by Iain King
Then there was Zenyalena. As the minibus chunted along the highway, from France into Germany, she was still cradling the nerve agent in her hands. The Russian woman would peer down at it, then glance at the GPS device on the dashboard. Sometimes she would turn to the back of the vehicle, checking on the four passengers who had become her prisoners - at least until they uncovered the last part of Stolz’s puzzle in Berlin. The minibus ride had not calmed Zenyalena. The woman still feared for her life. She was prepared to kill.
That left Frank. Like a schoolboy who’d tried to please but got everything wrong, Myles’ old university friend seemed the most nervous of all. Myles could tell Frank was still confused: the museum curator had come to hand-deliver some carbon-dating results. How had he ended up being held at gunpoint by a mad Russian woman? And driven to Berlin? If Frank had been less of a friend, he would have blamed Myles. Instead, Frank stayed silent. He just looked out of the window, watching as the scenery passed by and the minibus slowly travelled east.
Myles saw Frank’s envelope. ‘The carbon dating – can I see the results?’
Zenyalena’s head spun round, alert to any sort of trick Myles might pull. For a second she froze, glaring straight at Myles and Frank. Then she relaxed slightly. ‘Yes. Read them out for all of us, please.’
Slowly and deliberately, careful not to alarm Zenyalena, Myles drew the papers from the envelope. Inside were three sheets of computer print-out, with columns of numbers on each page. He tried to understand them. ‘Frank, can you explain?’
Frank looked over at the papers. ‘Certainly. I tested all the samples you posted from Berlin. This first column,’ he pointed to the left-hand margin, ‘that’s the item reference number. Each page tested was given a different code by the laboratory.’
Myles looked down the list: he had given Frank forty pages from Stolz’s file, and the carbon-dating lab had numbered each of them, from B1 to B40. ‘What does the ‘B’ stand for?’
‘Berlin. The second column shows the percentage confidence we have in the result.’
Myles skimmed the column: on all three sheets it was either 98% or 99%, with a single 97%.
‘You see, Myles, all the data is at least 97% certain,’ continued Frank. ‘The third column show the range of dates when the paper was probably written.’
Myles turned through the report. Through most of the first two pages of computer print-out, the dates were between 1939 and 1943, with a few 1944s and 1945s creeping in towards the bottom. Then, on the last page, there were anomalies: three of Stolz’s papers were more recent. ‘So everything really was written during the war, except these last three papers, from 1959?’
‘That’s right Myles. For all of them except those three, the date on the paper itself was probably accurate,’ said Frank. ‘Those last three - they must be fakes. They looked like the other Stolz papers, and had dates from 1942 on them, but they were written later.’
Myles tried to absorb the information: someone had been doctoring Stolz’s papers. He wondered why. ‘Tell me: what did these three papers say – the fake ones? What was on them?’
‘Well, you see, that’s the funny thing. One was about China attacking Soviet Russia in the 1950s, one was about Germany rising again in 1957, and the other was about Cuba – saying it would be destroyed by a volcano.’
Myles squinted in disbelief. He checked again with Frank. ‘But… but that’s all nonsense. None of that happened.’
‘Correct, Myles. You would think that someone who falsified a prediction – to write something after it happened – they’d write something true, to make themselves look wise after the event, right?’ Frank was explaining the results as if he was about to deliver a big punchline. ‘But, whoever tried to fake Stolz’s papers in 1959 was doing the opposite. They were trying to make predictions which were false.’
Zenyalena’s hand swiped out. She grabbed the computer print-outs from Myles. Then she stared at him, checking his face for any signs of resistance. Once it was clear Myles had let her take them, she checked the numbers for herself. After a few seconds she turned back to Frank. ‘How do I know these figures are genuine?’
Frank shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I suppose you have to ask the lab which did the testing. There could have been some sort of mix-up, but it’s unlikely.’
Zenyalena’s face screwed up with suspicion again. ‘Mix-up? Well isn’t that a quaint English word for all this…’ She threw the papers into the back of the minibus. They fluttered, towards Heike-Ann, whose face was looking pale. Pascal brushed them aside, careful to keep Heike-Ann’s wounded wrist high in the air.
Although the Frenchman was obviously angry, he didn’t retaliate. Just like Glenn, who kept driving, Heike-Ann who lay semi-conscious on the floor of the minibus, and Frank, who was still terrified.
‘Wait,’ demanded Zenyalena, directing her words to the American. ‘Stop here – pull over.’
The others watched as Glenn gently slowed the bus into a rest-stop. There were no other vehicles in the large layby – just a picnic bench and a postbox. None of them knew what Zenylena had in mind.
Zenyalena waited until the vehicle had come to a complete rest, then gestured towards Frank for the envelope which had contained the carbon-dating results. Frank duly handed it over, still bemused.
‘Stay still, everybody,’ ordered Zenyalena. She lifted up the gun and carefully placed the glass bottle of liquid back in her seat. Once she was outside, she took Stolz’s last set of papers, the ones they’d found in the trench, and scribbled something on the top sheet - Myles couldn’t see what it was, only that the words were in Russian. Then she wrote an address on the envelope, stuffed the papers inside, sealed it, and pushed it into the post box. Careful to keep the machine gun she was carrying low, so none of the fast-moving cars on the highway would notice it, she climbed back into the minibus. ‘Now drive, Glenn – to Berlin.’
Once more, the vehicle accelerated onto the main road, heading east.
Myles wondered whether he’d just missed a chance to disarm Zenyalena. Perhaps, but if he had tried, it would have been messy.
Then, like the rest of the team, he slumped into his thoughts, half-hypnotised by the movement of the vehicle, while his mind tried to solve the puzzle of Werner Stolz.
Fifty-Six
Oxford, England
8.10pm GMT
* * *
Helen ended her call to the States, thrilled that her editor had given her pitch the go-ahead. Proof of a link between the planets and human affairs would make an amazing news story, and she hoped the personal angle, tracing Bradley’s work from Germany to Alaska, was just right for TV. Although she also accepted it was going to be difficult – and not just because so many people would try to rubbish her work…
To start the piece, she needed to link up with Myles and his international team. She looked forward to seeing him again – she knew he’d love a surprise visit. But Myles had refused to carry any sort of mobile - it was important no-one could track where he was, he had told her. It meant the only way she could reach them was in person. She’d have to travel to eastern France, to get as close as she could to Compiègne – his last known position.
Her taxi soon pulled up outside the flat in Pembroke Street.
‘Yes, Heathrow Airport, please,’ she confirmed to the cab driver.
‘Which terminal, Miss?’
‘I don’t know, yet,’ she admitted.
But she did know she wanted to get there fast. Something deep in her gut told her Myles was in trouble.
Fifty-Seven
Oxford University, England
8.20pm GMT
* * *
Father Samuel thanked the college porter for the directions, and lumbered into the quad. He watched his footing on the uneven stone slabs, and barely registered the undergraduates he passed, some of them giggling, as he counted off the staircases to number twelve. In normal times, he would have stopped to admire the Renaissance masonry, and seek out religious
symbolism in the gargoyles. He would have visited the chapel to absorb the incantations, or read the inscriptions.
But these were not normal times, and Father Samuel was not here for his own pleasure. There was no way he could enjoy himself when his whole belief system was under threat. And it wasn’t just his worldview: the shared understanding of Christianity, delicately constructed over centuries, often in the face of persecution, was in danger. The Church was imperilled by a revelation which would question faith around the globe. He was in Oxford to prevent a shock which could be as crippling as Pope Pius’s failure to oppose the holocaust, the recent child sex abuse scandals, or even the Enlightenment. Indeed, faith had never recovered from what Father Samuel once preached was ‘the decent into rationality’.
Father Samuel confirmed to himself he had reached staircase twelve, and heaved himself up the wooden steps. He found the door at the top was already open.
‘Come on in, Sam,’ invited the familiar voice, smug as ever.
Father Samuel duly entered. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Professor,’ he said, bowing his head. He sat in the only available chair, which he guessed was used to humiliate undergraduates every weekday during term time.
‘So you’ve seen the light, then Father Samuel?’ teased the Professor, turning to greet Samuel with a gloating expression. Even though he was passed sixty, the academic still seemed juvenile much of the time.
‘I’ve come to make peace, if that’s what you mean,’ offered Samuel.
‘Peace? You mean a compromise?’ dismissed the Professor. ‘So we agree that God ‘half-exists’, or something like that?’ He shook his head. ‘I think we both know that’s a bad idea.’ The Professor laughed to himself.
Father Samuel nodded in understanding. Professor Cromhall had certainly done well from his ‘outspoken’ critique of the Church, and defence of science. It had made the man a television celebrity. The Professor could even pretend to be a rebel, which was absurd given his place in the establishment.
‘Perhaps reconciliation is a bad idea, Professor,’ said Father Samuel. ‘But there are some ideas we should discredit together.’
The Professor did not respond immediately. Instead, he tried to gauge Father Samuel’s face. Eventually he spoke with a more measured tone.
‘What sort of ideas do you have in mind?’
‘Ideas which – were they widely believed – would make us both fools. For example, that there could be a link between the position of the planets and human affairs,’ offered Father Samuel, testing the Professor with a hint of a smile.
‘Astrology? That’s all nonsense,’ retorted Professor Cromhall. He sounded confident again. ‘No intelligent person looks at the evidence for that. Being intelligent means considering other evidence, while refusing to consider how planetary cycles match up with people’s lives.’ He said the words with a sneer, reciting the mantra he knew was false.
Their eyes met, and silently they acknowledged the truth. They both had to say astrology was nonsense, since everybody in authority said that. Their status would be in jeopardy if they said anything else.
‘Your pride in never having applied the scientific method to the link is well-placed, Professor,’ taunted Father Samuel, softly. ‘After all, in a battle between the traditional scientific method and astrology, I’m not sure who would win.’ He let the words float off into the air.
‘OK,’ suggested the Professor, negotiating. ‘I’m prepared to say ‘The evidence for astrology is greater than the evidence for the existence of God.’ Would that help?’
Father Samuel wasn’t buying. ‘It’s not enough,’ he explained. ‘The Nazis found evidence which goes much further. There’s a real danger it leaks – to the public…’
Finally, Professor Cromhall’s expression changed. He became ashen as he realised what the public revelation would mean. The myth that science could explain everything would be shattered. Faith in people like him would disappear. His credibility, his book sales, his television appearances – all would be lost if the link between the planets and human affairs was accepted.
‘…Professor, two centuries ago, scientists like you displaced churchmen like me to become the most trusted authority in society,’ continued Father Samuel. ‘Now you risk being displaced yourself by a new field of understanding. Science, like the Church, will belong only to yesterday.’
The Professor sized up his guest, wondering how much he could trust Father Samuel. He decided it was probably worth taking the risk. ‘Well can’t you…’ The Professor drew a single finger across his neck, miming a guillotine.
‘It worked in the past. The French statistician who publicised this before, Michel Gauquelin – when he died in 1991, it wasn’t from natural causes,’ said Father Samuel, raising his eyebrows to make sure the Professor understood the euphemism. ‘And just this morning, in France, one of my most diligent volunteers sacrificed himself for the greater good. But now there are too many people to silence.’
The Professor gulped. ‘So you have another plan?’
‘I do,’ said Father Samuel, finally nodding. ‘Let me explain…’
Fifty-Eight
Germany
10.40pm CET (9.40pm GMT)
* * *
After ten-and-a-half hours of driving the minibus had reached the outskirts of Berlin. They were back in the land of tidy streets, perfectly kept green spaces, and architecture from the city’s so very mixed history.
Glenn pointed to the fuel gauge. It was almost empty. ‘We really need gas.’
But Zenyalena shook her head. ‘No. Keep going.’
‘Can we just drop Heike-Ann at a hospital, to make sure her baby’s OK?’
‘No. We keep going.’ Zenyalena’s tone was firm. Her eyes flashed, wide and intense, making clear to all she was mad enough to use the machine gun – perhaps even the nerve agent.
Glenn did as he was told, his eyes fixed on the road. Then, finally, he caught Myles’ glance in the mirror. Myles looked back at him. It was an ‘I’ll trust you if you trust me’ look. Within a second it was gone. But it was enough to give Myles hope. Or at least, some hope.
The minibus slowed as it reached its first traffic light. Myles wondered about trying to jump out, but he knew he couldn’t - not with his bad leg. He’d never escape alive.
The lights turned green, and the vehicle rumbled forward again, boxed in by traffic, as it drove towards the centre of Berlin. They continued down more streets, through the famous parts of the city – along the Kurfürstendamm, within sight of the Reichstag, and through the Brandenburg Gate. The oversized Russian embassy was nearby – the only building which really caught Zenyalena’s attention. Soon they were approaching Stolz’s old neighbourhood.
Finally, the minibus turned into Am Krusenick. Glenn rolled on to number 38. He parked up and put on the handbrake, then turned to Zenyalena for his next instructions.
Zenyalena’s eyes stared down at the American’s pockets. ‘You’ve still got the keys to this flat, haven’t you?’
Glenn paused before he replied. Myles could tell: he was wondering whether he could get away with a lie. But the Russian woman was watching him too closely. Slowly, Glenn nodded. He delved in and pulled them out, letting them jingle in his fingers.
Zenyalena carefully placed the bottle of nerve agent on her seat. She bent down to pick up the First World War machine gun again, then turned to the passengers in the back. ‘Everybody out.’
Pascal slid open the minibus door, then placed Heike-Ann’s healthy arm around his shoulder. Myles helped the Frenchman lift her down.
Zenyalena kept her distance, worried one of the team was going to rush at her to grab the gun. She scanned around, checking she wasn’t being watched from the street. She glanced up at windows in the buildings opposite. It was almost dark – even if there had been someone, they probably wouldn’t have seen the four men and one wounded woman being herded from the minibus at gunpoint. ‘Glenn: unlock Stolz’s flat,’ she ordered.
&nb
sp; Glenn slotted the key into the first lock and turned it. The door to the block of flats swung open. He led the way into the lobby area. There he unlocked Stolz’s basement flat. It too opened, and Myles remembered the musty river smell which ran through the building.
Zenyalena’s face instructed the American to walk in. He obeyed, followed by Frank, with Myles and Pascal helping Heike-Ann. Zenyalena kept the gun on them all, silently watching them enter. ‘Gentlemen. I want you to take up this carpet and show me what’s underneath.’
Myles and Pascal rested Heike-Ann in one of the seats while Glenn kneeled down. He peeled back the edge of the carpet to reveal wooden floorboards.
Zenyalena pointed at them, her brow sweating with fear. ‘Pull them up.’
Glenn looked back at her, his face asking ‘how?’ The floorboards were nailed in place.
Zenyalena eyed Glenn suspiciously, then grabbed a pillow, which she held to the end of the gun: an improvised silencer. ‘Stay back,’ she said, aiming at the floor.
Glenn jumped away.
Zenyalena pulled the trigger, unleashing a short burst of bullets. Myles felt his ears pop while splinters flew into the air. Vibrations shook the room.
The Russian kept a tight grip on her gun, even though the barrel would have become scalding hot. She checked the ammunition belt: just a few rounds left, but it was all she needed to keep giving orders. She looked down at the shattered floorboards. ‘Now, take them up.’
This time Glenn obeyed, and began lifting the broken timber. Myles offered to help, but Zenyalena motioned with the gun barrel, instructing him to keep away.
As Glenn tugged at the broken wood, a dark space began to appear underneath. Myles peered into the hole. Concrete steps were leading down, into some sort of void.
