Next, she tapped the little pile of notebooks. "These look like some sort of journal. Again, there are a lot of abbreviations and acronyms, but I should be able to translate them if you don't mind leaving them with me." She glanced up, her brown eyes sincere. "I promise I'll take perfect care of them."
Sam allowed himself a small smile. He wondered for a moment how Nina imagined him taking care of the box's contents. She'd probably be horrified if she saw my place, he thought. "Sure," he said, "as long as you're careful."
"Thanks." Nina looked genuinely excited at the prospect of spending her Christmas holiday translating old Nazi letters. "I will be." Carefully, methodically, she took out the metal parts and laid them in a row on the table. There was a cog, small in diameter but thick and heavy, a flat disc with a tiny hole in its center like a miniature CD, an inch-long cylinder, and a strange ring with a row of bulbous protrusions along the top. "Any idea what these are?" Nina asked.
"Not a clue," said Sam. "Just bits of metal as far as I'm concerned."
"I thought as much. Do you want to hang on to these for now? There's not much I can do with them, but I'll let you know if I find any reference to them in the notebooks. Now, shall we get out of here? If we talk for much longer these people are likely to turn violent."
"We'd better, then," Sam agreed. "Some of them have staplers. They could do a lot of damage."
He watched as Nina folded the papers and slipped them back into the strongbox with care bordering on reverence. She took the key from him and was just about to lock it when she paused. "You know what?" she said, "If I just take the notebooks and leave the papers with you, I could put you in touch with someone who might be able to decode them."
"Who's that?" Sam asked.
"His name is Dr. George Lehmann," Nina said. "Here, I'll write down his number. I'd call him myself, but… well, I can't. Here. Tell him I sent you."
"And who exactly is this guy?"
"Another German scientist. You'd be surprised how many were spirited out of Germany during Operation Paperclip. He was a friend of my supervisor's, he helped me with some research for my doctorate and I've kept in touch ever since." She gathered the notebooks and put them carefully in her handbag, then locked the strongbox and handed it back to Sam. He could not help noticing that her tone of voice had become suspiciously calm. A spark of mischief flared up in him and he decided not to resist it.
"So…" he said casually. "How come you can't contact this Dr. Lehmann? I mean, I'm very happy to do it — thanks for the contact and everything — I'm just curious. Wouldn't it be better for you to talk to him, one expert to another?"
Nina's mouth folded into a hard line. "It's complicated," she said. She made her way out of the reading room and headed down the stairs, Sam at her heels.
"How so?" Sam asked, deliberately keeping his voice as light as he could.
She stopped dead, spun around and looked Sam straight in the face. "Is this any of your business?" she demanded. "Ok, you really want to know? Dr. Lehmann lives with his son, Steven. When I went down to Berkshire to interview Dr. Lehmann, Steven and I… hit it off, shall we say? We had a kind of on-off affair for a couple of years. Then last year, Steven's wife found out. She wasn't particularly happy to find out about me. To be fair, I wasn't particularly happy to find out about her… But apparently they've worked things out. Dr. Lehmann wrote to me recently to say that they'd had a baby. I have a feeling that a call from me wouldn't be appreciated right now, even if it wasn't Steven I wanted to talk to."
"I see." Sam could see that Nina was scrutinizing his face for any hint of judgment. He kept his expression neutral. These things happened, he knew. Patricia's ex-husband hadn't exactly been thrilled when Trish packed her bags one night and headed straight for Sam's place.
"So, I'm sure you can understand why I would rather have you call him. You're less likely to get his wife accusing you of trying to destroy her home." She turned away and continued down the stairs, stopping at the bottom to put her coat on.
Sam caught her up and stopped beside her to wind his scarf around his neck. "Sorry," he said.
Nina glanced back over her shoulder at him and Sam caught a hint of a smile. "No you're not," she said. "You're a journalist. Prying is your job. And everyone loves gossip, don't they?" She slung her bag over her arm and patted it. "I'll get on with translating these. Give me until New Year's Day. We can meet up after that. I'll talk you through whatever I've found and you can tell me if Dr. Lehmann could clear anything up regarding those papers. Bring wine." She strode off toward the door.
"Sam, what the hell is this?"
Sam's mind raced as he tried to figure out who was speaking. One of these days, he promised himself, I am going to get myself a phone with caller ID. He seldom felt the need for anything more sophisticated than his old brick of a phone, but moments like this made him wish that he knew who was calling so that he could avoid answering the call. A quick process of deduction, running through the list of people who could possibly be pissed off with him, brought him to the conclusion that it was his editor, Mitchell Scott. "What's up, Mitch?"
"This piece you wrote about the Braxfield Tower opening." Mitchell was exasperated. "What am I supposed to do with this, Sam? There's hardly any information about what the new building's for, who built it, who paid for it, anything. You give us a brief hint that the staff aren't happy about the design, but then you don't go into it — no quotes, nothing! The whole thing just reads like you don't give a shit. I'm going to have to do a massive rewrite. Basically, this is going to end up as a rehash of the press release."
The reprimand was not entirely unexpected. Sam knew full well that his article was lackluster. He knew that Mitchell would rewrite it. He also knew that he should care, but he just couldn't find it within himself. He made some apologetic noises, but Mitchell was in full flow.
"Are we back here again, Sam? Really? I'm trying to be supportive, I really am. I know you've got a lot to deal with. And it's not that you're not good. When you're on form, your work's fantastic. The Queensferry murder piece was phenomenal. Seriously. I loved it. Figures for that day were amazing. We were ahead of the Guardian, the Times—all the nationals. But then you give me something like this. Any teenager with a blog could do better than this. What's the matter, Sam? Are you ok? Is there anything you need?"
"A lifetime supply of single malt wouldn't come amiss." Sam leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
"Oh, Sam," Mitchell sighed heavily. "This is serious. I'm really concerned about you. Look, why don't you take some time off? Have a bit of a break. I can sort you out some paid leave. Maybe just relax until after the new year, get your head together a bit."
"Gardening leave?"
"Don't think of it like that. I'm just concerned about your well-being, Sam. Are you seeing anyone? Such as a therapist or someone? I know it's none of my business — I'm not trying to be nosy, it's just that if you need a recommendation I know a couple of people…"