The Swarm by Frank Schätzing

them to be there, thought Johanson. If they’re related to the ice worm, they must depend indirectly on methane. And methane deposits were present on every continental slope, the Norwegian slope included.
    But it was odd all the same.
    The taxonomic and biochemical findings would resolve the matter. Until then there was no reason why he shouldn’t continue to research Hugel’s Gewürztraminers. Unlike worms, they couldn’t be found everywhere - not in that particular vintage, at least.
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    When he got to work the next morning he found two envelopes bearing his name. He glanced at the taxonomic reports, stuffed them into his briefcase and set off for his lecture.
    Two hours later he was driving over the hilly terrain of Norway’s fjord landscape towards Kristiansund. The temperature had risen, melting large sections of snow to expose the earth beneath. In weather like this it was hard to know what to wear, so Johanson had packed as much as the weight restrictions on the helicopter allowed. He had no intention of catching cold on the Thorvaldson . Lund would tease him when she saw the size of his suitcase, but Johanson didn’t mind. In any case, he had put in a few things that two people might enjoy together. He and Lund were only friends, of course, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t share a cosy glass of wine.
    Johanson drove slowly. He could have reached Kristiansund within an hour, but he didn’t believe in rushing. At Halsa he took the car ferry over the fjord and continued towards Kristiansund, driving over bridge after bridge across slate-grey water. Several little islands made up the town, which he drove through, then crossed to the island of Averoy, one of the first places to have been settled after the last ice age. Sveggesundet, a picturesque fishing village, lay at its furthest tip. In high season it was packed with tourists, and boats streamed out of the harbour, heading for the neighbouring islands. At this time of year, though, there were few visitors, and scarcely a soul was in sight as Johanson’s Jeep crunched over the gravel of the Fiskehuset’s car park. The restaurant had an outdoor seating area, overlooking the sea. It was closed, but Lund was sitting outside at one of the wooden tables, next to a young man Johanson didn’t know. He walked up to them. ‘Am I early?’
    She looked up, eyes shining, and glanced at the man next to her. He was in his late twenties, with light brown hair, an athletic build and chiselled features.
    â€˜Do you want me to come back later?’ Johanson asked.
    â€˜Kare Sverdrup,’ she introduced them, ‘this is Sigur Johanson.’
    The young man grinned and stretched out his hand. ‘Tina’s told me about you.’
    â€˜Nothing too awful, I hope.’
    Sverdrup laughed. ‘Actually, yes. She said you were an unusually attractive scientist.’
    â€˜Attractive - and ancient,’ said Lund.
    Johanson sat down opposite them, pulling up the collar of his parka. His briefcase lay beside him on the bench. ‘The taxonomic section’s arrived. It’s very detailed, but I can summarise it for you, if you like.’ He looked at Sverdrup. ‘I don’t want to bore you, Kare. Has Tina told you what this is about?’
    â€˜Not really,’ he said.
    Johanson opened the case and pulled out the envelopes. ‘I sent one of your worms to the Senckenberg Museum in Frankfurt and another to the Smithsonian Institute. The best taxonomists I know are attached to them. I also sent one to Kiel to be examined under the scanning electron microscope. I’m still waiting to hear the results on that and the isotope ratio mass spectrometry, but I can tell you now what the experts agree on.’
    â€˜Go on then.’
    Johanson settled back and crossed one leg over the other. ‘That there’s nothing to agree on. In essence, they’ve confirmed what I suspected - that