Ice Station Wolfenstein

Chapter 2

"…And of course, we are all extremely grateful to the Knox family, without whom we could not have completed this amazing new building. It's a great example of how important our alumni network is, and how it continues to play an important role in the life of the university long after students have graduated."

Sam examined the end of his pen. The blue plastic cap was squashed and mangled where he had been chewing it, desperate for a cigarette. He had been stuck in this room for an hour and a half, being invited to admire shiny plastic chairs and partitioned "pods" that would serve in place of tutors' offices. The smell of fresh paint was giving him a headache, and he was surrounded by people with iPads and other technology that Sam refused to embrace.

He glared at the smooth young journalist to his left, who had no notepad in sight but was glibly recording the whole of the chancellor's speech on his tablet. The young man felt Sam's gaze and glanced over at him, shooting a pitying look at the disheveled figure with the cheap notepad and chewed Biro. He smirked. Laugh it up, teenager, Sam thought. Let's see how funny it is when print media dies and I'm ready to retire and you've got decades left in you. Then Sam realized that he had not been listening to a word the chancellor was saying, so he began scribbling furiously again.

"…So please join me now in welcoming this local treasure to the stage!"

For a moment Sam worried that he had not caught the name of the "local treasure," but his fears were quickly assuaged. In such a small city, there were only so many nationally famous local authors to go around. This one got trotted out at every major function in the city and, to judge from the half-hearted applause, his appeal was starting to wear thin. Sam scanned the audience, checking out the reactions. At the end of the row a petite, pissed-off brunette caught his eye. She was fidgeting slightly, and Sam suspected that she was a fellow smoker who would much rather be outside looking for a place to shelter from the drizzling rain than in here watching a writer test one of the humanities department's new seats.

As soon as the writer had satisfied everyone that the seat worked and was fit for such activities as spinning around and rolling across the floor, the chancellor announced that the new humanities department was now open and invited everyone to the champagne reception. Sam, the dark-haired woman, and the rest of the smokers marched straight toward the nearest door. Just as he got his hand on the door handle, a waiter appeared next to Sam with a tray laden with glasses. He stopped to claim two of them, then slipped out before anyone could stop him to point out that taking the alcohol outside was strictly forbidden.

The brunette was clearly familiar with the new building already. She turned right and headed straight for a corner behind the reception area, sheltered from the wind that was sweeping down from Salisbury Crags. Sam followed her. It was a trick he had learned early on, after the smoking ban had driven him outdoors. Find the person who knows the layout; follow them to find the place where the wind won't stop you lighting up.

There were five smokers in the little group, all eyeing Sam's champagne glasses enviously, wishing they had thought to swipe some on their way out too. Sam held one of the glasses up. "I'll give my spare to anyone who fancies giving me a cigarette," he offered. There was a collective lurch forward as the other four rushed to offer him a smoke, but it was the brunette who got there first. She held out her cigarette packet and let Sam take one while she accepted the champagne and took a grateful gulp.

"Thanks," Sam said, dipping his head toward his lighter.

"No, thank you," the woman replied. "After a couple of hours of that, cigarettes alone aren't enough. Alcohol is definitely required."

"Yeah," Sam took a long drag. "Too early in the day for this kind of thing." He held out a hand. "Sam Cleave. Edinburgh Post."

"Nina Gould. I'm in the history department."

Sam quickly began to revise his assumptions about the brunette. He had guessed that she was an academic, because the audience was comprised of nothing but academics and journalists, but considering her stylish trouser suit and with her glossy bobbed hair, he had supposed that she was in one of the more glamorous departments — informatics, perhaps, economics, political science. Something up to date. He had trouble imagining Nina Gould spending hours poring over dusty tomes in dingy libraries.

"Cool," he said unconvincingly. "Look, I'm supposed to get a couple of vox pops from people about this new building. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions on tape?"

"Sure." Nina blew out a long stream of smoke. "Oh, wow, an actual tape recorder? I don't think I've seen one of these for about ten years! I thought 'tape' was something people still said out of habit."

Sam slotted a cassette into his Dictaphone. "I would have thought you'd appreciate it," he said. "What with you being a historian and all."

"Yes, but I specialize in the pre-war era, not the prehistoric."

"Funny." Sam pointed the microphone toward her. "Now, could you tell me what difference this new building is going to make to you as a… sorry, what was your job title?"

"I'm a research fellow specializing in 20th century European history. I'm sure we're all looking forward to making use of the wonderful resources the Braxfield Tower can offer. I have no doubt that the open plan pods for one-to-one teaching will make for a stimulating and challenging learning environment, and—"

"Hold on, hold on," Sam flapped at her, examining the Dictaphone. "I don't think that worked, the red light didn't come on. Can we try that again? Sorry."

As the last of their fellow smokers departed, Nina repeated herself word for word. Sam wondered if this was a prepared speech. The red light on the Dictaphone came on, then faded and died.

"I think it's knackered," Sam said. "Sorry about that."

Nina's face brightened. "Oh. Does that mean I can say what I really think?"

"Be my guest."

"Then let me tell you, off the record, that this place is a fucking stupid idea. It cost millions, it's barely fit for purpose, and I guarantee you that they'll end up building yet another new place and shifting everything there in about ten years. It doesn't even have decent desks — you can't spread out your books and stationery and settle in to do some research, you've got to sit in one of these study pods where there's only space for an iPad or a Kindle or some such thing.

"I mean, I don't mind if people want to use that kind of technology. I do it myself sometimes. But there are other times when I need proper books. And how am I supposed to give my students feedback out here? They cry at me, you know. I tell them why they get lousy marks and they spill out their little hearts and tell me how much pressure they're under, and I make soothing noises and tell them how to improve. How am I supposed to do that in the middle of an atrium — don't even get me started on calling it an 'atrium'—where everything's open and no conversation can be private? God! Whoever designed this place might have won a whole lot of awards, but they've never actually set foot in a university."

She took another lengthy drag on her cigarette, gripping it as if it had personally offended her. Then she downed the rest of her champagne.

"Sorry," she sighed, shooting Sam a rueful smile. "I'm just not used to talking to human beings, you know? Most of the time I just see other academics, and saying all that to them could be professional suicide. Everyone hates the new building. You can see it written on their faces. But no one's going to say a word, at least not publicly."

"I suppose not."

"Look, I should go back in," Nina said, stubbing out her cigarette. "Nice talking to you. Sorry the vox pop thing didn't work out."

"Yeah, me too."

"If you want I can say it again and you can just take notes?" she offered.

Sam waved a dismissive hand. "It's fine. I can live without the vox pops. Anyway, now that I've heard the unedited version, I'm not sure I could use the official one."

Nina laughed, then set off back toward the main doors. As Sam watched her go, he felt a flicker of appreciation. It had been a long time since he had had even a few minutes' chat with a beautiful woman. Then the pleasant feeling gave way to a wave of guilt as Patricia's face surfaced in his memory. You've nothing to worry about, Trish, he thought. You never will. And I wish that I really believed that you could somehow hear this.

At 4:00 am, having already missed his deadline by four hours, Sam sat in his dark living room, lit only by the pale blue glow of his laptop screen. The cold remains of a fish supper lay on the table beside him, the sauce starting to congeal on the chips. Bruichladdich was tucking into the last of the fish, purring contentedly.

"It's no use, Bruich," Sam muttered. "There's just no way to make this interesting. It's just going to have to go in as it is."

He saved the article on the opening of the Braxfield Tower, attached it to an email and hit Send. His editors would either like it or they wouldn't. Much to his surprise, they had loved the piece about the Tesco Metro protests. His report on Harald Kruger's murder had made the front page, of course, but it had passed without any comment from the subs. None of the editorial staff seemed to feel that they had the right to amend the work of a prize-winning investigative journalist when he was clearly on his home territory. Reprimanding him over his manner of reporting on verbal abuse against traffic wardens was another matter.

"Done. Cheers, Bruich." Sam poured himself a whisky, downed it, and refilled the glass. He glanced at the clock. "Time for bed. Can't leave this lying around though, can I? I'm not waking up to find a drunken cat trashing the place." He knocked back the drink, then dragged himself through to the bedroom. Too cold to undress, he collapsed onto the bed fully clothed and rolled over, pulling the duvet around him like a cocoon. Within five minutes, Sam had plunged into a deep sleep. Within ten, the cat was curled up on Sam's head, also fast asleep.

Sam woke up screaming. It happened occasionally. He could never remember the exact events of his nightmares. All he could recall was the feeling of being helpless, in danger, and completely unable to do anything about it. Several people had suggested that he seek counseling — Patrick Smith, Sam's editors at the Clarion, then his editors at the Post, Sam's sister on the rare occasions when they spoke. Sam had refused every time. He did not need counseling to tell him that he was reliving Patricia's death night after night. He knew why he could not remember his dreams. His brain was having mercy on him by erasing the images every time he woke up. The feelings, however, were inescapable.

He checked the clock—7:00 am. Far too early for him to be up, but he knew he was unlikely to get back to sleep. Instead, he stumbled through to the kitchen and made himself a mug of extra-strong, extra-sweet tea, then settled in front of his laptop. His hands roamed idly over the keyboard. Bruich padded through and curled up in his lap.

It was not until Sam found himself on the Edinburgh University website that he even realized that he had typed Nina Gould's name into his search engine. Well, he thought, she must have made more of an impression than I realized. He clicked through to her staff profile on the university's website.

It took Sam's barely awake, slightly hung-over brain a few moments to catch up with his eyes. He had the nagging sensation that he had just stumbled across something important, or at least useful, but he could not quite put his finger on it. Thinking hard, he took another slurp of tea.

"German history?" Sam's brain finally woke up. "She studies German history?" He leaned around in his seat, trying to remember where he had dumped the strongbox that Mr. McKenna had given him. It was over by the living room door, where he had put it down as soon as he got home. The key was hanging on the corner of his laptop screen. Fortunately it had not yet occurred to Bruichladdich to play with it. Sam picked it up and looked around for his wallet. When he found it, he tucked the key in beside his emergency credit card. Then he turned his attention back to the computer and began writing an email.

The time it took to type those two paragraphs was sufficient for Sam's eyeballs to start throbbing. Unsure whether it was hangover or eye strain, he decided his best course of action was to pour another whisky, lie on the couch, plug his headphones into his ancient stereo system, and lose himself in whichever Johnny Cash album happened to be in the CD player. Slowly, unexpectedly, he felt himself drifting back into sleep.

When Sam awoke, the first thing he saw was his open laptop, with Nina's message waiting for him.