The Seventh Secret

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.

Peaceful and clear, the water carried a group of swans near the banks, and Sam wondered how he had spent so many years in the bustle of Edinburgh's news industry. Briefly, his thoughts dipped into the inky black of his past, where he had stored bad memories, and he recalled the sound of the gunshot that killed his fiancé. He remembered the grime of the docks and the warehouses where he had spent so many nights stalking the criminals he had been investigating, living on bad coffee and cheap cigarettes for the pursuit of justice — or fame? Even the fact that he had exposed those criminals all those years ago when he was the king of investigative journalism didn't make the loss more bearable.

Since his involvement with the Wolfenstein expedition he had evolved into a more sophisticated writer, and was able to choose his assignments. Working on and off as freelancer with billionaire inventor Dave Purdue had granted Sam an elite reputation as a fearless professional. His time of peace had come, and that meant that he was no longer forced to accept an assignment without a measure of control or agreement — not to mention the lucrative nature of Purdue’s excursions. Purdue’s generous remuneration and his bestselling book had established Sam financially, no longer leaving him desperate for gigs. Now he had relative freedom and watching the swans gliding on the mirror of the lake reiterated his mental state, his all-encompassing tranquility of late.

Sam thought about Nina. He had helped her lug some crates to her house a few weeks ago, upon which they had discovered some old, mostly insignificant, relics and a whole stack of old hand-drawn maps. He recalled their reluctance at handling the contents of the box that creeped them out, but on closer investigation found that the grisly taxidermy was nothing but the failed hobby of the box’s original owner. The tatty old skin and balding skull had nothing to do with the writings and only served to frighten off would-be thieves of his valuable maps.

Nina had handed the box to Dave Purdue for examination since he had mentioned something similar that he had unsuccessfully been searching for. Since then, Sam had not heard from either of them concerning the find. He decided to wrap up his photography session, put his equipment back into his camera bag, and started rowing back to the bank of the lake. The calming sound of the oars breaking the surface every time came to a distinct rhythm as Sam urged the small boat forward. For a moment, the dark water beneath him kicked his imagination into gear.

Wonder what is under this pretty lake? The water is rather black, so it must be deep… “Stop it,” he said out loud, and his thoughts retracted their tentacles. “Just get to the bar.”

As far as he knew, Sam had no phobias, although there were things that came pretty close. Dogs, heights, and spiders did not exactly provoke amicable emotions in him, but while they were hardly phobias per se, he realized that he had been wary of bodies of water far more than he should have. He figured that that was how phobias began, so he ignored his silliness and abandoned any thoughts not involving whisky, his cat, Nina or the collective of all three, soon to join him at his house for the weekend.

Once he had moored the boat, he made for the warm glow of the small establishment that was already crowded. It was going to be a long night, but first he wanted to store away his gear and change clothes. While Sam reorganized his luggage, his phone rang.

“Not now,” he moaned, dropping his razor to retrieve his cell from his jacket. On the screen, he saw a name he had never expected to see again. During their last encounter both had almost died fleeing from a criminal smuggling organization that they had exposed: they had caught eight men stealing Portuguese coins and a trunk containing antique swords and daggers from a shipwreck. It had been sometime in the mid-nineties when Sam had followed a lead to an institution in Angola concerning a ring of smugglers robbing museums and university store rooms for black market antique sales.

“Malgas?” Sam asked in a tone between surprise and concern.

"Hello, Sam. How have you been?" the voice on the phone replied, but Sam was hoping the question was directed out of propriety and not serious interest. If Sam had to catch up on all the incredible things he had experienced since last seeing Billy Malgas, they would be on the phone for days.

"Fine. Fine, thanks, old mate. What a surprise this is!” he marveled.

“A good one, I hope,” Malgas replied with a nervous chuckle.

Sam was not sure, in fact. The two men had not exactly shared happy times together, but they had enjoyed each other’s company. “Of course! Where in the world are you now?”

“South Africa,” Malgas replied. “I am a lecturer at a university in Port Elizabeth…”

“Sounds great,” Sam interrupted. He wished that Malgas would get to the point. His stomach was growling, and his liver was bored.

“Yes, but,” Malgas stuttered, “I have something you might be interested in covering.”

Sam paused. Granted the man did not know that Sam was not working for The Bugle or the Post anymore, he allowed Malgas to carry on.

“Go on,” he said.

Malgas started to explain, trying to keep his anxiety hidden from the delivery of his words. He was not a man to lie, let alone to deliberately mislead someone, but he had to pull through on this one or else he would be left broke and unable to claw his way out of the unemployment pit unless he could get to the United Kingdom or Egypt.

"I think I found a long-missing ship off the Algoa coast, Sam, and I would like you to help me cover the salvage and whatever press I can get afterward," Malgas explained. His voice was quivering somewhat, but Sam construed it as excitement. He had not spoken to or seen Billy Malgas for years, but he knew him to be a solid, trustworthy man of reason. He was far from those academics who always insisted on being correct and all-knowing in their tiny fields of research. Malgas was always willing to listen to alternatives and those who tried to dispute his theories were always granted his consideration in their counter-arguments.

“That is positively riveting, Billy!” Sam exclaimed while he smelled the socks he was about to wear. He put the cell on speaker phone and went about sorting his clothes. Sam was genuinely excited about Malgas’ discovery and he was eager to be involved in something groundbreaking in history, but all he could think of now was the single malt his liver was craving.

“Oh, it is!” Malgas replied. “I just have one problem that I also hoped you could help me with.” He quickly added, “Just a referral maybe… some advice,” as not to sound needy.

“Of course, old boy. What can I help you with?” Sam asked as he pulled off his shirt.

“I feel extremely embarrassed to admit this,” Malgas said in a tone rife with shame, “but I was wondering if you knew of some organization that would be willing to sponsor the salvage? I have some funds put away, but to bring this thing to the surface and have various experts examine it, you know… would, uh, cost me more than what my soul is worth.” Billy Malgas chuckled coyly, but Sam knew that he had swallowed all his pride just to get that sentence out.

“Well, as luck would have it, I happen to know of some people who might consider your proposal,” Sam offered. Immediately he pictured Purdue’s face at the prospect of another world-historical secret coming to light with the help of the billionaire. “I’m not saying it’s a definite, but I am sure I’d be able to steer some attention to your project. Do I contact you by phone? Do you still have the same e-mail?”

Malgas sounded a tad reluctant, but Sam chalked it up to his unexpected success at procuring interest. “That sounds amazing, Sam. Please, rather call me. I don’t trust e-mail accounts that much.”

“I agree,” Sam smiled. “I will see if we can set up a meeting sometime soon to discuss the details of the excavation… or… salvage, as you say. I’ll talk to you soon, alright?”

“Absolutely! That would be wonderful, Sam. Thanks so much!” Billy Malgas replied excitedly. After he had hung up the phone, a sudden bolt of uncertain fear pulsed through his veins. His eyes moved over the fixtures in the ceiling above him as he sighed laboriously, “What have you gotten yourself into, Billy?”

“What are you so worried about, Dr. Malgas?” Mieke asked as she brought them both a drink. In the safety of his home office nobody was listening, but still his conscience reprimanded him. He took the mug of fresh Rooibos tea from Mieke.

“It is now official, you know? I am officially obliged to deliver a discovery that does not exist,” he lamented.

“You worry too much, sir,” she assured him. “My friends have already started their dives to plant the necessary markings on the wreck off Bluewater Bay. Even if it comes to light that the wreck is not the one we claim, you will always have the markings on it to show the world why you believed it to be a Nazi boat.”

“I would look like an inept fool,” he countered.

“No, after my friends have placed the relevant artifacts on the sunken vessel, anyone would easily be convinced that it was a ship from World War II,” she reminded him.

“Well, I hope you are right, Mieke. People like Sam Cleave and the likes of him don’t just fall for any old nonsense. My reputation is on the line on so many levels,” he warned her.

Inside, he was looking forward to seeing his old friend again, even if the circumstances were somewhat sordid. But for now, his intentions would have to remain secret.