The Heisenberg Legacy (Sam Reilly Book 11)

by Christopher Cartwright

  Now what?

  No doubt his game-playing extremist had arranged his next step.

  Sam was met at the doors of the museum by a pair of guards and escorted inside. Approaching him at a moderate walk was a wizened, white-haired man in a black suit with a striped tie and a mischievous smile. He was followed by a middle-aged woman in a brown pantsuit with a kind, round face. A cheerful golden scarf was tied around her neck, in contrast to her dark brunette hair.

  The man's handshake was firm and emphatic. "Roger Nelson, Director of the National Air and Space Museum. This is Marge Toben, my assistant."

  "Sam Reilly."

  His assistant gave Sam a faint, uncertain smile but said nothing as she shook his hand more gently.

  The main hall was scattered with exhibits both on the floor and overhead. The Spirit of St. Louis, flown by Charles Lindbergh, hung near the orange "Glamorous Glennis" Bell X-1, the first aircraft to break the sound barrier. The rest of the exhibits in the room were hardly less impressive. Overhead, the bright blue sky seemed to call the aircraft to come out and play.

  Nelson winked. "I met your grandfather a time or two, back in the day."

  The director’s comment would ordinarily be of interest to Sam. Today, he could barely register what the man was saying. He was supposed to be on a “treasure hunt,” but he had no idea what exactly he was looking for or where to start.

  "Mr. Nelson, I hate to be so direct, but do you have any idea what I'm supposed to be doing here?"

  "Not the slightest." The idea didn't seem to worry Nelson much. And yet Sam didn't get the sense that the man was a mental lightweight.

  "Aren't you afraid of getting nuked?"

  Nelson grimaced comically. "Son, I've lived under the threat of all kinds of bombs going off around me for longer than you and your father have been alive. Of course, I'm concerned. But afraid? No. My grandchildren and great-grandchildren all live on the other coast. They'll be fine, that's what's most important to me."

  Behind him, the expression on Marge Toben’s face looked pained. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Sam decided to let it go and move on with more important matters.

  In order to be able to act, Sam needed to gather more information. He needed to keep the terrorist placated by pretending to go through the motions of the treasure hunt – but he also needed to find a way to thwart the mastermind’s plans, and he couldn't do that by just playing along.

  He checked his phone again, hoping that he'd missed another text message, but no such luck.

  "What's the exhibit that's been changed most recently?" he asked. Sam felt the madman had been making plans over at least the last five years, so any clues that he'd left would risk being spotted if he'd left them alone for too long.

  "Why, our latest big overhaul was in this room, Mr. Reilly. We took down the planes and – "

  “– I'm sorry, Director, but that was two years ago," Ms. Toben interrupted him. "The most recent display is in the Special Exhibits Gallery, which is updated on a regular basis. It covers the early days of the Atomic Age, from Soddy and Rutherford in 1901 to the Manhattan Project, the Cold War, and– ” Her brown eyes met his, questioningly, “Yes?"

  "Heisenberg," Sam said.

  "Yes, of course," Ms. Toben said. "We mention the Uranium club, the Alsos Mission, and more."

  "Take me there, quickly. Right now!"

  Ms. Toben received a thoughtful nod of approval from Director Nelson. Then she slipped off her high-heeled shoes, and started running down the hall with Sam in tow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The exhibit held a replica of Fat Man, or Mark-III atomic bomb, in yellow and black. The enormous bomb stood as high as a man and had been painted disturbingly like a famous cartoon character's yellow-and-black shirt – due to the black liquid asphalt that had been sprayed over the bomb casing's seams. A Mark-36 bomb casing from the 1950s, green and yellow, sat nearby. Advertising materials for Atomic Energy and You, paper dolls in a paper fallout shelter, an Atomic Chief badge and mask, and more were displayed around the room.

  "It's something in this room," Sam said.

  Ms. Toben turned around slowly in a circle, blowing a tense breath from her pink cheeks. "I've looked over everything in the room so often that it looks more like interior décor than history."

  One of the displays caught his eye, a model of an early nuclear pile surrounded by miniature figures of the scientists who had worked on it. Something about it called to him. He walked toward it with his hands deep in his pants pockets.

  "What in the world?" Ms. Toben strode past him, reaching the display before him. The exhibit was set on a broad, open table covered by a chest-high acrylic shield. Without hesitation, she climbed up on the edge of the table and stepped over the acrylic shield. It made her look like the Atomic Woman.

  “Make sure you don’t disturb anything. It might be important.”

  “I won’t.”

  "This is a model of the Chicago Pile-One, the earliest working nuclear reactor pile," Ms. Toben said, squatting over the display. "What on earth is this man doing in here?"

  She pulled a foam-core, printed black-and-white model of a man off the floor of the display, squinting at it.

  Sam recognized the man's features. Light-colored eyes that sparkled with humor, a long nose, high forehead, thin lips.

  Werner Heisenberg.

  “Oh!” Ms. Toben seemed to recognize him at the same time.

  Referring to Heisenberg's uncertainty principle of being unable to measure an object's position and velocity at the same time with absolute accuracy, she said drily, "It seems we have lost the ability to track Mr. Heisenberg's location within this museum. He's not even supposed to have a figurine in this exhibit."

  Surprising himself, Sam laughed at her joke. "Where do you think it came from?"

  "Until we can review the security tapes, your guess is as good as mine."

  Sam helped Ms. Toben climb safely back out of the exhibit, then held out a hand for the figurine.

  "It looks like one of the well-known photographs of the man. I wonder if anything else in the exhibit changed?"

  "May I please have a look?" he asked.

  “By all means,” she said, handing him the model.

  Sam carefully studied the small plastic figurine. Despite its likeness to Werner Heisenberg, it could have been a kid’s toy. Its weight suggested it was made entirely of plastic – there were no electronic parts or mechanical pieces that might hold some sort of hidden code or message. Sam pocketed the toy and continued reviewing the exhibit.

  Director Nelson arrived and joined the search, circling the room, examining each section of the display closely. Sam found himself staring at the text of a short article. It was posted on the wall under a photograph of what looked like another nuclear pile on the aborted German nuclear project known as the Uranium Club.

  In 1943, the first working nuclear fission bomb was produced at Haigerloch, whimsically named “Die Koloratursoubrette,” after a class of operatic soprano. The bomb was never used, nor tested. It was lost during Operation BIG in 1945, in which American teams captured or destroyed much of the information related to Germany's nuclear fission program, in which a peaceful agenda was its stated purpose.

  “So, the Haigerloch Research Reactor was actually used to construct a bomb,” Sam said, reading the text. "I didn't know that. But it sounds like –”

  Ms. Tober and the director, arguing with each other about the article on the panel, strode up beside him. The director appeared to be taking the issue personally.

  “I don't know how something so inaccurate could be left up for so long!” he said, accusingly. “This article has been here for at least a week, Ms. Tober!”

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  Director Nelson’s eyes narrowed. “That's not the authorized text.”

  Hoping to prevent a diplomatic meltdown, Sam said, “Maybe it's a clue.”

  “What?" Ms. Tober asked.

 
Studying the written display, he began to warm to the idea. "The foam board that the information is printed on looks slightly different than the others,” he said. “I mean, I don't have an artist's eye or anything, but –”

  “But the fonts and right-hand justification is to a slightly different margin," Ms. Toben said. "Yes, I see your point."

  The three of them stared at the board the text was printed on.

  "What else?" Sam asked himself.

  Ms. Toben cleared her throat and looked toward Nelson. "There is one other thing we spotted."

  They led him to an exhibit on the first Soviet nuclear bomb, First Lightning or RDS-1. In the photographs, it was very similar in appearance to the Fat Man bomb the U.S. had created, except that the coloration was a solid gray.

  There was a small smudge on the poster. Sam rubbed his finger over it, discovering what was left of a sticky patch from two-sided tape. Something that had been here was missing.

  They led him over to the main display of the Chicago Pile-One and pointed out one of the figures. This one wore a baggy suit, commonly seen on Soviet scientists, and a Soviet flag.

  "That's Andrei Sakharov," Ms. Toben said. "The chief engineer overseeing the Soviet nuclear design program at the time."

  Sam ran his fingers over the display, discovering the tape mark where Werner Heisenberg had been fastened to the table – right next to Sakharov.

  "Did the two men know each other?" Sam asked. "Sakharov and Heisenberg?"

  "No, they never met," Ms. Toben assured him with the certainty of a well-read historian, no doubt holding a PhD.

  Director Nelson cleared his throat. They both turned his way.

  "I've heard -" He shook his head. "I've heard that Operation BIG buried more than a few secrets. We can't discount the possibility that the information we're finding here has some basis in truth."

  "That's ridiculous!" Ms. Toben exclaimed.

  "It wouldn't be the first time that we've uncovered history that shook us to the core," Nelson said gently. He reached out and patted Ms. Toben's trembling hand.

  "But to threaten a nuclear explosion if that history wasn't revealed? What kind of psychopath could even do such a thing? Surely not a historian!"

  "There, there," Nelson said, still patting her hand. He sounded as though he'd had experience with some less-than-sane military experts from time to time.

  Sam shook his head. If he was following the insinuations that the terrorist was implying, then the German nuclear program was much further along than military historians had portrayed it. It seemed possible and seemed even likely that both the Soviets and the Americans had stolen far more research from the Germans than they had admitted.

  Somehow Heisenberg was involved with both programs.

  Had Heisenberg been a traitor to the Nazis? Had he acted in such a way to ensure that neither the U.S. nor the U.S.S.R. possessed a nuclear monopoly?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  On board the Maria Helena, Chesapeake Bay.

  Tom Bower scratched his chin as he put down the phone.

  Wasn’t this one for the record? The man who'd called was supposedly the pilot of a Cessna Sam had used to fly into D.C. in order to face down the terrorist who was holding them all hostage with a World War II-era German bomb that shouldn't exist.

  Sam Reilly, what have you gotten yourself into now? Everything’s normal in our world.

  The somewhat hysterical pilot told him a wild story – after calling to ensure his wife was okay, which she was. He had asked Tom to arrange a place for him to stay near the Capital Mall. Also, to help him find a way to keep the police from seizing his plane or arresting him for not filing a flight plan.

  Tom had talked the guy off the ledge, so to speak. A few phone calls later, he’d arranged accommodation for the nervous airman during the lockdown, a makeshift hanger to temporarily store his plane, and a “get out of jail free” card from the Department of Defense.

  Tom grinned. Not bad for a morning’s work.

  Meanwhile, the Maria Helena, the Deep Sea Expeditions ship he and Sam Reilly generally called home, had been moving into position. The vessel was now anchored off the Chesapeake Bay, near the mouth of the Potomac.

  Sam was in D.C. and he made sure Tom knew it. Clearly, the terrorist had informed Sam that he wasn't allowed to communicate with anyone, or his friend would have phoned by now.

  It was Tom’s job to decide what to do about that.

  Sam's phone had been recovered – or rather it had been delivered via courier to a Deep Sea Expeditions representative in Manhattan. No clue who had sent it. Elise was trying to track the delivery service back to the original client.

  Tom didn't expect much from the search. Even a miracle-worker like Elise couldn't track someone with enough smarts not to leave digital footprints behind.

  He walked into the room that Elise used as her onboard computer lab. "Find anything about that courier yet?"

  The petite woman wore headphones and a sour expression on her open, strikingly attractive face.

  "No," she said, sliding the headphone away from her ear.

  "Anything about Goodson's past?"

  "A few things. I do know that the guy doesn't fit the profile of a terrorist. A spy, maybe."

  "How so?"

  "Remember the KGB Spy Schools?” At his blank look she continued, “In the 1950’s during the Cold War, the Russians used to immerse their spies into American life before they were sent to America to blend in. They had training camps with specially constructed towns mimicking American life. You know, Fords and Chevrolets parked in driveways with their windows down? Drive-in movie theaters, girls sipping milkshakes at their local diner while listening to the Beach Boys on the Jukebox? Does this sound familiar?”

  "Oh, yeah. I guess so. Probably from a TV documentary I once watched."

  "The guy reminds me of that. He claimed to be a German immigrant who arrived before 1946, but he doesn't have any supporting records before then – not that people back then would have known that. They would have had to go to a records office and pay a fee to look through that kind of stuff. Nobody's got that kind of time. He seems the kind of person who, without constant contact, you wouldn’t notice the gaps in his story. Even then, you wouldn’t guess his past."

  "But now?"

  "Now that kind of information is just a search query away."

  "So, he was a spy?"

  "I don't think so."

  "No? The Germans sent him over here to bomb D.C., which means, he was definitely something."

  "I believe he was a soldier, a German pilot – not a terrorist. Even the CIA didn’t suspect him of being a spy. He would have contacted the Germans again after the war if he was covertly sending information. But there's no indication that he did."

  "Okay," Tom said.

  "I know that it's not the same thing as proof that he wasn’t spying," Elise added, "But I can't find any signs of clandestine behavior or connection. All evidence suggests he was a grateful immigrant who just happened to be using a fake passport."

  "Maybe he didn't like the Nazis?"

  "He was willing to bomb for them, though."

  "Sometimes people change their minds when they have to face real human beings instead of political propaganda. There’s also another alternative."

  Elise made a wry smile. “Which is?”

  “Wilhelm Gutwein used his bombing run to escape Nazi Germany. His could be a fairytale defection story to even challenge Sean Connery in the Hunt for Red October.”

  She cocked an amused eyebrow. “You think Gutwein was defecting?”

  Tom shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

  “Then what happened to the bomb? If he relinquished it to the U.S. government, something like that couldn’t have stayed hidden for very long, could it?”

  “Actually, if he did hand the bomb over to the U.S. State Department, back in 1945, it’s precisely the sort of thing that would remain permanently buried.”

  Elise lea
ned back, crossed her arms across her chest. “What are you saying?”

  “What would the U.S. government have done if it was given a working nuclear bomb in January 1945?”

  Elise shook her head. “That’s nearly six months before the Manhattan Project successfully tested its first nuclear bomb at Alamogordo, New Mexico.”

  Tom swore. “You’re saying Werner Heisenberg wasn’t only responsible for the development of the first German nuclear weapon? He was also responsible for the nukes we dropped on Japan at the end of World War II?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Elise’s gaze swept the sky, following a procession of military helicopters as they flew overhead across Chesapeake Bay. She swallowed hard. “The real question is, if that’s the case, then who would go to such lengths to reveal the truth about our history?”

  “Perhaps they’re not trying to reveal the truth at all,” Tom said. “We can’t rule out the possibility that someone’s going to great lengths to make sure that the past remains buried.”

  “Or simply to make a buck on the deal?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Beneath the Capitol, Washington, D.C.

  Congressman Peter Grzonkowski stopped to catch his breath.

  At the age of sixty-one he was the youngest of the three senators in the group, but right now he felt every one of those years. His heart pounded in his ears and every muscle in his body burned with exhaustion. He and the two other senators had been constantly moved since the attack on the capital had taken place. He felt like his little group was being driven like a herd of cattle as they raced deeper and deeper into the tunnel.

  “Congress people, if you will keep following me, please?” The man in the dark suit from the security detail helped one of the older senators to stand. “We’re almost there.”