Some law enforcement officers keep their job locked up in their offices when they close for the day. Sheriff Tom Garcia brought his home in newspapers and watched the rest on BBC.
Betty was still at the gynecologist. Tom brewed a nearly decent coffee.
The news was about the worsening relations of the United States and Russia. Putin was threatening Japan because the US was doing the same to South Korea.
Tom was on the phone with the guys from Forensics. When he finished, he came back into the cool and spacious living room. He sat in the opposite chair and watched TV.
“Feeling better?”
“Uhuh.” Olivia sipped coffee. She eyes Tom. “I could use some whiskey in this coffee, though.”
“No whiskey today.”
A professor of historical something in something, came on. Olivia didn’t catch the bald-headed, bespectacled man’s field before the screen changed to a military scene in Russia.
“Frisky ruskies,” said Tom to the TV.
But Olivia was listening to the historian who was giving the public a rundown through the history of the political tension between the US and Russia. He sounded convincing to Olivia, even though much of what was being said sounded Greek to her. And she understood a little Greek.
Olivia dropped her cup of coffee on the table. She rummaged in her bag and found a pen and her jotter. The name of the historian came on again as she had predicted. And he taught European Politics at New York University.
She wrote: Professor Hans Rutherford.
Tom stared at her. She threw her coffee back and got up. “I have to go check something out.”
“But Betty promised—”
Olivia bent and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Tom. But I can’t wait. Give Betty my love.”
Disappointed, Tom Garcia shook his head. He pointed. “You stay off whiskey.”
“Wine?”
“Olivia, I’m serious.”
“Can I borrow your car?”
“Sure.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Don’t crash it.”
Tom came to the door, he patted her on the back. He gave her a smile that said Olivia was doing great.
“I’ll have the boys bring your car home later,” he called after her.
Olivia waved and drove off.
—
Sheriff Tom Garcia’s car was unmarked. It was ideal for breaking a few traffic laws.
Olivia found an illegal spot by a pay phone on Rurale Boulevard. She jumped right in and quickly flipped through the yellow pages. She found Hans Rutherford's name was listed.
The phone rang a long time before someone picked it up.
“Hello?” asked a thin voice.
“Professor Hans Rutherford?”
“Yes, please. How may I help you?”
“I’m Olivia Newton, a journalist with the Miami Daily newspaper.” Former journalist, she thought.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about a subject I’m working on,” she added.
The man on the other end seemed to hesitate. His breath came in hard and receded again, as though there was someone with him.
“Is this a good time, Professor?”
“Ah, very thoughtful of you. How about you come right round to my office and talk tomorrow—”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Then this is utterly difficult for me.” His voice receded again. Olivia was getting irritated.
“I’m in the middle of an important meeting and—”
Olivia cut in, “Can I talk to you by email then?”
“That’d be peachy.”
Olivia got her jotter and took down the address. She thanked the professor and hung up.
Peachy, she mused.
—
Her car was parked in front of the building when she arrived.
She checked to see if she would find a bottle. There was none. She bit down the irritation that always preceded her thirst.
Shortly after, she sent off an email with a description of the contents of the box that Harald Kruger left with Kowalski. Everything except the numbers.
She supposed that Tom Garcia would not approve of her actions now, and giving away the numbers would make him even less approving.
Olivia waited for a reply.
Smokey purred under the chair, rubbed her body against her feet.
She looked between her legs. “Hey boy, some chow?”
Her laptop sounded, ping!
The mail was a long but deflating one from Professor Hans Rutherford. It said:
“Hello, Olivia Newton.
“It was nice to hear from you. I found your questions very interesting.
“Especially the ones about the German secret labs. I must assure you that you are not the first to puzzle about Hitler’s Third Reich and the laboratories. And yes, there were laboratories. Notable among the scientists that worked there were Werner Von Braun and Werner Heisenberg. Of this man you asked about, Harald Kruger, there is no record. If there was, I would know.”
“The contents of that box, as you mentioned, may just be nothing but memorabilia. There are countless numbers of them all over Europe. I have some. And please, there is nothing in Antarctica but a lot of snow.”
“I hope this answers your questions. If you wish for more answers, contact Professor Peter Williams. He teaches at the University of Florida. He specializes in the Second World War.”
“Best regards, Hans Rutherford.”
Well, that didn’t yield much fruit, did it? She took the cat into the kitchen and fed him. She read the mail again when she came back. The name of the professor that Hans recommended jumped at her. It wasn’t all lost then.
Olivia did a quick query with Google and found Peter Williams.
He was strikingly good looking, young, and smiling in his photo. The university was a ten mile drive that she looked forward to the next day.
—
Olivia called Tom on the phone but it was Betty that answered. She expressed sadness at not been around for John’s remembrance. Tom was out running, she said.
“Tell him to call my cell as soon as he comes in,” Olivia said.
“Kepler has been asking about you, Olivia.”
“Kepler who?”
The name didn’t ring a bell.
“The guy from the art gallery, remember him from last Christmas? He was nice to you at the party—”
“Oh, yes, that Kepler.” Olivia feigned surprise. No wonder she didn’t remember him. She wasn’t open to dates yet. Kepler was a douchebag. A rich douchebag, but contemptible all the same.
“Will you call him? He seems really genuine, Olivia.”
“I’ll call him when I get the chance, Betty. Tell Tom to call me, okay.”
“Will do.”
They hung up. Olivia exhaled. Talking to Betty was getting tiring lately and her visits weren’t ones she looked forward to. Betty was Olivia’s appointed matchmaker.
Her Volkswagen was hurtling towards Gainesville some minutes later.
—
At about 1:00 pm, Olivia caught sight of the Century Tower poking at the sky in the center of the university. Its white top shone brightly and beautifully. Olivia had visited the school several times before. The last time she did, the carillon in the tower was playing.
She drove past it and found parking space in between a tow truck and a black Porsche —which happened to belong to Peter Williams. She had called the professor in advance and he had given directions to the Faculty of Humanities.
Olivia walked into the square grey-colored building with some apprehension. The professor was a young man, at least from the sound of his voice. She was wary of young, dateable young men.
She was checking up on the office doors, looking for his name, when the professor bounded up the steps into the cool shade of the hallway.
“Olivia Newton?”
“Yes, that’s me,” she said, sizing the man up.
Professor Peter Williams was of average height, brown-
haired with dark blotches, intense blue slanting eyes. He had the angular face of an actor. His jaws reminded Olivia of Brad Pitt. He wore biker clothes; black leather jacket and brown denim. His black boots had mud stains on them.
He gave Olivia a look, up and down. There was a slight hesitation in his eyes when Olivia wouldn’t shake his hand. He put it back in his pocket. He smiled instead, foiled.
“Did you have trouble finding us?”
“I live in Miami, Professor,” she countered quickly.
“I’m sorry, but most people never come here if they aren’t trying to study something.”
“I am a journalist.”
They walked a few steps and stopped at the door with his nameplate on it. He produced a key.
“And here we are—”
“Er, can we go somewhere less sequestered?”
The professor's hands lingered on the door handle. He glanced at Olivia, considered the suggestion for a second. He smiled again.
“It will be okay here, Miss Newton.”
Olivia grabbed her bag tighter.
9
Everything about Peter Williams' office was huge.
His desk filled the office, so did his shelves and the books in them. His photo was hung on the white wall behind him. Next to that was a floor-to-ceiling window through which she could see the blue clouds and trees.
He sat opposite her and folded his hands, waiting. His eyes ran over her again. She was aware that she hadn’t been especially careful about her clothes. She didn’t care that much. She hoped too that the smell of whiskey wasn’t too hard. She’d had a few drinks on the way here.
“I have here some things I have written.” She got her jotter. “Let me see…”
She opened pages.
“Right, Professor Hans Rutherford assured me that you are in the best position to know these things—” She paused.
“What did they make at Peenemunde?” she blurted.
Cooper’s brows went up.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning, I can assure you whatever you say here, remains here, between us,” he promised.
He seemed nice enough. Cocky, but nice, Olivia thought.
“A man named Harald Kruger was killed two days ago in a Miami nursing home. He left a box behind. I think he may have known something, information that someone somewhere is trying to cover up. Contents from the box suggest he was a scientist who worked in the labs of Peenemunde in the Second World War. My guess is Harald was in the home, running from someone that hunted, and eventually killed him. What is it they did in those labs in Peenemunde, Professor?”
“Call me Peter, please.”
He rubbed the side of his jaw in deep thought.
“This is intriguing,” he said, getting out of his chair. He went to the shelf and pulled a large volume with a black cover and gold rims.
He opened it, flipped the pages fast, and stopped. He read for a few seconds before coming back to his seat. He pushed the big book, still open, across the table.
“Read that, it might help.”
Olivia frowned. Seriously?, her face declared. She didn’t come here to study, or be impressed by how big his library was. He could just tell her what she needed to know. Exasperated, she tried to read the place Peter Williams had shown her. The letterings were the size she detested, too small.
Finally, she closed the book.
“Peter, do you drink?”
“What?”
“I need a drink to listen to you tell me what I need to know. Let’s find a bar around here.”
Peter stared at her, mildly surprised.
“Shall we?” Olivia invited.
—
It was a student bar. They served water mostly. And soda. The closest to alcohol here was a watery substance called Crud. Book-tired students were there. Olivia saw a few sharp ones, boys and girls.
They found stools at the bar.
“The German labs in Peenemunde were more significant than you know. The ideas for space travel were born in those labs,” Peter Williams began.
Olivia watched him over the rim of her glass. Her eyes said, Go on. Peter was a professor, she could listen to him without taking notes.
“Wernher Von Braun oversaw the designing of the first rockets in Peenemunde. The Vergeltungswaffe.” He paused again. “The revenge weapon. That was Himmler's idea, the name that is. They made two types, the v1 and v2. You have to remember that many of these scientists were not sympathetic to the Nazi cause. They did what they did to stay alive. If given a second chance, they’d be doing humanity a greater good teaching in some university—”
“Just like you.”
“Just like me.” Peter sipped distilled water from a glass. “In 1945, the war ended and all the scientists walked up to the Allies. I’m sure you read about all this already.”
Peter was staring at the wide eyes of Olivia. The knowledge in them was dancing about in there, unchained. There was charm somewhere in those eyes, the soft shoulders and her straight back. There was also a pillar, deliberately set in place. She was annoying, without trying.
She set her beer on the table. Her clear brown eyes not quite clear anymore.
“Here, I have all the items photographed, maps and notes, and memorabilia as Hans Rutherford called them.” She produced a photocopied sample.
Peter grimaced as he perused the paper.
“Where did this come from?” he asked, not looking up.
“From a dead man.”
“He must be trying to tell us something,” he said, awed. “These are the earliest German designs, none I have seen before. None like the ones in the archives.”
Olivia searched her bag again. “How about these?”
She handed over a fold of old papers.
“They were from the box belonging to Harald Kruger.” A part of her was enjoying this. She smiled when Peter’s mouth dropped open.
“My God,” he breathed. “These documents, damn, German documents, secret formulas and design protocols. This is definitely gold.”
“You know German?”
“Yes, I do.”
“All I want to know is what is in those documents that would make someone kill Harald Kruger.”
“Let's go back to my office,” Peter said sharply.
Olivia knocked the rest of her beer back into her throat.
“Let’s.”
—
Olivia knew that eventually she was going to have to let a third party—in this case, fifth party—in on the existence of the numbers. By this time she had memorized them. The feeling that they were a key to all of this was a nagging awareness.
They were back in the professor's office. Peter was behind his desk, tapping away at a keyboard. He rubbed his face every time and said, “Shit.”
Olivia rubbed the body of a whiskey bottle in her bag, wondering what Peter’s reaction would be if she drank. She was thirsty.
Finally, she let go of the bottle.
She fidgeted.
“All of these are meaningless without…” Peter rubbed his face, glanced at Olivia. “Peenemunde was sacked after the war. The factory is a hull filled with scraps of rockets and documents—useless data and old—there’s nothing there to suggest that these documents are from there or whether they are true.”
He shut his laptop down and continued rubbing his chin.
“I have read these documents and notes. They assert some of the greatest plans and weapons exist, but where? They are not in Peenemunde. There is nothing in that place but a beautiful beach. I’ve been there myself. Two times,” he concluded.
After a moment Olivia said, “I’d like a drink now.”
“We just had some,” Peter said, with a tone.
Olivia produced her bottle of whiskey. Peter watched the drink, curiously. There was a clock on the wall behind Olivia. Peter glanced at it.
“Too early?” Olivia asked when she had finished.
Peter Williams shrugged.
“Take a
look at this.” Olivia placed the small sheet of paper with the numbers on it before the professor. “I found the numbers in the box.”
“Numbers…”
“Yeah, Kowalski didn’t know what they meant either. Harald didn’t say. And my friend Tom Garcia thinks they are lottery numbers.”
Peter stared at the paper. “They must mean something, a part of this puzzle, or he wouldn’t have kept them. I need to see the original.”
“Why?”
“If it’s written in his hand, I’ll know.”
“What difference does it make?”
“At least it can’t be lottery numbers; that I know for sure,” Peter assured her.
“The original, you do have it?” he asked.
“Yes. In Miami.”
“Good, you will fax it to me. I need to see it.”
“Okay, boss,” Olivia said and sipped from her bottle.
Professor Peter Williams excused himself.
—
That night, after debating the notion with Tom Garcia on the phone and getting drunk, Olivia faxed a copy of the numbers to Peter Williams, together with a return telephone number.
Five minutes later her phone was ringing off the hook.
“They are coordinates, Olivia.” Peter’s voice was tight with suppressed excitement. “The numbers are coordinates and guess where they are—”
“You are kidding?”
“No, I’m not. When can you get back here?”
“I don’t know.” She tried to conceal the buzz in her voice too. “I’m going to have to check my schedule—”
“And Olivia?”
“Yup?”
“There’s a surviving scientist from Peenemunde, he lives in Houston. You should visit him if you can. I’m faxing his address and photo to you as we speak.”
This was a game-changer. Meeting someone who worked in the same lab with Harald Kruger was the closest she could get to knowing who Harald was and what got him killed. She was ecstatic.
When she finished talking with Professor Peter Williams, Olivia called Sheriff Tom Garcia to inquire about the search on Harald Kruger and Kowalski. Tom had decided that it was necessary to have his contact in the FBI help him with this.
“But I’ll know something tomorrow morning,” he said.
Hunt for the Holy Grail Page 4
