What happened to you, Peter? What were you thinking?
“She’s here, I know it is.” Sam stated, fervently.
“I hate to burst your pride bubble and all, but, the last time this lake reportedly thawed out in winter was before the turn of the nineteenth century.”
“Or, was it on the night of the September 24th 1939?”
Tom tapped the keys on his laptop a few more times, and then looked over at his friend.
“You’re wrong again. Wow, I’ll bet you wish you never invited me along for the ride. The night in question was particularly cold. There was no way this lake would have thawed.”
“Okay, I have another idea. What if they somehow clipped the top of the mountain?”
“And if they did the clip the top of the mountain, then what?” Tom asked.
“We all know that it was nearly impossible for them to have any chance of clearing it in the first place. What if they didn’t quite make it, and instead clipped some of the rocks off the top of it? Is it possible that such a collision might trigger a landslide of some sort — something that just may have been enough to at least crack the ice covering the lake?”
“That’s possible. At the start of the war, no one would have been at all interested in a landslide that affected an alpine lake, especially one accessible to only the best mountain climbers of the time.”
Tom zoomed in to the western face of the mountain, depicted on Google Earth, and then grinned, mischievously.
“Does that mountain look like it’s missing something?”
“It sure does to me. Can you find an earlier image — anything before 1939?” Sam asked.
“Here we go.” Tom brought up a picture of the mountain peak taken in 1920. It showed an Italian man, with a rope casually hung over his shoulder, standing on the large rock outcrop — it was a perfect match, to the one that was clearly missing in the 1939 picture. “For once, Sam, you’re right. Now what?”
“How do you feel about some high altitude diving, Tom?”
John Wolfgang was glad that his daughter had made the effort to see him before returning to Massachusetts. At first, he’d been concerned that she was there, but it had been nice to see her. Then, when he realized what had to be done, his concern turned to terror.
How could he use his own daughter like this?
But, as had been the case in previous times, in the end, the need outweighed his ethical reservations.
It took some convincing, but in the end, she understood what was required of her, and said she’d make the call.
The phone rang just once before Sam answered it.
“Sam?” The reception was poor, but he thought he recognized the eloquent soft voice; that distinctly American accent that contained a hint of European ancestry.
“Yes, who’s this?” Sam asked.
“It’s Aliana. Are you still in Europe?”
“Yes, I’m staying in Ötztal, how about you?”
“Ötztal! I spent some time in Ötztal when I was growing up. I’m in Berlin now, until the end of the week, but I was thinking about seeing you again before I leave for the States. If you’re interested, maybe this weekend, I could show you more of the area, from a local’s point of view?”
“I’d love to. Let me know when to expect you, and I’ll change my schedule.”
Chapter Thirteen
Blake Simmonds felt every single one of his 68 years of life.
It had been a long time since he’d been so involved in field work, particularly one with such catastrophic consequences. It was certainly the most mentally demanding he’d done in years.
He felt like he was right in the midst of a second nuclear arms race. In truth, he still wasn’t certain whether or not the involvement with his employer made him the good guy or the bad one.
At first, the thought of the work ahead had invigorated him, but now, after two weeks of putting in long hours, getting almost no sleep, and wondering about his floundering morality, Blake Simmonds was utterly exhausted.
He cursed himself for losing the upper hand. He was the only one who knew that Sam Reilly was still alive, and that he had flown to the Alps to join the rest of the damn treasure hunters. Savages, every last one of them!
At least he had the good fortune of knowing that Sam had hired one of their helicopters. The GPS locating device, mounted atop the Robinson 44, kept him updated on their every fruitless movement.
But what could they accomplish, which others had failed in the past 75 years?
It wasn’t until he noticed their helicopter next to Lake Solitude, that he understood the severity of his mistake.
Blake had, at first noted their landing site, and assumed that it was just like every other place they’d landed and searched during the past two weeks. It wasn’t until he focused his satellites towards the lake that he realized which side of the Alps they were on.
Then, it only took mere seconds before the mental image of Peter Greenstein somehow clearing the mountain pass, losing altitude, and landing in the middle of the frozen lake, entered his mind.
His mind then made the same connection that Sam Reilly’s had — that an avalanche might have opened a rift in the frozen lake surface for the first time in probably a century. A quick internet search showed him that he was right.
But it wasn’t until he brought up the centuries old map on his computer, that he suddenly knew with certainty, that Sam Reilly had been right about the final resting place of the Magdalena.
It was time to make his move — but could he do it in time?
Sam finished removing the last of the dive equipment from the back of the helicopter.
He was glad that Tom had managed to put the 44 down on an enormous piece of solid granite, which formed a small island near the edge of the lake. Upon their first fly-over yesterday afternoon, he wasn’t sure if this maneuver was even going to be possible. Considering the giant pine trees lining the lake’s edge, there was a chance they might have to land miles away and hike in.
As it was, Tom had found this rock, as though it had been set in place just for them. Sam decided that the chunk of granite appeared to be slightly out of place in the turquoise-green lake, which was made up almost entirely of limestone. Sam could picture this rock forming part of the missing peak of the mountain above them.
The dive equipment was set up in front of the helicopter, ready for them to begin their safety checks and formalize a dive plan for their first descent.
They had spent the night camped on the edge of the lake. One of the hardest equations to predict with any certainty, is how much residual nitrogen a person may have from ground level to when they reached altitude. Although few scientific studies had been performed on diving at altitudes above 8,000 feet, it was generally considered sound diving advice to acclimatize to the altitude for a minimum of twelve hours before making a first descent.
At higher altitudes, atmospheric pressure is lower than it is at sea level, therefore surfacing at the end of an altitude dive leads to an even greater reduction in pressure and thus causes an increased risk of decompression illness. Such dives are also typically carried out in freshwater at high altitudes, and fresh water has a lower density than the seawater used in the calculation of decompression tables. The amount of time the diver has spent at altitude is also of concern, as divers with gas loadings near those of sea level may also be at an increased risk.
Sam sat and simply looked at the lake around him.