How long they waited there, none of them knew. The noise of the guns did not last long, but none of them dared move or speak. All they could do was wait, tense and terrified, to learn whether it would be their turn next.
When Sam heard the door handle click he turned to face it, anticipating the hail of bullets that would follow. He was ready. This is what should have happened last time, he thought. He stood up unsteadily, arms slightly extended to welcome the conclusion to his story, and waited for the PMCs to flood in and open fire.
Instead he saw Admiral Whitsun enter with a submachine gun clutched in his hands and a look of devastation on his face. Sam thought he was hallucinating. What would Admiral Whitsun be doing with a gun? Then behind the admiral came Ziv Blomstein, also holding a gun, and an unarmed Purdue.
"Admiral?" Professor Matlock scrambled out from beneath the table and dusted himself off before helping the old man into a chair. "Admiral Whitsun, what happened?"
The admiral did not make eye contact, not with Matlock nor with any of the others. His gaze was fixed on the middle distance. Sam recognized that look. It was the same one he himself had worn as he had been led out of that warehouse.
"I could not leave them to suffer," Whitsun said, his voice flat. "It was my duty. God forgive me… it was my duty."
Fatima came over to the admiral's side and knelt by him. "You killed them?"
"All of them. It was easy — surprisingly easy. Most of them were unconscious when Mr. Blomstein and I arrived. The disease had already begun to claim them."
There was silence in the room. Fatima took Admiral Whitsun's hand and patted it gently. Then she looked up and saw the shocked expressions of her companions. "Don't be so quick to judge," she chided. "You didn't see what kind of a state those men were in — well, except you, Jefferson. But everyone else — believe me, if the soldiers were infected, a quick death was the most merciful option."
"And what about us, Admiral Whitsun?" Professor Matlock was stark white and shaking with fury. "Do you believe us to be infected too? Shall we line up against the wall, would that be more convenient for you?"
"Leave him alone!" Fatima sobbed. "You might not agree with what he did, but look at him — it wasn't an easy thing for him to do!"
"It was also the most sensible way to increase our own chances of survival," Purdue said, as strangely calm as ever. "I understand that you have attempted to create a vaccine, Dr. al-Fayed — but that we only have a limited supply?"
"Yes, that's right," Fatima said. "There's enough for all of us, but there definitely wouldn't have been enough for all the PMCs as well. But Mr. Purdue, I don't even know for sure that it works. The only people I've tried it on were the first men to die, and I don't know whether that's because they weren't treated in time or if my vaccine just doesn't work at all."
"Or whether the vaccine itself is likely to kill us," Professor Matlock chipped in.
"Well, it might not be a proper clinical trial," said Fatima, deep pink spots of anger beginning to show in her cheeks, "but I used it on myself yesterday when I was treating the soldiers. So far I've had no adverse effects. That's not to say that it'll be the same for all of you, but if you want to take the chance there's a tiny bit of evidence that you won't die, ok?"
"It's ok, Fatima." Nina stepped between Fatima and Professor Matlock, soothing her friend with calm tones and a hand on her back. "We're all adults. We can each choose for ourselves. But look, first things first — I'll go and get the vials, shall I? I can bring them here, save everyone traipsing over to the labs. You stay here and look after Admiral Whitsun, ok?"
As Nina headed for the door she called out to Alexandr and Sam to come and help her. There was no reason why it should take three of them to bring back a small box of vials, but she just hoped that no one would challenge her on it. They walked in silence along the corridor, down the stairs, through the U-boat dock. Not a word was exchanged until they were safely in the far section of the ice station.
At the bottom of the ladder into the new section, Nina dug her fingers into her scalp and let out an anxious snarl. "He's insane! They both are — Whitsun and Purdue both! That's their solution to the problem? Shooting everyone? We have got to get out of here before one of them decides to turn the gun on us."
Sam and Alexander both agreed. Admiral Whitsun was clearly in a disturbed, traumatized state of mind, and it seemed that Purdue was on his side and lending Blomstein's muscle to back him up.
"The trouble is, how?" Sam wondered as they entered the lab corridor. "If Jefferson and Alexandr trek to Neumayer, isn't that going to take ages? We could all have bullets through our heads before they got back with the hovercrafts."
"You're right," Alexandr said. "Besides, we have no news about the weather conditions outside. Even I would hesitate to set off into the unknown like that. What we need is transport, and we can only assume that there is nothing for us here."
"Except the U-boats…" Nina suggested.
Alexandr stopped in his tracks. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. Then, suddenly, he lunged forward, grabbed Nina's face in both hands and planted a joyful, forceful kiss on her lips. "Of course! The U-boats!" He turned tail and ran back along the corridor.
"What… Alexandr!" Nina, wide-eyed with shock after the surprise kiss, yelled after him. "Where are you going?"
"Back to the boats!" he shouted over his shoulder. "I will see you soon!"
When Sam and Nina passed back through the U-boat dock with the box of vials, Alexandr was busy examining the remaining sub. He was on his back, stretched out and examining the hinges on the entry trap, swearing softly to himself in Russian. They decided not to disturb him. He looked too happy and serene to interfere.
The atmosphere back in the refectory was somber. In the short time that Nina and Sam had been out of the room, it seemed that Jefferson and Purdue had had an argument and Matlock had continued to fume silently. Blomstein was sitting at the far end of the table, away from everyone else, and the sense of fear that he inspired had become palpable. There was no need for Nina and Sam to concoct an explanation for Alexandr's absence — no one else had even noticed that the Russian was missing.
"I appreciate your words, Dr. al-Fayed," Admiral Whitsun was saying. "You are a sweet young woman, and your future husband is a lucky man. But you must understand, this is how men like me do things. It is the only honorable course left to me." He reached down and wiped the tears from Fatima's cheeks. "No need for that," he said. "I have done what I came here to do. There is nothing to be sad about. Chin up, eh?" He smiled at her, waiting for her to smile back. Weakly, she fought back her tears and complied.
The old man rose stiffly from his chair and stepped into the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a glass bottle in his hand. Sam recognized it at once. God only knew where the admiral had concealed it, because Sam would certainly have spotted it if it had been out in the open in the kitchen. It was a very old bottle of Dewar's White Label — eight years old at the time of bottling, sometime in the 1930s. That was probably a fairly cheap whisky when it was brought here, Sam realized.