"Have it your own way," Alexandr replied, his customary smirk playing around his lips. "I will maybe put in a good word for you with the Ke'let." He glanced at his watch. "But it is close to midnight, and I must prepare."
"You're not actually going to do it?" Professor Matlock demanded. "You can't go out into that, you'll be dead in seconds!"
Alexandr slipped his thermal sweater over his head and shrugged, the lean muscles of his wiry body clearly defined under his pale skin. "When one grows up in Siberia one learns to handle a little cold," he said. "And my father was never clear on the matter of what will happen if we face the Ke'let wrapped up warmly."
"I'm with you, Alexandr," Purdue, who had been sitting on his rolled-up sleeping bag, suddenly unfolded himself and stretched to his full, lanky height. "Let's face this Ke'let." Automatically Blomstein got to his feet, but Purdue waved a dismissive hand at him. "No need, Ziv, no need. I am not sure that your particular brand of thuggery would protect me against this mythical creature of Alexandr's, and I doubt anyone planning to kidnap or assassinate me will have followed us all the way out here. If they have, perhaps they deserve to hit their mark in reward for their dedication."
He unzipped his snowsuit down to the waist, letting the upper part fall around his legs, then stripped off the layers he was wearing beneath. Where Alexandr's body was wiry, Purdue's spoke of years spent behind computer screens and in libraries. Sam was relieved to see that he was not the only one who had failed to put on much weight ahead of their trip. Purdue stared intently at his watch, quietly counting down the last seconds of the year. "Midnight," he announced. "Happy New Year!" Then he and Alexandr crawled out of the tent and dashed into the storm, leaving the others to watch in disbelief.
"Well, Happy New Year," Sam said, clinking mugs with Fatima and Nina. "Looks like it'll be a short one, considering that our guide and our benefactor just ran off to sacrifice themselves to the gods of hypothermia." He knocked back the shot of vodka. It was certainly strong—he could feel it burning its way down his throat and leaving a slight sting at the back of his eyeballs. It had been a long time since any kind of alcohol had had that effect on Sam. Fatima choked slightly on hers.
It only took a few moments, less than a minute, for Purdue and Alexandr to return. They burst back into the tent, both tinged slightly blue from the cold, their faces flushed pink from the exhilaration of their mad dash. "I live for another year!" Alexandr cried, his fists clenched above his head, looking like a mad god. He seized his vodka flask and drained it, a crazed smile on his face.
Fatima leaned in to whisper to Nina and Sam. "Good to know we've got someone sane leading the expedition," she said sotto voce. "If he gets us all killed, I just want you to know that I had someone normal lined up to lead us. Happy New Year." With that, she turned away and burrowed into her sleeping bag, pulling it up over her head.
When the group awoke the next morning, the wind and snow were still howling outside the tent. So it continued the next day, and the next. Before anyone else was awake, Alexandr would step outside and get on the satellite phone to communicate with the Neumayer station, who would give them the same information each day—they were to stay put. The hovercraft had been repaired, but the pilots agreed that it would be suicide to try to get through the storm. As long as the expedition was well-supplied and no one was in any immediate medical danger, their best move was to make no move at all. Once the storm had cleared, they would send a truck to rescue the party. Its caterpillar tracks would have an easier time of negotiating the snow than the hovercrafts would. Until then, the group could only wait.
Fortunately, despite the incredibly low temperatures outside, the tent was trapping the group's collective body heat and keeping their living space warm. They had plenty of food, and the newly fallen snow just beyond the outer door kept them supplied with water. Provided they stayed within the sturdy tent, they were not in any immediate physical danger.
The danger to the group's morale was another matter entirely. Sam, who had lived alone for so long and was accustomed to plenty of time with no one but his cat for company, was finding it hard to be trapped with eight other people in a space measuring no more than thirty square meters. Communal living did not suit him well.
In fact, it did not seem to suit any of them particularly well. Alexandr seemed unperturbed, which Sam attributed to his not occupying the same reality as the rest of them. Fatima and Jefferson, who had obviously done this kind of thing before, were coping better than the rest, but even they were showing signs of strain. Fatima's calm self-possession had tipped over into withdrawing from the group and spending most of her time sitting on her own, scribbling and sketching in her notebook. Jefferson channeled his energies into regaling the group with tales of his previous expeditions and the well-known people he had traveled with. He seemed either unaware or unconcerned about the response of his captive audience. Professor Matlock had gone from joining in enthusiastically, matching each of Jefferson's stories with a name-dropping tale of his own, to listening politely without really responding, to not listening at all.
Purdue seemed to have abandoned his pursuit of Nina for the present—Sam guessed that this had something to do with the lack of both showers and privacy—and was spending much of his time chatting in low voices with the old man. I really should get to know his name, Sam thought. But how do I ask after all this time without making myself sound like a complete muppet?
Nina rolled onto her stomach and slapped a deck of cards down in front of Sam. "Right," she said. "Texas Hold'em. You're playing. Shuffle."
"Again?" Sam moaned. "But you cheat!" Still, he did as he was told and began to shuffle the deck.
"No I don't," Nina took the cards back from him and began to deal. "I'm just better at it than you. But look, I'm magnanimous enough to give you a chance to win your cigs back."
As Nina deliberated over her cards, Sam wondered how she was really feeling about their situation. On the outside she appeared calm and graceful. He had even seen her have a couple of conversations with Frank Matlock without rising to a single one of his barbs. She had asked him politely how he had found the journey and commented on how fortunate he was to have a good friend like Jefferson Daniels, and she had made no mention of the fact that he had suddenly decided a trip to the Antarctic was in order after her meeting with him.
Sam knew from the torrent of fury she unleashed in whispers every time they huddled in the doorway to the tent for a smoke that she was still angry about it. He knew that she resented her superior's ability to use his rich, well-connected friends to get what he wanted, and she could see his attempt to steal her discovery for himself. But this was not the place to settle that score, and they all knew it. So Nina continued to feign serenity, letting off steam only when she was alone—or as close as they could get to "alone"—with either Fatima or Sam.
Even though Nina and Sam strung their game out for as long as they could, it still took less than half an hour for Nina to win the rest of Sam's cigarettes from him. "I'm not heartless enough to leave you with nothing to smoke," she said, pushing half of her winnings back toward him. "I'll keep a tally and you can pay off the balance when we're back in Edinburgh. Assuming we ever get back. Now come on. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since my last cigarette and I'm just about ready to strangle someone."
Bundled up in their warmest gear, they crawled out into the outer layer of the tent and unzipped the door to the outside world. Nina stuck her head out for a moment, then led the way toward the side of the tent that offered the most shelter from the wind. They fashioned gaps in their hoods and scarves to allow just enough space for their cigarettes to reach their mouths, then Sam flipped open his Zippo lighter. They each took a deep puff as the cigarettes lit, then paced themselves after that.
"Looks like it's letting up a bit," Sam bellowed optimistically, raising his voice to be heard over the whistling gale. "Maybe we'll get on our way soon."
"Hopefully," Nina yelled back. "I'm b
eginning to wish I'd never come. If I'd known it was going to be this uncomfortable I'd have left Matlock to get on with it."
"I was wondering," Sam said, "Do you know the old guy's name? I never caught it and now I can't ask him or he'll think I'm an idiot."
"You are an idiot. That's the most British thing I've ever heard. Like the joke about the two men on a desert island who could never talk to each other because they hadn't been introduced."
"Hilarious. Now what's his name?"
Nina shrugged. "I don't know; I never caught it either." Even though hardly any of her face was visible, Sam could see her grin. "You'll just have to ask him yourself."
"I will, then," Sam said. "So have you and Fatima figured out how you're going to check out the ice station, then?"
"She's got friends at Neumayer," Nina nodded. "She reckons that once she's collected her samples and got everything set up in the lab, we'll be able to borrow some transport while her cultures develop. Then we can check out the coordinates and see if there's any sign of a structure having been there, and if there is we can photograph it. All I need is proof that the thing existed, or that the Nazis tried to make it exist, and I should be able to recruit some archaeologists and get together a proper, legitimate expedition—something with academic discovery at its heart rather than Dave Purdue's thrill-seeking."
"You'd do this again?" Sam was incredulous. "You're insane."
"If it got me what I wanted," Nina said.
"And what's that?"
Nina hesitated, the remains of her cigarette poised between her gloved fingers. "I don't know," she said at last. "Perhaps if I found it, I would."
Chapter 12
"FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, why can't you just talk normally for once?" Professor Matlock was yelling at the top of his voice as Sam and Nina reentered the tent. They exchanged a brief, puzzled glance. Matlock and Alexandr were on their feet, a mug of coffee dashed to the ground between them. "All this nonsense about spirits and demons! Do you take this seriously, man? Do you? We are out here risking our lives, and we appear to be led by a lunatic!"
Jefferson Daniels stepped in and placed a calming hand on Matlock's shoulder, but it had exactly the opposite effect. Matlock shoved him off, though he did not have the physical strength to make much of an impression on his muscular friend. "Don't you try to defend him, Daniels!" Matlock shouted. "Can't you see this man for the dangerous imbecile he is? Surely you of all people realize the danger in being taken on a wild goose chase around the Antarctic by a man who is half-drunk most of the time?" With his Byronic white hair tousled and the bags under his eyes after a few nights of restless sleep, Professor Matlock looked quite mad himself as Jefferson attempted to restrain him gently.
"Mr. Matlock." Alexandr spoke softly, but at once all eyes were on him. "I appreciate that this is your first time in the Antarctic. I realize that to you, what I am doing must appear to be madness. When you have been here a little longer you will begin to see my reasons, you will learn that all have their ways to cope with this place. For me, it is more fun, more excitement to think of the storms and cold and perils of this place as gods and demons. For you, perhaps, this is not the case. But I do not insult your ways of handling things, and you will not insult mine. I do not question your expertise, and you will not question mine."
He looked straight into Matlock's wild eyes and walked toward him, then grasped the academic's hand in a firm grip. "I swear to you that I will get you home safely from this place. But for this you must trust me. What you are doing now, this is how madness starts. Do not give in to it. Do not trust it." Matlock cried out in alarm as he was dragged into a short, tight hug by Alexandr, who then turned his back and walked away, considering the matter ended.
Jefferson pulled Matlock over to the edge of the floor and made soothing, placatory noises while Matlock continued to mutter, obviously rattled by Alexandr's little speech. Sam sneaked a look around the rest of the tent. Many of the others were hunched, tense, and obviously not happy. Conflict in such a confined space could only lead to more. He looked around for Nina's deck of cards, thinking that perhaps a game would distract everyone. He wracked his brain for a game that could accommodate so many players, preferably one for which he knew the rules.
Before Sam could come up with anything, Dave Purdue clapped his hands together. "Oh, I've always wanted to say this," he chuckled, then cleared his throat and assumed a dramatic tone. "I expect you're wondering why I have brought you all here!"
"Did he really just say that?" Nina whispered. Sam nodded. He wondered what Purdue was playing at. Was this his way of defusing the tension?
Purdue clicked his fingers and Blomstein reached into his pack and took out a large, folded piece of paper. He handed it to Purdue, who unfolded it and spread it in front of him, beckoning the others to draw near and see it. "This," he flung his hands out theatrically, "is the reason we are here. Look at it."
Sam, Nina, and some of the others huddled around. What they saw was a map of Antarctica, with several points marked on it in Purdue's emphatic, sprawling handwriting. Novolazarevskaya, the old Neumayer stations, and the newly opened one that was their destination . . . and also a large cross with the word Wolfenstein beside it. Sam felt Nina's fingers close around his arm. "I never told him the name," she whispered urgently. "Did you?"
"What name?" Sam hissed back. "What's the matter?"
"I owe some of you an apology," Purdue peered around the group. "I have brought you here on—well, not false pretences as such, but certainly distorted ones. We all came here in search of something. Dr. al-Fayed for the algae, Mr. Daniels for his memoirs, Dr. Gould and Professor Matlock for evidence that a Nazi ice station was once established here, and Mr. Cleave for the obscene amount of money he was promised to profile me on this trip. But all those things are nothing compared to our true purpose. We are here in search . . . of legend."
He paused for dramatic effect, watching his little audience carefully and monitoring their response. Had he been playing to a fresh crowd he might have had greater success, but after their long confinement the group was too fractious to respond well. Mutters rippled around the room, questioning what Purdue was talking about. Undaunted, he continued.
"First I must tell you a story," he said, settling onto his rolled sleeping bag. "Some of you will be familiar with the tale of Captain Alfred Ritscher, will you not? Nina? Professor Matlock? Oh, even you, Mr. Daniels. That's good. For those who are not, the hero of our little story began his career as a mere cabin boy, flew reconnaissance flights during the First World War, and by 1934 was executive officer in command of the German Navy. There he was entrusted with a very particular task by Herr Goering himself—to lead an expedition to the Antarctic, claim New Schwabenland for the Fatherland, and chart this desolate terrain so that it could be colonized.
"In 1938 he made an extensive aerial survey—the planes were brought from Europe by ship and had to be launched by means of a catapult because they had no adequate runway, can you imagine? I would have loved to do that . . . Where was I? Ah yes. The expedition was a secret to all but the German high command and a select few at Lufthansa Airways, who provided the ship, the Schwabenland.
"But why, you may be wondering, would anyone want to colonize such a remote, inhospitable place? The Nazis had no interest in Dr. al-Fayed's algae. The answer is twofold. First, the extensive conquests made by other nations, primarily the British, left them very few options for empire building. Antarctica was there for the taking. Second, whaling. Whale oil was a valuable commodity and one that Germany had to import. With war looking ever more likely, the official story was that they wanted to secure their own supply. This is clearly nonsense. Why, in the event of war, would it make sense to transport such a precious resource such a long way through hostile, submarine-infested waters? Surely it would be more sensible to channel their efforts into creating suitable substitutes, rather than into the costly and inefficient process of establishing a whaling base out here?
&
nbsp; "No. The true purpose of the base they wished to establish was much more interesting. This was where the Nazis planned to build their impregnable fortress, their Shangri-la. It would be their fallback position should the tide of the inevitable war turn against them. It would be their first base of operations for the conquest of South America should things work in their favor. Controlling the northern hemisphere from Berlin and the southern hemisphere from their unassailable ice station, there would be no limits to their plans for expansion. While the Allies concentrated their forces on the war in Europe, Nazi scientists could work undisturbed in the Antarctic to develop military technology of a kind the world had never seen. This place would prove essential to the establishment of the thousand-year Reich.
"Of course, that is not how things worked out for them. They lost the war before their plans could come to fruition. However, there have always been questions about what happened to particular German treasures and indeed to a large portion of the U-boat fleet. More than fifty U-boats simply disappeared at the end of the war. Perhaps they were patrols that never made it home, blown up by mines or sunk by accidents and small natural disasters. There are many terrible things that can happen at sea. But could that account for so many? I doubt it. There are theories that the submarines that disappeared were evacuating Nazi personnel and treasures, spiriting them away to somewhere they would never be found. And where better than Antarctica? Where better than a series of secret tunnels hidden deep beneath an icy mountain range on a continent unoccupied by man?
"By 1945, rumors about this place were already circulating among the Allies—but when Germany surrendered in May of that year, there were more important things to do than investigate such rumors. Then, a few months later, a Nazi U-boat—U530—surfaced at Mar del Plata in Argentina. The commander was a tall, blond man who gave his name as Otto Wermuth, but he could produce no papers to verify his identity. Neither could his crew. Neither could the German female civilian who was inexplicably aboard.
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