Sam went pale. "How do you know that?" No one knew that. No one could. Sam had only asked Patricia to marry him hours before that fateful tip-off. There had been no time to announce it or celebrate. It had been a spur of the moment thing, a sudden outpouring of how he truly felt. He hadn't even bought a ring yet. There was no way for Purdue to have that information, surely.
"I have some contacts within Interpol, Sam," said Purdue, unfazed. "When I want to find out about someone, I do it thoroughly. Did you not realize that you were under close observation? You and Ms Highclere both? As soon as it became clear that you were getting somewhere with your investigation, you were both kept under scrutiny so that in the event of anything happening to either of you, the leads you had obtained could still be followed."
Sam's eyes narrowed. He had always assumed that his investigations would have led to a certain amount of surveillance, but he had not realized that it would be so invasive. A tiny spark of irritation flickered in the pit of his stomach, then began to grow into anger. Those moments were private, he thought. In his mind's eye he could see Patricia lying in bed, her chin resting on her folded arms and the early morning light playing over the smooth, golden skin of her naked back, her green eyes wide and incredulous as she realized that Sam had just proposed. That was just for her and me, not for any fucking spy who happened to be listening in.
"What else do you know, Purdue?" Sam demanded. "Since you seem to know everything about everyone? Did you have every single one of us investigated?"
"Of course." Purdue looked puzzled by the questions. "I like to know who I'm traveling with."
"So you know about Charles Whitsun?" The angry flame inside of Sam was growing now, fueled by Purdue's implacability. "You know, the man who was running the arms ring that killed my… that killed her. The man whose best friend is Nina's ex-lover who almost certainly had her flat broken into, and whose father, whose fucking father is on this wee trip with us? You know about all that? What the fuck, Purdue? What kind of sick bastard are you? What is it that you're trying to engineer?"
Chapter 21
"Yes, but if the base was in use right up until the Cold War, that would explain why there are so many—"
"Nina, you have to let go of this ridiculous fantasy! There cannot have been anyone using this base by the time of the Cold War. Try to start from the least dramatic option, not the one taken straight from Hollywood."
Nina threw up her hands and turned away. She could not stand the sight of Professor Matlock's arrogant face for a moment longer. Yet another simple discussion about how to translate a particular word had degenerated into a slinging match. Privately she believed that Matlock was either so overwhelmed by their surroundings that he was refusing to acknowledge the reality of the situation, or he was trying to withhold his theories from her. She strongly suspected the latter.
"Come on, Frank," Jefferson Daniels clapped Matlock on the shoulder. "Let's take a break. Things are getting a little tense in here. Again."
"Jefferson's right," sighed Fatima, rubbing her temples. "Listening to you guys fight is giving me a migraine. Could you maybe just clear out for a little while and let me work in peace? I know the soldiers want us all to stay together, but maybe you could take the books back to your rooms or something?"
Nina mumbled an apology to her friend and began to collect the notebooks she was working on without waiting for Matlock's response. He could do as he pleased, she decided. She was going to take these books and work on a few theories of her own. Based on what they had read, she believed that the ice station had been operational all the way into the 1950s, when they had attempted to build an ICBM tipped with some kind of biological weapon.
In every notebook she examined, the notes came to an abrupt end. She couldn't determine the exact date since all dates were written in a code that she had yet to crack, but whenever it had happened, it seemed that the ice station had been abandoned in a hurry due to an experiment that had gone wrong. It looked as if there had been a plan to resume work there at some point, which had never come to fruition. Matlock was determined that they could not take these things at face value, that the notes must be code for something else, but Nina could find no evidence of it.
"Dr. al-Fayed?" Major Alfsson appeared at the door to the lab, a hint of worry on his face. "Dr. al-Fayed, we need your help. Some of our men are sick. One is in a critical condition, another is unconscious but stable. Unfortunately the unconscious man is our medic."
Fatima leapt up from her seat. "Just a second," she said. "I just need to wash my hands and I'll be right with you."
"Can I be any help?" Daniels asked. "I haven't practiced for a while but I'm still a member of the American Surgical Association."
"Yes," said Major Alfsson. "Thank you, Dr. Daniels, your help would also be appreciated. Come with me."
As soon as the two medics were ready, Alfsson lead them away. Nina found herself alone in the lab with Professor Matlock and the pile of notebooks. She could tell from his white-knuckle grip on his pen that he was not entirely happy with the situation either.
"We should probably take that break, then," Nina said brightly, gathering up a few
books and heading toward the door.
"Nina."
She turned, her hand on the handle. Matlock was still sitting at the lab bench, gripping his pan tightly and tapping it against his chin.
"I wonder if you and I might have a word." He patted the bench awkwardly, indicating that she should join him. Tentatively Nina approached and perched on the stool opposite. Matlock steepled his fingers and took a deep breath before he spoke again.
"I believe I owe you an apology, Nina," he said. "I hope that you will understand. I realize that I have been nothing but obstructive toward you during our time here. You are young, and it is the duty of older, more experienced academics, like me, to ensure that your enthusiasm does not overtake your rigor. However, sometimes this can manifest as being a killjoy or worse, simply seeming to shoot down every idea you put forward. Finding myself here, in a place that I hardly believed could really exist… it is immense.
"I feel it is my duty to ensure that whatever we find here, we understand it thoroughly. Everything must be interpreted correctly. And rigor is my defense against the enormity of the implications of this place's existence. I am sure that you must be experiencing a certain amount of awe as well. If I am being too hard on you, please… forgive me. And I must also ask you to forgive me for doubting you when you brought me your evidence in the first place."
Nina was gobsmacked. She sat in silence, her jaw dropping slightly with amazement. Dr. Frank Matlock, one of the most notoriously arrogant academics in the entire department, had just freely offered an apology — and judging by his stooped shoulders and hangdog expression, it was a genuinely humble one.
"It's fine," she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. "I know I'm not always the easiest person to work with either, and I hope you understand that it's just because I really, really care about what I'm doing. Let's both try to go a bit easier on each other, shall we?"
Their unexpected truce agreed, Nina and Professor Matlock reopened the books and prepared to try again.
Neither Jefferson nor Fatima turned up in the refectory for lunch. Nina, Matlock, Alexandr, and Admiral Whitsun sat together, an odd little group making stilted conversation. They had agreed not to talk shop during meals in order to prevent arguments and intervention by the PMCs, who would step in to put a stop to any discussion or speculation regarding the missile room. Any mention of the ICBM would result in a polite but firm reminder that no such room existed, that the group had never been in it, and that such a development at this base was impossible.