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Chapter 6
"You suck at pool," Patrick said blandly, as Sam sank another white.
"I don't. I just have a lot on my mind," Sam excused his lack of aim, and he rounded the corner to recover the white ball from the bowels of the pool table.
"Yeah, right, as if you are not used to being a celebrity yet. It is just so alien to you, right?" his friend teased, as he chalked his cue.
It was Sunday night at the pub, but it was unusually busy in the musty establishment. Most of its patrons were comprised of ditched losers, retired coppers and lonely divorcees. The Kilt and Claymore had become Sam's new watering hole when he did not water at home. Having had that spat with Nina and having to deal with the egocentric bullshit of Professor Matlock for so long had put him off academic society as a whole.
Not that he did not already think of them all as pompous twats with God complexes, but he had to remove himself from that atmosphere after winning favor with the media as the Pulitzer-winning explorer, the pioneer of hardcore investigative journalism who could achieve anything short of walking on water. No doubt Nina hated him even more than she had initially, with his name constantly flaunted in the papers and magazines, but he elected to let that ship sail and concentrate on his work. Life after the Wolfenstein expedition had rekindled his fire for taboo topics and dangerous exploration, of hunting the story until he had all the facts, no matter what the cost.
Since his profile on Purdue and his editorial coverage on Matlock as the bestselling author Sam Cleave had become a much-sought-after ally in publishing and media. His name appeared on the acknowledgment pages of several authors and work offers poured in from television networks and newspapers he never thought would even notice his abilities.
"So, when is the next arse-kissing convention?" Patrick asked, as he leaned forward to take his shot, his eyes darting between the white and the stripe he was aiming for.
"In a week. This one is a fundraiser for renovation of some wing at some college in Aberdeen or something. I am representing the Post, so I have to go, I have to dress like a penguin and I have to stay sober . . . mostly," he sighed and lifted the empty tumbler as if the whisky was invisible. Patrick took his shot and sank the ball. With no amount of enthusiasm on his feat he went for the next one.
"My God, Sam, could you be more indifferent?" Patrick laughed at his friend's dismissive approach to the events he attended.
"I have never been, nor would I ever be, a glory whore, Paddy. You know I hate attention," he said.
"So why do you do what you do?" Patrick sounded like a teacher reminding a little boy why peeing in public is frowned on. Then he sank the black.
"I like adventure."
"And?"
Sam sighed as he gathered up their glasses for a trip to the bar, "Because I love money," he admitted, as he walked away.
In truth Sam did care about the attention he got, garnishing support for his career in the sheer hope that he would be in a position to choose more than just his assignments. It was addictive now, that feeling of being needed, wanted, by people who would previously not give a shit about him or his efforts . . . his losses. He had stopped obsessing over Trish, but he never stopped thinking about her. Sam found that lately he coped better with his loss of her and slowly but surely he was making peace with what happened and leaving the blame behind him.
However, another female frequently haunted his mind in the form of dreams and memories, sometimes coming at awkward hours in sudden bursts of What if? Nina just simply refused to go away. They had left things on a sour note, unnecessarily, and he often wondered what she was doing at a specific moment. He wondered if she was still angry at the world or if she was drowning in work to forget him and what they almost had. Perhaps that was arrogant of him. Perhaps it was dead on. For now he had the only company he wanted. Bruichladdich was low maintenance, quiet, ever-present and unconditionally affectionate.
The cat was his best friend because he did not talk, although he did give Sam his undeniable opinion with meows and subtle movements of his head. Sometimes Bruich conveyed his thoughts to Sam in facial expressions and that was all he needed. Such things made his cat an invaluable house partner, sparing him sermons about his bad habits and accusations of less than desirable hygiene.
Sam did not have alcohol on his cereal anymore, but actually made the effort to make scrambled eggs and toast to eat with his morning whisky. It complemented his lifestyle perfectly and he had even packed on a few pounds of healthy meat too. No longer was he the malnourished chain smoker with the guilt complex. No, he ate proper food and every now and then he would resort to a well-intended, half-assed workout session comprised of twenty push-ups, twenty sit-ups and often resorted to the stairs instead of using the elevator to his apartment.
"What about you?" Sam asked his friend, the detective, as they sat down at a small table by the window.
"Oh, nothing much. I am thinking about joining the secret service," Detective Chief Inspector (DCI) Patrick Smith affirmed in a nonchalant tone that had Sam howling with laughter. Patrick showed no reaction to Sam other than rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He took a swig of his Guinness and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I'm serious."
Sam stopped cackling and pinned his friend down in a hard stare. He was serious. Sam could basically predict most things about his best human friend and, looking closer at Patrick, he knew it to be true.
"You want to work SIS?" Sam asked, feeling more foolish for second-guessing his friend who he realized was truly perfect for the job. Patrick had the savvy, the grit and the drive to be an excellent agent. Few men were as loyal and assertive as he was and within moments Sam had ceased his mockery in lieu of contemplation about the matter.
"I remember back in 2005 The Scotsman reported that they were planning a permanent office in Glasgow," Sam recalled, while staring into his whisky glass before drinking the liquid in it.
"I hate to admit it, Sam. I am bored. There is just blood and greed and if I am going to work in the abattoir I might as well be a supervisor and leave the dirty work to the fresh lads," Patrick explained and his friend nodded in agreement.
"As you know, nobody understands this better than me. Stagnating is the flat line of any career and when mine was speedily heading for the morgue, you did your level best to slap me out of it. You, my friend, revived me. Now how can I not return the favor, hey?" the journalist smirked and raised his glass. "To the man who woke Lazarus of Dumfries . . . might he rise to still greater things! Long live the Smith!" Sam roared with eyes shut in lyrical delivery. Patrick laughed and waved his hand apologetically at the patrons who were disturbed by the sincere toast of the drunken reporter.
"Well done, Lazarus, well done," Patrick said, but in his gut he wished he had half the courage of his writer friend.
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Chapter 7
"Dr. Gould, would you like to accompany me to the signing downstairs?" Professor Matlock asked cordially, as he peeked around her office door. Nina had her eyes pinned to her laptop, constantly interrupting the completion of her dissertation by rethinking and deleting, retyping and clenching her jaw at the frustration. And now this.
"I don't think so, Professor," she hummed without looking up. "Some of us still have to put out some work before we can bask in the leisure of achievement. I am afraid I would have to decline. Perhaps next time," she leered at him with that subtle disdain he had come to know so well. "And I am sure there will be a next time . . . probably real soon."
Frank Matlock could feel the assault of her words under his skin. For such an insightful lecturer and by no means sub-par research fellow, Nina Gould certainly allowed her personal feelings to blossom into full-fledged vendettas, which challenged her professionalism a great deal and with it, her much-needed support by superior fellows such as himself.
"Nina, there is no need to be so vindictive. I have no ulterior motives—"
"Like rubbing my nose in it?" she snapped, now givin
g him her full attention.
"—other than including you in my success. The more people see you by my side, the more exposure you will get. How is that a bad thing?" he restrained himself to a monotone statement.
"Oh, it's not a bad thing at all. I just like being the Jesus to your Judas, Professor Matlock. Nothing gives me more pleasure," Nina scolded him.
"Yes, and mind how you address me, Dr. Gould. Insolence will not win you a token for assertion. It will only diminish my support for you and if you keep to it, it might even cost you your job. Be careful who you make enemies of while you are not yet in a position to fight them," Matlock sneered in retort, his fingers clutching the doorframe. With a steely stare he turned to leave, but she halted him with her words.
"You stole my chance at making senior fellow, of possible tenure in the future! Let us just come out and say it," she yelled with venom in her voice. He stopped and turned to face the furious beauty who was visibly pink in the face.
"Keep your voice down, Nina. This is not high school," the department head said calmly. "I did not steal anything. I was there, remember?"
"You were there only because of my research. That expedition was mine, Frank," she insisted, her eyes wild with the injustice she felt.
"No, that expedition was a shot in the dark that someone of your academic level did not present enough credence for to be approved. My superior position was the only reason you got to go on that expedition, my dear, so think clearly about who you accuse and how freely you throw about your allegations," he shivered and pointed his finger at her, taking care not to invade her space and give her a reason to chastise him for any trivial action.
"Not even a chapter to how it all came about? Your book speaks half-truths and I will be damned if I am going to endorse it with the omission of my influence in your . . . your bleak wording and desperate references to the tiny iota of your contributions to our eventual survival," her sentences came out furiously without pause or taking a breath.
He looked at her with a victorious simper, "Well, I see you read it too. That warms my heart. I want to reach as many readers as I can and your support is greatly appreciated."
With this he turned and walked down the corridor with a demeaning salute of his hand. Nina felt her fever pitch, but she would not give him the pleasure of exploding—again. Instead she gathered herself and called to him, "You should give me your publisher's contact details, in case I run out of bum fodder!"
I wish he could hear that one, she thought and returned to her office. Smiling at her own line she closed the door and kicked off her shoes. On seeing her laptop screen her smile promptly disappeared and she was reminded of one thing that Matlock was regrettably right about—she was still a nobody, trying to console her enthusiasm with postdoctoral research that would probably never take her further than a lecture hall two counties away. For her to elevate her standing in the academic community she would have to publish something groundbreaking, something profound that the world's scholars would be amazed at. Either that or she would have to generate research income from numerous prominent sources to prove that she was worth backing financially.
Both these factors eluded her.
Fighting a devastating bout of depression she wished she could have just one more cigarette, but it appeared that her previous attempt at making a name for herself had brought her only misery. Everyone involved got what they wanted, except for Nina, who was left cheated by her supervisor, betrayed by her male friend and left in her ill-lit office in front of a screen full of empty words of things that held no mystery to those who would read it.
A knock jerked her bolt upright. From the other side a muffled voice said, "Dr. Gould?"
"Yes, Maggie. Come in," Nina said, as plainly as she could, given the fact that her heart stopped at the sudden loud knock, which instantly caved her little pity party. Her hands were firmly lodged in her hair and it gave her a look of misery that the personal assistant had never seen before. Maggie had been working there for years, a motherly blond-haired lady who smelled like an old ashtray. She used to be Nina's emergency cigarette flogger and right now it was the only thing Nina wanted to ask of her, but she curbed that urge.
"I heard you were locked in battle with Professor Matlock again, so I thought best not to disturb you, but there was a phone call from a Mr. Purdue," she reported, and Nina immediately nursed a bludgeoning migraine at the mention of his name. Maggie continued with her recitation, "He said he tried to email you, but he is on the North Sea right now and could not reach a proper connection. He asked if you could call him tomorrow morning when he is back home. I don't have a number, though. He broke up before he hung up, see."
"That's all right, Maggie, I have his number. Unfortunately."
"He is a bit obnoxious, isn't he?" Maggie pulled up her nose and smiled in sympathy to Nina, who nodded playfully in agreement while making her eyes as big as she could. The two women laughed jovially and for a moment Nina remembered what it was like to giggle. Burdened with so much lately she had apparently forgotten what it was like to have fun. She needed a good chuckle, especially at the expense of spoiled bastards with too much money and time on their hands to consider others. Secretly Nina was curious about the reason for his contact.
"I would rather be flogged than to have to deal with that insufferable bigot," Nina sighed, "Maggie, take me home and hide me until it all goes away."
"Aw, I would gladly do that, my wee dear," the sweet hen solaced her. After a brief pause Maggie put her hand on her hip and her eyebrow raised as she tapped her lip with her pen. "You know, he is money . . . and I know of someone who needs money to get her career going once and for all . . ."
"Oh, stop," Nina chuckled, "I'm no whore."
"No, you are not. Whores are innovative entrepreneurs, if you consider their business sense. And you are just content with waiting for a date, you catch?" Maggie urged her for an answer with a forceful countenance.
"I fear asking, but are you suggesting I hit it off with him? Because that will never happen, not for the position of pope," Nina winced.
"No!" Maggie laughed, "Jesus, perish the thought! No, I mean you should tuck away your dislike for him, just enough to win his favor, see? You know, Nina, this old fart could pave your way to professor—or even something better! You have to use what you can get, within limits of course," she smiled.
Nina gave it pause. Her eyes ran across the edge of the desk and onto the floor while her nails tapped on the desk surface. Maggie knew she had set the ball rolling and proudly she briefly touched Nina's arm before exiting and closing the door behind her. Her work was done here.
The following day Nina was not keen on calling Purdue, but Maggie's sentiments rang true in her memory. Admitting to herself that she was a bit childish for wishing he would call her instead, she dialed his number. It felt as if she was yielding, as if she was the one who needed him, by contacting him first.
"Oh, God, just grow up, Nina," she angrily shook herself out of the silliness. "Let's just come out and say it. You are the one needing him. He could afford anyone else for company, but, can you?" The petite history lecturer talked herself through the dial tone and the punching of his number and stopped short when he answered.
"I am not going to waste your time, Nina," Purdue said, after the obligatory pleasantries through which both of them could see, but elected to play the sanctimonious card. "I again need an expert in German history. This time there is no one else in on it, I am certain," he said. His tone of voice somewhat unsettled Nina. Purdue was not wielding his usual erratic and reckless self, but instead abandoned his desire for her to talk shop. It was very unlike him to be serious enough about something to relinquish his blatant flirtations and boasts about his genius.
"In the ice?" she asked, sincerely hoping not to have to succumb to cabin fever in Antarctica again.
"No, the North Sea. I have discovered something profound under Deep Sea One, the oil rig I own, and I think it is a sunken German subm
arine from the Second World War. I need someone to dive down to it with me, to tell me what I don't know about it," came his excited whisper, as if someone would hear him if he even thought about it.
"Wait. What? A missing German submarine under a North Sea oil rig? Do I have that correctly? And how do we dive that deep?" she fired out questions. Her heart jumped when he had used the word "profound." She connected the exact same word with what she needed for the ascension of her career. If it was profound, she had to be in on it. And given the controversy surrounding the subject it was a godsend for her research dissertation.
"Nina, we will dive in a submersible that I am waiting to take delivery of as we speak. In or out?" he asked.
Nina was not used to being put on the spot like this. The urgency of his request excited her, but she had minimal information. Hesitating, she stuttered, "Uh . . . uh, I don't know. I don't do well in small spaces, Dave, as you know. Going below in a submersible . . ."
"Name your price, Dr. Gould," he interrupted her. Nina's fingers were sweating. Her price would surely leave him unfazed, especially considering his zeal for getting started. She thought about it for a moment while Maggie's lecture echoed in her mind. Nina pinched her eyes shut.
"When and where?"
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Chapter 8
"You know that I cannot employ people who I don't know, Calisto. If you cannot give me credentials, I cannot employ you. Now, I appreciate what you did for my men and I would really like to have someone like you at my back, but if you don't want to play ball . . . " Purdue said, as he leaned in his high-back chair, playing with a stress ball in his right hand.
In front of him two LED monitors were alight with information about Nazi treasure and submarine serial numbers that he found on a discreet military-based site for the discerning smuggler or arms trader.
Deep Sea One Page 4
