Ice Station Wolfenstein

by Preston; Child

  "No, thank you," the woman replied. "After a couple of hours of that, cigarettes alone aren't enough. Alcohol is definitely required."

  "Yeah," Sam took a long drag. "Too early in the day for this kind of thing." He held out a hand. "Sam Cleave. Edinburgh Post."

  "Nina Gould. I'm in the history department."

  Sam quickly began to revise his assumptions about the brunette. He had guessed that she was an academic, because the audience was comprised of nothing but academics and journalists, but considering her stylish trouser suit and with her glossy bobbed hair, he had supposed that she was in one of the more glamorous departments—informatics, perhaps, economics, political science. Something up to date. He had trouble imagining Nina Gould spending hours poring over dusty tomes in dingy libraries.

  "Cool," he said unconvincingly. "Look, I'm supposed to get a couple of vox pops from people about this new building. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions on tape?"

  "Sure." Nina blew out a long stream of smoke. "Oh, wow, an actual tape recorder? I don't think I've seen one of these for about ten years! I thought 'tape' was something people still said out of habit."

  Sam slotted a cassette into his Dictaphone. "I would have thought you'd appreciate it," he said. "What with you being a historian and all."

  "Yes, but I specialize in the pre-war era, not the prehistoric."

  "Funny." Sam pointed the microphone toward her. "Now, could you tell me what difference this new building is going to make to you as a . . . sorry, what was your job title?"

  "I'm a research fellow specializing in 20th century European history. I'm sure we're all looking forward to making use of the wonderful resources the Braxfield Tower can offer. I have no doubt that the open plan pods for one-to-one teaching will make for a stimulating and challenging learning environment, and—"

  "Hold on, hold on," Sam flapped at her, examining the Dictaphone. "I don't think that worked, the red light didn't come on. Can we try that again? Sorry."

  As the last of their fellow smokers departed, Nina repeated herself word for word. Sam wondered if this was a prepared speech. The red light on the Dictaphone came on, then faded and died.

  "I think it's knackered," Sam said. "Sorry about that."

  Nina's face brightened. "Oh. Does that mean I can say what I really think?"

  "Be my guest."

  "Then let me tell you, off the record, that this place is a fucking stupid idea. It cost millions, it's barely fit for purpose, and I guarantee you that they'll end up building yet another new place and shifting everything there in about ten years. It doesn't even have decent desks—you can't spread out your books and stationery and settle in to do some research, you've got to sit in one of these study pods where there's only space for an iPad or a Kindle or some such thing.

  "I mean, I don't mind if people want to use that kind of technology. I do it myself sometimes. But there are other times when I need proper books. And how am I supposed to give my students feedback out here? They cry at me, you know. I tell them why they get lousy marks and they spill out their little hearts and tell me how much pressure they're under, and I make soothing noises and tell them how to improve. How am I supposed to do that in the middle of an atrium—don't even get me started on calling it an 'atrium'—where everything's open and no conversation can be private? God! Whoever designed this place might have won a whole lot of awards, but they've never actually set foot in a university."

  She took another lengthy drag on her cigarette, gripping it as if it had personally offended her. Then she downed the rest of her champagne.

  "Sorry," she sighed, shooting Sam a rueful smile. "I'm just not used to talking to human beings, you know? Most of the time I just see other academics, and saying all that to them could be professional suicide. Everyone hates the new building. You can see it written on their faces. But no one's going to say a word, at least not publicly."

  "I suppose not."

  "Look, I should go back in," Nina said, stubbing out her cigarette. "Nice talking to you. Sorry the vox pop thing didn't work out."

  "Yeah, me too."

  "If you want I can say it again and you can just take notes?" she offered.

  Sam waved a dismissive hand. "It's fine. I can live without the vox pops. Anyway, now that I've heard the unedited version, I'm not sure I could use the official one."

  Nina laughed, then set off back toward the main doors. As Sam watched her go, he felt a flicker of appreciation. It had been a long time since he had had even a few minutes' chat with a beautiful woman. Then the pleasant feeling gave way to a wave of guilt as Patricia's face surfaced in his memory. You've nothing to worry about, Trish, he thought. You never will. And I wish that I really believed that you could somehow hear this.

  At 4:00 am, having already missed his deadline by four hours, Sam sat in his dark living room, lit only by the pale blue glow of his laptop screen. The cold remains of a fish supper lay on the table beside him, the sauce starting to congeal on the chips. Bruichladdich was tucking into the last of the fish, purring contentedly.

  "It's no use, Bruich," Sam muttered. "There's just no way to make this interesting. It's just going to have to go in as it is."

  He saved the article on the opening of the Braxfield Tower, attached it to an email and hit Send. His editors would either like it or they wouldn't. Much to his surprise, they had loved the piece about the Tesco Metro protests. His report on Harald Kruger's murder had made the front page, of course, but it had passed without any comment from the subs. None of the editorial staff seemed to feel that they had the right to amend the work of a prize-winning investigative journalist when he was clearly on his home territory. Reprimanding him over his manner of reporting on verbal abuse against traffic wardens was another matter.

  "Done. Cheers, Bruich." Sam poured himself a whisky, downed it, and refilled the glass. He glanced at the clock. "Time for bed. Can't leave this lying around though, can I? I'm not waking up to find a drunken cat trashing the place." He knocked back the drink, then dragged himself through to the bedroom. Too cold to undress, he collapsed onto the bed fully clothed and rolled over, pulling the duvet around him like a cocoon. Within five minutes, Sam had plunged into a deep sleep. Within ten, the cat was curled up on Sam's head, also fast asleep.

  Sam woke up screaming. It happened occasionally. He could never remember the exact events of his nightmares. All he could recall was the feeling of being helpless, in danger, and completely unable to do anything about it. Several people had suggested that he seek counseling—Patrick Smith, Sam's editors at the Clarion, then his editors at the Post, Sam's sister on the rare occasions when they spoke. Sam had refused every time. He did not need counseling to tell him that he was reliving Patricia's death night after night. He knew why he could not remember his dreams. His brain was having mercy on him by erasing the images every time he woke up. The feelings, however, were inescapable.

  He checked the clock—7:00 am. Far too early for him to be up, but he knew he was unlikely to get back to sleep. Instead, he stumbled through to the kitchen and made himself a mug of extra-strong, extra-sweet tea, then settled in front of his laptop. His hands roamed idly over the keyboard. Bruich padded through and curled up in his lap.

  It was not until Sam found himself on the Edinburgh University website that he even realized that he had typed Nina Gould's name into his search engine. Well, he thought, she must have made more of an impression than I realized. He clicked through to her staff profile on the university's website.

  Nina is originally from Oban. She completed a BA (Hons) in History at the University of York, then an MSc in Contemporary History at the University of St Andrew's before undertaking her PhD at the University of Edinburgh. Her thesis explored the role of propaganda in fiction in Germany prior to World War II. She is currently the Martha Allbright Foundation Research Fellow. She is currently working on "Glaube und Schӧnheit: The Bund deutscher Mӓdel and Gender Politics in the Third Reich."

  It took Sam'
s barely awake, slightly hung-over brain a few moments to catch up with his eyes. He had the nagging sensation that he had just stumbled across something important, or at least useful, but he could not quite put his finger on it. Thinking hard, he took another slurp of tea.

  "German history?" Sam's brain finally woke up. "She studies German history?" He leaned around in his seat, trying to remember where he had dumped the strongbox that Mr. McKenna had given him. It was over by the living room door, where he had put it down as soon as he got home. The key was hanging on the corner of his laptop screen. Fortunately it had not yet occurred to Bruichladdich to play with it. Sam picked it up and looked around for his wallet. When he found it, he tucked the key in beside his emergency credit card. Then he turned his attention back to the computer and began writing an email.

  Hi Nina,

  Nice speaking to you at the Braxfield Tower opening yesterday. Sorry the vox pop didn't work out!

  Hope you don't mind me getting in touch, but I found your email online and realized that you're a German history specialist. This might sound like a weird request, but I was recently given a box full of documents that used to belong to a Nazi scientist. Right now I'm trying to figure out what they are and whether there's a story in them, but I don't really speak German. Would you be interested in taking a look at them?

  Sam Cleave

  The time it took to type those two paragraphs was sufficient for Sam's eyeballs to start throbbing. Unsure whether it was hangover or eye strain, he decided his best course of action was to pour another whisky, lie on the couch, plug his headphones into his ancient stereo system, and lose himself in whichever Johnny Cash album happened to be in the CD player. Slowly, unexpectedly, he felt himself drifting back into sleep.

  When Sam awoke, the first thing he saw was his open laptop, with Nina's message waiting for him.

  Hi Sam,

  Thanks for contacting me. It was good to meet you. I'd like to know more about these papers. I'd invite you to my office, but as I was ranting about yesterday, I no longer have one. Could we meet at the National Library some time? I'll be finished with teaching for the semester after today, so I can meet any time that's convenient to you. It would be great to do this some time before Christmas.

  Let me know.

  Nina

  Chapter 3

  "WELL, THEY'RE DEFINITELY army documents," Nina said. Several pairs of eyes glanced at her with disapproval, but she paid them no attention. Sam, on the other hand, felt a little intimidated. He was used to having people look askance at him, wondering who the disheveled drunk was, but the reading room at the National Library made him feel even more judged than usual. All of these serious, studious people seemed to be doing work that was far more legitimate than his was.

  He had not always felt this way. During his time at the Clarion he had been in and out of the British Library in London, checking out old stories and researching people's backgrounds. But in those days he wore shirts with all their buttons still attached. He shaved every morning and only drank in company. His work felt important. No one questioned his legitimacy then. Just eighteen short months ago . . .

  "Sam?" Nina's voice called him back to the present.

  "Uh, yes," Sam pulled himself together. "Army documents. That's great. Any idea what they're about?"

  She pointed to a sheaf of typed papers. "These are in some sort of code. They refer to some kind of base in New Schwabenland. It's not entirely clear—there are several abbreviations and military acronyms that I don't understand—but I know that the Nazis hoped to establish a whaling base there. They needed whale oil for things such as soap, margarine, god knows what else. And they were thinking of setting up a naval base there. They got as far as charting some of the territory—I think that's what some of these handwritten notes refer to—but then it became clear that Germany was going to war, so setting up remote ice stations wasn't really a priority. It's strange, though, because some of these notes make it sound like some sort of base had actually been established and the writer—Harald Kruger, did you say?—was working on something there."

  Next, she tapped the little pile of notebooks. "These look like some sort of journal. Again, there are a lot of abbreviations and acronyms, but I should be able to translate them if you don't mind leaving them with me." She glanced up, her brown eyes sincere. "I promise I'll take perfect care of them."

  Sam allowed himself a small smile. He wondered for a moment how Nina imagined him taking care of the box's contents. She'd probably be horrified if she saw my place, he thought. "Sure," he said, "as long as you're careful."

  "Thanks." Nina looked genuinely excited at the prospect of spending her Christmas holiday translating old Nazi letters. "I will be." Carefully, methodically, she took out the metal parts and laid them in a row on the table. There was a cog, small in diameter but thick and heavy, a flat disc with a tiny hole in its center like a miniature CD, an inch-long cylinder, and a strange ring with a row of bulbous protrusions along the top. "Any idea what these are?" Nina asked.

  "Not a clue," said Sam. "Just bits of metal as far as I'm concerned."

  "I thought as much. Do you want to hang on to these for now? There's not much I can do with them, but I'll let you know if I find any reference to them in the notebooks. Now, shall we get out of here? If we talk for much longer these people are likely to turn violent."

  "We'd better, then," Sam agreed. "Some of them have staplers. They could do a lot of damage."

  He watched as Nina folded the papers and slipped them back into the strongbox with care bordering on reverence. She took the key from him and was just about to lock it when she paused. "You know what?" she said, "If I just take the notebooks and leave the papers with you, I could put you in touch with someone who might be able to decode them."

  "Who's that?" Sam asked.

  "His name is Dr. George Lehmann," Nina said. "Here, I'll write down his number. I'd call him myself, but . . . well, I can't. Here. Tell him I sent you."

  "And who exactly is this guy?"

  "Another German scientist. You'd be surprised how many were spirited out of Germany during Operation Paperclip. He was a friend of my supervisor's, he helped me with some research for my doctorate and I've kept in touch ever since." She gathered the notebooks and put them carefully in her handbag, then locked the strongbox and handed it back to Sam. He could not help noticing that her tone of voice had become suspiciously calm. A spark of mischief flared up in him and he decided not to resist it.

  "So . . ." he said casually. "How come you can't contact this Dr. Lehmann? I mean, I'm very happy to do it—thanks for the contact and everything—I'm just curious. Wouldn't it be better for you to talk to him, one expert to another?"

  Nina's mouth folded into a hard line. "It's complicated," she said. She made her way out of the reading room and headed down the stairs, Sam at her heels.

  "How so?" Sam asked, deliberately keeping his voice as light as he could.

  She stopped dead, spun around and looked Sam straight in the face. "Is this any of your business?" she demanded. "Ok, you really want to know? Dr. Lehmann lives with his son, Steven. When I went down to Berkshire to interview Dr. Lehmann, Steven and I . . . hit it off, shall we say? We had a kind of on-off affair for a couple of years. Then last year, Steven's wife found out. She wasn't particularly happy to find out about me. To be fair, I wasn't particularly happy to find out about her . . . But apparently they've worked things out. Dr. Lehmann wrote to me recently to say that they'd had a baby. I have a feeling that a call from me wouldn't be appreciated right now, even if it wasn't Steven I wanted to talk to."

  "I see." Sam could see that Nina was scrutinizing his face for any hint of judgment. He kept his expression neutral. These things happened, he knew. Patricia's ex-husband hadn't exactly been thrilled when Trish packed her bags one night and headed straight for Sam's place.

  "So, I'm sure you can understand why I would rather have you call him. You're less likely to get his wife accusing you
of trying to destroy her home." She turned away and continued down the stairs, stopping at the bottom to put her coat on.

  Sam caught her up and stopped beside her to wind his scarf around his neck. "Sorry," he said.

  Nina glanced back over her shoulder at him and Sam caught a hint of a smile. "No you're not," she said. "You're a journalist. Prying is your job. And everyone loves gossip, don't they?" She slung her bag over her arm and patted it. "I'll get on with translating these. Give me until New Year's Day. We can meet up after that. I'll talk you through whatever I've found and you can tell me if Dr. Lehmann could clear anything up regarding those papers. Bring wine." She strode off toward the door.

  "Sam, what the hell is this?"

  Sam's mind raced as he tried to figure out who was speaking. One of these days, he promised himself, I am going to get myself a phone with caller ID. He seldom felt the need for anything more sophisticated than his old brick of a phone, but moments like this made him wish that he knew who was calling so that he could avoid answering the call. A quick process of deduction, running through the list of people who could possibly be pissed off with him, brought him to the conclusion that it was his editor, Mitchell Scott. "What's up, Mitch?"

  "This piece you wrote about the Braxfield Tower opening." Mitchell was exasperated. "What am I supposed to do with this, Sam? There's hardly any information about what the new building's for, who built it, who paid for it, anything. You give us a brief hint that the staff aren't happy about the design, but then you don't go into it—no quotes, nothing! The whole thing just reads like you don't give a shit. I'm going to have to do a massive rewrite. Basically, this is going to end up as a rehash of the press release."

  The reprimand was not entirely unexpected. Sam knew full well that his article was lackluster. He knew that Mitchell would rewrite it. He also knew that he should care, but he just couldn't find it within himself. He made some apologetic noises, but Mitchell was in full flow.