Pandora's curse m-4

by Jack Du Brul

  “Anna, I only read a bare outline of what was involved,” Raeder said, keeping his true sense of horror out of his voice. “Even that little bit was shocking. I have to agree with Konrad. That material should have been destroyed decades ago. God, it shouldn’t have been written down in the first place.”

  “We can’t correct past mistakes.” Ebelhardt leaned forward, his sharp eyes boring into Raeder.

  “We can bury them though.” Raeder let his statement hang in the air. “All the paperwork linking Kohl to the Pandora Project has been burned but I don’t think that’s enough.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “I’ve made arrangements to have the original site obliterated and any remaining physical evidence destroyed.”

  “How do you know that by going back to” — Ebelhardt glanced at Anna — “by going back there, we won’t give away the secret ourselves? Its location is so remote and has remained undiscovered for more than sixty years.”

  “Risk management. Just because we burned our evidence doesn’t mean there isn’t some diary or journal written by somebody involved in Pandora. It could be lying in some musty attic right now, waiting to go off like a time bomb. Our surviving war veterans are all in their seventies and eighties. We can’t chance family members discovering such a written record when they go through their fathers’ possessions. By hiding Pandora from the reconciliation commission now, we have to make certain that even if a diary is discovered, nothing remains to support the story. By destroying the site, all verifiable links to Kohl are severed.”

  Konrad looked unconvinced.

  “We’re about to lie to the reconciliation commission in order to conceal a despicable crime, and we have to make sure that the lie is never revealed. If the world finds out about Pandora and our involvement in it, Kohl’s bankruptcy will be the last thing on our minds. They would be fully in their right to seek criminal charges against all of us.”

  Anna gasped. “Is it that bad? The Pandora Project, I mean.”

  “It’s worse than you can possibly imagine,” Konrad answered, placing one of his hands over hers.

  “I can make this work,” Raeder stated. “I have to. In the current environment, we are liable for billions in reparations, and if people learned what really happened during the war, the company would lose every customer it ever had. The alternative to covering up Pandora and paying the two hundred million is losing everything. Our ten thousand employees would be out of work. Our shareholders would go broke. It’s not that inconceivable that the shock waves of Kohl’s collapse would severely damage Germany’s economy.”

  “It’s not fair,” Anna spat. “Why should we be forced to pay for the sins of our fathers? I was a teen when the war ended. I didn’t force anyone into slavery. I didn’t put anyone into a gas chamber. I’ve done nothing wrong. There isn’t one person left in the company from those days.”

  “Other than a few old ladies, none of our shareholders were alive then either,” Konrad added.

  “None of us are responsible,” Anna said petulantly.

  “It’s been determined that all of us are responsible, Anna,” Raeder said. “How do you think I feel? I have even less to do with this than either of you. My parents were toddlers in 1945.”

  When Konrad and Anna hired Raeder, they’d made him aware that Kohl would need to negotiate a settlement with the reconciliation commission, but they had not told him the depths of the company’s Nazi involvement. They had specifically withheld Pandora from him, rightly fearing that he wouldn’t have joined if he’d known. His reputation for ruthlessness in the business world was richly deserved, but what he’d read about in the old files went far into the realm of the obscene. Now, he knew, he was in too deep to walk away. It was a matter of pride. And ego, he thought. Raeder was equally disturbed by what he’d learned about Kohl and by how easily he’d been manipulated. He’d explore this circumstance once he’d gotten the company out of its present crisis.

  “What kinds of steps are you taking to destroy the Pandora site?” Konrad Ebelhardt asked abruptly. “And how sure are you they will work?”

  “I don’t think you need to know the details, but I assure you that, other than eradicating evidence of Kohl AG’s culpability, we will do nothing illegal.”

  “No one will be harmed?”

  “No, nothing like that will happen.” Raeder gave a sharp laugh. “My tactics stopped short of physical injury many years ago. Other than a minor setback, my plan is actually nearing the final phase. I bring this up because now is the time we can call the whole thing off and ‘come clean,’ as the Americans say. Thirty million marks have already been spent getting everything to this stage. A small loss compared to what would happen if we tell the reconciliation commission about Pandora. However, that alternative is still open. I can cancel the destruction of the Pandora site.”

  He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his blond hair. By skirting the morality of what they were doing and making this a purely financial decision, Raeder was confident that Anna and Konrad would agree with his plan. Raeder was no more pleased about this situation than either of them and yet he’d cut through the emotions to make the right choice. He had also had a few months to dampen his conscience.

  “Do it!” Anna shouted as if she’d been listening to a raging debate in her mind and wanted it to end. She didn’t look at Konrad when she continued, confirming Klaus Raeder’s instinct that she was the real power behind the company. “Destroy whatever remains to link us to Pandora. I won’t allow anything to hurt Kohl.”

  “Are you sure, Anna?” Ebelhardt asked. “This is a dangerous gamble.”

  “I’m convinced that Klaus is right. Erasing our ties to Pandora is the only chance we have to save ourselves from financial ruin. You’ve made it clear that if the commission learns about it, through our own disclosure or from some other source, we are finished. We have to make sure they never do.”

  “Very well.” Raeder nodded. “It will be done.”

  THE DENMARK STRAIT

  The wave smashed into the bow of the Njoerd like a torpedo strike, blasting up an explosion of white froth that showered the forward windows and fell back to the deck, pooling deep and green before racing for the scuppers. The ship dropped into the following trough, her steep bows cleaving a wedge of seawater at the very bottom before her twin props hauled her to the next crest.

  Mercer peered through the shimmering water still sliding from the armored glass in the ship’s wardroom. Ira Lasko was at his elbow. As his view cleared, he saw that the sea was calm. The wave had been a rogue. “Where’d that come from?”

  “Just Mother Nature reminding us not to get too comfortable,” Lasko drawled. “Waves like that are why I went into submarines. Twenty-two years in the Navy and the only times I ever got seasick were on bumboats and sub tenders.”

  They turned away from the window. Marty Bishop was at one of the Formica tables with Igor Bulgarin and another of his teammates, a German meteorologist named Erwin Puhl. Puhl was in his early forties but looked older because he was so tall and stooped. Little of his hair remained and what fringed his head was gray and poorly washed. He wore thick glasses perched on a large bony nose. His posture and features reminded Mercer of a vulture’s, and his gloomy mien did little to dispel the perception.

  The Geo-Research people and off-duty crewmen occupied the other tables in the brightly lit wardroom. Greta Schmidt and Werner Koenig held court at a head table. It seemed the segregation that had existed at breakfast would last a while longer. All through dinner and the lecture that Koenig had given afterward, no one other than Igor and his people had approached Marty Bishop’s team. In fact, Mercer had noted the Njoerd’s crew wasn’t overly communicative with them either. Whenever an officer came to tell the expedition something, like their sailing time to Ammassalik, he would go straight to Koenig and have him make the announcement rather than simply telling the whole room. It was strange. Scientific jealousy was nothing new to Merce
r, but this continued secretiveness was getting ridiculous.

  “When Soviet Union was still a country,” Igor said, continuing the story he’d started before the wave had sent a shudder through the Njoerd and elicited a collective gasp from its passengers, “I was on research ship much larger than this one. It was cooperative expedition with a dozen French scientists on board. Not only were we not allowed to talk to them unless a KGB watcher was in room, but we had to report everything said if we happened to pass in the halls.” He looked to where Schmidt and Koenig were laughing at someone’s joke. “I know now how French felt. Is no room in science for egos or secrets. All scientists should be as one.”

  Mercer nodded. “It’s a nice thought, Igor, but you know as well as I do that scientists are some of the most childish and vindictive people in the world.”

  “Da.” The big Russian laughed at a memory. “We discover after expedition that French had stolen much equipment and all of our data.”

  “What were you doing on a ship?” Ira Lasko asked over the rim of a coffee cup. “I thought you’re some kind of astronomer looking for chunks of space rock.”

  “I was meteorologist, like Erwin,” Igor replied. “I give up weather research for planetary geology.”

  Mercer cocked an eyebrow at him. “Looking for the big one that’ll wipe us out like the dinosaurs?”

  “If it comes, I want plenty warning. Many women I need to see before time runs out.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Tell me, Mercer,” Marty invited, changing the subject. “How do those chemical melters we’ve got with us work? Charlie said you’re the real expert.”

  “We’re going to have to hand dig down to the firn line, that’s the demarcation plane between granular snow and solid ice. Then we work with the hotrocks. Once our preliminary shaft is sleeved with plastic to hold back the snow, I mix the chemicals at the bottom. The trick is to layer the stuff so the ice melts evenly. Weights attached to the bottom section of sleeving keep it pressed down to the ice and hold the melt water in the tunnel. Pumps will take care of the water. As the chemicals become diluted and lose their potency, we make sure the shaft’s pumped dry and then repeat the process again.”

  “Why not just use hot water to melt the ice away?”

  “Too difficult to control. Without enough pumps, you end up with a big cone-shaped hole that’s so wide at the base it’ll collapse in on itself. Also, even if you use a hot-water heater suspended on a cable, you need a massive amount of fuel to bore a shaft of any depth. Since Camp Decade is only about thirty feet down, the chemical heat is the most efficient. We need just a single pump, no fuel-hungry boilers, and the chemicals themselves. I counted twenty barrels on the deck when I came aboard, which is more than enough.”

  “And you think the three of us can handle it?” Ira asked.

  “Four would have been better. Since we can borrow someone from Geo-Research, we should be okay,” Mercer answered and glanced over Marty’s shoulder to see Werner Koenig approaching.

  When their eyes met, Koenig smiled broadly and put out his hand. “You have to be Mercer. Willie Haas said to say hello and remind you that, the next time you’re in Hamburg, you’re buying dinner.”

  Mercer laughed, totally unprepared for the German’s easy use of English and friendly greeting. “You tell Willie that his taking me to McDonald’s the last time I saw him doesn’t count for a real meal.” He shook Koenig’s hand. “How do you know him?”

  Willie Haas was a staff geologist for a German mining concern that had hired Mercer for a consulting job a few years ago. The two saw each other about once a year, usually at trade conferences.

  “We’ve been friends since our days at university,” Werner explained. “He told me you saved his company a fortune when you worked for them. He’s convinced you sold your soul to the devil for your geological insights.”

  “I bartered my soul to escape hangovers,” Mercer joked. “The insight comes from a Ouija board.”

  “Whatever works.” Werner smiled. “I’m glad to have you with us. With Greenland’s surface covered by a few miles of ice, there won’t be much for you to study, but I bet your skills will come in handy anyway. In fact, when we get our ice-coring drill running, I would appreciate if you took a look at the samples we draw up to the surface.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Mercer answered. Koenig was making the first effort to breach the gulf between his team and the others, and for that, Mercer was thankful. That task should have fallen on Marty Bishop since the Surveyor’s Society had ruined Geo-Research’s plans, but Mercer didn’t think Bishop understood how important it was to keep all three teams as cohesive as possible.

  Koenig had a cloth bag in one hand, and he reached in to extract a small green bottle of brennivin, the Icelandic version of aquavit commonly known as Black Death. “I’ve prohibited alcohol at the base camp for safety reasons. However we won’t reach Ammassalik until noon tomorrow, so sharing a few bottles tonight won’t do any harm.”

  “Mighty neighborly of you,” Bishop said, taking the bottle and twisting off its cap. He poured a measure into his empty coffee cup and passed the bottle to Ira Lasko.

  Koenig knelt next to Mercer so only he could hear what he said next. “Greta told me what happened this morning, about your confrontation outside the hotel.”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t call it a confrontation, just a simple misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, well, she can be… difficult. I have not seen her for about a year, and she is very different from the woman I once knew. The woman I almost…” He wanted to say “married” but couldn’t. “Anyway, she was made number two person on this expedition over my objections, and if she tries to overstep her bounds, please tell me.”

  “I thought you made all the personnel decisions for Geo-Research,” Mercer said to cover his confusion. Koenig’s admission wasn’t something he had expected.

  “Normally, yes. This trip is a little different. You see, I no longer own Geo-Research and my parent company wanted her along. She is dating my new boss. You know how it is.” He stood suddenly as if he’d said too much. “Enjoy the brennivin, gentlemen.” He moved on to have a few words with those at the next table and give them a bottle of their own.

  Igor Bulgarin eyed the caraway-flavored liquor with a glassy look. He stood abruptly. “I must wish you a good night.” This startled everyone but Erwin Puhl. “I’m afraid I like alcohol a bit too much. One drink becomes ten and laughter becomes tears. Quickly my hands become fists. Is best I leave now. But watch out for Erwin. Turn your back and bottle gone” — he snapped his fingers — “just like that.”

  The dour Puhl’s face split into an impish smile. “I’ve never taken that long to finish a bottle of anything.” After Igor left the wardroom, Erwin poured himself a dram. “He’s been sober for about a year. It’s still tough for him to be around alcohol.”

  “Known him long?”

  Before Puhl answered, his eyes swept the room as if he were afraid of being overheard. “Eighteen years or so. I studied at Moscow University when East Germany was still a Soviet satellite, and I worked at the Soviet Academy of Sciences up until the Wall came down in 1989. We have worked together a few times since then.”

  “What’s the goal of your team?” Mercer asked.

  “We are at the end of a particular solar cycle that culminates in an event called the solar max, a time of intense sunspot activity and the ejection of tremendous volumes of charged particles. It’ll disrupt communications and power distribution all over the globe. We’re going to measure the intensity of the particles as they follow earth’s magnetic lines. So far north, the activity should be particularly intense.”

  “Isn’t there some big religious meeting on a cruise ship coming up this way to take advantage of the aurora borealis?” Ira asked.

  “The Universal Convocation,” Erwin answered at once. “The route’s a secret but I heard they’re going to circle Iceland from the north. If they want inspiration from above,
they’re going to get it.”

  Mercer wasn’t really listening to their conversation. He was thinking about what Koenig had told him and decided to do nothing with the information. He had enough to do without worrying about Geo-Research’s internal squabbles. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see an undercurrent of tension between Greta and Werner. It was actually more a unidirectional thing. Greta seemed secure in her position. It was Werner who was uncomfortable. Mercer felt bad for him, imagining what it must be like to work with a former lover, especially since it appeared Koenig had yet to get over her.

  He finally took a sip of the brennivin and nearly choked. “This stuff’s like drinking gravel.” As he spoke, he adjusted his Tag Heuer back an hour to put it on Greenland time. “I’m going to call it a night. We should recheck our equipment before we reach Ammassalik.”

  During a severe winter, pack ice extended all the way from Greenland to Iceland, a distance of about three hundred miles. This ice wasn’t the cause of the North Atlantic’s famous icebergs. Those calved from glaciers on Greenland’s west coast. Rather, the pack ice was a frozen surface accumulation that reached only a few yards in thickness. It melted as it broke up and offered little hazard to navigation during summer. The difficulty reaching Greenland came from the fact that the deepwater fjords that ring the island like a necklace were ice choked until early July and refroze again in late September. The three-month window is the only time that ships can call on the few settlements on the eastern coast.

  As the Njoerd nosed her way toward the Ammassalik Fjord, thin ice still layered much of the water, which was dotted with huge bergs held immobile like white islands. The ship rammed her way through. None of the expedition members were allowed on the bridge during icebreaking operations, so the best view was from the forward windows in the wardroom.

  When Mercer arrived the next morning, he found himself alone except for the cooks preparing breakfast in the galley. He poured a cup of coffee from the continuously refilled urn and took a seat. In moments he realized that the ice was too thin and rotten to make an impression on the Njoerd. Even at a slower speed, she knifed through the pack without check. If it weren’t for the scrape of ice against her hull plates and the occasional slab that showed above her bows before being thrust aside, he wouldn’t have known they had reached the pack.