"Sam?"
A cautious tap on the door recalled Sam to the present. He glanced up to see Purdue's head sticking around the door, peering over the top of his glasses with a concerned expression on his face. "May I come in?"
"Yeah, sure." Sam hauled himself into a sitting position as Purdue entered and seated himself at the other end of the bunk. "What can I do for you?"
"Amuse me, first and foremost," Purdue said. "It would seem that I'm still confined to barracks. The others are planning to go and continue their explorations, but the soldiers have informed me that I am to remain here."
"What?" Sam was surprised. "Just because you asked if you could go back into the missile room yesterday? Seems a bit harsh."
"It's not just that," Purdue admitted. "It may also have something to do with them catching me out in an attempt to sneak back in during the night . . ."
"Ah." Sam tried not to laugh. Despite Purdue's knack for dragging the group into dangerous situations, he could not help but admire the billionaire's devil-may-care attitude. He could just picture the scene—Purdue on the point of getting into the room, caught in the soldiers' torch beams, a hint of frustration visible beneath his customary calm as he raised his hands and allowed them to escort him away. "Does that mean you want to work on the profile now? Shall I get my voice recorder set up?"
Purdue shook his head. "So boring. I would prefer that we talk off the record. I'm interested in you, Sam."
"Me? Why?"
"Because I know what you did. I know how you got your Pulitzer. An incredible feat—Interpol had been trying to find a way into that arms ring for over a year, and it was you who led them straight to their door. The things you did, the risks you took . . . Your courage was tremendous."
"I didn't do it alone."
"I know. What was her name . . . Patricia Highclere, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"I've read some of her work. She was a truly excellent writer."
"Yes."
"And brave, by the sounds of it. I'm only sorry I never met her." He looked straight at Sam, outright curiosity on his face. "You were engaged to her?"
Sam went pale. "How do you know that?" No one knew that. No one could. Sam had only asked Patricia to marry him hours before that fateful tip-off. There had been no time to announce it or celebrate. It had been a spur of the moment thing, a sudden outpouring of how he truly felt. He hadn't even bought a ring yet. There was no way for Purdue to have that information, surely.
"I have some contacts within Interpol, Sam," said Purdue, unfazed. "When I want to find out about someone, I do it thoroughly. Did you not realize that you were under close observation? You and Ms Highclere both? As soon as it became clear that you were getting somewhere with your investigation, you were both kept under scrutiny so that in the event of anything happening to either of you, the leads you had obtained could still be followed."
Sam's eyes narrowed. He had always assumed that his investigations would have led to a certain amount of surveillance, but he had not realized that it would be so invasive. A tiny spark of irritation flickered in the pit of his stomach, then began to grow into anger. Those moments were private, he thought. In his mind's eye he could see Patricia lying in bed, her chin resting on her folded arms and the early morning light playing over the smooth, golden skin of her naked back, her green eyes wide and incredulous as she realized that Sam had just proposed. That was just for her and me, not for any fucking spy who happened to be listening in.
"What else do you know, Purdue?" Sam demanded. "Since you seem to know everything about everyone? Did you have every single one of us investigated?"
"Of course." Purdue looked puzzled by the questions. "I like to know who I'm traveling with."
"So you know about Charles Whitsun?" The angry flame inside of Sam was growing now, fueled by Purdue's implacability. "You know, the man who was running the arms ring that killed my . . . that killed her. The man whose best friend is Nina's ex-lover who almost certainly had her flat broken into, and whose father, whose fucking father is on this wee trip with us? You know about all that? What the fuck, Purdue? What kind of sick bastard are you? What is it that you're trying to engineer?"
Chapter 21
"YES, BUT IF the base was in use right up until the Cold War, that would explain why there are so many—"
"Nina, you have to let go of this ridiculous fantasy! There cannot have been anyone using this base by the time of the Cold War. Try to start from the least dramatic option, not the one taken straight from Hollywood."
Nina threw up her hands and turned away. She could not stand the sight of Professor Matlock's arrogant face for a moment longer. Yet another simple discussion about how to translate a particular word had degenerated into a slinging match. Privately she believed that Matlock was either so overwhelmed by their surroundings that he was refusing to acknowledge the reality of the situation, or he was trying to withhold his theories from her. She strongly suspected the latter.
"Come on, Frank," Jefferson Daniels clapped Matlock on the shoulder. "Let's take a break. Things are getting a little tense in here. Again."
"Jefferson's right," sighed Fatima, rubbing her temples. "Listening to you guys fight is giving me a migraine. Could you maybe just clear out for a little while and let me work in peace? I know the soldiers want us all to stay together, but maybe you could take the books back to your rooms or something?"
Nina mumbled an apology to her friend and began to collect the notebooks she was working on without waiting for Matlock's response. He could do as he pleased, she decided. She was going to take these books and work on a few theories of her own. Based on what they had read, she believed that the ice station had been operational all the way into the 1950s, when they had attempted to build an ICBM tipped with some kind of biological weapon.
In every notebook she examined, the notes came to an abrupt end. She couldn't determine the exact date since all dates were written in a code that she had yet to crack, but whenever it had happened, it seemed that the ice station had been abandoned in a hurry due to an experiment that had gone wrong. It looked as if there had been a plan to resume work there at some point, which had never come to fruition. Matlock was determined that they could not take these things at face value, that the notes must be code for something else, but Nina could find no evidence of it.
"Dr. al-Fayed?" Major Alfsson appeared at the door to the lab, a hint of worry on his face. "Dr. al-Fayed, we need your help. Some of our men are sick. One is in a critical condition, another is unconscious but stable. Unfortunately the unconscious man is our medic."
Fatima leapt up from her seat. "Just a second," she said. "I just need to wash my hands and I'll be right with you."
"Can I be any help?" Daniels asked. "I haven't practiced for a while but I'm still a member of the American Surgical Association."
"Yes," said Major Alfsson. "Thank you, Dr. Daniels, your help would also be appreciated. Come with me."
As soon as the two medics were ready, Alfsson lead them away. Nina found herself alone in the lab with Professor Matlock and the pile of notebooks. She could tell from his white-knuckle grip on his pen that he was not entirely happy with the situation either.
"We should probably take that break, then," Nina said brightly, gathering up a few
books and heading toward the door.
"Nina."
She turned, her hand on the handle. Matlock was still sitting at the lab bench, gripping his pan tightly and tapping it against his chin.
"I wonder if you and I might have a word." He patted the bench awkwardly, indicating that she should join him. Tentatively Nina approached and perched on the stool opposite. Matlock steepled his fingers and took a deep breath before he spoke again.
"I believe I owe you an apology, Nina," he said. "I hope that you will understand. I realize that I have been nothing but obstructive toward you during our time here. You are young, and it is the duty of older, more experienced academics, like me, to en
sure that your enthusiasm does not overtake your rigor. However, sometimes this can manifest as being a killjoy or worse, simply seeming to shoot down every idea you put forward. Finding myself here, in a place that I hardly believed could really exist . . . it is immense.
"I feel it is my duty to ensure that whatever we find here, we understand it thoroughly. Everything must be interpreted correctly. And rigor is my defense against the enormity of the implications of this place's existence. I am sure that you must be experiencing a certain amount of awe as well. If I am being too hard on you, please . . . forgive me. And I must also ask you to forgive me for doubting you when you brought me your evidence in the first place."
Nina was gobsmacked. She sat in silence, her jaw dropping slightly with amazement. Dr. Frank Matlock, one of the most notoriously arrogant academics in the entire department, had just freely offered an apology—and judging by his stooped shoulders and hangdog expression, it was a genuinely humble one.
"It's fine," she said, holding out her hand for him to shake. "I know I'm not always the easiest person to work with either, and I hope you understand that it's just because I really, really care about what I'm doing. Let's both try to go a bit easier on each other, shall we?"
Their unexpected truce agreed, Nina and Professor Matlock reopened the books and prepared to try again.
Neither Jefferson nor Fatima turned up in the refectory for lunch. Nina, Matlock, Alexandr, and Admiral Whitsun sat together, an odd little group making stilted conversation. They had agreed not to talk shop during meals in order to prevent arguments and intervention by the PMCs, who would step in to put a stop to any discussion or speculation regarding the missile room. Any mention of the ICBM would result in a polite but firm reminder that no such room existed, that the group had never been in it, and that such a development at this base was impossible.
At the end of their lunch break the little group split in two. Alexandr and Admiral Whitsun set off back in the direction of their quarters, while Nina and Professor Matlock prepared to return to the laboratory. As they approached the door one of the PMCs on duty was muttering into his radio headset. He stepped into their path.
"I'm sorry," the PMC said, "but you have to return to your quarters."
"Sorry?" Nina was taken aback.
"Major Alfsson's orders. All of you have to go back to your quarters and remain there until further notice."
"But why? Has something happened? Is everything ok?"
The PMC stared into the middle distance, refusing to make eye contact. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't discuss that with you. Please return to your quarters."
Nina gave a sigh of frustration. "Can't we just go and get the notebooks we were working on first? Please?"
"Nina . . ." Professor Matlock touched Nina lightly on the arm and shook his head. "Come along. We can resume our work later. We might be best not to argue."
Annoyed, unwilling, and full of questions, Nina let herself be led out of the refectory and back up the stairs. Each door they went through fell heavily, permanently shut.
Nina sat on her bunk, kicking her heels. The thought of those notebooks, full of information that she needed, sitting on the workbench doing nobody any good, was driving her mad. She had gone alone to Sam's room earlier and tapped on the door to see if he fancied a smoke, but there had been no reply. Probably still sleeping off the effects of an evening with Alexandr, she thought. She considered the possibility of seeking out the Russian's company, but she was more in the mood for Sam's down-to-earth cynicism than Alexandr's unpredictable flights of fancy and sudden plunges into melancholy.
Approaching Admiral Whitsun for a chat was tempting—she was eager to know more about his father's connections to the ice station, but considering her link to Charles Whitsun it seemed more tactful to leave Matlock to acquire that information. All of which left Nina with no option but her own company. She rummaged in her backpack, pulled out a dog-eared copy of The Turn of the Screw and did her best to settle down and read. She had no idea how long had passed before she heard the tapping on her door. She opened it to find Fatima looking red-eyed and shaky.
"Fatima! What's the matter? Come here." Nina pulled Fatima into the room and into a tight hug. She felt her friend's shoulders shake as she buried her face in Nina's shoulder and sobbed silently. "Sssssh. It's ok. Sssssh now. Come on, tell me what's wrong. I wish I had some tea to offer you."
She led Fatima over to the bunk and made her sit down, then crouched beside her and held her hand while she cried it out. Nina had never seen Fatima in a state like this, not even during the most stressful moments of their finals year.
"Oh god, Nina, it was horrible," Fatima choked the words out through her tears. "That poor kid . . ."
"What kid?" Nina asked gently. "Do you mean the soldier? Private Hodges? What happened to him?"
"He's sick," Fatima whispered. "Really bad. He's the reason why they needed our help . . . but Nina, there was nothing we could do. I've never seen anything like it! They've got him in this little room up in the PMC quarters, it's like a padded cell but there's a window, floor to ceiling, completely transparent and . . . unbreakable, seemingly. Private Hodges kept beating his fists against it, again and again, his hands were a mess of bruises and I think his fingers were broken, they looked like they'd been snapped like twigs. He kept throwing himself against the glass every time we went near it and I could hear the noises, oh god . . . his bones. They were cracking. I think he fractured his skull, Nina. But he didn't stop.
"His face was covered in blood and he didn't stop! And every time we backed away from the glass he would stop lunging at us and instead he would start noticing the damage and trying to move his fingers or touch his head and he'd scream in pain and then I'd go closer and try to communicate with him and then he'd throw himself at the glass again and . . . oh, god. Oh god! It's just . . . he was in so much pain, Nina. I could see it. His face . . . rage and pain and hate. He's losing so much blood, but we couldn't get near him to help. I couldn't even tell what was him hemorrhaging and what was him bleeding from his injuries." She sobbed again.
"Here," Nina grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to Fatima. "Sip this. Do you know what's wrong with him?"
"Kind of," she said, swallowing a mouthful of the water. "They had taken some blood from him before he got this bad. We took a look at it. It's not really my field, viruses that occur in humans, but I still remember enough. It's definitely some kind of virus, like a mutation of Ebola. I guess it's the thing they were trying to develop here to put on that missile."
A cold thrill of fear shot through Nina's spine. "Does that mean it's going to spread? Ebola's pretty virulent, isn't it?"
Fatima closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her palms into them. "Yes," she said, her voice quiet with despair. "I think it's spreading already. The two soldiers who took the blood sample . . . they were in the room next door. Same set-up. They're both unconscious, or at least they were when we left. Major Alfsson said that's what happened to Hodges too. He had a violent outburst, then he was out cold for a little while, then when he came to he was . . . like that."
"Is there a vaccine? Can we do anything about it?"
Fatima's face collapsed into a look of devastation, answering Nina's question. For a long moment neither of them spoke. They clung tightly to each other's hands. "I asked them to let me see if I could find an antidote," Fatima said. "It was a long shot, I know . . . but I didn't want to just do nothing. He's just a boy! I don't want to leave him to die . . . But they wouldn't let me back into the labs. They just brought us back up here and said we have to stay here until further notice." She gulped. "Sorry. I'm not dealing with this very well. But if you think this is bad, you should see Jefferson—he's really taking it hard. He went really pale and just kept saying he's got a son about Hodges' age and there had to be something he could do. Alfsson had to physically drag him out of the medical bay in the end."
"Oh, Fatima . . ." Nina sighed. "This is such a mess. Ho
w the hell did we get here?"
"It gets worse," said Fatima, unconsciously twisting her engagement ring around in circles on her finger. "Aren't you wondering why I'm not in quarantine? Because I sure as hell was, until I realized the answer."
Puzzled, Nina waited for Fatima to explain what she meant. Fatima remained silent, angry tears welling up in her eyes. After a long, long silence, she finally spoke. "They think it's airborne." Her voice was flat, all traces of her anger and frustration carefully suppressed. "If they're letting me and Jefferson walk around after being exposed to Private Hodges' blood, it's because they already think it's in the ventilation system. They think that we're already dead."
Nina felt her stomach drop. She had always known that this expedition might be dangerous. While she was preparing she had considered all sorts of possible ways in which it might result in her death. Most had involved plane crashes or freezing to death. She had never considered the possibility of dying trapped underground, having fallen victim to a failed attempt at biological warfare. She pictured life in Edinburgh, strangely normal yet extremely weird without her.
She pictured some other group finding the ice station decades later, stumbling across their skeletons. Has this happened before? she wondered. Those bone fragments that Alexandr found . . . I thought there must have been an accident. What if there was an outbreak before and they burned the bodies? Then what? The survivors left? They must have, or we'd have found them too . . . I wonder how far they got. I wonder if they knew. What do you do when you're waiting to die? How does that work? Do we just sit around and wait to see if we're infected? Is it definitely fatal? I'm not just going to take this.
"Then why bother keeping us here?" Nina asked. "If we're already doomed, there can't be any harm in us moving around freely. Unless . . . is this the plan? They're locking this place down so that we can't spread the virus, aren't they?" She pushed her hands through her hair, dragging her fingertips across her scalp. "No. Fuck that. Fatima, we can't just sit around and see how this plays out! We've got to at least try to . . . I don't know, to get out of here or find a cure or something. I refuse to die quietly."
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