LUCERNE, SWITZERLAND. 1982.
"Chantal," snapped Mlle Fournier, her nanny, "Papa is busy. You mustn't bother him."
"No, no, that's all right," said her father. "Papa should never be too busy for his bon-bon. How are your classes, darling? How's the ballet coming?"
Chantal sucked her lips in, and wondered whether she should ask her questions. She was nearly eight. She shouldn't need to keep asking grown-ups things. She could read. She could use the villa's terminal and tap into the infonet. Her tutors said she was supposed to have an IQ in the upper 170s.
"Come here," said Thomas Juillerat, turning away from his paper-strewn desk and beckoning. She ran to his arms. "Do you want a consultation?"
Chantal nodded, trying not to cringe as papa ran his stubby fingers through her long, dark hair. He wasn't used to children, and he hurt her sometimes without meaning to.
"Do you know how much your Papa usually charges for a consultation?" asked Mlle Fournier, sternly, "fifty thousand Swiss francs. More in European Currency Units."
Papa was embarassed. He settled Chantal more comfortably in his lap.
"Mlle Fournier, could you get me some coffee, and lemonade for the little madame?"
Mlle Fournier's eyes narrowed in that way only Chantal seemed to notice, nodded, and left the room. It was late, nearly her bed-time, but Papa didn't know when she was supposed to go to bed. In the autumn, when she went back to Milan, Mama would be annoyed to find out how often she had been allowed to stay up late over the summer. When she was annoyed, Mama went into a huddle with Father Daguerre, her confessor, and sorted it out.
"Now, what is it you want to know, mon petit choux? Will I need my law books?"
Chantal wasn't sure. This might not be a good idea. She remembered how Father Daguerre had reacted when she asked him why Marcello, the boy next door, kept putting his hand in his shorts and moving his penis around. But she had gone too far to back down. She took a deep breath.
"Papa, what is it you do?"
Papa seemed bemused by the question. Like most grownups, he wasn't entirely comfortable around Chantal. The difference was that he was sorry for his feelings, and tried not to let them show.
"You know that, Chantal. I'm a lawyer. I work mainly for the Swiss Business Commission."
"Yes, yes, yes. But what do you do?”
Papa shifted Chantal off his lap and sat her on the desk. Papers scrunched under her bottom. He took off his thick glasses.
"I mainly investigate corporations who want to invest in Swiss-based industries."
"Invest? That means money?"
Papa smiled. "Yes, usually quite a lot of money. Sometimes, people with quite a lot of money have obtained it…unethically. You know what that means?"
"Yes, against the laws."
"Well, I'm afraid it often doesn't. Not every country has entirely just laws. Some things that are legal in, for example, Poland, wouldn't be allowed here. And some things, I'm sorry to say, that are allowed in Switzerland shouldn't be allowed anywhere in the world."
Chantal hit her Papa lightly, as she always did when he missed the point. "Silly, I didn't mean man's laws. I was talking about God's Laws."
Papa had that look again. The look that came when he was proud of Chantal and annoyed with her at the same time.
"Yes, God's laws. That's very well put, Chantal. Well, I try to stop people who've broken God's laws from using their money in this country."
"And is that why we have those telephone calls?"
"Who's been telling you about telephone calls?"
"Rudi and Inge were talking in the kitchen when I was helping Mlle Fournier make biscuits. They said people were calling up and not saying their names and saying bad things. And that they were coming in through your terminal too."
Papa's forehead went crinkly. "That's true. They're bad people."
"The other day when you were out at that meeting and Mlle Fournier was having her nap, I answered a telephone call from a bad person."
Papa was shocked by that. "What did he say?"
"That you were to stop doing something about something called the BioDiv something. He had a funny voice, like some of those government people you talk to on the phone."
"A scrambler. They'd have used a scrambler."
"That's right, so I'd never be able to recognize him even if he came up and tried to make friends with me on the playground at school."
Papa held her shoulders. "Did he say they'd do that? Come up to you on the playground?"
"No, but isn't that the sort of thing bad people do? Father Daguerre told me about bad people."
Papa was relieved, but tears were coming out of the crinkles in his forehead.
"Why do the scrambled people want to phone you up and not say their names?"
"Hmmn? Chantal, What I do doesn't make me very popular with some people. They want to stop me. They think that making threats will stop me objecting to their investments."
"You mean people like GenTech."
Papa definitely wasn't pleased now.. "You've got good ears, Chantal. That may not make you happy when you grow up. Yes. Just now, I'm checking into a multinat called GenTech. They want to take over a chain of hospitals, and I don't think they should be allowed to."
"What have they done. Papa? Why shouldn't they be allowed to?"
"They've done bad things."
"What bad things?"
"Very bad tilings."
"You don't want to tell me, do you?"
Papa's forehead went crinkly again. "No, it's just…it's complicated…"
"Too complicated for someone with an IQ in the high l70s?"
"Chantal, you're very clever. Really, you're cleverer than I am. Cleverer than almost everyone else you know. But you're still a little girl. You'll have to wait for some things."
"Rudi said you found out that GenTech was cutting arms and legs off poor people in China and sewing them on to rich people over here. Is that true?"
Papa sighed. "There's no keeping anything from you, is there? That's one of the bad things I think they've been doing."
"That's all I wanted to know."
"But you knew it already."
"Yes. But I wanted to know it from you, Papa."
Thomas Juillerat hugged his daughter, and kissed the top of her head. She wondered why he was shaking.
"When you grow up, Chantal, what do you want to be? What do you want to do with your IQ and your big ears?" Chantal pushed him back and looked into his face, smiling proudly. She had never told anybody this. "I want to be a spy."
II
LAKE GENEVA, SWITZERLAND. 1987
"Chantal," said her reminder-box, "your mother is here."
She sat up in the boat, and directed it towards the landing. She had just been floating, looking up at the skies, and listening to The Samovar Seven on her walkman sunglasses. Her bedroom in Milan was plastered with glossies of Russian musickies clipped from Europ-teen magazine. Her parents disapproved of her musical tastes. That was one of the rare things they agreed on.
She was wearing flip-flops, tight knee-shorts and a loose T-shirt printed with Cyrillic lettering. The T-shirt had appealed to her for its bright colours, but she was disappointed that the words were gibberish. Real Sove fashions always made a statement, even if it was just a snip from the lyric.
She had spent most of her summer on the lake—Lac Leman, they called it on the opposite shore—feeling as if she was floating in the centre of the world. This was the border between Switzerland and the United European Community. Important people had been thronging the Villa Diodati, come to talk with her father. Franz-Josef Strauss, president of the UEC, had stayed for three days, walking on the lakeshore with Papa, and they had dissolved a tariff barrier with a handshake. Currently, there was a party of middle-aged men in identical suits—some Iranian, some Turkish, some American—from powerful interests inside the Pan-Islamic Congress. They were arguing about import quotas from the electronics works taking advantage of cheap labour in Greece and Albania.