Ice Station Wolfenstein

Chapter 27

"So, wait, you got a snog off of Nina? Lucky bastard."

Sam scowled at Patrick Smith. "Everything I've just told you and that's what you choose to remember? Not the private army or the deadly virus or the bit where I found out that it was actually Admiral Whitsun and not his son who was running the arms ring? None of that?"

Patrick pretended to give it some thought for a moment. "Nah. Another pint?"

Sam handed over his empty glass, then sat back and stretched out his legs. It felt very strange to be back in Dagda after the Antarctic. On the one hand he felt as if the whole thing had never happened, as if it was just some mad dream. On the other hand, he couldn't shake the feeling that it had been more intense than life in Edinburgh had ever been and that perhaps it was all the more real for that.

Still, there was comfort in the familiarity of the pub. Nothing had changed there. It was still full of academics trying to avoid their undergrads and postgrads trying to cozy up to the academics. There still weren't enough seats. Sam caught a dirty look from a group of vertical drinkers and gave them a cheery smile in return. Outside the Meadows was lined with spring flowers and populated by twenty-somethings practicing tightrope walking or strumming ukuleles. They all seemed utterly incompatible with a world where men could buy and sell deadly viruses or use submarines to blow up destroyers.

Across the floor from Sam, a lone drinker was reading a newspaper. The political scandal surrounding Admiral Whitsun had broken while Sam was still in quarantine in Ushuaia, and Sam had earned a near-permanent place in the heart of his editor, Mitchell, for handing him the story. Now, a few months later, the tabloids were still speculating as to the Admiral's whereabouts. The headline the man was reading was hopeful:

This was in stark contrast to the previous day's front page of the Times, which had declared:

Sam had been asked again and again whether he thought that Admiral Whitsun had survived the wreck of the destroyer. He had no idea. It had been a shock to realize that the old man had not killed himself, let alone finding out that he had been playing them all along and that he had, in fact, been the brains behind the arms ring that had killed Patricia. If he is dead, perhaps that's some kind of justice for her, Sam thought. Not to mention for all those PMCs, and for the men on the destroyer. Then again, Trish always hated people thinking that way. He realized that it had been a few days since he had heard Trish's voice in his head. Her presence in his mind was not constant the way it had been.

"So," Patrick said, returning with their drinks, "you were going to tell me about you and Nina…"

"Paddy, leave it," Sam groaned. "Honestly. Nina's great, but it's too soon. I already feel guilty enough. But you know what? I'm working on it…" Sam paused for dramatic effect. "… with my therapist."

Patrick's eyebrows shot up. "You've got a therapist? How did that happen?"

"They made us all talk to one while we were in quarantine. Then when I got back I had to go for a follow-up at the doctor, and he said I could talk to someone about bereavement, so… it's free, so I thought I might as well." He picked up his pint and took a deep swig. "But you know what? I got off lightly. You know Jefferson Daniels, the explorer? He's so stressed out by the whole thing that he's refusing to do any more polar exploring. He's gone to Arizona to do a vision quest."

"Christ."

"I know. I'm not even sure what a vision quest is. If it's something that calms you down, Nina could probably do with it."

"I heard," said Patrick. "She got in touch to ask whether she could go after Matlock for stealing the notebooks, but she doesn't have a leg to stand on. They were just addressed to the department, not to her personally, and she's got no way of proving that they were ever hers to start with. Which they weren't, really. They were yours. I take it she still doesn't know who sent them?"

Sam shrugged. "Purdue, probably. He likes doing that kind of thing and he's the only one I know who would have the resources to track them down. I don't know how he did it. I'd ask him, if he hadn't vanished off the face of the earth when we got back. Of course, if he hadn't vanished I could have told him where to find the letter he gave me from Karl Witzinger. I'm still kicking myself for leaving it in my room when we escaped. I could have told him to get my camera too, then we'd have the pictures of the ICBM."

"You reckon he went back to the ice station, then?"

"Maybe. Either that or he bribed whoever was sent out to destroy it."

"Destroy it?" Patrick nearly choked on his beer, sputtering foam across the table. "Wait, hang on a minute — who destroyed it? Why?"

"Because there were biological weapons, you numpty!" Sam rolled his eyes. "No idea who, though. I heard it from Fatima. She was trying to sort out permission to go back and do a proper expedition, but she was told it's gone now. Wolfenstein is no more. So she's back at Neumayer doing things with algae. Very clever, that one. You'd like her. Doubt she'd like you, though."

"I don't know," Patrick pulled a face. "Nina likes me well enough."

"Nina's got no taste." Sam drained his pint and set the glass carefully on the beer mat. "Speaking of Nina, I have an appointment at the university. Some very important questions to be asking."

"Are you going to ask her out?"

Sam stood up and adopted an attitude of haughty disdain, looking down his nose at his friend. "You, Patrick Smith, are an old fishwife. No, I am not going to ask anyone out." He dropped back into his customary slouch and pulled on his jacket. "I wish it was anything that interesting. No, I'm off to interview Dr. Frank Matlock about his forthcoming and extremely hastily written book. Here's the title, get this—Wolfenstein: Secrets of the Lost Nazi Ice Station. He's obviously going for a very subtle, literary kind of slant."

"I'd read it," Patrick said.

"You would not. He's already talking to the BBC about turning it into a series, so you'd just watch it on TV. He's an old bastard, though, not letting Nina have any of the credit. But it's his retirement plan, so she's down to a wee quick mention in an early chapter. He didn't even want to credit me, but I said he wasn't getting to use my pictures if he didn't. Not that he got any of the really good ones. The only memory card that survived the journey home was the one with all the boring stuff on it. Dormitories and the like. Still…" He raised his voice just loud enough to be audible to the others in the pub. "Academics, eh? Bunch of egomaniacs, the lot of them!"

Patrick shushed Sam frantically, then finished his drink and bundled Sam out of the pub and into the street.

"I'll be around to collect Bruich tomorrow!" Sam called as he and Patrick went their separate ways.

You know what, Sam thought as he strolled along to the Braxfield Tower, maybe I will ask Nina out after all. Everyone seems to think there's something going on anyway, and we get on, so… it's probably time I give it a try. He did not admit it to himself, but the thought of seeing Nina put a spring in his step.

He arrived at the Braxfield Tower and walked past the little sheltered area where he and Nina had shared their first cigarette. Cutting through the lobby, he got in the lift and emerged on the fifth floor, where Matlock now had his office. Matlock was yet to arrive, so Sam took a seat in the office and settled in to wait.

When he heard the door open and close behind him he turned around expecting to see Matlock. Instead, it was Nina. She was back to her glossy, stylish self in a smart black trouser suit, an acid green scarf at her neck and elegant high heels on her feet. Sam looked her over for just a moment too long. He had almost forgotten that she could look like that. She rushed toward him and gave him a hug. Sam tried very hard not to remember the last time her soft, warm body had been pressed against his.

"How did you know I started back today?" Nina asked. "Ugh, it's been strange being back — not to mention frustrating! Everyone keeps asking me about Matlock's new fucking book. Did I help him write it, or did I even go in the first place? God, it's exhausting having to keep giving out polite answers! Look, I've got a class to teach in about ten minutes, but do you want to go and get some dinner after that? "

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it again. Then opened it. Then shut it. How did she know? he wondered. That thought was swiftly joined by another. She thinks I'm here to see her. And I'm not. At least not entirely. Not even primarily. Oh, god…

"Dinner would be great!" Sam decided to concentrate on the positive stuff first. "I can hang around here until you're done with teaching. There's a really nice wee Mexican place around on the Canongate, if our time in Argentina hasn't put you off that whole continent's food for life."

"Sounds great!" Sam could have sworn he heard Nina giggle. "I'd better go. You can wait in here if you like, but I should warn you — this is actually Matlock's office. I know the receptionist just directs people in here if they ask about German history, just so you know. In case you don't fancy rehashing old times. Or having to wax lyrical about his fucking book."

In a fist of excruciating honesty, Sam thought it best just to come clean. "That's… actually what I'm here about. Oh, don't get me wrong, I wanted to see you too! But my editor sent me here, because they want an editorial feature on his book ahead of its publication… Nina, don't. Don't look at me like that!"

Her hands had balled into tight fists, her fingernails digging into the palms. "Like what?" she asked with acid sweetness. "Like you're a money-grubbing bastard who would sell me out for the sake of a story? Like you're a fucking traitor who would work with someone who stole all my best material and even the idea in the first place and would fuck me over and not care? Oh, well guess what, Sam Cleave, I'm looking at you that way because that's exactly what you are! No, don't touch me. Don't talk to me. We should have left you behind in Antarctica. I said don't talk to me!" She stormed over to the door and flung it wide, then stepped through it and fired her parting shot back over her shoulder. "And you can forget about dinner tonight — or any night!" The door slammed. She was gone.

Ah well, Sam thought with a deep sigh. That's the end of that. He sat down in the chair opposite the desk, then swiftly began to wonder where Matlock's secret stash of alcohol would be. Every academic had one, he was certain. Matlock's, it emerged, was relatively easy to find — a bottle of Highland Park in the top right drawer. Sam poured himself a tumbler of whisky. Matlock won't mind, he told himself. And if he does, well… that's the price of publicity.

Sam settled into Professor Matlock's leather armchair, sipped the whisky and looked idly out of the window at the rugged beauty of Salisbury Crags. He raised the glass in a silent toast, as he usually did when drinking alone — but for the first time in a long time, his toast was not to Trish and the hope that he would soon be with her. It was to life, to the prospect of adventures yet to be had, and to Samuel Fergusson Cleave being very much alive.