'The same.'
Archie's face seemed uncertain whether to show astonishment, worry or delight. 'In the name o' the wee man, what are you getting into, laddie? Petrosian came over here as a Nazi refugee, like Klaus Fuchs. A lot of the top wartime brains did. Fuchs was the big spy in the A-bomb era, but not many people know there were others. Theodore Hall, for example, a Brit also at Los Alamos.'
'What did he actually do?'
A couple of dozen twelve-year-olds trooped boisterously into the cafe, carrying artist's notebooks and pencils, followed by two adults, both female. The ambient noise level went up sharply. Findhorn eyed the adults nervously.
'He was at Los Alamos twice. Don't know much about what he did. I know the first time round he was involved in a big scare. Teller got the idea that if they did manage to explode an atom bomb the fireball might be so hot it would set the world's hydrogen alight, turn the atmosphere and oceans into one big hydrogen bomb. That would have got rid of Hitler, along with the rest of humanity. Petrosian was involved in the calculations which ruled that possibility out.'
'You'd have to be very sure you got something like that right,' suggested Findhorn.
Archie was studying his doughnut closely, and knowing him, Findhorn thought he was probably analysing its topological properties. 'Aye. They kept coming back to it. Now the second time, when they were developing the H-bomb, I'm even less sure about what he did. There were rumours that the guy went off the heid.'
'In what way?'
'Let me think. Got it. It was the same again. Something about zapping the planet. But since hydrogen bombs were going off like firecrackers all through the fifties and sixties, we can safely say he was wrong.'
'Could he have found something new?'
Archie shook his head. 'Nuclear physics is understood, Freddie. There's no room for new stuff at the energy levels these guys were into.'
The adults were trying to get the pupils into a line and Findhorn thought that the teaching authority should have issued them with whips. He dredged up a distant memory, something he'd seen on a television news item. 'What about cold fusion?'
Archie's voice was dismissive. 'A fiasco. It never came to anything.'
Had the comment come from some establishment hack, Findhorn would have paid it only so much attention. But he knew Archie; okay he was one of life's iconoclasts, but he was sharp with it. The opinion commanded Findhorn's respect.
'Suppose you're wrong, Archie. Suppose Petrosian discovered something. And suppose the authorities of the day didn't want people getting curious about it. Putting it about that he went mad would be an effective cover story.'
Archie said, 'It's coming back to me now. Petrosian escaped from Canada just before the FBI closed in on him. The story is he was picked up and flew over the north pole to Russia. But there's no record that he ever arrived. The assumption was that he crashed somewhere over the polar route while making his escape.' He gave Findhorn a disconcertingly close stare. 'And all of a sudden, fifty years later, Findhorn of the Arctic leaps off an icebreaker, flips to cloak-and-dagger mode and starts asking me urgent questions about Petrosian.'
'A hypothetical, Archie. Suppose something of Petrosian's was found in the ice fifty years after it was lost. Let's say a document. And suppose that some people were very anxious to get their hands on it, would go to any lengths. The question is this: what could be in that document?'
Archie gave his friend another long, searching stare. Then he said, 'I'm damned if I can think of a thing.'
'Archie, I may need to tap into that giant brain of yours now and then. I can see the wheels turning now. But I can't tell you more just yet.'
'Any time, day or night.'
Findhorn stood up. 'I have to go, Archie. I'm meeting some people.'
Archie's face was serious. 'Fred, you could be getting into something heavy. If you've found something out there in the polar wastes, something that people want to get their hands on fifty years after it was lost, and if that something has to do with Lev Baruch Petrosian, let me give you one piece of serious advice.'
Findhorn waited.
'Keep it damn close to your chest. And trust nobody.'
7
Fat Sam's
Findhorn looked at his watch. He had fifty-five minutes until the meeting at Fat Sam's; time enough to complete one important piece of business.
Back at the library, he pulled out a dog-eared Yellow Pages directory and ran a finger down Translators and Interpreters. He thought of his overstretched credit card and avoided the outfits with expensive boxes and names like 'School of Modern Languages' or 'International Interpreters', or which offered interpreters for trade missions. German and French translation figured heavily and he excluded these. That left half a dozen two-line entries. He noted their numbers.
Back to the museum. With change from the cafe he went through the numbers systematically. None of them had Armenian on the menu.
Back to the library. The security man at the entrance gave him a look. Now Findhorn opened the directory at Clubs and Associations and ploughed through working men's clubs, the Royal Naval Association, the Heart of Midlothian Football Club, Royal British Legion clubs, community associations, the Ancient Order of Hibernians, bingo clubs and Masonic Grand Lodges. From this bewildering miscellany he drew two conclusions: one, homo sapiens is a gregarious animal; and two, Edinburgh did not have an Armenian Club.
And he now had forty minutes.
On an inspiration he took a taxi to Buccleuch Place and asked the taxi to wait. He dithered between the School of Asian Studies and Islamic and Middle East, conscious of his one o'clock appointment and the ticking meter. He chose the Islamic at random. The building was almost deserted. He scanned a notice board, ignoring the lists of examination results and the conference notifications. There were three cards, pinned on the board. Two were curling at the edge and offered tuition, one in German, one in French. The third was new and written in blue ink:
Angel Translation Services
Hark the herald angels sing
Our translations are just the thing.
Peace on Earth and mercy mild
Our complete service is really wild.
We do:
German, Russian, Turkish,
Arabic, Bulgarian, Armenian.
It was corny enough to be a student enterprise, suggesting fees he might be able to afford. The address was in Dundee Street, which Findhorn remembered as a down-market part of the city. Again suggesting impoverishment.
The taxi passed the Fountain Brewery, a massage parlour and a sign for Heart of Midlothian FC, and disgorged him at the entrance to a tenement flat. The interior of the close was dingy and there was a faint smell of urine. A yellow Vespa scooter was attached to the metal bannister by a heavy chain. Findhorn made his way up worn steps. On the second floor, the door on the right had a doorbell, a peephole and a card:
R.Grigoryan
S.A.Stefanova
J.Grimason,aka Grim Jim
Nothing about Angel Translation Services. He hesitated, then pressed the buzzer.
Apart from the over-large gypsy ear-rings, she looked as if she was just out of bed. She was in her twenties, with dark eyes and blonde hair going dark at the roots. She held the lapels of her green dressing gown together and blinked at Findhorn curiously.
'Angel Translation Services?' Findhorn asked doubtfully.
The effect was startling. Her eyes opened wide. 'Oh my gosh! What can I do for you?'
'I'd like a little translation.'
'Romella!' she shouted, without taking her eyes off Findhorn. 'Business!' Then, 'Which language?'