‘I understand, but according to the people who unloaded the aircraft, it was not on board. Since the manifest that arrived with the aircraft also did not indicate that our property was on board, the man I spoke with suggested that there may have been a clerical error in Chicago.’
Orlov was on his feet, pacing in front of the tall windows that faced the Moskva River.
‘Get Voronin on the phone.’
Cherny did a mental calculation of the time difference. ‘It’s four in the morning there.’
‘I don’t care if I have to wake that fat slob up. I want to know where my property is.’
Cherny nodded and returned to her desk. In five minutes she connected Orlov with Voronin.
‘Victor Ivanovich,’ Voronin said groggily, still trying to shake the sleep from his head. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You can answer a question, Pyotr Yefimovich. Where is my property?’
‘It left Chicago yesterday. It should be in Moscow by now.’
‘According to Russian Customs, no cargo containers bearing the numbers that you faxed me were on the plane. Again, I ask, Where is my property?’
Voronin was now fully awake, fear for his life causing an adrenaline-fueled rise in both his heart rate and blood pressure. ‘Could the Customs people be fucking around with you?’
‘I don’t think so, because they didn’t try to extort any money from me. They say that there was no cargo on the plane matching the information you sent me.’
‘I swear to God, Victor, I wouldn’t do this to you.’
Orlov could hear the fear in Voronin’s voice, a fear that the man was perfectly justified in feeling. Even halfway around the world, Voronin knew that Victor Orlov could make his life a living hell or, worse, take his life. Orlov did what his business required, and ordering a man’s death was no different from cashing a check.
‘I know, Pyotr. And you know that I don’t like excuses. I want results; I want my property. Find it today.’
‘Da, Victor Ivanovich. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.’
15
Nolan walked down East University, or what used to be East University until the dead-end road that defined the eastern edge of the original campus had been closed off and terraformed into a lush pedestrian walkway. To his left was West Engineering, a long three-story Romanesque building topped with a red tile roof and a pair of cupolas.
He smiled as he passed by a series of glass-block windows that punctured the building’s thick masonry base. Hidden behind the translucent blocks was the Naval Architecture wave tank and the carpentry shop where his grandfather, Martin Kilkenny, had worked for so many years building large model ships.
Beyond West Engineering, Nolan clambered up the worn granite steps of the Randall Physics Laboratory.
Turning left out of the stairwell, Nolan headed for the office of Kelsey Newton, Associate Professor of Physics.
‘Knock, knock,’ he said through the partially open doorway.
Kelsey turned away from her computer and smiled. ‘What took you so long? You called almost an hour ago.’
‘Same old, same old. Just as I was walking out of my office, I got sandbagged by a couple of calls. I picked up some bagels on the way, and an espresso.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Kelsey gratefully accepted the tall, Styrofoam cup.
‘How’s the search for Wolff?’
Kelsey swallowed a tentative sip of the strong brew. ‘I asked a couple of the older professors but struck out. Seems Wolff was gone before any of them arrived for postgraduate work. I also checked the library network. I found quite a few books authored by people named Wolff, on subjects ranging from philosophy to chemistry. I even found a couple of mystery novels, but nothing by a Johann Wolff. There’s also no mention of Wolff in the physics journals dating back well before the war.’
‘How about departmental records?’ Nolan asked as he took a bite of a sesame-seed bagel.
‘I was just getting to that. I have no idea how far back the on-line stuff goes.’
Kelsey swiveled her chair back to face her computer. She navigated through the Physics Department Web site, bypassed the public-relations material, and keyed in her ID number and password to log on to the department’s restricted server.
‘We want Faculty, Wolff, Johann,’ she said as she typed in the parameters for her search.
The mouse pointer on her screen changed from an arrow into a cluster of three spinning gears. Thirty seconds later a new screen of information began to load.
‘Johann Wolff, assistant professor of physics,’ Kelsey read aloud, ‘1946 to 1948. Received his doctorate from the Institute for Physics at the Kaiser Wilhelm Gessellschaft in Berlin, 1944. No picture available.’
‘He was studying physics in Berlin during the war?’ Nolan asked incredulously.
‘Apparently so. His doctoral work was in quantum mechanics. He got in on the ground floor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In 1944 the field of quantum physics was about twenty years old. Wolff was studying the cutting-edge science of his day.’
‘Anything else?’
Kelsey scanned the screen for linking sites but found nothing. ‘This is it on-line, so it looks like we’re taking a walk over to the archives.’
Kelsey shut down her computer and followed Nolan out of her office. They exited through the west side of Randall onto the Diag, cut through Angell Hall and crossed State Street to the LS&A Building.
They entered the building and descended a side stairway to the basement. After scanning the floor directory, they quickly located the room where faculty, staff, and student records were stored.
‘Oh,’ said the woman behind the reception counter as they opened the smooth wooden door. She held her hand to her chest reflexively. ‘You surprised me. I don’t get many visitors during the summer. How can I help you?’
Kelsey quickly glanced at the woman’s plastic ID badge.
‘Good morning, Mrs Greene,’ Kelsey said politely before introducing Nolan and herself. ‘We’re looking for some information about an instructor who taught physics here in the late 1940s.’
‘That’s going back quite a bit, but I’ll see what I can do. What’s the name?’
‘Johann Wolff,’ Nolan replied.
‘The department’s on-line records show that he was here from ’forty-six through ’forty-eight,’ Kelsey added.
‘Can I see your staff IDs?’ Mrs Greene asked.
‘Here,’ Kelsey replied, pulling it out of her purse.
Nolan unclipped his badge from the collar of his shirt and laid it on the counter. It was similar to the standard faculty picture ID but bore the imprint of MARC as well.
‘Always have to check,’ Mrs Greene said as she handed the badges back. ‘Faculty records, even old ones, are still considered restricted information.’
She keyed the information in to her computer, scribbled down a number on a piece of paper, and disappeared into the stacks of file drawers and shelving units that filled the basement level. Ten minutes later she returned.
‘Oh my, it took a little digging to find this one,’ she said as she placed a thin file folder on the counter.
The folder’s tab contained a bar code strip and the name WOLFF, J. Kelsey turned the folder and opened the cover. Inside she found an ancient university-employee-information sheet listing Wolff’s date of birth, citizenship, and other vital data.
‘Well, he definitely doesn’t live there anymore,’ Mrs Greene offered.
‘What?’ Nolan said, then he skipped down to the home address. ‘Oh, you’re right.’