER WAY carefully along the icy sidewalk, pulling her long wool coat tight against the harsh winter wind and swirling snowflakes. Night was falling quickly; she had to stop and peer through the gloom to make out the building numbers.
Finally, she found her destination—Number 49 Kramgasse Street, a stone apartment house with an arched entranceway.
She entered quickly, brushing snow from her coat, grateful to be inside. She pulled off her scarf and shook her long brown hair; her cheeks were bright red from the cold. On weary legs, she climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on a door. It was opened by a twenty-five-year-old man, still in the frayed, plaid suit he had worn to work. He had a soft, round face accented with an unkempt moustache and framed by an unruly mass of curly brown hair. His dark brown eyes sloped down at the corners, giving him a look of wisdom beyond his years and a hint of sadness.
He welcomed her into his flat and they exchanged introductions. He offered her tea, which she gratefully accepted. Sitting close to the warmth of a small coal-burning fireplace, they made a bit of awkward small talk about the weather. They spoke in German, the woman with a thick British accent.
“I’m sorry my German is so poor,” she said.
The man waved a hand. “Your German is far better than my English,” he said, smiling.
She smiled briefly in return. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said. “I know you’re a very busy man.”
“I am honored by your visit,” he said. “But I confess that I am also puzzled.”
“Puzzled? Why?”
“It’s quite mysterious, the letter I received from Doctor Pratt. I understand he is an associate of yours?”
“Yes, an old family friend.”
“His letter was very complimentary about my papers in Annalen der Physik, and of course I was flattered to attract notice from a man of his stature. But I also could not help but wonder why a distinguished professor of history at Cambridge would be so interested in papers on physics published by an academic journal in Germany. And my curiosity deepened when Doctor Pratt inquired if you—with all due respect, a nonscientist—could come to Bern to meet with me personally about an extremely urgent matter, a matter he could not discuss in writing.”
“Yes, I imagine it does seem rather mysterious,” the woman said.
The man nodded. “So,” he said. “What is this extremely urgent matter?”
The woman leaned forward, her face somber. “What I am about to tell you will likely seem impossible,” she said, “but I swear to you that everything—everything—I will speak of is true. I cannot compel you to believe me, but I ask that you give me time to fully explain myself before you pass judgment.”
The man smiled. “I am quite familiar with the problem of trying to explain that which seems impossible,” he said. “Please, take whatever time you need.”
“Thank you,” said the woman. She took a deep breath and began talking. She spoke for the better part of an hour, stumbling occasionally, wrestling with the difficulty of expressing certain concepts in German—but for the most part she spoke quickly and precisely, having rehearsed her speech well.
The man listened intently, saying nothing, his dark eyes fixed on the woman’s face. When she was finished, he sat perfectly still for quite some time. Then, without a word, he rose and went to the window and drew the curtain aside. He peered out at the darkness for what seemed, to the woman, an eternity. When he finally spoke, he did not turn around.
“I understand now,” he said, “why you thought I would not believe you.”
The woman’s face fell. “I see,” she said. “All right, then. If you would be so kind as to get my coat. I apologize for taking your time.” She rose.
The man turned around.
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”
“Then you do believe me?” she said softly.
“I didn’t say that, either,” he said. “But I am intrigued. I would like to know more.”
“Of course. There is so much more I can tell you, and show you. And there are others who…”
The man held up his hand. “Yes, I will want to hear everything,” he said. “But there is something I need to know first.”
“What is it?”
“Why are you telling me these things? Why has your organization decided that I, of all the people you must have access to, should be given information that you and your people have worked so hard, for so long, to keep secret?”
The woman took a step toward the man.
“Because we have a problem,” she said. “A grave problem that threatens to cause terrible harm, not just to us, but to many people. Perhaps all people.”
“All people?” asked the man, arching an eyebrow.
“Yes. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic. But yes.”
“And you come to me because…”
“Because we believe that the work you are doing may hold the key to solving this problem.”
“You want my help.”
“Yes. We want your help.”
The man looked out the window again. The storm had worsened; the whistling wind pelted wet snowflakes against the windowpanes. The woman stared at him anxiously, awaiting his decision. Finally, he turned back to her.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me about this problem of yours.”
A smile of relief flooded her face; her green eyes shone with gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“But you’re willing to listen,” she said. “And we have nowhere else to turn. We believe you are our only hope, Mister Einstein.”
CHAPTER 1
THE SECRET COMPARTMENT
AIDAN COOPER SPRINTED UP THE STAIRS. From behind he heard a voice, choking with fury, shout, “I’m going to kill you!”
Aidan reached the second-floor hallway, crowded with antique end tables and chairs, its walls covered in dark oil paintings. He heard footsteps creaking up the stairs. He hurried down the hall and ducked into his father’s study, closing the door as quietly as he could.
The footsteps reached the top of the stairs.
“You’re dead, you hear me!” called the voice. “Dead!”
The voice belonged to Aidan’s sister, Sarah. She was very unhappy because Aidan had just swiped her iPhone, which he now clutched in his hand.
He heard a door open and shut, then another. Sarah was checking the upstairs rooms one at a time. Sarah was methodical. Her room was always neat, her weekend homework done before Friday dinner. What worried Aidan more was that she was also quite a good puncher, having taken six years of karate.
“I’m going to find you, you little snot!” she said.
Aidan looked around frantically for a place to hide, his eyes lighting on a massive oak desk. It was a new addition to the household; Aidan and Sarah’s dad, a serious collector of Victorian furniture, had bought it recently at an auction. Aidan dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the space where the chair was supposed to fit, between two walls of drawers.