"Are we back here again, Sam? Really? I'm trying to be supportive, I really am. I know you've got a lot to deal with. And it's not that you're not good. When you're on form, your work's fantastic. The Queensferry murder piece was phenomenal. Seriously. I loved it. Figures for that day were amazing. We were ahead of the Guardian, the Times—all the nationals. But then you give me something like this. Any teenager with a blog could do better than this. What's the matter, Sam? Are you ok? Is there anything you need?"
"A lifetime supply of single malt wouldn't come amiss." Sam leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
"Oh, Sam," Mitchell sighed heavily. "This is serious. I'm really concerned about you. Look, why don't you take some time off? Have a bit of a break. I can sort you out some paid leave. Maybe just relax until after the new year, get your head together a bit."
"Gardening leave?"
"Don't think of it like that. I'm just concerned about your well-being, Sam. Are you seeing anyone? Such as a therapist or someone? I know it's none of my business—I'm not trying to be nosy, it's just that if you need a recommendation I know a couple of people . . ."
Sam sighed. If only Mitchell weren't so nice. Most people who had tried to recommend therapists to Sam had been told to fuck off, or worse. He couldn't say that Mitchell. "That would be great, Mitchell," he conceded.
"Fantastic!" Mitchell's tone brightened at once. "I'll email you their details. And if there's anything else, anything at all, just you let me know. I'll drop you a line after Hogmanay and we'll have a chat about what to do going forward. Don't you worry about a thing."
"That's great, Mitchell. Thanks." Sam let Mitchell twitter for another couple of minutes before hanging up. Then he took a lengthy puff on his cigarette. Well, he thought, no more local interest stories for a bit. Now what am I going to do to ignore the run-up to Christmas?
Sam decided that concentrating on the strongbox and its mysterious contents was his best option. He opened his search engine and looked up Schwabenland, taking a few guesses before hitting on the correct spelling. He clicked his way through link after link, flipping among sites that looked legitimate and sites that were clearly hosted by deranged conspiracy theorists. His favorites were the ones that insisted that Hitler had not died at the end of the Second World War but was still alive, even in 2012, at the grand old age of 124. Many of these suggested that he had been spirited off to Antarctica, leaving a look-alike to shoot himself in the bunker. Some even stated that Hitler was still there, cryogenically frozen, waiting in suspended animation until the Nazis regained power and revived him. The more Sam drank, the more entertaining his search became.
Eventually, countless conspiracy theories later, Sam grew curious about Dr. Lehmann. He could find nothing about the scientist online, apart from a couple of mentions in the thanks sections of academic papers. This annoyed him. He liked to find out a bit about people before he contacted them.
He also liked to be a little more sober than he currently was, so he headed to the bathroom and took a shower. The water was bracingly cold, which was good for sobering him up but also indicated that the boiler was on the blink again. He toweled himself off at top speed, threw on some nearly clean clothes and had a mug of tea and half a packet of chocolate digestives. As soon as his head began to feel a little clearer, he dialed the number on Nina's note.
It was a woman who answered. "Lehmann residence."
"Could I speak to Dr. Lehmann, please?" Sam did his best to sound professional.
"May I ask who's calling?" The female at the other end of the phone did not seem particularly friendly.
"My name is Sam Cleave; I'm with the Edinburgh Post. I'm working on a story about a scientist whom I think Dr. Lehmann might have known, so I'd like to ask him a few questions."
"Hmm. Right. I'll see if he's available. One moment."
Sam waited while the woman went to find Dr. Lehmann. The house sounded chaotic, judging by the noises he could hear at the other end of the line. Two male voices were raised in a heated argument, at least until the woman's voice cut through them, and a baby was wailing in the background. That's what Christmas is going to sound like, Sam thought glumly, recalling his sister's invitation to stay with her, her husband, and their two-year-old daughter. Maybe I'll just stay here and pretend it's not happening.
"Hello," a man's voice this time, "George Lehmann speaking." His speech bore only faint traces of his German accent. If it had not been for his pronunciation of his name, retaining the hard G, Sam might not have noticed it at all.
"Hello, Dr. Lehmann. Thank you for speaking to me," Sam said. "I'm Sam Cleave, I write for the Edinburgh Post. I was given your number by Nina Gould at Edinburgh University. She thought you might be able to give me some information about a story I'm working on."
"Indeed." Dr. Lehmann's voice remained neutral at the mention of Nina's name. "And what is this story about?"
Sam explained about the death of Harald Kruger, omitting the gorier details. Dr. Lehmann did not appear to have heard about the murder, though he admitted to a passing familiarity with Kruger's work. It was not until Sam mentioned the strongbox that a trace of excitement crept into his voice.
"And you say these notes pertain to some kind of Antarctic base?" Lehmann asked. "But no name is given?"
"That's right. Or at least, Nina says it's right. But she can't tell me more about it because the notes are partly in code. She said you might be able to help with that."
Dr. Lehmann broke into a loud, unexpected laugh. "She did, did she? Yes, that sounds like her. There's always a way to get the things she wants. Well, I would need to have a look at these papers before I could tell you how much help I can offer."
"I could scan them and send them to you," Sam suggested. "Do you have an email address?"
"Mr. Cleave," Lehmann replied with a chuckle, "I am 97 years old. How likely do you think it is that I have an email address?"
"Point taken," Sam shrugged. It was rare that he met anyone less up-to-date with modern technology than he was, but this time it seemed that he had. "Should I put them in the post?"
"No." Lehmann's tone was emphatic. "Definitely not. These are valuable artifacts, or at least they might be. If they were to be lost or damaged . . . No. Would it be possible for you to bring them to me, or entrust them to someone in whom you have the utmost faith? If it were remotely possible for me to come to you, I would—but I find myself less able to travel these days."
Sam considered it. His gut reaction was to say no. It was a long way to go, a journey that would cost money he didn't have. What am I doing with this story anyway? Sam wondered. I don't do this kind of thing anymore. I'm supposed to be leaving the investigative stuff to other people these days.
"Yeah, go on then," said Sam.
Chapter 4
BY THE TIME Sam had taken the train down to London, changed for a local train, and made his way to Thatcham, his emergency credit card was beginning to smolder. This is turning into a very expensive trip, he thought, as he handed over a ten-pound note for a railway station sandwich and weak tea. He got very little change. Once he had eaten, Sam went in search of a taxi. A lone minicab was waiting at the rank.
"The Old Rectory, The Ridge, Cold Ash, please," Sam said to the driver. They set off. The driver was pleasantly taciturn, leaving Sam to stare absently out of the window at the Berkshire countryside. Beyond the little town lay rolling fields, lush and green, dotted with chocolate box cottages and farmhouses. Despite its picturesque beauty, the landscape made Sam melancholy. He had not been back to England since he had moved home eighteen months earlier, and it was strange to see this kind of pastoral prettiness again.
Cold Ash was barely a village. The main street consisted of a few shops, a school, and a couple of pubs, and The Old Rectory was nowhere near the main street. It was a sturdy Victorian building with a gravel drive and seemingly endless gardens. Sam paid the cab driver, ignoring his grumbling about being given Scottish banknotes, then scrunched
his way across the gravel to knock on the door.
Steven Lehmann answered the door with difficulty, holding a baby on his hip and a bottle in his free hand. "Oh. You must be the journalist," he said dismissively. "I suppose you'd better come in." Sam stepped into the cozy hallway, feeling out of place amid the expensively shabby Welsh dressers and occasional tables. I'm the wrong kind of shabby, Sam thought, shrugging off his battered black leather jacket and draping it over his arm. He was freezing after his journey, but this place was distinctly overheated.
"Dad's upstairs," Steven said, indicating the direction with a jerk of his head. He was just about to turn away toward the kitchen when he stopped and suddenly stared intently at Sam. "What was your name again?" he asked. "Dad did tell me, but . . ."
"Sam Cleave," said Sam. Then, because Steven's gaze was making him uncomfortable, he continued. "From the Edinburgh Post."
"Hmm." Steven nodded slightly, then continued as if nothing had happened. "I've got to get Lavinia down for her nap, but I'll bring you two some tea in a minute. Just head up. It's the first door on the right."
People are weird, thought Sam, as he climbed the stairs. When he reached the first door on the right he knocked. A muffled voice called from within, so he pushed the door open and stepped inside. He found himself in a small, book-lined study with a tiny coal fire. Dr. Lehmann was seated in a dark-green wing chair by the hearth, leaning forward on his walking stick.
"Ah, Mr. Cleave," he greeted Sam. "So good to meet you. Thank you for coming all this way. Do have a seat."
He directed Sam to a leather chair identical to his own. Sam gratefully settled into it, stretching his frozen feet out toward the fire. Before they could get talking, Steven appeared. "Tea, Dad?" he asked. Dr. Lehmann nodded, then turned his attention back to Sam as they heard Steven's footsteps on the stairs.
"Please, Mr. Cleave," Dr. Lehmann said, "do tell me about this story you are writing. How did you come into possession of these papers? I am a little confused. They belonged to Harald Kruger, you said, but you never met Mr. Kruger."
"That's right," Sam replied. "I got them from a Mr. McKenna, another resident in the retirement home. He told me he was looking after them for Mr. Kruger. He seemed quite worried about what would happen to him if he hung on to the papers, but I got the impression that he wasn't the trusting sort."
And neither are you, Sam thought, as Dr. Lehmann suddenly raised his finger to his lips. The old man began chattering inconsequentially—about Sam's journey, the expected snowstorm, the cost of train travel, anything at all. At first Sam could not understand the change, but then Steven appeared with the tea tray. Interesting, he thought, Lehmann doesn't want his son hearing about this stuff. Sure enough, the stream of chit-chat continued until Steven was back down the stairs, safely out of earshot. It took an agonizingly long time, since instead of going straight back down, Steven chose that moment to stop and fiddle with the plug socket on the landing. After several minutes he got up and left. At once, Lehmann dropped his doddery old man act.
"May I see the papers?"
"Sure," said Sam, reaching into his bag. The folded papers were tucked into a notebook for safekeeping, because Sam had thought it best not to lug the cumbersome strongbox all the way to Berkshire. "I've got some of the metal things that were in the box too." He pulled them out of the zip section and spread the complicated bits of brass on the table while Dr. Lehmann poured tea.
"Please, help yourself to milk and sugar," the old man said, picking up a couple of the machine parts. He turned them over and over, scrutinizing them. "Wolfenstein?" he muttered to himself. "And this . . . No . . . no, I'm afraid these are unfamiliar to me. As I recall, Mr. Kruger and I were in very different fields at Peenemünde. What was it he did, aeronautics? Ballistics? They could be bomb parts, I suppose. Rocket science was my field. I had the immeasurable privilege of working with Wernher von Braun, you know . . ."
He picked up the typed papers. "Ah, yes, I recognize these. This one is notifying Mr. Kruger that he will be posted to a new location at the beginning of 1939. I can't tell you where, since that part is in code and I'm afraid it's not somewhere I knew the code words for. It may be possible to work it out—this little note in the margin here, it's a number puzzle. We used to come up with these as a way of disguising the—"
The door opened again. Dr. Lehmann immediately went silent. He shot a look at the papers. Sam could have sworn that he was looking for a swift way to hide them. He found himself getting ready to lunge forward in case the old man threw them on the fire.
Steven Lehmann strolled in, a plate in his hand. He set it down on the tea table. "Forgot the biscuits," he said with an icy smile. "Mr. Cleave?" Steven turned his attention to Sam. "I believe you're here because Nina Gould sent you?" He looked Sam up and down, presumably jumping to conclusions about Sam's relationship with Nina and not liking them. "Hmm. Well, when you see her, tell her I send my love, won't you?"
Sam had never heard a greeting that sounded so much like a threat, not even from people who had been pointing guns at him at the time. He and Dr. Lehmann watched silently as Steven slipped out of the room again, leaving the door slightly ajar.
"My son is not a happy man," Dr. Lehmann said softly. "I wish it were otherwise. But he has made . . . unfortunate choices. I believe that he regrets not having the nerve to leave his wife and marry Nina when he had the chance. If, indeed, he did have the chance . . . I do not think that Nina trusted him after she learned that he had lied to her about being married. A pity. I should have liked to have her for a daughter-in-law. I do sincerely hope that you will be able to make her happy."
Sam nearly leaped out of his seat. "What? Me and Nina? No, sorry, Dr. Lehmann, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick. I've only just met her! No, we're just friends. Well, acquaintances. I ran into her at a university thing and ended up telling her about these papers in the hope that she'd help me. She's translating Kruger's notebooks at the moment."
"His notebooks? There are more?"
"Yup. She's only had a brief look at them, but she said his notes were about some kind of Nazi ice station that they were going to build for whaling or something. Does that sound about right?"
Dr. Lehmann was still and silent for a long moment. Sam watched with growing concern. Is he ok? He's very still. Should I get his son? Is he having an aneurysm or something? Then at last, he picked up his cup and took a slow sip of tea.
"Mr. Cleave," he said gently. "I would advise you and Nina not to pursue this any further. I can tell you that there was an attempt to build an ice station in New Schwabenland, and that many have died attempting to uncover its location. To do so now would simply be folly. It is perhaps the most hostile terrain on Earth. A station abandoned in 1945 would leave very little trace by now. Your safest bet is to leave well enough alone. There are secrets that are best left as secrets."
I bet there are, Sam thought. He could feel this case tugging at his interest despite his determination to keep his distance. Stop trying to recapture the glory days, Sam, he told himself. You don't have the balls for the investigative stuff anymore. If this gets any more challenging than chatting to old men about their wartime experiences, you'll be curled up under the nearest table, sobbing like a baby.
"Purely academic interest, I promise," Sam reassured the old man, sliding the handwritten papers toward him. "Can you tell me anything about these?"
Dr. Lehmann did not even lean forward this time. He cast a cursory glance over the top sheet, then shook his head. "No," he said sadly. "I cannot help you with these. My eyes are not what they used to be, and the writing is too cramped. I am sorry."
Nothing further came of Sam's chat with Dr. Lehmann. They made polite conversation as they finished their tea and biscuits, but no matter how hard he tried, Sam could not draw out any further information about the contents of the strongbox. Still, Dr. Lehmann seemed a nice old boy, and he told Sam a little about his experiences after Operation Paperclip. He had worked
for the Americans, he said, as they battled to win the space race. When Armstrong had landed on the Moon, Lehmann had celebrated with so much champagne that he finally worked up the confidence to propose to Steven's mother. As old men's reminiscences went, Dr. Lehmann's were among the more interesting. Sam listened, trying not to give in to drowsiness in the warm study.
He was not the only one feeling tired, though. Dr. Lehmann was clearly flagging. "I hope you won't think me terribly ill-mannered if I bring our interview to a close," he said, stifling a yawn. "I shall ask my son to drive you back to the station, if that is where you're going."
As little as Sam relished the prospect of half an hour in the car with Steven Lehmann, he was not in a position to turn down the lift. He waited beside the family Volvo while the two Lehmann men conversed in hushed tones in the doorway. Sam was prepared to bet that they were not discussing feeding times for little Lavinia. As he waited, his phone began to ring. He slipped it out of his pocket and went to answer it, then thought better of it. What if it's Nina? Sam wondered. That's a can of worms I'd be best not to open right now. He rejected the call and put the phone away again.
At last they were on their way. Steven's face was inscrutable, but his dislike for Sam was palpable. Sam sneaked a look at him out of the corner of his eye. Steven was a man in the early stages of losing his looks. Mid-forties, with the excesses of his earlier years starting to tell on him. Dissatisfied with life, as his father had said. Sam wondered what his relationship with Nina had been like.
"I hope you got everything you needed from your talk with my father, Mr. Cleave," Steven spoke for the first time as they approached the station. "Because I would appreciate it if you didn't come back. As a matter of fact, I don't want you contacting him again. Under any circumstances. My father does not need to relive his Nazi days. My family does not need to be reminded of where it comes from. And my wife and I certainly do not need anything else to do with Nina Gould. She had her chance. "
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