“It’s been determined that all of us are responsible, Anna,” Raeder said. “How do you think I feel? I have even less to do with this than either of you. My parents were toddlers in 1945.”
When Konrad and Anna hired Raeder, they’d made him aware that Kohl would need to negotiate a settlement with the reconciliation commission, but they had not told him the depths of the company’s Nazi involvement. They had specifically withheld Pandora from him, rightly fearing that he wouldn’t have joined if he’d known. His reputation for ruthlessness in the business world was richly deserved, but what he’d read about in the old files went far into the realm of the obscene. Now, he knew, he was in too deep to walk away. It was a matter of pride. And ego, he thought. Raeder was equally disturbed by what he’d learned about Kohl and by how easily he’d been manipulated. He’d explore this circumstance once he’d gotten the company out of its present crisis.
“What kinds of steps are you taking to destroy the Pandora site?” Konrad Ebelhardt asked abruptly. “And how sure are you they will work?”
“I don’t think you need to know the details, but I assure you that, other than eradicating evidence of Kohl AG’s culpability, we will do nothing illegal.”
“No one will be harmed?”
“No, nothing like that will happen.” Raeder gave a sharp laugh. “My tactics stopped short of physical injury many years ago. Other than a minor setback, my plan is actually nearing the final phase. I bring this up because now is the time we can call the whole thing off and ‘come clean,’ as the Americans say. Thirty million marks have already been spent getting everything to this stage. A small loss compared to what would happen if we tell the reconciliation commission about Pandora. However, that alternative is still open. I can cancel the destruction of the Pandora site.”
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his blond hair. By skirting the morality of what they were doing and making this a purely financial decision, Raeder was confident that Anna and Konrad would agree with his plan. Raeder was no more pleased about this situation than either of them and yet he’d cut through the emotions to make the right choice. He had also had a few months to dampen his conscience.
“Do it!” Anna shouted as if she’d been listening to a raging debate in her mind and wanted it to end. She didn’t look at Konrad when she continued, confirming Klaus Raeder’s instinct that she was the real power behind the company. “Destroy whatever remains to link us to Pandora. I won’t allow anything to hurt Kohl.”
“Are you sure, Anna?” Ebelhardt asked. “This is a dangerous gamble.”
“I’m convinced that Klaus is right. Erasing our ties to Pandora is the only chance we have to save ourselves from financial ruin. You’ve made it clear that if the commission learns about it, through our own disclosure or from some other source, we are finished. We have to make sure they never do.”
“Very well.” Raeder nodded. “It will be done.”
THE DENMARK STRAIT
The wave smashed into the bow of the Njoerd like a torpedo strike, blasting up an explosion of white froth that showered the forward windows and fell back to the deck, pooling deep and green before racing for the scuppers. The ship dropped into the following trough, her steep bows cleaving a wedge of seawater at the very bottom before her twin props hauled her to the next crest.
Mercer peered through the shimmering water still sliding from the armored glass in the ship’s wardroom. Ira Lasko was at his elbow. As his view cleared, he saw that the sea was calm. The wave had been a rogue. “Where’d that come from?”
“Just Mother Nature reminding us not to get too comfortable,” Lasko drawled. “Waves like that are why I went into submarines. Twenty-two years in the Navy and the only times I ever got seasick were on bumboats and sub tenders.”
They turned away from the window. Marty Bishop was at one of the Formica tables with Igor Bulgarin and another of his teammates, a German meteorologist named Erwin Puhl. Puhl was in his early forties but looked older because he was so tall and stooped. Little of his hair remained and what fringed his head was gray and poorly washed. He wore thick glasses perched on a large bony nose. His posture and features reminded Mercer of a vulture’s, and his gloomy mien did little to dispel the perception.
The Geo-Research people and off-duty crewmen occupied the other tables in the brightly lit wardroom. Greta Schmidt and Werner Koenig held court at a head table. It seemed the segregation that had existed at breakfast would last a while longer. All through dinner and the lecture that Koenig had given afterward, no one other than Igor and his people had approached Marty Bishop’s team. In fact, Mercer had noted the Njoerd’s crew wasn’t overly communicative with them either. Whenever an officer came to tell the expedition something, like their sailing time to Ammassalik, he would go straight to Koenig and have him make the announcement rather than simply telling the whole room. It was strange. Scientific jealousy was nothing new to Mercer, but this continued secretiveness was getting ridiculous.
“When Soviet Union was still a country,” Igor said, continuing the story he’d started before the wave had sent a shudder through the Njoerd and elicited a collective gasp from its passengers, “I was on research ship much larger than this one. It was cooperative expedition with a dozen French scientists on board. Not only were we not allowed to talk to them unless a KGB watcher was in room, but we had to report everything said if we happened to pass in the halls.” He looked to where Schmidt and Koenig were laughing at someone’s joke. “I know now how French felt. Is no room in science for egos or secrets. All scientists should be as one.”
Mercer nodded. “It’s a nice thought, Igor, but you know as well as I do that scientists are some of the most childish and vindictive people in the world.”
“Da.” The big Russian laughed at a memory. “We discover after expedition that French had stolen much equipment and all of our data.”
“What were you doing on a ship?” Ira Lasko asked over the rim of a coffee cup. “I thought you’re some kind of astronomer looking for chunks of space rock.”
“I was meteorologist, like Erwin,” Igor replied. “I give up weather research for planetary geology.”
Mercer cocked an eyebrow at him. “Looking for the big one that’ll wipe us out like the dinosaurs?”
“If it comes, I want plenty warning. Many women I need to see before time runs out.” He laughed at his own joke.
“Tell me, Mercer,” Marty invited, changing the subject. “How do those chemical melters we’ve got with us work? Charlie said you’re the real expert.”
“We’re going to have to hand dig down to the firn line, that’s the demarcation plane between granular snow and solid ice. Then we work with the hotrocks. Once our preliminary shaft is sleeved with plastic to hold back the snow, I mix the chemicals at the bottom. The trick is to layer the stuff so the ice melts evenly. Weights attached to the bottom section of sleeving keep it pressed down to the ice and hold the melt water in the tunnel. Pumps will take care of the water. As the chemicals become diluted and lose their potency, we make sure the shaft’s pumped dry and then repeat the process again.”
“Why not just use hot water to melt the ice away?”
“Too difficult to control. Without enough pumps, you end up with a big cone-shaped hole that’s so wide at the base it’ll collapse in on itself. Also, even if you use a hot-water heater suspended on a cable, you need a massive amount of fuel to bore a shaft of any depth. Since Camp Decade is only about thirty feet down, the chemical heat is the most efficient. We need just a single pump, no fuel-hungry boilers, and the chemicals themselves. I counted twenty barrels on the deck when I came aboard, which is more than enough.”