The Last Airship (13 page)

“Really?”
Sam said, his eyes brightening as though the news had made his day. “Someone
stole something from my father while his ship was stranded in a cyclone? That
would definitely have pissed him off. So, what’s his next move?”

“He
didn’t say.”

“I
wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of the person who stole whatever it was. My
dad can be quite persistent when he’s out for revenge.”

“I
don’t doubt it.” Tom said. “Now, what are we going to do about your problem?”

“I’m
going to take a shower, put on some dry clothes, and then we’ll work out what
we’re going to do about the Wolfgang Corporation.”

*

Twenty
minutes later, Sam sat at the end of the operations room, with his laptop
computer open. There was a fatigue that went with surviving the past few days
of his life, but the shower had made him feel human again.

He
looked at the laptop screen before him and typed the words, “Wolfgang
Corporation” into google.

A
long list of pages relating to the infamous Wolfgang Corporation came up
instantly. Its president was a Mr. John Wolfgang, a microbiologist with a
number of accolades to his name, including a Nobel Prize for Medicine in 2012.

Sam
scrolled down, and discovered that John Wolfgang appeared to be a
well-respected microbiologist, as well as a wealthy businessman. His father,
Walter Wolfgang had also been a brilliant microbiologist, who had founded the
company in 1935, while working on his PhD, but had struggled to succeed in it
after Germany lost the war. He ended up living in East Germany, which entirely
strangled his operations. After the Berlin Wall came down in 1989, John
rekindled the family business by finding financial backing from an unlisted
source. Since then, the company had moved to the U.S., where it now thrived, and
became one of the leading pharmaceutical companies involved in stem cell
research.

Sam
made a mental note of the company owner’s name, and decided that he would have
to give the company’s past history a closer inspection at a later time.

Next,
Sam opened up his last email from Kevin Reed. At the end of it, there was a
note with the name “The Summit,” a bed and breakfast, located in the Alps,
where Kevin was staying. Below that, was a note with his contact phone number in
case he discovered anything interesting about the gold bar.

I
don’t have anything to tell you about the gold, but I sure hope you can answer
some of my questions – Kevin.

With
that in mind, Sam dialed the number.

“Hello.
Summit.”

“Hello.
I was given this number and told that I might pass along a message to a friend
of mine who has been staying with you over the summer.”

“Yes,
certainly. What is your friend’s name?” The tone was not unfriendly, but the
man’s thick German accent made it difficult for the man to hide his formality.

“A
Mr. Kevin Reed.” Sam said, and then added, as if to clarify: “He and his wife
have been climbing in your region for a number of months now.”

The
line went silent. Sam wondered if he had been cut off.

“Hello,
are you still there?”

“I
am sorry sir. I guess that you haven’t heard?” The man’s voice sounded more
surprised than concerned, that clearly Sam was unaware of recent events.

“Heard
what?” Sam’s heart missed a beat.

What
now?

“I
regret to inform you that Mr. Kevin Reed and his wife had an accident on the
mountain earlier today. His rope broke, and tragically, both he and his wife
fell to their deaths.”

“Oh
my God!”

“I’m
sorry, what did you say your name was?” The man asked.

Suddenly,
the realization of how serious this was hit Sam like an avalanche. It was his
fault that his old college acquaintance and his wife were now both dead.

Someone
had been after him because he’d found out about the gold.
But how did they
know?

“Thank
you for your help.”

Sam
hung the phone up before he made the mistake of letting them know he was still
alive.

He
then sat there, looking blankly at the computer screen
,
which was still
displaying a picture of the head of the Wolfgang Corporation, a blond man with
a rigid face, but a kind smile, staring back at him.

What
did you have to do with this?

He
struggled to recollect the chain of events that had transpired since the
discovery of the gold’s existence. His friend, Kevin
,
had discovered the
gold and now he was dead; he himself had made some inquiries about the gold
,
and now someone had made very serious attempt on his life, too.

Who
else knows about the gold?

Then
he remembered, Blake Simmonds, his father’s friend.

Simmonds
had said that he’d spent years fascinated by the story of the Magdalena and her
disappearance, which was why he had called as soon as he’d seen the picture of
the gold, with the G & O emblem clearly marked.

Could
Blake have betrayed me?

No
one else knew about the discovery. It was certainly possible. His father’s
friend might have deceived him. Even the best of friends may choose betrayal if
the reward was high enough, except that in this case, he’d never even met the
man.

Someone
else must have been searching for this gold for quite some time in order to be
willing to commit murder to prevent anyone else from getting to it first.

That
thought sent a shiver down his spine.

At
that point, the door opened and Tom walked in.

“Tom,
I just spoke with Mary in Human Resources. You have four weeks leave owing?”

“Yeah,
that sounds about right. Why do you ask?”

“Because
I’ve just told her that you’ve decided to take them starting tomorrow.” Sam
said.

“Tomorrow?”
Tom’s patient, smiling face looked back at him with surprise.

Sam
had seen that look on his friend’s face before. It said, w
hat have you
gotten me into this time?

The
friendship between Sam and Tom went back years, well before they’d decided to
join the Marines together. Over the years, they had dragged each other along on
some pretty crazy adventures. It was a wonder that either of them were still
alive to tell the tale.

“Yep.
Tomorrow.”

“Why
would I do that? I’m planning to go surfing at the big wave contest in Oahu in
September!” Tom protested.

“Don’t
worry about the surf. It will still be there next year.”

“What
do you mean, don’t worry about the surf? I’ve been looking forward to this for
three years running!” Tom complained.

“Now,
we’re going to Europe instead.”

“And
why the hell are we doing that?”

“Well,
buddy ...” This time it was Sam’s turn to look at his friend, with an
expression he had seen many times before, which said, B
elieve me, this will
be worth it,
“... because we’re going on a treasure hunt.”

*

Sam
scrolled through the priority list on his satellite phone, and clicked on the
words: “The Old Man.”

He
didn’t have a particularly close relationships his father. They had never been
the typical American immigrant family, who maintained their close family ties.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like his dad, and he certainly respected him. After
all, the man was exceptional in his field, and in any other in which he had to
deal, for that matter, that much was certain.

Sam
only spoke with him two, or sometimes three times a year, and it was rarely for
personal reasons. Today was different. He needed help. He was in trouble and
his dad might just have the right connections to help him out.

He
had no doubt that his father loved him. In his own way.

The
phone never even got the chance to ring, “Yes?” His dad didn’t waste time with
unnecessary terms such as “hello.”

“Hey,
Dad.”

No
response.

He
was waiting for Sam to make the next move, as though their conversation was an
intricate chess battle.

“I’m
in trouble.”

“Yes,
I heard that you refused to return to your post because you were off chasing
some perfect disaster of a storm, instead of performing the task that you were
paid for, and as a result my ship was sunk – and even more importantly, something
of tremendous value was stolen from me.”

I
was on bloody holiday!

Sam
knew better than to get into this argument with his father. Besides, given what
had happened, the point was moot.

“This
isn’t about work. This is serious!” Sam said. “Someone tried and very nearly
succeeded in killing me.”

“Really?”
His father sounded interested, or at least somewhat amused – certainly not
concerned in the way a reasonable parent would be, but rather in the way that a
rich man might enjoy hearing a good anecdote.

It
took Sam several minutes to relate the entire story to his dad, omitting how he
survived by using his dive equipment, and focusing on the fact that someone
wanted him dead. He also included his opinion that  at this stage, his only
guess as to the reason why, was because he’d discovered the possible resting
place of an old WWII airship filled with what he assumed were Jewish treasures.
He concluded with the name on the back of the helicopter, which had been aboard
the offending ship, Wolfgang Corporation.

Sam’s
father didn’t interrupt, and allowed him to finish the entire story.

“Oh,
by the way, I met a beautiful girl when I got back to shore,” Sam said. “I
don’t know if I’d ever welcome another near death experience just to meet her,
but she seemed pretty great to me.”

“A
girl, hey?”

Sam
knew that his father would be far more interested in hearing about her than he
was in hearing the rest of Sam’s story.

“What’s
her name?”

“Aliana.”

“Nice
name. So, what are you going to do about all this?” His father was always
direct.

“Tom
and I are going to Europe to see what we can find, and where it leads us.”

“And
the Maria Helena? What about your responsibilities there?” his father asked.

“We’re
finished in Australia. Matthew is transferring her back to San Diego. She needs
an overhaul anyway. I won’t be missed, and Tom is owed leave.” He then paused
for a moment, and asked, “Dad, have you ever heard of the Wolfgang
Corporation?”

“No,
should I have?”

“I
don’t know. It’s the only name I have to link to the man who attempted to kill
me.” Sam paused, and then said, “Dad, I need you to look into the Wolfgang
Corporation for me.”

“I
understand.” His father had many connections, and they went just about as high
up and as low down as could be imagined.

Sam
knew that his dad had sunk large amounts of money into Obama’s election
campaign in 2008, and, ever since the man’s presidential success, the two men
had maintained a close relationship. As a result, his father had been appointed
a senior financial advisor to the Obama administration. The President would
have been pissed as hell if he ever learned that Sam’s dad had also poured
money into John McCain’s campaign coffers. Sam doubted that his father would
use any official channels to conduct this search. His father kept a number of
mercenaries around the globe who provided very specialized services. Some of
them were legal, many were questionable, and others were utterly, outright,
illegal.

In
this case, Sam was entirely indifferent as to the method his father would use,
but he was certain that his father would be able to get him some answers
without revealing the fact that Sam was still alive. 

His
father was an immensely intelligent, mostly self-centered, megalomaniac, who
had spent his entire life satisfying his own appetites, but in the few rare
times that Sam had needed his help, his dad had been there for him.

“Thanks,
Dad.”

“Take
care of yourself, son.” As an afterthought, he added, “Say hi to your mom for
me, will you?”

“Will
do, Dad.”

“By
the way, how was your sailing trip? Did you find what you’ve been looking for?”

Sam
thought about it for a while. 

His
mind flashed back to the terrifying night with his brother, and then to the
more recent night, when he sailed through Bass Strait while it was squeezed
between a catastrophic high and low convergence.

The
night was rough, that was for sure, but no, it wasn’t the same.

“No,
not yet.”

Blake
Simmonds walked out of his office on the afternoon of the August 26
^th
and strolled up Waldorf Street, in the heart of Berlin. Standing at a height of
six foot, five inches, he had always been tall, and found that as he’d aged, it
became harder to disguise the fact that he walked with a limp.

At
the age of 68, he had begun to hope that he would be long gone before his
current problem came to the light of man.

He
caught a taxi to a place where he’d worked hard to forget for many years.
Before reaching his destination, the taxi slowed to a halt near the site of a
recent accident. Paramedics were still at the scene and were attempting to free
an injured man from his vehicle.

“I’ll
walk from here.” Blake said, as he rapped on the divider which separated the
driver from his passengers.

The
man pointed at the fare owed, and he paid it in full, without adding a tip.

As
he began to walk along the footpath, his cell phone rang.

“Good
morning,” he said.

“Blake,
its James Reilly here. Can you talk?”

He
almost laughed. James never asked for anything, he only ever commanded.

Something’s
up.

“Of
course,” Blake said. “What I can I do for you?”

“John
Wolfgang just fucked me good. He’s stolen it from me, and after we had made a
deal! I want it back, and I want him to suffer for his impudence. I don’t care
what it costs – just make it happen.”

“Really?”
Blake Simmonds kept walking; a broad smile appearing on his face. “Yes, of
course. I will fix this for you.”

“See
that you do.”

The
phone went silent.

It
was turning into a much better day than he’d anticipated.

With
his cane in his left hand, he walked the three blocks until he reached the new
Remington building, and without pausing to admire its futuristic architecture,
he entered. 

He
looked at the receptionist.

Now
in her late forties, she had lost none of her youthful looks. She’d been there
since the first time he’d been there. She had fair hair, blue eyes, and a slim
figure. She was beguiling. Her fingers didn’t pause for a second, he noticed as
they danced over the keyboard on one of those old-fashioned typewriters. Her
master, Blake knew, was a cautious man by his very nature, and would never
allow company records to be placed on anything that a fifteen year old computer
whiz could hack into in a matter of minutes. The information collected in this
building was far too valuable for that.

She
smiled politely at him without saying anything, as if she’d expected him to
show up today.

Blake
walked past her without saying a word, entered the room behind her, and then
closed the door.

The
man in front of him didn’t bother to stand up or greet him. His skin was relatively
dark, and gave him the appearance of someone of Mediterranean or even Middle
Eastern descent.

It
had been a long time since Blake had seen the man.

The
man sighed, and then finally spoke to him, “We both knew this day would one day
come.”

“Yes.”

“Now,
what are we going to do about it?”

*

John
Wolfgang looked out the window of his Lear Jet.

It was
a never-ending desert in all directions. Then, as the pilot made his approach,
and softly set  the jet down, until it lightly touched Sheik Abdulla Azzama's private
runway, he noticed a large, luxurious building, with an enormous pool
surrounding it as if it were an island, like a mirage up ahead in the distance.

He
could already see the man’s armored Bentley drive along the runway towards
them.

The
pilot had stopped the plane, but its engines could be heard idling in the
background. He watched as several men rolled a gold-plated set of stairs
towards his aircraft. Then, Sheik Abdulla stepped out of his vehicle. Confident
from any threat in his own land, he alone walked toward the plane.  

John
had no love for the man or for his damn holy wars, for that matter, but as he
admired the gold-plated stairs, he had to admit that nobody could pay like the
oil-rich masters of the Middle East.

Abdulla
was escorted into John’s luxurious board room, which was big enough to seat
more than a dozen people. Today, it was to be the meeting place of just two
men. In so doing, it provided both he and Abdulla a private place to converse with
the absolute certainty that no one else was listening.

John
had already guessed that a number of intelligence agencies had captured the
image of his jet setting down on the Sheik’s runway. He wasn’t worried. There
was nothing illegal about that in itself. By all openly accepted and provable facts,
the man he was here to meet was simply one of the region's wealthy Sheiks, but
it didn’t take a genius to see where his money flowed further downstream. As
far as John was concerned, it didn’t matter. By the time they completed their
terrifying plan, the most powerful nations in the world would be crumbling and
would be unable to harm him.

The
man came up to him and shook his hand, warmly.

“So,
the Magdalena’s vault has been found?” Abdulla spoke quietly, and animatedly.

“Not
quite, but we have the closest thing to a lead which seventy five years of
searching for her has ever produced.” John said.

“But,
it gives us hope that it really did exist, and after all, hope is all that any
of us can ask for?” Abdulla sighed. “It is proof that the Nazis never got their
hands on it.”

“Yes,
if they’d made such a discovery, the world would have known about it. That’s
for certain.”

“And,
you believe that you will be able to find her?” Abdulla stared at him, trying
to discern whether or not John could actually provide what he had offered. 

“Yes,
I’m certain of it. We have our best men on the job.”

“But,
will it have survived intact, after all this time?”

“Yes.”
John wrote something on the small piece of paper before him with his gold
tipped Biro and then said, “Influenza A1W5 was designed to survive in
environments that would destroy all other microbes, whether: viral, bacterial
or fungal. It doesn’t require oxygen to survive, and consequently, it is
completely viable in environments where other strains of virus wouldn’t
survive. It spreads rapidly through both air and liquid vectors, but has an
incubation period of up to three months, followed by an 80 percent mortality
rate. With such a prolonged incubation period, the disease will spread globally
before the CDC or WHO even knows that it exists. By the time the first
horrified scientist examines it, the entire world will be infected.”

“How
long will it take them to combat it?”

“I
have no idea, but I am certain that someone will eventually be able to beat it,”
John said. “But, by the time someone does, the world will have changed so much
that who knows how many people will be left alive.”

“How
can you be so certain that a cure for the virus will ever be developed?”

“Because
my father created such a vaccine,” John replied.

“Where
is that vaccine now?”

“Destroyed.”
John lied, “Many years ago. Along with the life’s work of my father before the
Berlin wall was finally demolished.

“And
the price?”

He
then slid the paper slip of paper over to him.

The
sheik smiled as he looked at the price tag.

“Twenty
billion dollars is a lot of money.” He looked as though he was considering the
price of a pound of fish, and then he said, “But then resetting the key players
in the world is worth it.”

“I’ll
need half the money now and the other half on delivery.”

“But,
of course. My men will take care of the transfer of money to a bank of your
choosing.”

With
no further discussion, Abdulla left the room, walked through the narrow
passageway, down the stairs, and climbed into his car, closing the door without
looking back.

John
heard the jet engines power up to full.

The
entire aircraft shuddered under their force.

Once
airborne, John placed another secure call on his Sat phone. It rang a couple
times before someone answered. This time, it was a woman’s voice on the line.

“Yes?”
She said.

“I’ve
done it,” he said. He then disconnected the phone and looked out the window
once more, at the desert below.

He
would be glad to leave this desolate place.

*

Aliana
was worried about her father.

He
had sounded more concerned than normal over the phone. Something was wrong. She
was certain of it. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that
she would have to fly to Europe and meet up with him before returning to her
studies.

She
had three weeks left before she had to return to her university. Aliana’s thoughts
instantly turned to Sam Reilly, the unique man she’d met in Australia. He’d
said that he wanted to meet up again if she was ever free, and their lives
crossed paths.

And
it appeared, that they just did. She would be in Europe the same time as him.

Aliana
looked at the phone number that Sam had given her. She could do with some fun,
but she’d only make the call if there was time.

Her
father, she realized, often worried about a number of things which mattered
little to her –money, younger women, expanding his already enormous wealth, and
most of all, beating his father in the world of medicine. Her father's recent
Nobel Prize went a long way toward improving his self-esteem, but like all
great men, he needed more.

When
she’d spoken to him today, it was different. All those things, the money, the
women, they were simply games to a man at the top echelon of a life filled with
politicians, rich tycoons, and world-changing scientists.

Something
had rattled him. 

Whatever
it was this time, it was different. It had really frightened him.

Obviously,
he wouldn’t talk to her about such things. He never had. To him, she would
always be his 16 year old girl, despite her pursuit of a PhD in microbiology at
MIT.

That
night, she made the decision to stop in at her father’s Berlin office before
returning to Michigan. The next morning, she changed her flights, and 18 hours
later, she was standing in front of his office building enjoying the warmth of
a mild German summer.

“Hey
Dad…” she called out to him, as he came through the revolving door in front of
his building.

He
stopped walking immediately.

Aliana
was happy to have genuinely surprised him.

“Aliana.”
He bent down to kiss her cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

“I
was worried about you.”

“Me?
Why would you worry about me?”

“Come
on, Dad. You can take me to dinner and tell me all about it.” Aliana said,
knowing that her father would never betray his feelings out in the open.

He
took her to the Lorenz Adlon for dinner, located in the heart of Berlin. The
two spoke about simpler things – how her studies were progressing, the growth
of bacteria off the coast of Antarctica, and the effects of the further
stabilization of the American dollar. After dinner, they walked back to the
penthouse he kept in Berlin.

Aliana
was about to go to bed when she turned towards her father and said, “Dad,
really … is everything all right?”

“Yes,
of course it is. Work’s just been keeping me busy, that’s all.” His words seemed
sincere, but she noticed that he avoided meeting her eyes as he spoke.

“Okay,
then.” She kissed him on his cheek. “I’m going to bed. I just want you to know
that I’m not a little girl anymore. If you need me, I’m here for you. I don’t
start classes again for another two weeks.”

“I
know, but you will always be my little girl.”

A
half-hour later she heard a gentle knock on her door. She’d been reading a new
thriller to take her mind off things.

“Yes?”

“Are
you still awake, my love?”

It
was her father.

“Yes,”
Aliana replied as she met him at the door.

“Would
you like a hot chocolate?”

Years
ago, the two of them would stay up chatting for hours, while sipping their rich
hot chocolate. Real hot chocolate, the kind that only the Europeans believed
in. None of this watered down, milky stuff they made elsewhere in the world.

“Yes,
I’d like that.”

She
followed him downstairs to the kitchen and watched as he added rich, cocoa into
a flame-lit saucepan, followed by several blocks of solid chocolate, and stirring
it slowly until it turned into a molten goo of chocolate.