The Lure (42 page)

That there may be a subtle interplay between the Universe and the life it contains is hinted at by Freya (p.171). The fine tuning which she describes is real and baffling. It may imply that the universe we inhabit is only one of many, the whole ‘multiverse’ being an infinite ensemble of universes with different properties, only a tiny proportion of which have the properties to harbour life. Or it may be that our universe has arisen (if it ‘arose’ at all) as part of a process which allows new universes to grow within it, each with its own properties, some of them suitable for life. Or (unfashionable thought!) the Universe may have been created for the purpose of harbouring life. It has even been suggested that life itself structured the Universe to favour its own continuation. Whatever the merits of such ideas, we may well agree with Shakespeare’s Hamlet that

There are more things in heaven and earth,

Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

The bizarre ‘wheels of light’ at sea are real, and the descriptions quoted are genuine. They have no known explanation. Petrie’s apparently mad theorising about astral phenomena and altered states of consciousness in the
Book of Revelation
is in fact a respected opinion amongst Biblical scholars.

Bill Napier

Read on for an excerpt from another
fascinating book by Bill Napier

Revelation

Coming soon from
St. Martin’s Paperbacks

Prologue

At the mention of memoirs, the Minister threatens me with everything from Section Two to the Chinese water torture. Naturally, since all I want is a quiet life, I back down. To his credit, he tries not to smirk.

‘You can’t stop me writing a novel, though.’

The Minister turns puce but then he’s known to be heavy on the port.

So here it is. Of course it’s only a story, and if pressed I will deny that it ever happened. And deny it I have done, consistently, in all my conversations with those people with polite voices and calculating eyes.

*   *   *

To me, as a polar ice man, there’s nothing odd about a tale of fire which starts in an Arctic blizzard. The planet is an interconnected whole; I measure the burning of rainforests in the thinning of the pack ice I walk on, and of fossil fuels in the desperate hunger of the ten-footers which raid our camps. The Arctic, in turn, is biding her time, quietly stoking up her revenge … but I digress.

The key to unlocking the secret of the diaries was Archie. My old friend Archie was the fatal miscalculation of the puppet masters. They had correctly assumed that I wouldn’t understand the material I was handling, that I lacked the arcane knowledge which was the key to the secret. But if this particular puppet cut its strings, if I didn’t do what my manipulators expected me to do, well, I give the credit to Archie.

We went back to the Creation, Archie and I. As boys we’d wandered around Glasgow’s Castlemilk district in the days when it was run by real hard men, not the sham jessies you see now. Young buccaneers in search of trouble, which we often found. And if that seems an unlikely start to a couple of academic careers, I could tell you some juicy tales about quite a few distinguished Glaswegians. In fact our current Scottish Prime Minister … but there I go, wandering again.

Then there were the ladies, and then I went to Aberdeen and we drifted our separate ways until we met by chance years later at a Royal Society dinner in London. Archie the buccaneer was now a respected nuclear physicist, renowned for his work on superstring theory. I was into Arctic climate, looking for signs of trouble ahead. New Age monks, we had disdained commerce, despised the worldly, and devoted our lives instead to the search for greater truths.

As to how this unworldly pair reacted when wealth beyond calculation came within our reach, well – that’s part of the story.

The rest of it has to do with blowing the planet to hell.

1

The Shadow on the Lake

Thursday, 29 July 1942

Out-of-towners. Men with an intense, almost unnatural aura about them. Come from God knows where to the back of beyond. In his imagination, the station master sees gangsters, Mafia bosses come for a secret confab.

It is, after all, a quiet branch line, and he has to occupy his mind with something.

He has no way of knowing that the three men alighting from the Pullman are infinitely more dangerous than anything his imagination can devise.

First out is John Baudino, the Pope’s bodyguard. His gorilla frame almost fills the carriage door. He is carrying a dark green shopping bag. Baudino surveys the platform suspiciously before stepping down. Two others follow, one a tall, thin man with intense blue eyes. He is wearing a broad-brimmed pork-pie hat, and is smoking a cigarette. The third man is thin and studious, with a pale, serious face and round spectacles.

The man waiting impatiently on the empty railway platform expected only Oppenheimer; the other two are a surprise.

‘Hello, Arthur,’ says the man with the blue eyes, shaking hands. He looks bleary, as if he hasn’t slept.

‘You could have flown, Oppie. A thousand miles is one helluva train ride.’

Oppenheimer drops his cigarette on the platform and exhales the last of the smoke. ‘You know how it is with the General. He thinks we’re too valuable to risk in the air.’

Arthur Compton leads the way to the exit gate.

The station master gives them a suspicious nod. ‘Y’all here for the fishing?’ he asks, attempting a friendly tone. It is out of season for the angling. His eyes stray to their unfishing-like clothes and luggage.

‘No. We’re German spies,’ growls Baudino, thrusting the train tickets at him. The station master snaps their tickets and cackles nervously.

In Compton’s estate wagon, Baudino pulls a notebook and a Colt 38 out of the shopping bag at his feet. He rests the weapon on his knees. He says, ‘Do your talking somewhere quiet, Mister Compton. And not in the cottage.’

‘Come on, John, it’s a hideaway. Nobody even knows I’m here.’

‘We found you,’ Baudino says over his shoulder. He is already checking car registration numbers against a list.

Compton thinks about that. ‘Yeah.’ He takes the car along a narrow, quiet suburban road. After about three miles the houses peter out and the road is lined with conifer forest. Now and then a lake can be glimpsed to the right, through the trees. After ten minutes Compton goes down through the gears and then turns off along a rough track. About a mile on he arrives at a clearing, and pulls up at a log cabin. A line of washing is strung out on the verandah. They step out and stretch their limbs. The air is cool and clear. Baudino slips the gun into his trouser belt.

Compton says, ‘You know what I’m enjoying about this place? The water. It’s everywhere. It even descends from the sky. After the mesa, it’s glorious. You guys want coffee?’

Oppenheimer shakes his head. ‘Later. First, let’s talk.’ He leans into the wagon and pulls out a briefcase.

Compton points and they set off through a track in the woods. After half a mile they come to a lake whose far edge is somewhere over the horizon. They set off along the pebbled beach. Baudino takes up the rear, about thirty yards behind the other three, to be out of hearing: what the eggheads get up to is none of his business. His assignment is protection and to that end he keeps glancing around, peering into the forest. Now and then he touches the gun, as if for reassurance.

Compton says, ‘Oppie, whatever made you come a thousand miles to the Canadian border, it must be deadly serious.’

Oppenheimer’s face is grim. ‘Teller thinks the bomb will set light to the atmosphere, maybe even the oceans.’

Compton stops.
‘What?’

Oppenheimer pats the briefcase. ‘I’ve brought his calculations.’

The studious one, Lev Petrosian, speaks for the first time since they arrived. His English is good and clear with just a hint of a German accent. ‘He thinks atmospheric nitrogen and carbon will catalyse fusion of the hydrogen. Here’s the basic formula.’ He hands over a sheet of paper.

Compton studies it for some minutes, while walking. Finally he looks up at his colleagues, consternation in his eyes. ‘Jesus.’

Oppenheimer nods. ‘A smart guy, our Hungarian. At the fireball temperatures we’re talking about you start with carbon, combine with hydrogen all the way up to nitrogen-15, then you get your carbon back. Meantime you’ve transmuted four hydrogen atoms into helium-4 and fired out gamma rays all the way up the ladder.’

‘Hell, Oppie, we don’t even need to create the nitrogen. It’s eighty per cent of the atmosphere. And we’ve already got the carbon in the CO
2
, not to mention plenty of hydrogen in the water. If this is right it makes the atmosphere a devil’s brew.’ Compton shakes his head. ‘But it can’t be right. It takes millions of years to turn hydrogen into deuterium.’

Petrosian says, ‘About one hydrogen atom in ten thousand is deuterium. It’s already there in the atmosphere.’

‘You mean…’

‘God has fixed our atmosphere beautifully. He’s made it so it by-passes the slow reactions in the ladder. The rates are speeded up from millions of years to a few seconds.’

‘When does the process trigger?’

‘It kicks in at a hundred million degrees. The bomb could reach that.’

Oppenheimer coughs slightly and stops to light up a cigarette. ‘We could turn the planet into one huge fireball.’

‘What does the Pope think? And Uncle Nick?’ Compton is referring to Enrico Fermi and Neils Bohr, atomic physicists whose names are so sensitive that they are referred to by nickname even within the barbed wire enclave of Los Alamos.

Oppenheimer takes a nervous puff. ‘They don’t know yet. I want us to check it out first. We’ll work on it overnight.’

Compton picks up a stone and throws it into the water. They watch the ripples before they carry on walking.

‘Out with it,’ Oppenheimer says.

Compton’s tone is worried. ‘Oppie, look at the big picture. The U-boats have just about strangled the British. Hitler’s troops are occupying Europe from the North Cape to Egypt Russia’s just about finished and I’ll bet a dime to a dollar Hitler will soon push through Iran and link up with the Japs in the Indian Ocean. The Germans and the Japs will soon have the whole of Asia, Russia and Europe between them.’

‘So?’

‘So then Hitler will be over the Bering Straits and through Canada like a knife through butter. By the time he gets there he’ll be stronger than us. We have a two-thousand-mile border with the Canadians, Oppie, it’s indefensible, and I don’t want my hideaway to be five minutes’ flying time from Goering’s Stukas.’

Oppenheimer’s intense blue eyes are fixed on the lake, as if he is looking over the horizon to Canada. ‘That’s a grand strategic vision, Arthur. But what’s your point?’

‘Ten minutes ago that grand strategic vision didn’t bother me. So long as we won the race to build the gadget, we’d be okay. But how can we take even the slightest chance of setting the atmosphere alight? I’m sorry, Oppie, but given a straight choice we’d be better to accept Nazi slavery.’

Oppenheimer nods reluctantly. ‘I’ve lost a lot of sleep over this one, Arthur, but I have to agree. Unless we can be a hundred per cent sure that Teller is wrong, the Bomb must never be made.’

There is just a trace of sadness in Petrosian’s voice. ‘I understand your reasoning, gentlemen. I’d probably think the same if I hadn’t lived under the Nazis.’

2

Flesland Alpha

The new millennium

Death and destruction entered Findhorn’s Aberdeen office in the form of a small, bespectacled, mild-mannered Norwegian with an over-long trenchcoat and a briefcase. He claimed that his name was Olaf Petersen, and the briefcase was stamped with the letters O.F.P. in faded gold.

Anne put her head round the door. She was being a redhead today. ‘Fred, there’s a Mister Olaf Petersen here.’

The red leather armchair had been purchased for a knockdown price at a fire-damage sale but it was all brass studs and wrinkles and it gave the little office a much-needed air of opulence. Petersen sank into it and handed over a little card. He looked around at the photographs which covered the office walls: icebergs, aurora borealis, a cuddly little polar bear, an icebreaker apparently stranded on a snowfield.

The card read:

Olaf F. Petersen, Cand.mag., Siv.ing. (Tromsø)

Flesland Field Centre

Norsk Advanced Technologies

‘Coffee?’ Findhorn asked, but he sensed that the man had little inclination for social preliminaries.

‘Thank you, but I have very little time. The Company would appreciate some help, Doctor Findhorn.’ Like many Scandinavians, the man’s English was excellent, only the lack of any regional accent revealing that it was a second language.

‘Norsk and I have done business from time to time.’

‘This particular task is quite different from anything you have done for us before now. Something has turned up. The matter is urgent and requires the strictest confidentiality. We hope that you can help us in spite of the very short notice.’

Findhorn thought of the empty diary pages yawning over the coming months. Petersen was looking at him closely. ‘I had hoped to take a few days’ break over Christmas.’

Petersen looked disappointed. ‘Frankly, I’m disappointed. You were perfect for this assignment.’

Findhorn thought it better not to overdo the hard-to-get routine. He said, ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

Petersen, smiling slightly, pulled a large white envelope from his briefcase. ‘Do you have a light table?’

‘Of course. Through here.’

By labelling the door ‘Weather Room’, Findhorn hoped to imply that further along the corridor there were other rooms with labels like ‘Mud Analysis’ or ‘Core Sample Laboratory’ or even ‘Arctic Environment Simulation Facility. Do Not Enter’, rather than two broom cupboards and a toilet. The light table, about five feet by four, took up much of the room. They picked their way over cardboard boxes and piles of paper. Findhorn switched on the table and pulled the black curtain over the window. Petersen opened the envelope and pulled out a transparency about a foot square. Lettering in the corner said that it had been supplied courtesy of the National Ice Center and a DMSP infrared satellite.