Sam
Nina read the email while she drank her coffee. The time stamp read 04:07. Just a few hours earlier, Sam had been worrying about her. She felt a little bit guilty. It had not been her intention to worry him when she told him that she had applied for emergency funding for the Antarctic expedition. It was just that she had no one else she could tell. Her relationship with her fellow academics was not close, and the relationship with Steven had cost her the couple of good friends she'd had. Sam Cleave might be a new acquaintance, but he was currently the closest thing to a friend that she had. A damaged, heavy-drinking friend. A match made in… somewhere, she thought.
A little time online had revealed a lot about Sam Cleave. Nina had tried to resist the temptation to pry, but what had begun with looking for his Braxfield Tower story had ended with her reading all about his days as a prize-winning investigative journalist. She had not seen him during the past ten days, since their conversation in the pub, but she had been steadily working her way through every article she could find regarding his role in smashing that international arms ring.
Sam had really been through the mill, it seemed. His work on the arms ring story might have netted him a Pulitzer, but it had almost cost him his life when he got caught in the crossfire between the arms dealers and Interpol. A fellow journalist had been shot right in front of him. Nina could only imagine what that would have done to him. It certainly explained the drinking and his sudden cold feet about continuing to investigate Harald Kruger's evidence.
For the past ten days, Sam had contacted her on a daily basis to ask her to withdraw her application for emergency funding. He was convinced that the notebooks had been stolen on the orders of Steven Lehmann and that digging any deeper would bring her into danger. Nina was equally convinced that he was wrong. She could believe that Steven would threaten and bully and throw his weight about, and she could easily imagine that it was concern about this that had stopped Dr. Lehmann from talking. However, Steven had never gone further than that. For all his powerful contacts, Steven was held in check by his own sense of limitations. Nina knew him better than anyone. She was sure she was right.
The alarm on her phone beeped. She silenced it. Ten minutes until she needed to leave the house. Just enough time to send Sam a quick reply.
Sam,
I should find out about funding today. If I get it, I'm going. Stop worrying. I'll let you know how it goes.
Nina
She hit Send, drained her coffee cup, pulled on her coat, scarf, and gloves and headed off to meet her department head.
"Dr. Gould." Professor Frank Matlock leaned forward, his elbows on his desk and his fingers steepled. Nina bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to be intimidated. She remembered this tactic all too well from the early days of her doctoral research, before she had been reassigned to a different supervisor.
"Allow me to make sure that I have got this straight," Matlock sighed gently. "You wish the department to grant you emergency funding so that you can join an Antarctic expedition. This expedition may or may not be going to a place where you believe there to be the remains of a secret Nazi ice station. Wolfenstein, I believe you said? How melodramatic. And this ice station is so very secret that there is, in fact, no definite proof that it exists — apart from a collection of notebooks which you alone have seen, but are unable to present.
"The theory of the lost ice station is one to which no reputable scholar gives credence, but one which is beloved of Internet conspiracy theorists. Yet you believe that in a matter of a few days, you have been able to establish its exact location, and you are willing to stake a great deal of money — the department's money — on your accuracy. This," he brandished the printed map on which Nina had marked the station's location, along with a note of its coordinates, "is the only surety you offer."
Nina folded her hands in her lap. She had been in Professor Matlock's office many times, but it never ceased to intimidate her. There were books on his walls that were worth her entire salary. His desk featured prominently displayed photographs of him with various famous historians and literary figures. The latest addition, hung proudly above his leather armchair, showed Matlock at the summit of Piz Roseg, the culmination of a summer holiday spent with his dear friend Jefferson Daniels — who just happened to be a famous explorer. Even Matlock's holiday snaps were status symbols. The entire room seemed to be designed to make her feel small, insecure, insignificant, and unlikely to amount to anything academically.
"I'm aware that it sounds far-fetched, Professor Matlock," she said. "But I am certain that—"
"Dr. Gould," Matlock interrupted, "I hate to doubt your — dare I say it? — feminine intuition, but you must understand that the department simply cannot give out funding — especially in the kind of sums you are requesting — based on nothing more than a hunch."
"I understand that, Professor," Nina was finding it increasingly difficult to stay calm. She had spent the past hour outlining her case, and now she could see quite clearly that Professor Matlock was going to dismiss it with only cursory consideration. "I understand that this is unorthodox. But you know me. You've known me for years. I'm not impulsive or fanciful. I wouldn't make a request such as this without being absolutely sure of what I'm doing.
"I wish I could show you Mr. Kruger's notebooks, but as I said, they were stolen. I can show you the police report if you don't believe me. I would hate to pass up an opportunity to make such an important breakthrough just because a few thugs chose to rob my flat at exactly the wrong moment — and I'm sure you wouldn't want the department to miss out for such a silly reason either."
The moment Professor Matlock got to his feet, Nina knew she had lost. This was a favorite trick of his and she knew it well. He would stroll casually around his office, nonchalantly laying hands on the many status symbols that he kept scattered around. He would perch on the edge of his desk, looking relaxed and confident, a man who absolutely belonged in this place. For the person trapped in the uncomfortable captain's chair in the center of the room, it was unnerving — and Matlock knew it.
"Nina," he addressed her in deliberately warm, reassuring tones. "I can see you feel strongly about his. I know. Believe it or not, I was once a young academic myself. I remember what it was like to feel unsettled and eager to prove myself. I know you are keen to get tenure, and no doubt you think that something wonderfully high-profile will give you the boost that you need." He whipped off his glasses and began to gesticulate with them. "Trust me. You're a bright girl, a very bright girl. You'll get there. Perhaps not here, but there are plenty of universities and many would be delighted to have you, when you're ready. Give yourself time and the right line of research will present itself. You don't need to go rushing around chasing after Internet rumors and conspiracy theories. You're an academic, not a journalist."
He leaned forward and tapped Nina on the knee with the leg of his glasses. She fought the impulse to scream with rage. "Tell you what," he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's meet in the new year, shall we? You and I can have a little chat and perhaps I can help you find some research topics that would be of interest to you. I could put some editing your way. You might find that stimulating. Or perhaps you might be able to help me with the book I'm working on."