Mercer acknowledged the compliment but continued to study Barnes, sensing the machinations already churning in his head. “If you’re thinking that you can return to the site where the rotor-stat went down and retrieve the rest of the boxes, forget it. I can’t stop you from recovering them, but I know every top scientist you would use to analyze the meteorite fragments, including the people at Sandia and Livermore labs. The instant I find anyone is working on Pandora, I’m going to bury you.”
“Is that the price of your silence?” Barnes knew the threat wasn’t an idle one.
Nodding slowly, Mercer was too emotionally drained to summon outrage at the DCI’s intrinsic duplicity. He’d expected no less.
“And what about the others? What will their cooperation cost?”
Jacob Eisenstadt pointed a gnarled finger like an Old Testament prophet. “You must know that receiving our cooperation does not mean you also get our approval.” His voice thundered. “However, if Kohl’s entire board of directors is replaced and the company agrees to pay double what the Jewish reconciliation commission is asking for, Theodor and I will let this matter drop.”
Barnes rocked back from the verbal broadside but answered quickly. “The German government has been cooperative so far. The Njoerd has been impounded and those crewmen loyal to Rath will be prosecuted. The innocent sailors, members of Geo-Research from before Kohl bought the company, are being released after signing secrecy agreements. In order to keep this as quiet as possible, I see no reason why they won’t compel Kohl to agree to your request.”
Though he’d received the answer he wanted, the old Nazi hunter didn’t look happy. Mercer doubted he’d ever be truly at peace.
“Is that it?” Barnes prompted into the silence.
“Not quite.” Mercer pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Hilda Brandt wants enough money to start her own restaurant in Hamburg. Once he’s recovered from his injuries, Erwin Puhl wants a permanent staff job at McMurdo Station in Antarctica to continue his weather research. Father Vatutin is asking for the funding to rebuild a particular church in St. Petersburg. Marty Bishop disappeared as soon as the Sea Empress put in to Reykjavik. His fight’s with his father, not you, so I doubt he’ll make any demands.”
“What about you, Dr. Klein? What do you want?”
She gave Mercer a significant look. “I’m all set, thanks.”
They spent a further twenty minutes hammering out details, Barnes capitulating on each and every point. After Barnes left the Institute, Anika invited Mercer out for a drink, asking him to give her a moment to say good-bye to her grandfather. He was left waiting for fifteen minutes.
“Ready,” she announced when she came out of the dining room, a large bag over her shoulder.
Outside, the afternoon light made her hair glisten like polished anthracite. She walked with an infectious bounce that Mercer wished he could keep up with. He was thinking that maybe he shouldn’t have abandoned the cane given to him in Iceland.
“Seemed like a long time to say good-bye. We’re only going to a bar, aren’t we?”
She gave him a mocking look. “You’re not very bright, are you?
“Not usually, no.”
“I have to be back to work in a week and I won’t have any vacations for a while.”
“Rededicating yourself to medicine?”
“I’ve learned that playing at danger isn’t the same as actually experiencing it. There will be no more rock-climbing expeditions. I’m returning to the hospital and kissing my boss’s backside until my lips go numb. I’ve had all the excitement I want.”
“My sentiments exactly. But what’s that got to do with getting a drink?”
Anika stopped them on the street. He stood a head taller than her, but the force of her personality made the physical difference all but disappear. There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “I’m in the mood for wine, and a certain American geologist I know promised me a couple of days in the Loire Valley. I was saying good-bye to my grandfather because you’re taking me to France.”
“I am?” Mercer was both stunned and delighted. He had already booked an evening flight back to the States.
“You are.” She started walking again, taking his hand and turning away so he couldn’t see the flush rushing up her throat. “Do you remember how I told you I get drunk on a single glass of wine? I have to warn you that, when I’m tipsy, I usually get aroused too.”
Mercer’s heart tripped and suddenly his aches didn’t bother him so much. When he found his voice, he stammered, “I consider myself warned.”
They went off to restore each other’s spirit so that at least this one episode wouldn’t haunt their dreams. And after their first night together in a quaint guest house perfumed by vineyards, they knew it wouldn’t.
Author’s Notes
I’ve tried to blend a great deal of history into this story and have taken some license to make it work, but maybe not as much as you’d think. Project Iceworm was a real operation, but their Camp Century was built in 1960 about 150 miles from Thule on Greenland’s west coast. The story Erwin Puhl tells about Hitler’s operation on Rugen Island is true. The real U-1062 was a cargo sub that was sunk in the Atlantic after delivering a load of torpedoes to Indonesia for the Nazi’s Monsun boats, their secret Indian Ocean Wolf Pack.
As for Rasputin and the truth behind the Tunguska explosion? The mystic had been exiled from St. Petersburg at the time I place him near the explosion site. Many eyewitnesses did report that a portion of the object that slammed into the Russian taiga continued on in a northwesterly direction. Leonid Kulik was the first scientist to study the area and he did die as a prisoner of war. To date, science has yet to come up with a full explanation of that mysterious cataclysm because no physical debris has ever been found. So who’s to say what it was? Comet? Asteroid? Space-ship? Or the final misery to spill from Pandora’s box?
Acknowledgments
Pandora’s Curse wouldn’t have been possible without the help of many people. First is Bob Diforio — agent, friend, and constant motivator. For research, I need to thank Thorsteinn Jonsson at the Svartsengi geothermal generating station and Magnea Gudmundsdottir at the Blue Lagoon Spa in Iceland as well as all those I met during my days in Greenland. Another thanks goes to Dr. Dennis Grusenmeyer; to Kim Haimann for help negotiating Munich’s suburbs; and to Angelo and Remo Pizzagalli for sharing their stories of excavating one of the P-38 Lightnings from the “Lost Squadron” that crashed in Greenland in 1942.
At NAL, my special thanks goes to Doug Grad, my editor. Like a jeweler who can turn a lump of stone into a gem, Doug never fails to expertly polish a rough manuscript into a finished book.