by Tom Grace
Ptashnik pulled out a pocketknife and slit the tape seal around the cardboard lid. Martin looked down into the open box. Each article of Wolff’s clothing was individually sealed in labeled clear-plastic bags. He looked over the tie, the long coat.
‘This is what Johann was wearing the last time I saw him,’ Martin said. ‘He must have been killed that very night.’
The collars of Wolff’s shirt, blazer, and overcoat were black with long-dried blood.
‘Butchery,’ Martin said angrily. ‘A horrible way for a man to die.’
Martin laid each of the bagged garments aside gently, as if the spirit of his friend were still somehow connected with his belongings. Brittle mud caked the front of Wolff’s coat and pants; the toes of the shoes were scuffed and muddied.
‘It was a foul night,’ Martin recalled. ‘The ground was still soggy from the rains we’d had the day before. Friday afternoon it finally got cold enough to snow. There was a foot on the ground by Saturday morning.’
‘Which worked in the killer’s favor,’ Ptashnik said, absorbing Martin’s recollections. ‘You reported him missing on Saturday afternoon, but the earliest the police would have started making inquiries would have been on Monday. The snow would’ve covered any evidence of the crime over the weekend, and then the workmen came back and filled in the hole.’
Martin pulled out Wolff’s battered leather briefcase from the bottom of the cardboard box.
‘Here it is, Nolan,’ Martin announced.
Ptashnik opened the seal on the evidence bag, and Nolan carefully pulled out the briefcase. He then undid the clasp that secured the top flap over the interior compartment. The dark brown leather was cracked and dirty. He lifted the flap and looked inside.
‘When I left him, Johann told me that he had some paperwork and a little correspondence to finish up,’ Martin said.
Inside, Nolan saw an envelope and six hardbound notebooks. He fished out the envelope. ‘It’s another letter to Raphaele Paramo. May I open it?’
Ptashnik nodded his approval.
Nolan carefully ran his gloved thumb under the envelope’s seal; the brittle glue released at the lightest touch. He pulled out the folded pages and laid them on the gurney.
‘It’s like the others,’ Nolan said. ‘He covers the personal stuff first, then dives into the physics. Take a look at this, Grandpa. He’s telling Paramo about his engagement to Elli.’
Martin quickly read the first part of the letter and smiled. ‘He was a happy man when he wrote this.’
As Martin read the letter, Nolan pulled a notebook out of the briefcase.
‘Johann always kept a notebook with him wherever he went,’ Martin recalled. ‘He was a very private man, particularly with regard to his work. Some of his colleagues thought he was a bit paranoid, and perhaps he was. After all those years of living with the Gestapo looking over his shoulder, I can understand how he might be guarded about what he was thinking. I’m just wondering, what if he dreamed up something brilliant – like Einstein did. There’s a lot of prima donnas running around in a place like Michigan, people who might be a bit put out if a Young Turk like Johann were to show them up.’
‘You think one of his colleagues might have killed him out of professional jealousy?’ Ptashnik asked.
Martin shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I’m just trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make any sense at all. Johann enjoyed what he did; he even tried to explain to me a little about what he was working on, but it flew right over my poor brain. It just seems to me that the only real thing of value Johann had was what he carried around in his head and what he put in his notebooks.’
‘It’s hard to believe this has been underground for over fifty years,’ Nolan said.
The binding cracked loudly as Nolan opened the volume; the pages were still white and showed little deterioration. The first page contained a few carefully drawn sketches and some accompanying text.
‘What do you make of that?’ Martin asked.
‘The drawings are mathematical, but I’ve never seen an algorithm that generates an image that looks like that. One thing’s for sure, Wolff could draw.’
‘That he could,’ Martin agreed. ‘He had quite a good fist, like a draftsman.’
Nolan scanned the text – written in the same precise hand that authored the Paramo letters – but found nothing his mind could latch onto.
‘This is gibberish,’ Nolan said.
‘What do you mean, lad?’ Martin asked.
‘The text. Take a close look at it.’
Curious, Martin and Ptashnik glanced down at the open notebook. The tiny characters Wolff had so precisely drawn on the page were an apparently random mix of letters, numbers, and Greek mathematical symbols. Nolan studied the composition of the page as a whole. Each character was equally spaced, as if laid out on a grid. The page was the result of a deliberate, precise effort.
‘Maybe he was dyslexic,’ Ptashnik offered wryly.
‘I don’t think so,’ Nolan mused. ‘Wolff took his time with these characters; look how carefully each one is drawn.’
‘Looks like calligraphy,’ Ptashnik noted.
‘Actually, I think it’s cryptography.’
‘Say again?’
‘I’m no expert in this field, but I’ve seen enough encrypted text to think that’s what we’re looking at here.’
‘Why would Wolff do that?’ Ptashnik wondered.
‘Well, he was a physicist,’ Nolan replied. ‘What big physics project was going on in the 1940s?’
‘The bomb,’ Ptashnik quickly offered.
‘No,’ Martin growled, shaking his head. ‘Johann wasn’t working on any bombs. He hated the damn things. He once told me that during the war he did everything he could to keep Hitler from getting the bomb. He was quite proud of that.’
‘Okay, bad example,’ Nolan admitted. ‘But you get the idea. Raphaele Paramo once told his wife that Johann Wolff was the most brilliant mind he’d ever met. Coming from a guy who hung out with a lot of very smart people, that’s some high praise. What if he was working on something just as important as the bomb?’
‘Nolan, Johann wasn’t working for anybody on anything. He was an assistant professor teaching first-year physics. Anyway, if his notebooks were so valuable, why are they still here?’
‘Good point.’ Ptashnik took a look inside the briefcase. ‘There’s no mud in here, and the letter and the notebooks are all clean. This was a violent killing, and it took place in a muddy pit. The killer had to have been right down in there with his victim. Whatever the motive, I don’t think the killer was interested in Wolff’s briefcase. You said that the world of physics wasn’t all that big. What if it wasn’t something he was working on but something he knew? I don’t think the Russians had the bomb back in ’forty-eight. Maybe he knew somebody who was helping them.’
‘The Russians didn’t detonate their first bomb until September of 1949,’ Martin recalled. ‘In 1950 Fuchs, the Rosenbergs, and others were arrested for selling atomic secrets to the Russians.’
Ptashnik shook his head and smiled.
‘Don’t argue with my grandfather, Detective. He’s got a memory like an elephant.’
‘And the girth to match,’ Martin said with a wink.
Nolan carefully turned the next few pages of Wolff’s notebook; each was similar to the first.
‘The only thing on any of these pages that I recognize are the dates he’s put in the upper corners. Here’s twenty-two-eight-forty-six.’
‘Twenty-two-eight-forty-six?’ Ptashnik inquired.
‘The twenty-second of August 1946,’ Nolan explained. ‘He’s using European notation: day-month-year.’
Nolan pulled the remaining notebooks out of the briefcase and checked the dates on each.
Martin was curious. ‘What are you looking for, Nolan?’
‘His last entry.’
The sixth book started with the latest date he’d found. Thumbing through
the blank pages in the back, he reached Wolff’s last entry about halfway through the volume.
‘Ten-twelve-forty-eight,’ Nolan read. ‘Ten December.’
‘That’s the last day I saw him,’ Martin recalled.
‘And likely the day he was murdered,’ Ptashnik added.
As Nolan slowly closed the notebook, he noticed some writing on the thick front endpaper. He opened the cover to expose the page and found a series of carefully written mathematical equations. Nolan recognized some of the functions, but others were used in ways that were unfamiliar to him.
‘What you got there?’ Ptashnik asked.
‘I’m not sure, but at least it’s in plain text. Maybe this is the algorithm Wolff used to encode his notebooks.’
Martin flipped open the first notebook, then glanced back at the one in his grandson’s hands. ‘Take a look at this, Nolan. I think this page is the same as that one.’
A quick check revealed that all the notebooks bore the same formula on the front endpaper.
‘What are you thinking?’ Martin asked, completely confused.
‘I’d say there’s a pretty good chance that this is Wolff’s cipher. Now if we just had the key, we could decode all this. Detective, what are you going to do with the notebooks?’
‘The techs will take a look at them for physical evidence, then we’ll put ’em in the evidence storage center with anything else we collect. Why?’
‘Can I make a suggestion?’
‘Shoot.’
‘These notebooks are old and potentially valuable. Why don’t you take them over to the Preservation Lab at the university library? The people there know how to handle old books.’
‘That’s probably not a bad idea. We’ve used their services on cases before. I’ll arrange it with our techs.’
‘Also, I’d like to get a copy of the letter, to put with the others he wrote to Paramo. If you like, I can get you copies of what we have.’
‘Are they written in code?’
‘Plain English. They’re a mix of personal stuff and physics. I don’t know if they’ll be of much help to you, but there’s a lot of day-to-day commentary. Maybe there’s something in there that you’ll find useful.’
‘I’d appreciate that,’ Ptashnik acknowledged.
‘Can I ask a favor in return?’
‘Depends on what the favor is.’
‘While the books are at the lab,’ Nolan explained, ‘I’d like to have some work done on them for my project.’
‘What kind of work?’
‘Nothing destructive, I promise. I just want to scan the pages into the computer for analysis. Raphaele Paramo thought enough of Wolff to suggest that a stack of letters from the guy might help the physicist I’m working with solve a very complex problem. So I want to know what Wolff was working on.’
‘All right,’ Ptashnik relented. ‘Just keep me posted on what you find.’
24
JULY 19
Moscow, Russia
‘Dmitri, it’s good to see you again,’ Zoshchenko said coolly as she walked into Orlov’s anteroom. ‘My condolences on the loss of your brother.’
‘Thank you,’ Leskov acknowledged with a nod. ‘Pavel knew the risks involved in our work, and he died with honor. He was a good man, difficult to replace.’
‘He will see you both now,’ Irena Cherny announced as she set the phone in its cradle.
Leskov opened the door for Zoshchenko, then followed her into Orlov’s office. The view across Moscow to the Kremlin was breathtaking on this sunlit summer morning.
‘Please, have a seat,’ Orlov offered, his hand motioning toward the couch and chairs near the window. On the table in the center of the furniture arrangement sat a silver tea service.
‘Dmitri, what is the status of our surveillance in America?’
Leskov unbuttoned his blazer before sitting in one of Orlov’s prerevolutionary antique chairs. ‘The physicist Sandstrom is still receiving treatment for extensive burns at University Hospital in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His condition is stable, but he is in for a long and difficult recovery. Electronic devices have been placed in his room, and his phone has been tapped. The team monitoring him has leased an apartment in a tower across the river from the hospital, high enough that they are receiving very clear transmission from the devices. Sandstrom has two regular visitors – Nolan Kilkenny and Kelsey Newton. Both were present during the raid on Sandstrom’s lab. A thorough background check on Kilkenny has revealed that he was once a junior officer in the U.S. Navy SEALs.’
Orlov arched an eyebrow at Leskov’s final comment.
‘Da, Victor Ivanovich. That is why three of my men are dead. Kilkenny’s training is equal to Spetsnaz. Per your request, surveillance of both Kilkenny and Newton is also in place.’
‘Excellent, Dmitri. Have you learned anything from the surveillance?’ Orlov asked.
‘Da. We have confirmed the assumption that the MARC/ND-ARC combine intends to continue its support of Sandstrom’s research. Their support is contingent upon Sandstrom’s recovery.’
‘It’s a little premature to consider any further offensive actions against Sandstrom. Any such move would have to be handled with the greatest care. What is the status of the police investigation into the raid?’
‘It’s at a complete standstill. Other than the eyewitness reports given by Sandstrom, Kilkenny, and Newton, the police have no leads from which to work.’
‘Good. Keep monitoring that situation, but at a safe distance. In all likelihood the whole matter will fade into obscurity due to lack of progress.’
Orlov turned to Zoshchenko, who sat quietly on the couch drinking her tea.
‘How are things going at our research facility, Oksanna?’
‘There’s a lot of material to review, but Lara Avvakum is making excellent progress. She has an almost intuitive grasp of the conceptual aspects of the project. I anticipate that by the end of the month, she will be ready to address the experimental work. She has embraced the project fully and is very enthusiastic.’
‘I thought she might be receptive to our offer; ten years in Siberia does that to a person.’ Orlov drank his tea, savoring the taste of the imported blend. ‘Any other issues we need to discuss?’
‘One, sir,’ Leskov replied.
‘Go on.’
‘Our surveillance has uncovered something unusual. On several occasions Newton was heard reading letters to Sandstrom. In analyzing the transcripts of these conversations, I believe these letters were written to Sandstrom’s colleague, Raphaele Paramo, several years ago. One transcript shows Sandstrom expressing amazement that the author had a better grasp of quantum physics fifty years ago than anyone today.’
‘Do you have the transcripts of those letters with you?’ Zoshchenko asked as she moved forward in her seat.
Leskov zipped open a leather binder and handed a folder to Zoshchenko. ‘I guessed you might want to take a look. Newton has been reading one or two letters each visit, and the rest of the time is spent discussing what she’s read. Both of them seem very excited by the material. I don’t know how many letters there are, but we’re getting them one at a time.’
‘This is very interesting,’ Zoshchenko said, thinking aloud as she skimmed over the first letter.
‘Could you elaborate, Oksanna?’
‘Oh, of course, Victor Ivanovich.’ Zoshchenko gathered her thoughts. ‘If the first letter I read is any indication of the rest, then I would concur with Sandstrom’s assessment that the author is a very gifted individual. He writes about physics like a poet. I freely admit my grasp of the nondeterministic nature of quantum mechanics is weak at best, but even I can see the fog lifting as I read his words. This person’s thinking is coherent. It is focused like a laser. I’ve never read anything quite like this – if I had, I would surely have remembered it. Who is the author?’
‘A physicist named Johann Wolff,’ Leskov informed them.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Zoshchenk
o admitted quizzically.
‘Nobody has. Kilkenny and Newton have been looking for some record of this Wolff’s work and have apparently found nothing. Sandstrom is convinced that Wolff’s research may provide the key that unlocks the mystery behind his discovery.’
‘How could a brilliant mind such as this go unnoticed?’ Zoshchenko couldn’t comprehend it.
‘That’s where this gets interesting. A few weeks ago Kilkenny and Newton gave up their search for Wolff.’
‘Why?’ Orlov asked.
‘We weren’t sure at first, but we eventually learned that Wolff disappeared in December of 1948 and was never heard from again. According to university records, Wolff was a relatively young man – late twenties – when he disappeared. Interest in Wolff was rekindled a few days ago when his body was discovered near the building where he worked at the university.’
Zoshchenko nodded thoughtfully. ‘That explains why he never published his work.’
‘Wolff was murdered,’ Leskov continued. ‘Someone practically cut his head off. We intercepted a conference call between Kilkenny, Sandstrom, and Newton yesterday when Kilkenny explained this to his associates.’
‘What do we know about this Wolff?’ Orlov demanded.
‘According to a newspaper article, Wolff was from Dresden and studied physics in Berlin. During the war he worked with a physicist named Heisenberg.’
‘Werner Heisenberg?’ Zoshchenko mulled over the name. ‘He won the Nobel Prize for inventing quantum mechanics and the famous Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. In the pantheon of great theoretical physicists, Heisenberg is a titan. The main reason the Americans spent so much time and money to build an atomic bomb during the Great Patriotic War was because Heisenberg was working for the Germans. Every physicist in the world believed that if anyone could successfully build such a weapon, it would be Heisenberg.’
‘So Wolff was suckled on the tit of the great Heisenberg,’ Leskov continued, perturbed at Zoshchenko’s minilecture. ‘After the war, he went to America and took a job teaching physics at a university. A couple of years later, he was killed.’