Deep Sea One (25 page)

He would have to employ his knowledge of psychology, of biological agents and German history to defragment the personalities he would encounter to effectively pinpoint the culprit's position. At least, that is what he told himself to prepare mentally as he finished his breakfast and made his way to the lobby where he would wait for his escort to arrive.

Patrick sat down with a newspaper while waiting. It was twenty minutes before his rendezvous time and he thought to look distinguished when his handler came in. It made him smile. He felt like a little boy playing James Bond, pretending to be suave, pretending to be elite, and pretending to die when he was shot by the villain. But in this game there was no pretending to die, a sobering thought indeed. This was real and he was dealing with a Nazi war criminal, not Santa Claus. It was not long before he started reading the paper to polish his German and surprisingly discovered that he still had a very good command of the language. Save for one or two words here and there he understood the articles completely.

His eyes found one article in particular that sent a spike of adrenaline through his body. It was a report about a local resident of Katzwang having had an attempt on his life recently on his holiday in Tibet. The man, Walter Eickhart, had been paralyzed in a fall after running from attackers.

No way. The so-called threat to the European Union and terrorist? And I'm meeting him today. Coincidence,
Patrick thought as his eyes ran over the familiarized lettering. His training and years in crime had taught him never to judge prematurely, that even the most frail had grips of steel extending from well-funded palms.

"Herr Braun?" the receptionist chimed from the counter, but Patrick did not pay her any mind. "Herr Braun," she repeated in a louder tone bearing some annoyance at the man ignoring her in clean earshot. Patrick jolted from his relaxed state, responding in turn to the lady who was holding out his paperwork to be signed before he left.

Stupid. Stupid,
he reprimanded himself inside, as he realized that forgetting his cover could cost him his life. Thankfully, this time it was just a harmless receptionist. A more trained eye would immediately recognize this novice mistake. Quickly he jumped up and apologized, using the interesting newspaper report as an excuse for his absent mindedness.

"Herr Braun," he heard again from the direction of the inn's front door and this time he reacted immediately.

"Ja?" he replied and turned to find his escort approaching. He was a pleasant-looking older man dressed in a black suit, slight of build and bald. The man smiled at him.

"Wilkommen, Herr Braun," he beamed, and extended a hand to Patrick.

Don't say thank you, you idiot. Remember, for fuck's sake,
Patrick's inner voice hounded him again and he continued his conversation in German. The man introduced himself simply as Dieter and he collected Patrick's luggage as they proceeded to the car waiting outside. The vision greeting him, punched him with nostalgia. Impressed, he nodded at the sight of the old 1930s Ford before him. It was in immaculate condition and sported white walls and chrome, which gave it a lavish look of all the things he had expected Eickhart to be—extravagantly wealthy and branding a taste for the antique charms of the old world.

Inside, the car smelled like leather and cigar smoke. Patrick felt like a distinguished man just sitting in it as they traveled through the town of buildings with large triangular rock walls under brick orange tiled roofs. Walls fencing the properties were old and grey, some crumbling and covered in mossy residue, which reminded him of the churchyards in Dumfries.

The towering spires of the old churches and the rolling water of the channel greeted him with a sense of mystery. Dieter informed him that the town was as ancient as it appeared, sprung up somewhere in the Middle Ages and fraught with old secrets, battle sites and catacombs born from historical disaster. For the duration of the drive to the secluded home Patrick ran the papers he was given through his thoughts to remind him of who he was supposed to be. His contact at MI6 had furnished him with the necessary jargon for his supposed profession, architecture. Terminology and the very basic variations of structures it accompanied flashed in his mind and he hoped that Eickhart would have as little knowledge of the vocation as he had.

As the car entered the small paved road to the massive house, Patrick knew why the old man needed an architect, and one of special clandestine qualities such as himself. The vast mansion was divided into six different structures of stone and steel, each bearing a resemblance to the other, but differing in the number of windows. To the left stood a thick tubular tower fashioned from old rock and mortar. It reminded Patrick of the medieval fortresses from where strongholds were ruled by savage kings guarding precious treasures, where monks were wizards and queens were enslaved. Behind it, detached from the rest of the house, was a smaller building built from the same materials as the tower. Stained glass adorned its three arched windows and apart from the absence of a spire, he could tell that it was a church from olden days. It was hidden somewhat in the idyllic tall looming lindens and pines swaying gently behind the buildings.

There was no fence enclosing the main house, which he found suspect, but he would ask about that once he had established more trust. Patrick's instinct as a detective prompted him to record every detail of the area—the cars in front of the mansion, the exits, even the faces of the two gardeners busy weeding near the fountain. To his surprise the mansion was relatively modest considering Eickhart's apparent wealth and this made him wonder if the modesty was a ruse to disregard rumors of his involvement in international war trade.

Suddenly fear gave way to excitement for Patrick. He looked forward to scrutinizing Herr Eickhart now and doing what he did best, sniffing around the lids of questionable characters to see what stink was held fast inside their lives. Doing so in the lap of luxury was a bonus.

As they entered the house, Dieter introduced Patrick to the housekeeper, Elsa, an attractive forty-year-old woman with hair as fair as golden thread. Her blue eyes pierced his as she nodded and smiled and she showed him to the small cottage outside in the back where he would reside while drawing up the plans for Eickhart's new wing.

Elsa said very little, as if she had no interest in who he was or what he was there for. Either that or she already knew everything there was to know about his residence there for the next few months. If he did well, Eickhart would ask his company if he could stay on to consult on the building of the underground structure.

"This is your key. My staff will clean your room once every day," she said, and looked Patrick up and down, "so don't leave your underwear lying around, ja?"

He laughed. A genuine amusement was exchanged between the two and with that she left the cottage, giving way to Dieter who had brought his suitcases.

"Elsa is a humorous lady. I like her," he remarked.

"Indeed she is, but don't let her funny streak fool you. She can be a right bitch when the mood takes her. Sometimes we think she is joking when she is dead serious, you know, one of those people so uncaring of their rudeness that it comes across as jest," Dieter replied, as he placed the cases against the wall.

"I will remember that," Patrick said.

"Would you like to accompany me to the shooting range, Herr Braun? I have a few minutes to collect Herr Eickhart for an early lunch and I am sure he is also eager to make your acquaintance," Dieter suggested. His offer sounded more like an order, which Patrick knew would be rude to refuse and he wanted to make a good impression all round. At this early stage it was imperative to exhibit zeal toward all invitations and suggestions. It would give him an air of willingness to cooperate and avert suspicion.

"Absolutely!" Patrick exclaimed.

"Do you shoot?" the driver asked, as they took to the pathway leading deeper into the woods behind the house.

"I have shot once or twice before," Patrick tried to tone down his true talent for culling criminals.

"Good, good. Then you will enjoy the armory at the shooting range. We have arms here that you didn't even know existed."

☼

Chapter 32

Nina waited in anticipation for the door to be opened for them. She would be working on her analysis of the Spear of Destiny in this part of Purdue's laboratory and she was eager to see what he had to offer. At the same time she harbored a feeling of foreboding somewhere deep in her gut, that she was not safe down here. Unable to pinpoint it, she put it off to a paranoid reaction to the cramped spaces under the ocean of Deep Sea One, but in truth it was just good instinct.

Sam was conflicted about something else, though. Why could Purdue himself not gain access to this leg of the structure? Who was on the other side of the door that had him asking permission, so to speak? Purdue was not German, as far as he knew, so the fact that he told the occupant scientists that he was not alone before the door could be opened, posed some concern for the journalist. After all, Sam had a nose for discrepancies and underhanded conduct and this one smelled like week-old fish sandwiches.

The door lock buzzed and clicked. Purdue smiled nervously at his companions and opened the door of the red section.

"I take it by the color code that this is the dangerous part of the lab?" Sam remarked, as they entered the last leg of the triangle. It did not deviate from the other two, apart from playing host to only two labs and ten cells. It gave Calisto chills and she could see that Nina made the same deduction as she had—that the experiments here had to have been done on people. What else could account for so many containment rooms? The two women briefly exchanged glances, but were interrupted by the sight of a striking man passing in front of the lab window. Since the other lab was designated to Nina, they assumed he was a scientist working on whatever god-awful experimentation was being perpetrated in this area.

"Oh, that is Johann. He is part of our research team. Come, I want to show you where you will be working, Dr. Gould," Purdue smiled warmly. Inside, he was still as taken with her as he had always been. In his own way he wished to gradually win her affections by accommodating her work and providing grants she could not refuse and in so doing make her see that he cared not only about her allure and beauty, but also her work.

"How will I be gaining access when I come down here?" Nina asked, still dumbfounded by the large blond man whose features were as perfect as she had ever seen on a human being.

"You will get a password to speak into the intercom, one that only you and the operator would know. You will be given the password later up top," he assured her.

"I am not going to fuck around here, Dave, but all this is giving me a very bad feeling. The viruses you are having analyzed and tampered with aside, I think it is a very bad idea for me to be here," Nina revealed, stopping in her tracks.

"What is the problem? I am giving you a unique opportunity to get that big break you have been looking for, Nina. How the hell can you pass that up?" Purdue argued.

"God knows what you are busy concocting. If anything goes wrong down here, with anything, we are fucked. How can you not see that? It makes me seriously uncomfortable. I'm not sure I want to be a part of this, even at the risk of my 'big break'," she moaned in upset. He could see the fear in her face, the uncertainty, and he was aware that her feelings of distrust were well founded.

Nina looked at Sam for support, but to her dismay found him to be quite indifferent. Instead he was combing the place with his eyes, intrigued by the happenings in the other lab and raising himself on his toes to look into the holding cell behind him.

"Don't do that, Sam," Purdue warned with a light slap on Sam's arm, shaking his head.

"Nina, I need you for this. Why do you think I am forking out thousands to procure your services if I did not have faith in your abilities, your caliber in your field?" Purdue retorted. He hated bringing up the money, but when all else failed it was the reason they had agreed to assist him in the first place. There was no need to deny it. She had to consider the exuberant spending and the prospective funding, should she discover something amazing. This relic was legendary and if it was the real thing her name would go down in history. No amount of academic ass-kissing would live up to being mentioned in historical accounts of the Holy Lance.

"Let me get the code from the operator. I'll be right back," Purdue said solemnly, pretending to have accepted Nina's refusal.

"Sam," she whispered loudly, "are you daft? Can you not see that this place is like, like—"

"A Nazi experiment camp?" Calisto added casually.

"Well, yes," Nina nodded, her huge eyes imploring Sam to sense.

"I get it, all right. I really do, Nina. It is everything you feel it to be in my opinion. I really understand. But think about it. This could change our lives!" he stated his case, trying to sway her to see the perks he picked out of the frightening possibilities of his situation.

"Or cost us our lives," she snapped urgently.

"This is the story of a lifetime, Nina. This could be the report that would cement my name into the halls of glory," he explained. "I am staying. I have to see how this plays out. There is just too much going on here to ignore. Imagine what a story I could write from this!"

Nina shook her head, her eyes lining with tears of frustration. Again Sam was betraying her, it seemed. Again he sided with those she opposed. Then she looked back at the rough beauty behind her, who stood with her back to them, scrutinizing Johann through the window.

"Are you sure you don't have another reason for staying?" her voice cracked.

"Don't be ridiculous, Nina. I can't believe you entertain shite like that," Sam sighed.

"It didn't look like shite in the kitchen," she mumbled.

"Don't be such a bitch. You know you . . ." Sam stopped right there. He had almost told her how he felt about her and realized in the nick of time what his words were about to reveal.