The date was Monday 30 November, 1953. The day after his diary recorded his high excitement.
The first puff showed a picture of a ship. Little bubbles were coming from its propellor. Next to it was written: 'HMS Daring 1894.'
The second showed a sort of golfball with a dozen legs sticking out of it. Next to it was written: 'Chase & Henshal'.
The third contained only the letters 'ZPE'.
Findhorn contemplated that. He copied the quirky little picture into his notebook.
Towards the evening, with his head reeling, Findhorn closed the last of the notebooks and sat back with a sigh and a stretch. The library attendant, if such he was, hadn't moved for the entire session. Findhorn returned the heavy binder to the curly-haired girl with the smile, and emerged into the warm evening air and a streetful of nerds returning from work on bicycles, skates and four-wheel trucks loaded with skis.
Findhorn now hired an RV with an unexpectedly throaty roar on a one-way drop. He drove south, with the lights of Santa Fe twinkling in the distance. The Jemez Mountains were still in sunlight to the west, and they were glowing blood red. His mouth was still burning. Ahead, Santa Fe was like a big Mongol encampment on a hillside, its lights a myriad of campfires.
Petrosian had been hiding something. He had been careful to erase all mention of his overnight inspiration from his daytime workbook, and all signs of the excitement which he confided to his diaries. It was as if there had been two Petrosians. And yet the little doodles were the windows to his soul. They were mind games, Petrosian at play. A purposeful play.
Findhorn struggled with the bizarre images: HMS Daring, 1894; a golfball with legs; ZPE. And they danced in his head with other, darker pictures: city-destroying fireballs; blazing oceans.
He looked in his rear mirror, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The headlights were still half a mile to the rear, as they had been since Los Alamos.
He thought that it had to be coincidence, that jet lag and tension were bringing out some mild paranoia, that the claustrophobic atmosphere of security pervading Los Alamos made you think that way, that there was no possible way for White or anyone else in the States to connect Cartwright of The Times with Findhorn of the Arctic.
He thought all of that, and he congratulated himself on this triumph of pure reason over primitive, irrational fear. And he put his foot down.
18
The Venona Files
The cost of doubling back, taking nonsense routes and side roads on the two hundred mile journey from Santa Fe to Flagstaff was eight precious hours. It left Findhorn screaming with frustration. It was late afternoon by the time he reached the entrance to the wooded camp site at the Grand Canyon, but at least he was sure that he was not being followed.
He drove past the entrance just the same.
Five miles on he slowed down, did a U-turn on the empty road and turned back, wondering if everyone on the receiving end of surveillance ended up with galloping paranoia. On the way back to the canyon not a vehicle passed him, in either direction.
The trees and ground were lightly dusted with snow. The Mather Campground was bigger than he had visualized and he hoped that finding Romella, if she was here, wouldn't turn out to be a major headache. There was a light scattering of cars and tents amongst the trees, and he nosed the camper around the roadways lacing the site. He wondered where, fifty years earlier, Petrosian and Kitty had stayed. There was no sign of Romella, and no telling which if any of the handful of vehicles around was hers. He parked in a quiet spot — the nearest car was a made-in-Japan, four-wheel-drive effort two hundred yards away, all gleaming chrome and hideous purple. He put diaries, laptop and notebook into a backpack rather than risk leaving them in the van. He stepped out, took a moment to stretch and fill his lungs with cool, pine-scented air, and then walked briskly along a path towards a little cluster of shops he had passed earlier. He headed east along a trail skirting the rim from Mather Point.
Findhorn had seen the photographs often enough; but the reality still impressed. The scale was inhuman, too large to absorb. He leaned over the low parapet and traced the path of a little trail far below. He thought he would like to do it some day but he couldn't see a way out of the fix he was in and he might not manage it before he met his assassins.
A few people — families, couples, individuals — were scattered around. They were doing normal things: taking photographs, sitting on the low wall, looking out over the vista, eating. Findhorn looked at them all with deep suspicion and wondered if he would ever recapture his lost innocence. He walked off, exploring the unfamiliar surroundings, looking into curio shops and restaurants with names like Hopi House, Bright Angel Lodge, Lookout Studio, Verkamp's Curios.
There was no Romella.
Then he wandered west to Hermit's Rest, and back along the tracks interspersing the tree-scattered camp site. He was now shivering in the cold air. Hopelessly restless, he returned to the Canyon rim and again looked out over the great pink scar. Heavy, snow-laden clouds were coming in low and the air temperature was plummeting.
He turned in the direction of Bright Angel Lodge and a caffeine hit. With a pile of dollars at the ready, he phoned through to the Edinburgh flat. It would be around noon.
A male voice answered.
'Dougie?'
A pause, then, 'Fred!'
Findhorn's younger brother. 'Hi, Dougie, you're back early?'
'Too much snow, the skiing was lousy. Hey, am I glad you phoned! I got home in the early hours to find guess what…'
'Stefi Stefanova. I'm sorry, I hope you don't object.'
A pause, then, 'Object? The day I complain to coming home and finding a blonde stunner in my flat… I just wondered if she was an impostor or something.'
'No, she's genuine.'
'And under a grilling from me, I find you've had two wenches staying with you.' There was a wicked chuckle. 'I'm highly impressed, but this isn't the big brother I know at all.'
'Come on, Doug, it's business.'
'Business? If the old man gets to hear of this…'
'Translation business, you total idiot. Listen, has Stefi explained things?'
'Not a thing. I don't think she really believes I'm me.'
'Put her on.'
A minute later a nervous voice came over the telephone. 'Fred?'
'Stefi, you can relax. That's my brother Dougie, he's just come back early from Gstaadt.'
The relief in her voice was unmistakeable. 'Oh thank goodness. I suppose I should move out now. No, he's shaking his head.'
'Stefi, you can trust Dougie absolutely, except maybe at bedtimes, if you see what I mean. Now, business. Can you find out what happened to HMS Daring in 1894?'
'I think so. What's that about bedtimes?'
'I'll phone you later today. And it's okay to tell Dougie the whole story provided that he wants to hear it. Remember he's a lawyer, he may not want to know about it.'
Dougie came back on line. Findhorn said, 'Dougie, Stefi has a story to tell that you'll hardly believe. There could be a huge amount at stake, or nothing at all. The only thing is, you may not want to become privy to information which might compromise your position as a pillar of the legal community. Anyway, it's up to you.'
Findhorn could practically feel his brother straining at the leash. Dougie was saying, 'My God, Fred, get the hell off the phone so I can quiz this woman.'
'I'll be in touch.' Findhorn sipped at his coffee and thought that, knowing Little Brother, it wouldn't be long before he was looking for ten per cent.
ZPE. Zero point energy. The lowest possible energy state, the energy of empty space. But how much energy was that? A fantastic thought jumped into Findhorn's head. Could you get at that energy, whatever it amounted to? Could you somehow mine the vacuum?