His face lit up as I thought it might. “Targeted – exactly! And far more efficient, yes! He commenced experiments immediately using some of the ordinary inmates as subjects.”
“These people weren’t anaesthetized?”
“Restrained but not anaesthetized – naturally – the subject would not be able to describe what he or she felt if they were not conscious. There was no need to take sterile precautions either, because these parasites were due for extermination anyway. My grandfather simply gave them the opportunity to contribute something to science before they were—”
A buzz sounded from his panel, and a flash of annoyance crossed his face. He pressed a switch.
“Ja?”
There followed a conversation in German. Who was he speaking to? Whoever it was, the interruption gave me a brief opportunity to collect my thoughts.
This man Müller is even more dangerous than I thought. He’s put himself in a position of absolute power – he could destroy me just by extending a fingertip. I’ll have to be very careful how I play this. Above all I mustn’t show him what I really think of his warped ideology.
He clicked off the intercom and looked up. “Now, where was I?”
I prompted him. “Did your grandfather go on to use this technique to interrogate prisoners?”
“No, there was not the opportunity for that. By the time he was ready it was 1945. The English and the Americans were fighting their way deep into Germany. So he took his family into hiding. After a few months they succeeded in crossing the border into Switzerland. He made contact with an organization there which helped to get him out of Europe.”
“The Guardians of the Reich?”
He gave me a searching look, followed by a small smile. “Yes, the Guardians helped him. They were prepared for this: homes had been built for the purpose in the Misiones Province of northeastern Argentina, and initially Bruno Müller settled there with his wife and baby. The baby was Friedrich, my father.”
Schröder would be delighted. Here was Müller confirming all the suspicions German intelligence had about The Guardians of the Reich. Evidently it existed in some covert form even before Lipzan gave it a spurious respectability. Of course, Müller could afford to be open with me; I had no way of escaping or communicating with the outside world. And no doubt it satisfied something in him to share this history with me, which was why he was doing it.
"It was a temporary hideout, and not really necessary. Argentina's leader, Juan Peron, was happy to welcome them and many of their compatriots to his country. In time my grandfather developed business interests in Venezuela and the family moved there. But," he held up a forefinger, “with great foresight, Dr Bruno Müller had brought with him the records of his experiments. These he left to my father, and my father left them to me. I alone knew what to do with them.” He sniffed. “Colin has helped to maintain and update the system since he joined us but the basic installation was my own work.”
His satisfaction was evident.
“Your doctorate is in…”
“Engineering Sciences. At Cambridge, in England.”
I decided to feed that monstrous ego – and his admiration for his appalling grandfather – to learn more.
“Those experiments – it was more than a hundred years ago. No magnetic resonance imaging, no computed tomography, no medical ultrasonography, nothing to guide the investigator to that part of the brain. Your grandfather must have been extraordinarily skilful to place the electrodes so accurately.”
Müller looked pleased. “Yes, he was. Initially, of course, the records show there was some trial and error, and a number of experimental subjects were wasted, but he was soon able to place the electrodes very precisely.”
“And you use the same technique here?”
“Yes, my two surgeons have practised it for a long time and they are invariably successful.”
My heart was thumping. I had the glimmer of an idea, and I filed away the nugget of information as if it were pure gold, which in a sense it could be. Still, there was much more I needed to know.
“I don’t entirely understand. The driver who collected me from the airport, he was outside of your radiofrequency field. He didn’t have to obey your orders.”
“He is different. Like the man who showed you in here, they are on rotation from the local militia. We have an arrangement, you see. They provide services, supply us with such things as meat, vegetables, clothing. Our little factory produces uniforms for them. Any they cannot use they sell to their comrades-in-arms.”
“Does it have a name, this militia?”
“They call themselves the LRA. It is short for Los Revolucionarios Ardientes.”
The burning revolutionaries. Not bad. “And their comrades-in-arms?”
“Other armed groups, also set up in opposition to the government. For some time they have recognized the futility of working in isolation, so they have joined forces.”
I knew something about South American militias and this didn’t ring true. “I’m not aware of any combined operations mounted by these groups.”
“Oh, you are quite right, Colonel. It would have been more accurate to say they have entered into ‘logistical cooperation’. There is a continuous traffic of intelligence, food, supplies, armaments in both directions, from Columbia and Venezuela through Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, to Mexico.” Abruptly he straightened up. “It is enough for the moment, I have things to attend to. We will talk again, perhaps tomorrow. You will find the militia man is waiting for you outside.”
I got to my feet and nodded. “Until then.”
As soon as white-shirt-and-jeans had taken me through the security door I told him I could find my own way back. He shrugged and left me to it. I walked towards my room.
The meeting with Müller had been a wake-up call for me. What Viktor Schröder had referred to as extreme right-wing wasn’t just a political label; it was a state of mind I’d hoped never to encounter. I knew what the Nazis had got up to during the Second World War – I could still remember my incredulity when I first read accounts of the Holocaust. In my mind, though, I’d assigned that savage disregard for human life and dignity to another era, as primitive in its way as the Spanish Inquisition or the Salem Witch Trials. But it wasn’t in another era; it was right here at this time in this building, in an apparently cultured and highly educated individual who actually applauded those deeds and embraced the odious doctrine behind them.
I reached my room, closed the door behind me, and sat on the bed, still thinking.
I really needed to get out of here with what I knew. I’d been foolish not to keep Owen Gracey informed of my movements at every stage. He’d probably reported me missing by now, but where would they look? Alan Wicklow must have told him about my interest in Lipzan Pharaceutica, so that would be the obvious place to start. Holle would no doubt confirm that I’d visited him but he’d say he had no idea where I was going next. If they accessed airline records they would see I was a passenger on a flight out of Munich, but it went to Heathrow, so it would look like I was returning to base. If they were really on the ball they’d pick up my subsequent flights to Dallas and from there to Chihuahua city. Based on the slender possibility they could trace me that far, what then? What were they going to do: search the whole of Mexico? It was hopeless. No one was going to rescue me. The only way I’d get out of here was if I did it myself.
My thoughts returned to Müller. Despite his show of disdain for money, money was involved here – no doubt about it. It took money for his father to send him to Cambridge. It took money to put this building up and equip it in the way he had. It took money to keep that local militia sweet. I imagined the food would cost them nothing: they’d loot it from farmers who were too terrified to report it. But it would need more than a supply of uniforms to sustain a partnership of that sort.
So where did the money come from? I was missing a big piece of the jigsaw. Would it help to find out what it was? I had no idea. I only knew t
hat in a situation like this, knowledge was power, and I was still in the early stages of acquiring it.
30
In the evening I went to dinner with Colin again. I disliked the man, and in any other circumstances he was the last person I’d choose as a dinner companion, but I needed to cultivate him because he knew things I didn’t. I wasn’t very forthcoming myself but he was happy to talk enough for both of us. Eventually he asked:
“Seen Müller today?”
“Yes. He explained a few things. We may speak again tomorrow.”
The coffee came, hot and strong like the previous day.
After a couple of sips I inclined my head towards the men at the other tables. “Which of those guys is Josef Baer? I need to talk to him.”
Colin turned his head. “Next table. See the sad-looking bloke, my side? That’s him.”
“I’ll just have a quick word.”
The men stopped talking and looked up as I approached. The one I wanted to see was only in his forties and he had a full head of black, oily hair. Colin was right, though, he was sad-looking: a down-turned mouth and dull, heavily lidded eyes. The two men at the table beyond him also looked up. One was the surgeon who’d conned me about the operation. Maybe one day I’d get the chance to flatten him – I’d certainly look forward to that. For the moment I just ignored him and turned to the man Colin had identified.
“Josef Baer?”
“Ja.”
“I’m James Slater.”
“Oh yes. Dr Müller said you wished to speak to me.”
“That’s right. Could we have a few moments this evening, say around eight o’clock?”
“Yes, we can talk in the office. I will meet you in the entrance lobby.”
I went back to Colin and sat down, watching as the waiter topped up the coffee cups. I said nothing until he withdrew.
“Colin, Müller told me you’ve been helping him maintain and upgrade the installation here. I don’t get it. This place is a prison. It’s like locking the door to your own cell. Don’t you want to get out?”
“Me? No, why should I? I like my work, I get a nice room, no cleaning or cooking to do – all done for me. No washing, just drop your stuff on the floor in the room and it’s back next day.”
Evidently not all the girls worked in the factory; some were cleaners, and there was a laundry somewhere around with a few working in there.
“And the food’s great,” he went on, “if you like South American, which it so happens I do. What’s not to like?”
“But you have no freedom. You have no news, no television, no interactions outside the group you’re with—”
“After a bit you don’t miss any of that. Television? I never was one for game shows and football, and the news is always depressing, so what the fuck? We’ve got a few books here, so I do a bit of reading if I’m bored.”
I looked at him, holding his gaze until he began to fidget. “There’s something more keeping you here, isn’t there?”
He gave me a sheepish grin. “Yeah, there is. My room?”
We went to his room and sat down as before, me perched on the side of the bed, Colin in the armchair. He hooked the upright chair with the toe of his shoe, dragged it towards him and put his feet up, ankles crossed.
“You asked what keeps me here, James. In a word, bedtime. You noticed anything about the factory girls? Young, slim, nice-looking?”
Something cold contracted inside my stomach, because I could see what was coming. I’d only suspected it up to now; I’d been hoping I was wrong. He went on:
“It went quiet around the time we left last night, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s when the white plastic discs come out. The one you saw me hand over, it’s got my room number on it. When we finish dinner I put it in front of the girl I fancy spending the night with and she comes to my room. We all do it. You’ll get one, too. ’Course, you’ll have to behave yourself.”
So that was what Müller had meant by Your patience will be well rewarded. This wasn’t just a prison; it was—
But Colin had barely paused. “Müller calls it ‘privileges’. It’s a way of keeping his people happy.”
“His people,” I repeated. “You mean everyone but the girls.”
He blinked at me and pursed his lips, and for a moment I thought he was actually considering the possibility that this arrangement might be less than appealing to the girls. Then his face cleared and he grinned. “Look at this way, mate: they get a bit of variety, too.”
So much for that. Did Colin have any redeeming features at all? If so I had yet to stumble across them. But I’d seen an opportunity.
“What if they don’t cooperate?”
“Oh, if they don’t want to play ball Müller gives ’em a reminder – you know how.”
I fed him the subtle prompt. “Toothache and earache.”
“Ooh no, not always. The pain turns up in different places for different people. I’ve asked ’em about that. One of the girls says to me, a man wouldn’t understand. So I say, go on, try me. So she says when she was about twelve and her tits were developing, some kid gets fresh with her, and he helps himself to a handful, gives ’em a good ol’ squeeze. It hurts a whole lot. It was like that, she says, but worse." He shrugged. “Right enough, I didn’t have a clue what she was on about. Other girls say it was like period pains, or they got it in the back or the guts. Like I say, it varies. One thing’s always the same, though: they don’t want it again. So they behave theirselves."
It was just the confirmation I was looking for. But Colin hadn’t quite finished.
“If they’re really difficult Müller sometimes gives ’em to the LRA.”
“The local militia.”
“Yeah, they get a much harder time there.”
He’d surely seen the look on my face, because he added quickly, “Look, I know what you’re thinking. But a nice-looking bloke like you, tall, good build, blond hair, cleft chin, you never had any problems pulling, right?”
I was reluctant to contradict him, so I just said “Right”.
“Look at me. I’m no oil painting, I know that.”
I saw protruding teeth, a face pocked from a pimply adolescence, a pigeon chest and a pot belly, and I couldn’t disagree.
“Back home girls wouldn’t give me the time of day. Here I do all right. There’s about forty of ’em in there. I can have a different one every night of the week if I’m up to it. Well, I say forty. Some are off limits.”
“You mean menstruating?”
“Nah, the kids don’t cycle because of the contraceptive pills they take. I’m talking about Müller. He likes girls but he gets tired of ’em quickly. Any that come in new, he gets first crack, while they’re fresh, if you know what I mean. We give those ones a wide berth, otherwise there’d be hell to pay. It’s his way of staying in control. You move in, he’d see that as rebellion.”
“Suppose a girl doesn’t take the pills? Suppose she gets pregnant?”
“She wouldn’t take the chance, mate. If Müller found out she was in the club he’d definitely give her to the soldiers.”
I took a deep breath. “So Müller uses them, then puts them into general circulation.”
“That’s right. And this,” he filched in a pocket and brought out the white plastic disc, “is your ticket to paradise, chum.” He kissed it. Then he looked at it and blinked eyes that were devoid of lashes. “Which reminds me.” He pulled his legs in and laughed. “Sorry, I need to book my bird now before they all fly away.”
We walked together down to the main corridor. There Colin hurried off with his precious plastic disc, his feet flapping on the composite flooring. I sucked a breath between my teeth as I watched him go. From what I knew, this place was a prison for everyone except for Müller, the surgeons, and the militia men. But Colin was in a unique position. Colin had earned the trust of Müller. He alone had the skills and the access to shut down the transmitter and fling the doors w
ide open. Only he’d never do it because he was having far too much fun. Tonight, as every night, he’d plonk that plastic disc in front of some unwilling, unfortunate girl and force himself on her.
It was a pity about Colin; it would have been easier to destroy this place with his willing assistance. I would just have to settle for his unwitting assistance.
I checked my watch. It was two minutes to eight and I had an appointment to keep.
31
Josef Baer was waiting for me in the entrance lobby. He dipped his head in the Germanic style as we shook hands, then he led the way to the end of the main corridor. To the right was the corridor where I’d met Müller, but he turned to the left, palmed the reader, and I followed him through.
He opened the third door. Before he went in I said, “What are the rooms we just passed?”
“Those two? Oh, they are for the soldiers.”
“The LRA men?”
“Yes.”
I pointed to the next door. “That was my recovery room – what about the rest?”
“Another recovery room, then the rooms for the surgeons.”
“What about the nurse?”
“She is just one of the factory girls. They bring one here any time we have a new arrival and put her in a uniform. She is not really a nurse.”
I nodded. That explained a lot.
“And the door across the end of the corridor, that’ll be the surgical theatre.”
“Yes. They call it the clinic.”
I gave him a rueful smile. “I know.”
“Of course you can not get into this corridor or the one opposite without an escort.”
“What about the entrance door? Is that always locked?”
“No, only when there is someone new here who has not been told about the fence.”
That made sense, too. They wouldn’t want people like me destroying themselves because we didn’t yet know what was inside our heads.
We entered his office. The louvred blinds on the windows were closed and he switched on concealed ceiling lights. I saw four desks, each with a computer terminal, and a table with a multi-function office printer. My heart leapt. Was this place networked? Could I contact Gracey or Harken from here? I held myself back. I would need to proceed carefully.
The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3) Page 16
