"I'm aware that it sounds far-fetched, Professor Matlock," she said. "But I am certain that—"
"Dr. Gould," Matlock interrupted, "I hate to doubt your—dare I say it?—feminine intuition, but you must understand that the department simply cannot give out funding—especially in the kind of sums you are requesting—based on nothing more than a hunch."
"I understand that, Professor," Nina was finding it increasingly difficult to stay calm. She had spent the past hour outlining her case, and now she could see quite clearly that Professor Matlock was going to dismiss it with only cursory consideration. "I understand that this is unorthodox. But you know me. You've known me for years. I'm not impulsive or fanciful. I wouldn't make a request such as this without being absolutely sure of what I'm doing.
"I wish I could show you Mr. Kruger's notebooks, but as I said, they were stolen. I can show you the police report if you don't believe me. I would hate to pass up an opportunity to make such an important breakthrough just because a few thugs chose to rob my flat at exactly the wrong moment—and I'm sure you wouldn't want the department to miss out for such a silly reason either."
The moment Professor Matlock got to his feet, Nina knew she had lost. This was a favorite trick of his and she knew it well. He would stroll casually around his office, nonchalantly laying hands on the many status symbols that he kept scattered around. He would perch on the edge of his desk, looking relaxed and confident, a man who absolutely belonged in this place. For the person trapped in the uncomfortable captain's chair in the center of the room, it was unnerving—and Matlock knew it.
"Nina," he addressed her in deliberately warm, reassuring tones. "I can see you feel strongly about his. I know. Believe it or not, I was once a young academic myself. I remember what it was like to feel unsettled and eager to prove myself. I know you are keen to get tenure, and no doubt you think that something wonderfully high-profile will give you the boost that you need." He whipped off his glasses and began to gesticulate with them. "Trust me. You're a bright girl, a very bright girl. You'll get there. Perhaps not here, but there are plenty of universities and many would be delighted to have you, when you're ready. Give yourself time and the right line of research will present itself. You don't need to go rushing around chasing after Internet rumors and conspiracy theories. You're an academic, not a journalist."
He leaned forward and tapped Nina on the knee with the leg of his glasses. She fought the impulse to scream with rage. "Tell you what," he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's meet in the new year, shall we? You and I can have a little chat and perhaps I can help you find some research topics that would be of interest to you. I could put some editing your way. You might find that stimulating. Or perhaps you might be able to help me with the book I'm working on."
Matlock got to his feet again and returned to his chair. "In the meantime," he said, sitting down heavily, "I am afraid I shall have to deny your request for funding. I do hope you will have a happy Christmas." He uncapped his fountain pen and drew a pile of papers toward him. Years of being a student had trained her to interpret this kind of professorial body language. It was an unmistakable dismissal. She got to her feet.
Then, just as she laid her hand on the door handle, she turned around. "Professor Matlock," she said. "May I ask—if you had discovered evidence of the ice station and it had been stolen, would you have been denied the funding?"
Matlock stared at her over the top of his glasses, unaccustomed to being addressed by someone he had dismissed. "If I had discovered it, Dr. Gould, I would have been seeking funding as an established academic with three decades' worth of reputation behind me, not as someone who has only just finished her doctorate. It makes a great deal of difference, as you may someday find out." He looked down again. "And believe me, I have access to funding streams far superior to this."
"Then you think that making important discoveries should be left to academics at the end of their careers, not the beginning?" Nina was aware of the harsh tone in her voice, but she was beyond the point where she could do anything to control it.
Matlock looked up again, and this time his eyes were steely. "Dr. Gould." His voice was smoothly menacing. "I have given you my decision. Unless you wish to become an academic at the end of her career before you have even got started, I would advise you to leave my office. Now."
With a white-knuckle grip, Nina turned the handle. She forced herself to smile sweetly and thank Professor Matlock as she walked out of the room.
"Oh, and Nina?" he called after her, "Let's have that chat after the new year!"
By the time she got out of the building and onto the street, Nina was shaking with rage. She had known all along that the funding application was a long shot, but Matlock had not just rejected her. He had patronized her. He had humiliated her. He had made it clear yet again that the only way to rise within his department was to suck up to him.
She walked through George Square Gardens, trying to let the icy beauty of the place calm her down. When that did not work, she found herself a quiet corner and smoked two cigarettes in quick succession. Then she pulled out her phone and rang Sam's number.
"Hello?"
"Sam, it's Nina. Look, the funding interview . . . it didn't go well."
"Ah, well," Sam did not sound disappointed. If anything, he sounded relieved. "Never mind. Other things will come up."
"Mmm." Nina refused to be comforted. "The thing is, I've got this stupid benefactors' ball to go to tonight. The entire department's going to be there, and by this evening they'll all know about my application and the head of my department will be taking the piss behind my back. I really can't face it."
"So blow it off."
"I can't. I'm crap enough at networking as it is. If I don't turn up it'll look really bad, especially after today. Come with me?"
Sam snorted. "Well, you've really sold it to me!"
"I know," Nina groaned. "Sorry . . . I wouldn't ask, but the invitation is a plus one and I'd feel a lot better about going if I had someone I got on with there. There'll be free food. And lots of free drink."
She was sure that she could hear Sam's shrug over the phone. "Well, if there's free drink . . ." Sam said. "Go on then. Where is it? Do I have to dress up?"
"Old College," Nina grinned. "Black tie. Do you have a suit?"
"Somewhere."
"Dig it out, then. I'll meet you in Dagda about half past seven."
Chapter 7
SAM LINGERED BY the bookshelves in the Playfair Library, clutching his champagne glass as if it were a shield. From time to time, eager young research fellows would mistake him for someone important and attempt to strike up a conversation, at which point Sam would develop an instant fascination with the books that lined the alcoves. The sweeping central aisle had been designated as a dance floor, where Nina was allowing the head of the classics department to waltz with her while the string quartet played. Sam had no intention of being dragged out to dance, so he identified the optimum position for accosting the waiters who wove in and out of the shelves proffering drink and canapés, and remained there.
Nina scrubs up well, Sam thought, watching her swirling gracefully in the arms of the elderly academic. Her dark-red cocktail dress flowed as she moved, and she danced well. Sam found himself wondering about her. We've never really talked about anything other than the ice station stuff, he realized. I don't even know how old she is. Early thirties, I'd guess. I wonder what she's done with her life, other than have an affair with a married man?
He glanced down at his own attire. It wasn't full black tie—Sam had never owned a tuxedo and never intended to—but it was a suit rather than a pair of jeans. His shirt was ironed and he had managed to borrow a black bow tie from Paddy. He was clean-shaven for the first time in a long time, and he knew himself to look passable.
"Ugh, I hate dancing." Nina appeared at Sam's side, two fresh glasses of champagne in her hands. "Schmoozing is horrible enough at the best of times, when all y
ou have to do is stand around and chat. But all the pawing . . . ugh."
"But you dance so well," Sam teased. "From what I could see, your footwork is much better than your conversation."
"Shut up or I'll tell them you're a gatecrasher and they'll make you pay for your booze," Nina shot back. "Oh, god, he's coming over—quick, pretend we're in the middle of a really intense conversation."
"What? Who is it?" Sam scanned the room and spotted a tall, thin man striding purposefully toward them. "Who's he?"
"Dave Purdue," hissed Nina. "He's one of the benefactors. At last year's ball he backed me into a corner and tried to get me to go home with him. I really don't want a repeat performance."
Sam did his best to look as if he and Nina were having a deep and meaningful discussion, but he found that his mind had gone completely blank. He began talking at random about the library, the Old College, the construction of South Bridge, anything he could dredge up from the depths of his memory. Nina hung on his every word, doing a good impression of being fascinated.
It did not work. "Nina!" Dave Purdue cried out as he approached. "Lovely to see you again!" Ignoring Sam completely, he took Nina's hand and pressed it to his lips.
"Hello, Dave," Nina said with a strangled smile. "Good to see you too." She detached her hand as subtly as she could and wrapped it around Sam's arm. "Have you met Sam Cleave?" she asked. "He's . . ." Nina's sentence ground to a halt as she realized that she and Sam had not prepared for this eventuality. Sam was tempted to help her out, but far more interested in finding out what she would say unprompted. "He's here with me," she finished lamely.
Dave Purdue peered at Sam with quizzical detachment. "Is he your lover?" he asked Nina.
"What? No!" Nina was taken aback. "He's a friend, that's all."
"Good," said Purdue. He appeared to consider the matter closed. "Did you say Sam Cleave?" he asked. "Of the Edinburgh Post?"
"That's me," Sam said. Might as well work the advantages while I still have them.
"How fortunate. I was hoping to meet you in the very near future." Purdue registered Sam's bemused expression. "Your paper's editor was in touch with me recently asking for an interview, since I have recently made Edinburgh my permanent home and he seemed to consider this noteworthy. I have yet to agree or disagree, but I had promised myself that I would allow it on the condition that you were the one to write about me. Will you do it?"
Sam was taken aback. "Thanks," he said, "but it's not really my decision to make. If the editor's been in touch, he probably has someone in mind. I just go where I'm sent."
"Don't spin me a line, Mr. Cleave," Purdue fixed Sam with a hard stare. "Bullshit is beneath you. I am well aware that you have a great deal of leeway at the Post. It's a piffling little paper and they know they are lucky to have you. If you want to profile me, and I want to be profiled by you, I doubt they will stand on procedure. Now will you do it?"
Sam shrugged. He was not sure whether he found this stranger's directness refreshing or irritating. Judging by the look on Nina's face, which she was trying and failing to conceal, she found him irritating. "Go on then," said Sam. "I might as well."
"Hmm. Good." Purdue gave a small, contented nod, then demanded that Nina join him on the dance floor. With a despairing look at Sam, she complied.
Sam had expected that Purdue would eventually leave them alone and choose to mingle with the other guests, but he was wrong. Purdue attached himself firmly to Sam and Nina and refused to be separated from them. Nina was clearly feeling the pressure of having to be nice to the man with all the money, and while Sam felt a little sorry for her he also had to admire Purdue's tenacity. He ignored any subtle hints about circulating and stuck close to Nina. Any suggestion that Sam and Nina might be planning to leave together went straight over his head, or at least appeared to.
Purdue's presence had a couple of major benefits, though. First, it kept anyone else from trying to engage Sam in conversation and absolved him and Nina of the need for any further socializing. Second, Purdue was clearly another heavy drinker. No champagne tray was allowed to pass without new glasses being collected, and Sam found himself beginning to get a little dizzy. Whisky he could handle, but his system was not use to champagne. He scrutinized Nina in case she needed help, but despite her petite stature she was holding her drink better than Sam was. Perhaps if you have to go to a lot of these things you build up a tolerance, Sam speculated. Either that or Nina just happened to be remarkably hardheaded.
Several glasses and increasingly clumsy dances later, Purdue suddenly announced that he wanted to go home.
"Are you sure?" Nina asked. "I know the dean of faculty was particularly hoping to speak to you and I don't think he's had a chance to catch you yet."
Purdue glared over at the dean. "Nonsense," he said. "If he needs to contact me, he can email me. I've had enough of crushes for tonight." He reached for his mobile phone. The device he pulled out looked the way a Smartphone might be expected to look in fifty years. It was smart and shiny, nearly paper thin. Purdue held it delicately in his hand and spoke into it. "Call driver," he said, then looked up. "There. We will be on our way shortly." A brief moment later it beeped in confirmation that Purdue's driver was indeed on the way to collect him.
"Now," he said, draping one arm around Nina. "All I need to make tonight perfect is for you to join me for a nightcap. Don't worry. I shall have my driver drop you off at home afterward."
Sam hurried forward, certain that Nina's look of apprehension was not motivated by concern about travel arrangements. He laid a hand on Purdue's arm. "Sorry, Mr. Purdue," he said gently. "But I promised Nina that I would see her home. I really can't let you . . ."
"Nonsense." Purdue's look of annoyance gave him the air of a discontented heron. "She will be perfectly safe with me. I shall make sure that she gets home in one—"
"Excuse me," Nina piped up. "I'm quite capable of seeing myself home. Thanks, Mr. Purdue, but I'm really not looking for anyone to go home with. Thanks all the same." She disengaged herself from Purdue's hold, but he caught her by the wrist.
"Forgive me, Nina," he said. "I believe you have the wrong impression. I am not asking you to join me for a nightcap because I hope that you'll sleep with me, although I would be delighted if you would. No, I am asking you because there is something I need to discuss with you and do not wish to do so here, surrounded by prying eyes and ears." Sam thought he detected a sidelong glance from Purdue.
"What is it you need to discuss?" Nina asked suspiciously.
"Your Antarctic expedition."
Nina gaped at Purdue. Sam caught himself doing the same. How does he know about it? he wondered.
"Now if you will come with me, I can discuss it with you."
Nina was torn. On the one hand, she clearly did not want to go with Purdue and find herself at a disadvantage, stuck in a strange place with a man who had been making his intentions clear all evening. On the other, she did not want to reject the possibility of help. As subtly as she could, she gave Sam a nudge.
"What? Oh, errr—yes." Sam stuttered. "Look, Mr. Purdue, I really did promise Nina that I'd get her home safely, so maybe—"
Purdue cut him off. "As the lady herself has said, she is more than capable of looking after herself. However, since you feel so vehemently about protecting her, why don't you come too? If you're going to write about me you might as well see my new place, and my driver can just as easily take two of you home."
So Sam and Nina found themselves in the back of Purdue's 4x4. "Less stylish than a limousine, I know," he said, as the driver moved aside to let Purdue climb into the front and take the wheel. "But you'll see why I prefer this when we get to my place. Especially if it keeps snowing."
Sure enough, a thin layer of snow had settled over the Old Town while they had been at the ball. The snow was intermittent, taking the form of occasional swirls rather than anything heavier, but Sam guessed from Purdue's words that they would be going out of town. Even on the
cobbles of the city center, the four-wheel drive was proving its worth. Sam had never traveled in such a comfortable vehicle.
They wound through the city streets, sparkling with fairy lights as the tourists poured in for Christmas, then out through the quiet suburbs. Eventually they sped out of the city entirely, tearing along the main road toward the Forth Road bridge. I'm hardly ever out this way, Sam thought, but that's twice this month. This was the route he and DCI Smith had taken on their journey out to the retirement home. Only at the end of their journey did the 4x4 turn in a different direction, heading off the main road and onto a series of twisting dirt tracks.
"This isn't the actual road up to the house, of course," Purdue called back over his shoulder. "But it's by far my preferred route. I do hope you're both properly strapped in back there."
As the car swung gut-churningly off the main road, Sam noticed a light coming from behind them. He craned his neck to look behind and saw another 4x4 hot on their heels. "Is that other car meant to be following us?"
Purdue stared at his rearview mirror for a moment. "Yes," he said. "That's Blomstein. My bodyguard. Discreet, isn't he?"
"Has he been around all evening?" Nina asked. "I didn't notice a bodyguard at the ball."
"I asked him to keep his distance. He's rather imposing, and I didn't want you to think that you had no choice about accompanying me here."
Despite the car's excellent suspension, Sam and Nina were bounced about until their teeth rattled as Purdue raced along the dirt track. Ditches and potholes only encouraged him to go faster. "This is why I love private roads!" he yelled. "Welcome to Wrichtishousis!"
They rounded one last bend at high speed, then screeched to a halt before an impressively grand house. Sam guessed that there were about fifty windows on the front side of the central building alone. Other buildings sprawled out to the sides, but he could only guess at their function. Stables, perhaps? Servants' quarters?
Ice Station Wolfenstein Page 6
