"Yeah, me too."
"If you want I can say it again and you can just take notes?" she offered.
Sam waved a dismissive hand. "It's fine. I can live without the vox pops. Anyway, now that I've heard the unedited version, I'm not sure I could use the official one."
Nina laughed, then set off back toward the main doors. As Sam watched her go, he felt a flicker of appreciation. It had been a long time since he had had even a few minutes' chat with a beautiful woman. Then the pleasant feeling gave way to a wave of guilt as Patricia's face surfaced in his memory. You've nothing to worry about, Trish, he thought. You never will. And I wish that I really believed that you could somehow hear this.
At 4:00 am, having already missed his deadline by four hours, Sam sat in his dark living room, lit only by the pale blue glow of his laptop screen. The cold remains of a fish supper lay on the table beside him, the sauce starting to congeal on the chips. Bruichladdich was tucking into the last of the fish, purring contentedly.
"It's no use, Bruich," Sam muttered. "There's just no way to make this interesting. It's just going to have to go in as it is."
He saved the article on the opening of the Braxfield Tower, attached it to an email and hit Send. His editors would either like it or they wouldn't. Much to his surprise, they had loved the piece about the Tesco Metro protests. His report on Harald Kruger's murder had made the front page, of course, but it had passed without any comment from the subs. None of the editorial staff seemed to feel that they had the right to amend the work of a prize-winning investigative journalist when he was clearly on his home territory. Reprimanding him over his manner of reporting on verbal abuse against traffic wardens was another matter.
"Done. Cheers, Bruich." Sam poured himself a whisky, downed it, and refilled the glass. He glanced at the clock. "Time for bed. Can't leave this lying around though, can I? I'm not waking up to find a drunken cat trashing the place." He knocked back the drink, then dragged himself through to the bedroom. Too cold to undress, he collapsed onto the bed fully clothed and rolled over, pulling the duvet around him like a cocoon. Within five minutes, Sam had plunged into a deep sleep. Within ten, the cat was curled up on Sam's head, also fast asleep.
Sam woke up screaming. It happened occasionally. He could never remember the exact events of his nightmares. All he could recall was the feeling of being helpless, in danger, and completely unable to do anything about it. Several people had suggested that he seek counseling — Patrick Smith, Sam's editors at the Clarion, then his editors at the Post, Sam's sister on the rare occasions when they spoke. Sam had refused every time. He did not need counseling to tell him that he was reliving Patricia's death night after night. He knew why he could not remember his dreams. His brain was having mercy on him by erasing the images every time he woke up. The feelings, however, were inescapable.
He checked the clock—7:00 am. Far too early for him to be up, but he knew he was unlikely to get back to sleep. Instead, he stumbled through to the kitchen and made himself a mug of extra-strong, extra-sweet tea, then settled in front of his laptop. His hands roamed idly over the keyboard. Bruich padded through and curled up in his lap.
It was not until Sam found himself on the Edinburgh University website that he even realized that he had typed Nina Gould's name into his search engine. Well, he thought, she must have made more of an impression than I realized. He clicked through to her staff profile on the university's website.
Nina is originally from Oban. She completed a BA (Hons) in History at the University of York, then an MSc in Contemporary History at the University of St Andrew's before undertaking her PhD at the University of Edinburgh. Her thesis explored the role of propaganda in fiction in Germany prior to World War II. She is currently the Martha Allbright Foundation Research Fellow. She is currently working on "Glaube und Schӧnheit: The Bund deutscher Mӓdel and Gender Politics in the Third Reich."
It took Sam's barely awake, slightly hung-over brain a few moments to catch up with his eyes. He had the nagging sensation that he had just stumbled across something important, or at least useful, but he could not quite put his finger on it. Thinking hard, he took another slurp of tea.
"German history?" Sam's brain finally woke up. "She studies German history?" He leaned around in his seat, trying to remember where he had dumped the strongbox that Mr. McKenna had given him. It was over by the living room door, where he had put it down as soon as he got home. The key was hanging on the corner of his laptop screen. Fortunately it had not yet occurred to Bruichladdich to play with it. Sam picked it up and looked around for his wallet. When he found it, he tucked the key in beside his emergency credit card. Then he turned his attention back to the computer and began writing an email.
Hi Nina,
Nice speaking to you at the Braxfield Tower opening yesterday. Sorry the vox pop didn't work out!
Hope you don't mind me getting in touch, but I found your email online and realized that you're a German history specialist. This might sound like a weird request, but I was recently given a box full of documents that used to belong to a Nazi scientist. Right now I'm trying to figure out what they are and whether there's a story in them, but I don't really speak German. Would you be interested in taking a look at them?
Sam Cleave
The time it took to type those two paragraphs was sufficient for Sam's eyeballs to start throbbing. Unsure whether it was hangover or eye strain, he decided his best course of action was to pour another whisky, lie on the couch, plug his headphones into his ancient stereo system, and lose himself in whichever Johnny Cash album happened to be in the CD player. Slowly, unexpectedly, he felt himself drifting back into sleep.
When Sam awoke, the first thing he saw was his open laptop, with Nina's message waiting for him.
Hi Sam,
Thanks for contacting me. It was good to meet you. I'd like to know more about these papers. I'd invite you to my office, but as I was ranting about yesterday, I no longer have one. Could we meet at the National Library some time? I'll be finished with teaching for the semester after today, so I can meet any time that's convenient to you. It would be great to do this some time before Christmas.
Let me know.
Nina
Chapter 3
"Well, they're definitely army documents," Nina said. Several pairs of eyes glanced at her with disapproval, but she paid them no attention. Sam, on the other hand, felt a little intimidated. He was used to having people look askance at him, wondering who the disheveled drunk was, but the reading room at the National Library made him feel even more judged than usual. All of these serious, studious people seemed to be doing work that was far more legitimate than his was.
He had not always felt this way. During his time at the Clarion he had been in and out of the British Library in London, checking out old stories and researching people's backgrounds. But in those days he wore shirts with all their buttons still attached. He shaved every morning and only drank in company. His work felt important. No one questioned his legitimacy then. Just eighteen short months ago…
"Sam?" Nina's voice called him back to the present.
"Uh, yes," Sam pulled himself together. "Army documents. That's great. Any idea what they're about?"
She pointed to a sheaf of typed papers. "These are in some sort of code. They refer to some kind of base in New Schwabenland. It's not entirely clear — there are several abbreviations and military acronyms that I don't understand — but I know that the Nazis hoped to establish a whaling base there. They needed whale oil for things such as soap, margarine, god knows what else. And they were thinking of setting up a naval base there. They got as far as charting some of the territory — I think that's what some of these handwritten notes refer to — but then it became clear that Germany was going to war, so setting up remote ice stations wasn't really a priority. It's strange, though, because some of these notes make it sound like some sort of base had actually been established and the writer — Harald Kruger, did you say? — was working on something there."