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Suddenly Dr. Malgas was sweating. He could not believe that he was even entertaining her horrible idea, but had it not been for the Dean’s subtle hint at firing him from his only purpose in life he would never have considered it.

“What do you have in mind, Miss Badenhorst?" he cringed. It was evident that the 45-year-old man was struggling with his conscience.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Malgas,” she consoled. “I’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is to be ready with answers when the press hears about your….discovery. Alright?”

"Provided I know what the discovery is,” he whispered.

"Of course, I will fill you in on all the details once I have set everything up,” she assured her teacher with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll set it up?” he scowled. “Forgive me, Mieke, but what do you know about historical secrets?”

“I don’t know half of what you know, sir,” she said, “but do not underestimate me. I know more than you think. After all, you are the one who taught me what I know now.”

“How will I know what you chose to lie about?” he asked in all honesty. Malgas was very much aware that his aide was a student close to his caliber, but she lacked the years of experience and thus practice.

“I will fill you in on everything before I go public with it, sir. I am not a fool,” she reminded him as she took a sip of her coffee. “I will bring you in the loop before letting anybody else know. Believe it, Dr. Malgas; I only have your best interest in mind. I want the world to notice you. I want them to see your passion for history, especially World War II history,” she raved. Then she whispered, “But only if you are willing to take the risk. It could just be my cynicism talking here, but,” she drove the last nail, “I don’t think you really have a choice anymore.”

Wearily, he stared at Mieke. Stiffly leaning on the lectern, he looked at her with hardly a spark of resistance left in him. In the end, he figured, it did not matter anymore whether he was caught or not. How could his reputation get worse than that of a lecturer who failed to fill up even one measly course, let alone do anything significant in the world? Malgas realized that Mieke only suggested to him a means to revive what he had already deemed dead and gone — his career as a historian, holding extensive knowledge of secrets no longer pertinent to the chase for glory these days. Even if he was discovered, his ruse exposed, he was a nobody, so it wouldn’t change much anyway.

Dr. Malgas looked at all the books, pamphlets and research he had prepared for the class of students who did not appreciate his efforts and had no respect for his years of studying. Mieke was right. He knew that now. She was the only one who knew how hard he had worked to bring the University students an enjoyable and informative course.

“They probably only take this class to get credits when they would have failed other courses,” he admitted. His voice trembled with disappointment in the dim light of the immaculate lecture hall. Only his projector and one spotlight above him illuminated the lectern, just as his career only barely kept alive by the meager admiration of few.

“We both know that,” Mieke agreed. “And once they hear of the secrets you have uncovered in your study of Nazi artifacts of post-World War II, they will be flocking to your lecture hall to hang on every word, every fact, every morsel of information you give them.”

Gradually, in the context of her desperate idea, Dr. Malgas realized that Mieke Badenhorst was meaning well and that her unorthodox methods were perhaps just the level of recklessness he needed to resuscitate his career. He had never been one to break the rules, but his reluctance was now challenged by utmost necessity.

When he had everything packed, he gave Mieke a long, stern look, “Are you aware of the possible repercussions of what you are suggesting?”

“I gave it more thought than you think, sir,” she answered, dead serious.

He gave a weary sigh, collected his case and motioned with his head, “Let’s get out of here. This is not something we should be discussing at the institution, let alone in a bloody auditorium.”

Mieke nodded, adamant to dispose of every last bit of doubt Dr. Malgas might still have been harboring. As a matter of fact, even if they were to be caught she was prepared to own up to it and take the brunt of the blame, as long as her mentor started shedding his self-doubts and found his confidence in the process.

Something moved in the far distance of the auditorium. It drew Dr. Malgas attention, but in the darkness, it was hard to discern. He flicked the lights on just before they left the lecture hall, quickly surveying the room. Uniform in their appearance the rows of seats revealed no intruders.

“What’s the matter, sir?” Mieke asked, peeking around the doorway to ascertain what he was looking at.

“Just thought I saw something,” he frowned. He had a distinct feeling that they had unwanted company.

Eventually, he abandoned his suspicion and switched off the lights. Together they walked along the main hallway toward the staff room and main entrance of the University of Port Elizabeth.

“When we are ready to make this public we will need someone we trust to report on it, Dr. Malgas. I know a few journo students who would love the opportunity…”

“No!” he cut her off. His face was contorted in focused somberness. “No amateurs, Mieke. This is far too serious to entrust to the fumbling vocabulary of rookies, let alone their ineptitude in dealing with press vultures should they get put on the spot.”

He breathed heavily in his urgent thoughts and kept his voice low as they approached the lobby. “We need someone who had experience in spinning the truth, a sharp mind, fearless in the business of journalism, someone who is credible.”

“It would help if this sharp mind were a friend or close colleague, I agree,” she remarked. “Do you know anyone?”

“I do. The best. His name is Sam Cleave.”

Chapter 2 — After Whuppity Scoorie

The water rippled around the keel of the small boat, waves spreading outward on the silver shimmer of the surface. It was hard to tell where the water ended, and the equally gray skies began, but Sam's lens could tell the two apart just perfectly. He used a telephoto lens for his photos to capture the perfect lines of the lake, even though he had ignored Father Hennessey's good advice to sleep off the whisky before embarking on his photography journey aboard the small row boat he lent the world famous journalist.

Sam was exhausted after two days of the local festival in Lanark, but he had to stay at least another day to interview the visiting old Colonel McAdams, a veteran of two wars and local C-list celebrity. The Whuppity Scoorie festival had turned raunchy after the first day, just the way Sam Cleave liked it, even though he had become wary of his drunken public performances after the kilt incident a few years back, where he had fallen off a table while dancing and exposing way too much to the cheering crowd.

In the far distance, he saw a few other boats, all larger than his, bobbing under the afternoon sky. Sam memorized where the reverend’s jetty was, making sure that it would not take him long to get back there before dark. Clumps of trees lined the park along the lake, and he heard the occasional cry of golfers in the distance, triumphing over a difficult hole.