21 September 2018
Collier College, Iowa
An unseasonably cold autumn wind gusted across the campus, and the muscles in Haakon's right leg cramped in response. He limped through the rusty leaves swirling on the stone walkway and settled on a park bench. Back at the infirmary in Chicago Control they'd warned him to not overdo it. He massaged his thigh where the spear had gored him during his last moments on Stamford Bridge. Memories boiled and he shuddered, concentrating instead on the manicured shrubs, the towering trees and the chatter of passing undergraduates. The physics building hulked nearby, a pseudo-Gothic artifact constructed of brick and limestone.
He hugged himself against the chill while staring at the structure. If anyone knew the person he sought, it would be the people in that building. He folded his hands over his face and blew warm, moist air over his features. Without thinking, his fingers wandered to his scalp, denuded of the dreadlocks he'd worn for years while on the Jorvik assignment. His current haircut turned his tight curls into a skullcap and left his skull feeling strangely naked and small.
A gaggle of coeds flitted past him, babbling about tomorrow's football game. One of them, a buxom brunette, flapped her eyelashes and favored him with a sultry smile. He returned a half-hearted grin, averted his gaze, and sighed. His heart yearned for another. No point in putting it off any longer. He rose, clutched at his overcoat, and made his way into the physics building.
The directory listed the graduate assistants, who seemed to all have offices on the third floor. The elevator had an "out-of-order" sign taped over the call button. Haakon pressed his mouth into a grim line and his leg twinged in anticipation of the climb. His footfalls echoed on the Terrazzo floors and bounced down the cavernous corridors.
An older man with grizzled hair and a trim, athletic build bustled out of a classroom. He peered at Haakon over the rims of his half-frame eyeglasses, questions etching his craggy features. "Can I help you?"
Haakon’s implant-assisted ear recognized Norwegian in the man’s vowels. "Thank you, sir. I’m looking for a graduate student in physics. Nathan Hilbert."
Wry amusement replaced suspicion in the man’s features. "You must be in the wrong place. There’s never been anyone here by that name."
How could he know that? "You’re certain? Never is a long time." There was something familiar about this man, but Haakon couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was hiding something, though. That was for sure.
The man nodded. "Quite certain. It’s not like I wouldn’t remember a student named Hilbert." He stuck out his hand. "I’m Holger Danske." The sleeping knight. Haakon wondered if the man knew of the obscure legend.
Haakon accepted his grip. Firm, but not aggressive. "Harold Godwinson here." He winced internally at the ironic alias Control had put on his local identification.
"A good name. An historical name, in fact." The man held Haakon’s hand a beat too long before releasing it. "Is this Hilbert person a relative?"
"He’s a friend. A close friend. I’m certain he told me he studied here."
"Perhaps he did, in another time, but in this one not." When he spoke just now, his accent expanded to include the odd phrasing and a lilting cadence. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. "I wish I could help you. I know from personal experience how hard it can be to lose a close friend." He hesitated after the emphasis on "close," as if to say he understood what Haakon had left unspoken. "Don’t give up."
"I won’t."
"Good for you. In my case, I found my friend when I stopped looking. Maybe that will work for you. Don't let destiny stop you from doing what your heart knows to be right. What's past is prologue, and we are the stuff that dreams are made of. Godspeed." With a nod, he headed to the exit.
Haakon turned and watched him depart. He was certain he'd met this guy before, under different circumstances. It was almost like he'd shown up for the sole purpose of having this conversation, but that was nonsense. Haakon let a faint snort puff from his lips. If the conversation had been important, he wouldn't have been so obtuse.
Haakon braced himself and climbed the stairs.
In the third floor hallway, one of the fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered. Up here, the building wasn't nearly as grand. A vending machine squatted on the linoleum and a battered table held a dented mail sorter. Haakon scanned the names on the boxes.
Nothing. No Nathan.
His leg ached, and he leaned against the table to give it a rest. Most of the office doors were closed, but one at the end of the hall stood open and let a shaft of sunlight into the darkness. The faint sound of music reached his ears: Phil Collins singing "One More Night." He blinked sudden moisture out of his eyes and choked out a bitter laugh.
He shuffled toward the door. Someone had taped a piece of paper next to it on the plaster wall. Apparently Arnold Spivak and Fatima Al-Zaabi shared the space. He peered inside. A handsome young woman glanced up and flashed a strikingly white, toothy smile at him. "Can I help you?"
Haakon cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you. You must be Ms. Al-Zaabi?"
She nodded. "That's me," she piped.
Haakon held up the FBI identification that Chicago Control had provided. "I'm Special Agent Harold Godwinson." He kept his face impassive despite the heavy irony of the alias. "I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?"
Al-Zaabi's smile vanished, and a frown clouded her features. Her tone turned wary when she replied, "I've not done anything wrong."
Haakon put his most reassuring expression on his face. "I'm not here about you. I'm doing a routine background check on a student who's applied to work for the government. If you're not comfortable cooperating—"
"Oh, I'll cooperate," she interrupted, her eyes wide. She continued in a more thoughtful tone. "But I don't know the other students very well. This is my first semester here."
Her liquid accent reminded Haakon of an assignment long ago in Alexandria—another disaster like Stamford Bridge where duty had trumped mercy. He took a cleansing breath and kept his tone friendly, encouraging. "That's all right." He replaced his badge in his pocket, pulled an iPad from his overcoat, and pretended to consult it. "I'm looking for Nathan Hilbert. I think he works in Professor Wilson's lab?"
She frowned. "Who? Is he a physics professor?"
Haakon kept his face impassive. "Professor Duane Wilson. Yes. And Hilbert is his doctoral student, working in Wilson's quantum mechanics lab."
"Quantum mechanics? No one here does that. The Collier faculty all do research in synthetic biology. Nobody would come here to study quantum mechanics."
"So you don't know Professor Wilson or Nathan Hilbert? You're sure?"
"I told you. I never heard of either one. Trust me; I'd remember someone named Hilbert." She dimpled. "Maybe they're in another department? I don't know all the students, but there are only six physics professors. I know all their names. Maybe this person—Wilson, did you say? Maybe he works at the university's biology labs at the Grange outside of town."
Haakon shook his head. He knew about the chicanery at the Grange, but that wasn't why he was here. Another team had handled that mess years before. "You're sure? Nathan Hilbert. He's blond, about my height, wears glasses. Good looking, in a geeky kind of way."
She shrugged. "That could be anyone. Other than the famous mathematician, I don't know the name. Do you have a photo?"
Defeat dragged at his features. "No. No photo. Just his name." And his memory. Was that all that remained? Sorrow tugged his mouth downward.
"I am so sorry I cannot help you." Concern pooled in her eyes. "If it's important, maybe the Registrar can be of assistance. Ms. Pettersen was so very nice to me when I arrived here. She knows everyone."
Haakon forced a wan smile on his features. He'd already talked to Pettersen, and she did indeed seem to personally know everyone at Collier. But, like Al-Zaabi, she'd never heard of Nathan or Wilson. She'd even searched the records after he'd shown her his fake FBI badge. There was no listing of either one ever being affiliated with Collier. It was as if Nathan had never existed. Never, just like that Holger fellow had claimed.
It had been a waste of time to come to the physics building. This whole trip was futile. "Thank you very much, Ms. Al-Zaabi. You've been helpful."
She murmured, "I don't see how."
He just nodded and limped away. Chicago Control had already sent Timekeeper agents here looking for Nathan. They'd found nothing, just like today. He should have believed them. But he had to see for himself.
Maybe Nathan really was the stuff dreams were made of, just as Holger had said.