Fatima's hands were rock steady as she inserted the needle into Private Hodges' vein and pushed the plunger. He was securely strapped to his bed, completely exhausted after his self-destructive exertions, and his face was crusted with his own dried blood. He snarled and snapped at Fatima with as much energy as he could muster, but the attempts were weak.
Only when Fatima had withdrawn the needle and returned the syringe to its box did her hands start to shake. Not just her hands. Nina could see Fatima's legs trembling.
"Now what happens?" Alfsson asked. "What signs do we look for?"
"Now I inject the others," Fatima said. "And then we wait and see if they return to being themselves."
Nina and Alexandr were escorted back to quarters after that. Only Fatima was permitted to stay and observe the condition of Hodges and the other infected soldiers. To Nina's alarm, Fatima had also insisted on injecting herself with a dose of the vaccine. Nina had protested that she should see how it affected the infected men first, but Fatima had pointed out that by that time, it could be too late for her and that if it didn't work they were all doomed anyway. Reluctantly, Nina had agreed and returned to her room to wait out the night.
She wanted to go and see Sam, to tell him all about the turn that the day had taken, but when they arrived at the officers' quarters the number of PMCs in the corridor had increased. There was now a soldier outside every occupied room.
"What's all this about?" she demanded, addressing the soldier stationed at her door.
"Major Alfsson's orders," he replied. "In light of your escape attempt, all members of your expedition are to be kept apart except at mealtimes. We have also checked your rooms for possible escape routes and sealed them up. Now, please step inside."
Battling the urge to argue, Nina walked into her room and heard the door click shut behind her. Once safely inside, she grabbed her empty backpack and dropkicked it across the room.
The next morning the soldiers came around and knocked on everyone's doors to summon them to breakfast. Nina had planned to update Sam while they were in the refectory, but as the group marched down the stairs and sat around the long table, the PMCs barked orders at them not to speak. Purdue tried to negotiate with them, of course—but Major Alfsson himself pointed his gun at Purdue's head.
"No need for that, major," Admiral Whitsun stepped in and diverted the barrel of major Alfsson's gun before Blomstein could intervene to protect his employer. "I'm sure everyone will be happy to accede to your request." He turned to the rest of the group. "Won't we?" A flurry of emphatic nods was the response. As much as the expedition members might want to argue, it was increasingly clear that Major Alfsson genuinely would shoot if provoked.
Fatima appeared when they were nearly finished with their tense, silent breakfast. The look on her face told Nina everything she needed to know. Private Hodges was dead or dying, and if Fatima's tears were anything to go by it had not been pretty. She refused all offers of food but accepted a cup of coffee, which she could not bring herself to drink. She sat with her eyes pressed shut, one hand tightly clamped over her mouth, rocking gently back and forth. Nina took her free hand and squeezed it.
As they sat in silence the group heard the crackle of a voice speaking to Major Alfsson over his radio headset. It was too faint for them to make out the words, but the expression on Alfsson's face was grim. He said little, merely making affirmative noises, until the voice fell silent and he addressed the group.
"I have just had confirmation from my second-in-command," he said. "Dr. al-Fayed's attempt at curing the infected men has not worked. The virus continues to spread."
"In that case, Alexandr and I should strike out for Neumayer at once," Jefferson Daniels spoke up. "As the two most experienced trekkers, we have the best chance of making it there on foot. Then they can send medical assistance."
Major Alfsson shook his head. "No. Given the unknown nature of this virus, we cannot risk exposing the rest of the world to it. Our only possible course of action is to remain here, in quarantine, and let the disease run its course. We have ample supplies. Once we have gone fourteen days without a new case, then we will attempt contact with Neumayer again."
"We'll all be dead," Fatima said softly, half to herself.
"We've done a thorough sweep of the station," Major Alfsson continued, "and you'll find men posted at every possible exit. Please refrain from any further escape attempts—if you are caught trying to leave the station you will be shot on sight. However, now that we have covered all the exits, you can move freely about this part of the station again." He rose and signaled his men. "I am sorry that it came to this." They departed in the direction of the far section of the station, leaving the expedition party alone together.
For a while, no one spoke. Out of habit, Sam went to heat more water for tea. Nina put a comforting arm around Fatima and tried to encourage her to drink her coffee.
"I owe you all an apology." Admiral Whitsun sat bolt upright, his hands neatly folded on the table. He looked around the group, meeting each pair of eyes with a clear, forthright gaze. "This is my fault," he said. "I insisted on joining this expedition knowing that I am, in point of fact, too old and infirm to be here. Were it not for my infirmity, that set of vials would never have been knocked over and this virus would never have been released. I am terribly sorry."
Sam, standing by the door to the galley kitchen, watched everyone avoiding one another's eyes. They all knew that it was true that the admiral had put them at risk, and whatever their opinions were on his culpability in spreading the virus, no one wanted to share them. It was Sam who spoke first. "Look, don't worry about it," he said, silently marveling at the ridiculousness of his words. He's released a deadly virus, he thought, not spilled my pint. Yet he continued. "You fell over. It could have been any one of us."
"Yes," Admiral Whitsun said, "but the fact remains that it was me. I brought this terrible thing on us."
Sam shrugged. "Nothing anyone can do about it now."
"I disagree, Mr. Cleave. I can at least try to put things right. Mr. Purdue, I wonder whether I might borrow Mr. Blomstein from you for a little while."
At once, Purdue and Blomstein moved to join Admiral Whitsun, who led them off into the corridor. Whatever the admiral's plan, the rest of the group was clearly not to be included.
"I wonder what that was about," Sam said. "So what's our plan? Major Alfsson said something about an antidote. Are we looking for one?"
"We can't," said Nina. "The labs are over on the PMCs' side of the station, and from what Alfsson said I think that's out of bounds."
"Shit. Ok. Anyone got any other ideas?"
"We should make some kind of record of our time here," Professor Matlock spoke up. "We may have been the first to find this place since it was abandoned, but I doubt that we shall be the last. Let us put together a report on our time here, something that will explain how we came to be here and what we found. Perhaps then we can spare our successors the same fate—or, if we get out of here alive, it can become the basis for an account of our exploits."
Sam pounced on the idea at once, delighted to have something productive to do. "Sounds great," he said. "Someone take over making the tea and I'll run up and get my notepad."
Chapter 24
AFTER SO MUCH excitement combined with so much time spent cooped up, Sam had excess energy to burn. He bounded up the metal stairs two at a time, at least until he got a stitch and had to slacken his pace. He badly wanted to run. His whole body ached with longing for some kind of physical release.
He reached the door to the officers' quarters and turned the handle. The door did not budge. He pushed harder. It gave a little, but it felt as if there was something blocking it from the other side. He backed up a couple of steps and rammed his shoulder against the door, shoving it hard enough to push it partway open. He squeezed through the gap into the corridor and stepped straight into a puddle of blood.
Sam stared down at his foot in disbelief. Why is
there blood? He looked at the puddle, then followed the line of the blood flow back to its source—the torso of the PMC who had been guarding that door. The man was definitely dead. He had been shot in the chest and also in the head. At the sight of the dark hole of the entry wound and the traces of white bone around the edge of it, Sam felt the memories trying to flood back in and his mind slamming its defenses into place. It's completely different, he told himself. This man hasn't lost half his . . . Well, put it this way, his is just a small wound by comparison. Not that that's done him much good.
At the opposite end of the corridor lay the other PMC, having met a similar fate. But how? Sam wanted to know. These guys are highly trained, aren't they? You can't just walk up and shoot them. Something is badly wrong here.
Without stopping to collect the notepad he had come for, Sam turned and fled back to the refectory to tell the others what he had found.
"Sam, calm down!" Jefferson Daniels commanded, pushing Sam into a seat. "Slow down, buddy. You're saying the soldiers upstairs are dead?"
"Shot. Chest and head." Sam nodded, staring blankly at the table.
"But how is that even possible? These are elite soldiers. Are you sure, Sam?"
"If that's what Sam says he saw, then I believe him," Nina said. "But I agree that no one should have been able to walk up to these soldiers and shoot them. That sounds to me like one of their own has gone rogue. We know that this virus causes violent mania, and it's only a matter of time before that symptom shows up in someone holding a gun."
Fear rippled around the group. Suddenly they found themselves yelling at one another, having heated arguments across the long table about whether they should go in search of the gunman, look for weapons, find a safe place within the station to hole up and wait out the virus, or take advantage of the death of the guards to make a break for Neumayer.
"Where's Purdue?"
Alexandr lobbed the question in gently, almost as if it were a social inquiry. Everyone stopped talking.
"Purdue," Alexandr repeated, speaking slowly and carefully, ". . . and Ziv Blomstein? You remember? Tall, silent, ex-Mossad? Or to be more precise, ex-Kidon."
Fatima stifled a gasp. "You know that for sure?"
"You know it's impossible to be certain," said Alexandr, "but let us say that, judging by the brief conversations we had . . . it would not surprise me."
Nina looked from Fatima to Alexandr and back again, confused. She glanced at Sam, who was clearly in a traumatized world of his own and not listening to a word anyone was saying, and at Matlock and Daniels, who both looked as nonplussed as she was. "If no one else is going to admit their ignorance, I will," she said. "Fatima, Alexandr—what does Kidon mean? I know about Mossad, but that's a new one on me."
"It's a branch of Mossad," Fatima said, a haunted look in her eyes. "No one knows much about it, though. It's really covert. But the Kidon are believed to carry out political assassinations—"
"Among other things . . ." Alexandr added in a half-whisper.
"Right. Among other things. They're some of the most dangerous men in the world if you get on the wrong side of them."
"Ok . . ." Nina fought to keep the nerves out of her voice and the roiling sensation in her stomach under control. "So we know there's someone here who might have been capable of killing those two soldiers upstairs. But what we don't know is why he—"
Her words were cut off. Suddenly the air filled with the sound of machine gun fire. Fatima and Alexandr dived under the table. Daniels, Matlock, and Nina followed, but Sam did not. Nina looked up and saw him sitting still, staring in the direction of the gunfire. Under his breath she heard him utter the word "Trish." Then she reached up, grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him down into their makeshift shelter. She wrapped an arm around him as they crouched there, and told herself that it was solely to comfort him.
How long they waited there, none of them knew. The noise of the guns did not last long, but none of them dared move or speak. All they could do was wait, tense and terrified, to learn whether it would be their turn next.
When Sam heard the door handle click he turned to face it, anticipating the hail of bullets that would follow. He was ready. This is what should have happened last time, he thought. He stood up unsteadily, arms slightly extended to welcome the conclusion to his story, and waited for the PMCs to flood in and open fire.
Instead he saw Admiral Whitsun enter with a submachine gun clutched in his hands and a look of devastation on his face. Sam thought he was hallucinating. What would Admiral Whitsun be doing with a gun? Then behind the admiral came Ziv Blomstein, also holding a gun, and an unarmed Purdue.
"Admiral?" Professor Matlock scrambled out from beneath the table and dusted himself off before helping the old man into a chair. "Admiral Whitsun, what happened?"
The admiral did not make eye contact, not with Matlock nor with any of the others. His gaze was fixed on the middle distance. Sam recognized that look. It was the same one he himself had worn as he had been led out of that warehouse.
"I could not leave them to suffer," Whitsun said, his voice flat. "It was my duty. God forgive me . . . it was my duty."
Fatima came over to the admiral's side and knelt by him. "You killed them?"
"All of them. It was easy—surprisingly easy. Most of them were unconscious when Mr. Blomstein and I arrived. The disease had already begun to claim them."
There was silence in the room. Fatima took Admiral Whitsun's hand and patted it gently. Then she looked up and saw the shocked expressions of her companions. "Don't be so quick to judge," she chided. "You didn't see what kind of a state those men were in—well, except you, Jefferson. But everyone else—believe me, if the soldiers were infected, a quick death was the most merciful option."
"And what about us, Admiral Whitsun?" Professor Matlock was stark white and shaking with fury. "Do you believe us to be infected too? Shall we line up against the wall, would that be more convenient for you?"
"Leave him alone!" Fatima sobbed. "You might not agree with what he did, but look at him—it wasn't an easy thing for him to do!"
"It was also the most sensible way to increase our own chances of survival," Purdue said, as strangely calm as ever. "I understand that you have attempted to create a vaccine, Dr. al-Fayed—but that we only have a limited supply?"
"Yes, that's right," Fatima said. "There's enough for all of us, but there definitely wouldn't have been enough for all the PMCs as well. But Mr. Purdue, I don't even know for sure that it works. The only people I've tried it on were the first men to die, and I don't know whether that's because they weren't treated in time or if my vaccine just doesn't work at all."
"Or whether the vaccine itself is likely to kill us," Professor Matlock chipped in.
"Well, it might not be a proper clinical trial," said Fatima, deep pink spots of anger beginning to show in her cheeks, "but I used it on myself yesterday when I was treating the soldiers. So far I've had no adverse effects. That's not to say that it'll be the same for all of you, but if you want to take the chance there's a tiny bit of evidence that you won't die, ok?"
"It's ok, Fatima." Nina stepped between Fatima and Professor Matlock, soothing her friend with calm tones and a hand on her back. "We're all adults. We can each choose for ourselves. But look, first things first—I'll go and get the vials, shall I? I can bring them here, save everyone traipsing over to the labs. You stay here and look after Admiral Whitsun, ok?"
As Nina headed for the door she called out to Alexandr and Sam to come and help her. There was no reason why it should take three of them to bring back a small box of vials, but she just hoped that no one would challenge her on it. They walked in silence along the corridor, down the stairs, through the U-boat dock. Not a word was exchanged until they were safely in the far section of the ice station.
At the bottom of the ladder into the new section, Nina dug her fingers into her scalp and let out an anxious snarl. "He's insane! They both are—Whitsun and Purd
ue both! That's their solution to the problem? Shooting everyone? We have got to get out of here before one of them decides to turn the gun on us."
Sam and Alexander both agreed. Admiral Whitsun was clearly in a disturbed, traumatized state of mind, and it seemed that Purdue was on his side and lending Blomstein's muscle to back him up.
"The trouble is, how?" Sam wondered as they entered the lab corridor. "If Jefferson and Alexandr trek to Neumayer, isn't that going to take ages? We could all have bullets through our heads before they got back with the hovercrafts."
"You're right," Alexandr said. "Besides, we have no news about the weather conditions outside. Even I would hesitate to set off into the unknown like that. What we need is transport, and we can only assume that there is nothing for us here."
"Except the U-boats . . ." Nina suggested.
Alexandr stopped in his tracks. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. Then, suddenly, he lunged forward, grabbed Nina's face in both hands and planted a joyful, forceful kiss on her lips. "Of course! The U-boats!" He turned tail and ran back along the corridor.
"What . . . Alexandr!" Nina, wide-eyed with shock after the surprise kiss, yelled after him. "Where are you going?"
"Back to the boats!" he shouted over his shoulder. "I will see you soon!"
When Sam and Nina passed back through the U-boat dock with the box of vials, Alexandr was busy examining the remaining sub. He was on his back, stretched out and examining the hinges on the entry trap, swearing softly to himself in Russian. They decided not to disturb him. He looked too happy and serene to interfere.
The atmosphere back in the refectory was somber. In the short time that Nina and Sam had been out of the room, it seemed that Jefferson and Purdue had had an argument and Matlock had continued to fume silently. Blomstein was sitting at the far end of the table, away from everyone else, and the sense of fear that he inspired had become palpable. There was no need for Nina and Sam to concoct an explanation for Alexandr's absence—no one else had even noticed that the Russian was missing.
Ice Station Wolfenstein Page 19
