The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3)

by Stanley Salmons

  A wave of anger swept through me. I leapt to my feet and paced back and forth in the small space. Someone had been inside my head! As if I my brain hadn't been abused enough in the past, someone had done it again, probing around without my knowledge, without my permission, violating my human rights – not just my rights but the proprietorial rights any individual had over their own body. The anger was washed away by nausea. I started to overbreath. I put my fingers to the scar, trying to feel what had been done to me, but of course this was just a couple of skin sutures; whatever damage there was, it was deep inside my head. I ran my tongue round my lips. I was shaking.

  Colin was watching me with a bemused expression, baffled perhaps at the strength of my reaction. But how could he know – how could he possibly know – what I'd been through, and what this additional insult meant to me?

  “Sorry,” he said, with that uneasy smile. “Bit of a shock, I know. But you’re having it easy compared to me. Sit down a mo’ and I’ll tell you why.”

  Reluctantly I perched on the edge of the bed again and made an effort to control my breathing.

  “When I come out the clinic I’m innocent as a new-born babe. I don’t know nothin’ about thalamus or implants, nothin’ at all. They take me to see Müller and he explains it to me. This whole place is wired. Behind his office – end of that wing – there’s a room with a radio transmitter, a fucking powerful one. The antennas are in the ceilings all over the building and there’s one buried around the outside, where that ropey-looking fence is. And it’s controlled from several places, including this panel in front of him. You won’t get close enough but I know all about it. It’s a modified sound studio deck, with a touchscreen and a load of sliders. So I’m standing there listening to him and he says he’s going to give me a demo. He pushes up one of those sliders, and – Jesus Christ, I never knew pain like it! I’m telling you, if the worst toothache and earache you ever had was like ten on the scale, this would be a hundred. It was so bad I must have passed out, ’cos next thing I knew I was on the floor. The pain had gone, just like that, only a weird kind of memory of it hanging on. I picked myself up. I couldn’t think straight. I felt sick and my mind was all over the shop.

  “After that I hardly spoke to him. I had to cooperate, I knew that, but I dragged my feet, answered yes, no, froze him out – know what I mean? He knew he’d dropped a big clanger, doing that to me. So after a while he says he’s sorry and he’ll make it up to me and he does, he really does. So I loosen up a bit. We get on all right now. He prefers it this way, says it’s ‘more efficient’. Very big on ‘efficiency’ is Dr Müller. Well, all these Germans are, aren’t they?”

  I said nothing. I wasn’t fond of stereotyping, whether it was by religion, race, tribe, or nationality; it led people into some very dark places. In any case, having a German name didn’t mean he was German. Most of the Olssons living in the USA had never been near Scandinavia.

  The lack of a chummy reply about Germans didn’t seem to worry Colin. He leaned forward. “Thing is, he’s learned his lesson. He won’t do a full-on demo with people like you and me any more, ’cos he’s after your cooperation. So you’re lucky.”

  It was the second time in a couple of days I’d been told I was lucky. I wasn’t feeling lucky. Angry, yes. Sick to my stomach, yes. Lucky, no.

  He sat back again. “What I mean to say is, play your cards right, and don’t for fuck’s sake get on the wrong side of Müller – not worth it, believe me. And don’t try to leave this place. You try to cross that perimeter fence and you’ll die in agony, full stop.”

  “I’m a prisoner, then?”

  “Yeah, well he’d say you’re an honoured guest.” He laughed.

  I was tempted to ask Colin what his cooperation with this man Müller involved, but my mind was too full to pursue it right now.

  I stood up. “Thanks, Colin. Got a lot to think about. Need some time, okay?”

  “Sure, we’ll talk some more when you’re ready.”

  At the door I paused and turned round. “By the way, what was that plastic disc you gave to the guy at the table?”

  He chuckled. “Another time.”

  *

  I walked quickly back to my room, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Any trace of the earlier drowsiness had vanished and the throbbing in my head was all but forgotten. I pulled out the chair by the desk, dropped into it, and rubbed my fingers over the stitches and the small dents on my scalp, which had begun to itch. I tried to shepherd my scattered thoughts.

  First question: could I believe what Colin had told me? Yes, I could, because it explained the four indentations. I’d wondered about them and now I remembered. For precise procedures on the brain, surgeons used something called a stereotactic frame. It fixed the head at four points. They wouldn’t use it just to drill an arbitrary hole, so that agreed with Colin’s account.

  Second question: was it feasible? That was harder because I was no electronic engineer. On the other hand I’d picked up a certain amount from the need to understand weapons systems and computer technology. What was the nearest thing I’d come across? I pondered this for a bit, then I homed in on the pencil mines we used in the operation in Northern Tanzania[3]. We placed them in the ground with an auger and the only thing you could see was the antenna, which looked like a blade of grass. They were designed to be remotely triggered; the digital signal you sent out contained the address of one particular mine and only that one exploded. All it took was a tiny microprocessor, and something that size could easily be accommodated in an implant. It sounded pretty similar in principle. The sender – Müller, presumably – would enter an address and then he could activate the implant in one individual without affecting anyone else. Colin said the transmitter was really powerful, so the devices were probably powered inductively, too. That would avoid the need for a battery, cutting the size of the implant still further and giving it an effectively unlimited operating life. The signal at the perimeter fence didn’t need to contain an address; it would whack anyone stupid enough to stray too near. So yes, it all sounded quite feasible.

  Third question: the thalamus was a small target and, as I remembered it, the part involved with pain was near the front. How confident could they be about getting the electrodes in exactly the right place? That one would have to wait for an answer.

  Final question: I was a captive in a cage without bars, at the mercy of a man called Müller, pretending I could get a procurement committee to give their approval to the adoption of a drug, which I couldn’t. How was I going to get out of this?

  The answer to that was: I hadn’t the faintest idea.

  28

  The following morning I had an early breakfast in the place that had served dinner the previous evening, then returned to my room. I’d been thinking most of the night about what I could do. One thing was certain: right now this man Müller, who I’d be meeting this morning, held all the cards. Although I’d happily wring the man’s neck I needed to control my anger because at this stage it would be foolish to challenge him. What I needed was information, information about the set-up, what it was for, who was involved, how it connected with Lipzan Pharmaceutica, why they’d gone to such lengths to keep me here, and above all whether there were weaknesses I could exploit to defeat them. The best way to gain that information was to start with polite indignation, progress to interest, and then to apparent cooperation. Müller, for one, needed to think he could trust me.

  I didn’t have long to wait. There was a knock at the door and when I opened it I saw a young man in a plain white shirt and jeans. He wasn’t the tall one who’d shown me to my room the previous day, but he looked to be from the same stable. Like the other one, he was armed and, like the other one, he didn’t waste time on pleasantries. To my regret, the burly guy who’d picked me up from the airport and drugged my beer hadn’t made an appearance since I woke up in the recovery room. I had a score to settle with him.

  White-shirt-and-jeans said he’d take me
to Dr Müller and I told him to lead on. We went down to the secure wing. The so-called clinic was on the left but, as I’d anticipated, he turned to the right and placed his palm on the reader. We entered a corridor similar to mine, except I could see only four doors on the left, with a fifth – another security door – closing the corridor at the far end. It would be good to get past that; it was where the radiofrequency transmitter was housed. We had, however, stopped at the first door. He pressed a button and spoke in Spanish to a box on the wall.

  “I have Colonel Slater with me.”

  “Entrar” came from the box, and he showed me in.

  I was expecting to enter a comfortably furnished executive office: curtains, carpet, perhaps some wood panelling, desk, bookshelves. What confronted me was a complete surprise. The room was large, at least four times the size of the room I’d been given, brightly lit and almost featureless. The walls were plain white and uninterrupted by pictures or hangings of any sort. There were no windows; strong illumination came from glow panels in the ceiling. The floor was covered with the same pale-blue composite I’d seen everywhere else.

  We’d entered from the side, and the man seated on my right was presumably Müller. He was behind what looked like a low laboratory bench, also white. My escort led me to a white plastic chair about ten feet in front of the bench and I sat down, isolated more or less in the centre of the free space. Without another word my escort left, and as he pulled the door shut behind him I noticed from the dull click how dead the acoustic was. I had the sensation of having been planted in the middle of a sterile, soundproofed interrogation room. It was unpleasant, but I wasn’t going to be intimidated. I crossed my legs and waited.

  Müller was about sixty. He had silver hair, cropped closely above the ears. The skin of his face appeared to have slipped, drawing tight over pale, hollow cheeks, the slack folding over his shirt collar. His ears didn’t protrude but they were large, and the pendulous lobes reinforced the impression that his face was altogether too long for his body. In front of him was a panel like a sound studio deck, confirming Colin’s account. Müller turned pale eyes on me and spoke without rising.

  “You must forgive the unconventional welcome, Colonel. I trust Colin has given you some explanation.”

  “I came here to examine some clinical trials, Dr Müller. I wasn’t expecting to be… detained.”

  Thin lips curled into a smile. “Of course not, and at the moment this is an imposition for you. I must confess that for me, on the other hand, it is a pleasure to meet someone of such wide experience. I regret I have never been in a combat situation myself but I admire those, like yourself, who have. And I have read the media reports of your exploit in Africa. A triumph, if I may say so. You started with so little, yet you unravelled the whole operation.”

  I kept my tone stiff. “Is that why you brought me here? You thought I was getting too close to your operation?”

  “In part, yes, but there were other reasons. You know, we have been lacking the sort of connections that you may be able to offer us. In time all will become clear; I assure you that your patience will be well rewarded.”

  I frowned. What else did he want from me? And ell rewarded how?

  “And after that?”

  Again the bleak smile. “None of us can see into the future, Colonel. Let us not think about it at this early stage.”

  “What about the clinical trials?”

  “Oh, you may discuss those quite freely with our people. Josef Baer and Klaus Tilmann are in charge of these matters, and they have a couple of assistants. Josef would probably be the best one to talk to.”

  “But my cell phone hasn’t been returned to me. I won’t be able to report my findings.”

  He inclined his head. “That is true, I’m afraid. The very nature of this operation prohibits outside communication.”

  Goodbye to my cell phone, then. That bloody surgeon knew it all along – something more he lied about. We’ll take a look around. Someone’ll bring it to you when it shows up. Yeah, in a pig’s eye.

  The situation in this office was bizarre. I couldn’t move for fear that he’d push one of those sliders up, and he couldn’t move because he couldn’t afford to be out of reach of the panel. The two of us were frozen in a kind of tableau, with only this conversation bridging the still air between us.

  I gave a short sniff, as if drawing a temporary line under that topic. “I must say your English is excellent, Dr Müller.”

  “Thank you. It is important to know an international language, and there is none more international than English.”

  “But surely your native tongue is Spanish.”

  “Spanish and German. We always spoke German within the family – and English because it would equip us for life. But I grew up with Spanish, too. One has friends, one goes to school, later one has to deal with local bureaucracy. I have been reading, writing, and speaking in German, Spanish, and English ever since I was a child.”

  I felt a grudging admiration. I could say a few things in several languages, but Spanish was the only one I could really speak, and even then I wouldn’t have said I was completely fluent.

  I looked around me. “Languages and engineering. Colin tells me this building is networked in a most interesting way.”

  “Yes, it was my idea and my creation.”

  “But here? Why here? You’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  He smiled, but there was no warmth in the smile. “It is true we are isolated. I have lived in some wonderful cities and I miss the amenities: the libraries, the museums, the theatre, the opera – I love opera, especially the operas of Wagner. I can watch holorecordings, of course, but it is no substitute for the live performance.” He sighed, then shrugged. “Some things, however, must be sacrificed.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at me for a few moments before he answered. “Tell me, Colonel: what does a person desire most in this life?”

  “I don’t know. Money?”

  “Money!” He flapped a hand away. “Money is merely a means to an end.”

  “Power, then.”

  “Closer. Come now, Colonel, what would give you the ultimate satisfaction?”

  I thought about it. Seeing my men return unharmed from a successful mission. Earning the praise of superiors, perhaps, for a well-planned operation. I knew I was trying to steer away from what was uppermost in my mind. Twice in my life I’d loved, and had the love of, a woman. No feeling could compare with that. Those loves were gone but the warmth of the memories still lingered. Such things were sacred; I wouldn’t allow this man to defile them. Instead I offered:

  “Respect.”

  He pursed his lips. “Not really. Respect is a voluntary tribute and one must struggle always to deserve it. But obedience, absolute obedience to your every command, your every whim – can anything compare to that?”

  “And that’s what you’ve achieved here?”

  “Yes!” He hissed the word like a cobra striking, jerking his head forward, so that the loose folds of flesh at his neck shuddered with the movement. As he sat back again he said:

  “Would you care to know the background to this establishment?”

  “I certainly would.”

  He tapped his fingertips together. “I think it will interest you, Colonel, because the full history has never been revealed. Have you heard of Dachau?”

  29

  “Dachau? The death camp run by the Nazis during the Second World War?”

  Müller’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “You can call it that. I prefer to think of it as a way-station in the elimination of undesirable elements: political prisoners, criminals, foreigners, and racially inferior peoples.”

  My gorge rose but I kept quiet.

  “Some were used as a labour force,” he continued, then that same dismissive gesture, “but all this is well known. I wish to tell you about something that is less well known. At Dachau a group of cells in the punishment block was assigned for use by the local Gesta
po, equipped specially for the interrogation of members of the resistance and suspected spies. You will be familiar with this kind of thing, of course; both the US Army and the CIA have used such methods to combat terrorism.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Torturing captives is contrary to international law.”

  “Hah!” It was a short, ironic laugh. “It takes place nonetheless. But let us continue. During the Second World War these activities were an essential part of the conflict and they were tolerably successful. The tools of the Gestapo were crude but effective: the pliers, the electrodes, the rubber truncheon, the genital vice, the soldering iron, and so on. Unfortunately these methods often brought the subjects close to death. It called for medical attention to revive them for further rounds of interrogation.” His chest seemed to swell. “At Dachau that treatment was administered by my grandfather, Dr Bruno Müller, who served in the SS Medical Corps with the rank of Haupsturmführer.”

  He paused, perhaps allowing me a moment to be suitably impressed.

  “Some prisoners were beyond his help and died without revealing their secrets – or perhaps had no secrets to reveal. My grandfather thought this was unsatisfactory. He wished to devise a better way of conducting the interrogations. From his medical training he knew that the perception of pain, its aversive quality, the location of where in the body it is coming from, and its emotional associations, are all processed in different parts of the brain. They travel, however, via a common pathway: the thalamus. Stimulating the correct part of the thalamus should produce all the sensations of severe pain without the risk of the patient dying from actual physical injury. You understand?”

  He was waiting for confirmation. I moistened my lips, swallowed my disgust, and went one better. “Yes, I can see that would be more targeted, more efficient.”