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

by Stanley Salmons

  He pointed me to a chair and sat down side-on to the desk, his hands in his lap.

  He opened the conversation. “Dr Müller said you are a Colonel in the United States Army.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I am sorry you find yourself here, Colonel.”

  “James.”

  He nodded. “I am Josef.”

  “Well, Josef, I’m not altogether delighted about it myself. But there are two ways of looking at a situation. It can be the end of the road – or the beginning.”

  He rolled those heavily lidded eyes towards me. What I saw there was only the end of the road.

  “How long have you worked in this place?” I asked him.

  “About four years.”

  “And before that, Taufkirchen?”

  “Yes, but in fact I still work for Lipzan Pharmaceutica.”

  “Josef, I’ll come straight to the point. The US Army is giving Lipzan’s drug Prescaline to our forces when they’re posted to tropical regions. I’m a bit concerned about unrecorded side-effects. We’ve had a few incidents of soldiers going wild, killing people. Did you see anything like that during the trials?”

  There was a long silence. He looked very uncomfortable. Eventually he swallowed, and said, “You know you cannot leave this place? And there is no communication with the world outside.”

  I glanced at the computers but said, “Yes, it certainly looks that way.”

  “So what I tell you, you can never tell anyone else.”

  “See here, I’ve spent a bit of time on this, and I’d still like to know the answer. For my own satisfaction.”

  He avoided my eyes, looked at his hands. “You have met Holle?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had disagreements with him.”

  “Over the trials?”

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath. “Do you know anything about drug development?”

  “I know it’s an expensive business.”

  “Very expensive. Prescaline went through Phase I and Phase II trials without any problems. But Phase III was much larger, about four thousand subjects. We started to see some bad effects.”

  I felt a thrill and my pulse was racing. “What kind of effects?”

  “Mostly headaches and nausea. But a few subjects developed severe paranoid tendencies. They became very violent.” He swallowed. “They attacked people.”

  Poor Scottie, I was right all the time. “Go on.”

  He looked up. “I am an honest man, James. The correct procedure was to include these incidents in the final report. Holle would not hear of it. He said these people had been psychotic to start with; it was nothing to do with the drug, and it would be misleading to include them in the trial.” He shrugged. “You can see it from his point of view. He is a businessman, not a scientist. By the time Prescaline cleared the Phase I and Phase II trials the company had already spent millions of dollars. Phase III added a huge amount to that. It was essential to have FDA approval if the company was to recover its investment. And it is not a large company – failure could have resulted in bankrupcy. I knew all that but I stood my ground.”

  “So Holle sent you here.”

  “He tricked me. After a while he said I was right, the reputation of the company was at stake. And now I should have a holiday, because I had earned it. That was not unusual – he would sometimes send a favoured senior colleague here for short holidays.”

  I could see how they might enjoy that but I said nothing, just let him continue.

  “I was happy that our differences had been settled in such a friendly way, so I was eager to come here for my short holiday. But it was not a holiday. I woke up in a recovery room. The rest you know.”

  “Did you leave family behind?”

  He gave a short, humourless laugh. “I am divorced, and my ex-wife is still trying to squeeze more money out of me. It seemed like a good escape – at first.” He shook his head.

  “And then Müller explains that you will have to remove the ‘outliers’ and write the report the way Holle wants it. Or else.”

  He looked away again. “I have seen what Müller can do to people, people with this in their heads.” He tapped his skull. “I had no choice. It took about eighteen months for the FDA to give their approval. The United States Army adopted Prescaline soon afterwards.”

  “What about Xylazib, Josef? Does that have side effects, too?”

  “Xylazib is a different compound. But I have noticed that some subjects developed a disorder of the blood.”

  “And you’ll have to leave those out of the report.”

  “Of course.”

  I was still thinking about those computers. “Something I don’t understand. Mr Holle referred to this place as a contract research organization, running the trials, collecting and analysing the data, and sending in the reports. How can you do that when you have no communication?”

  Baer was shaking his head. “It is not true. Holle has complete control over the trials. Lipzan’s sales force recruits doctors into the trials and the doctors recruit the patients. There are financial rewards for both doctors and patients. A lot of the subjects come from poor areas of South America, so you can imagine there are plenty of people willing to take part. The figures are collected by Lipzan and finally sent to Müller. Only the analysis is done here. That is my job, and I have to write the reports just the way he wants them. Then he transmits the reports back to Lipzan for them to submit.”

  “Oh, so you’re not networked in this building.”

  “No. Only Müller is connected to the outside world.”

  My ballooning hopes deflated abruptly. To cover my disappointment I said quickly, “The doctors who take part in the trial – I suppose they never see the whole picture.”

  “No, they may be sent a summary but by that time, of course, any negative results have been removed. It is a clumsy system, but in this way Holle can be assured of a market for every single drug Lipzan makes.” His voice began to quiver. “I do not like what I do, James. I am sorry for your soldiers and the people they killed. It should not have happened.”

  He blinked rapidly. I reached out and put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Josef, it’s okay. I can see you had no choice.”

  We sat in silence for a while. Then I said, “You’re obviously unhappy here. Have you thought about escaping?”

  “Escape?” He raised his eyebrows. “Impossible. Here we are a long way from any help. And there is the electric field all around this building. It would kill me if I tried.”

  I nodded, my lips tight.

  He tilted his head wistfully. “Sometimes I have thought about doing that – ending my life by deliberately walking past that fence. But it would be a dreadful way to die.”

  “Your colleague, Klaus Tilmann. Did the same thing happen to him?”

  “Klaus is young, single. He had no disagreements with Holle, but it is a lot of work to analyse the trial data and Holle thought I needed some help.”

  I paused for a moment then said, as gently as I could, “Josef, do you have a white plastic disc with your room number on it?”

  A crimson flush spread over his pale cheeks. For a while he said nothing. Then he swallowed hard. “They are nice girls and I am sorry for them, but I have a bad life, too. What else is there for me? I know it is wrong, but all I want is a little comfort.” He fixed moist, red-rimmed eyes on mine in mute appeal.

  Sad-looking was right. This guy was seriously depressed. I didn’t want to sound judgemental, so I kept my tone neutral. “Do you talk to the girls? Where do they come from?”

  The tip of his tongue travelled over his lips. “Yes, I talk to them, always. Some do not wish to talk. Others do. They come from many places: Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, Venezuela, one or two from Brazil.”

  “Do they say how they were brought here?”

  “Some were kidnapped, taken off the street. Others were offered jobs, good jobs, in Mexico City, even in the United States. Then they were passed
to the soldiers. The soldiers bring them here.”

  I got up. “Thanks, Josef. I’m sure we’ll talk again.”

  He looked up and nodded resignedly. “I will let you out.”

  As we walked to the security door I said, "Those soldiers: how often do they change over?”

  “Every week. They come here two at a time. There is quite a demand to be on duty here.”

  I'll just bet there is.

  He opened the door and I left him there.

  On the way back to my room I paused in the entrance lobby. It was deserted. Beyond the glass doors the landscape was in total darkness. I imagined those frightened girls reaching this isolated place at the end of their long journey. What was it Baer had said?

  They come from many places: Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, Venezuela, one or two from Brazil.

  The logistical link-up between the rebel groups would provide the perfect conduit for transporting the girls. But what was in it for the militia men? It would have to be a lot more than a few uniforms. Was something else travelling in that conduit?

  Drugs! A transport link like that would be a godsend to the cartels at each end of the chain: they could ferry cocaine along it from Colombia and Venezuela through Mexico and into the United States.

  I felt sure that was it, but where did Müller and his establishment fit in?

  I went back to my room and paced around for minutes on end. Then it hit me. I looked up at the darkened window, seeing beyond it the whole scheme.

  The drug trade generated a lot of money, and that money had to be laundered. Enter the Guardians of the Reich. With their established network for the secret distribution of funds all over Europe it was an ideal partnership, and the Müllers had all the connections to make it happen. Laundered money went back to the cartels and the Müllers took a generous cut.

  I allowed myself a moment of grim satisfaction. At last I knew where the money came from.

  Who started it? The Nazi grandfather, Dr Bruno Müller? Were these his “business interests”? Probably. It was certainly developed further by his son Friedrich. The ingredients were all there.

  The man I’d seen this morning, second-generation Dr Erich Müller, must have been realistic enough to accept that the dream of world domination wasn’t attainable in his lifetime, so he created a small Reich of his own, of which he was the supreme ruler. He developed the technology and built this place, and populated it with girls trafficked via the same route as the drugs. Whatever the uniform factory produced was peanuts in comparison to all this. It may have been an afterthought, a way of occupying the girls during the day, making something useful for the LRA. There was no problem about occupying the girls at night.

  32

  I’d just about finished breakfast next morning when I sensed a presence at my right shoulder. I looked up into the unsmiling face of white-shirt-and-jeans. He said in Spanish:

  “Dr Müller wants to see you.”

  “Ahora?”

  “Sí, ahora.”

  I got up and followed him.

  As I entered Müller’s office I saw that he was seated, as before, in front of that modified sound studio deck with its row of slider controls. The chair that had been placed for me was at about the same distance from Müller, but for some reason it had been offset to the left. He waited until I’d sat down and the soldier had left.

  “Good morning, Colonel. You have had the opportunity to talk to Mr Baer?”

  “Yes, it was very helpful.”

  “Good. Mr Baer is not a well man, I think. It may be necessary to dispense with his services.”

  I felt a jolt of alarm. “My impression was that he’s doing a good job under difficult circumstances. If he gets a little depressed from time to time it’s understandable.”

  He looked at me for a while, then said, “Well, well, that is not why I brought you here. We have a new recruit for the factory.”

  For your bloody harem, you mean.

  “And?”

  “And I thought you would like to observe her induction.”

  “I’m not sure why you—”

  “Really, Colonel,” he said firmly, “I think you should. It will demonstrate for you the technology that underlies our enterprise with a clarity that should ensure your future cooperation.”

  I opened my mouth to speak but he held up a hand. “Do not move, stand or speak at any stage. I must insist on this. Do you understand?”

  The blood was hot in my face, but I replied quietly, “Yes”.

  “Good.” He pressed a button and spoke into a microphone. The door opened and I glanced to my right as they came in. My interest quickened. The girl was tall, slightly taller than the young soldier who was holding her too firmly by the upper arm. Her plain pale green dress set off auburn, shoulder-length hair. She glanced quickly around and I noticed the bare patch high up on the side of her head. I also noticed that she had green eyes and a figure that would certainly get your attention if you ever saw her in a crowd. The man led her right up to Müller’s desk, and the moment he relaxed his grip she shook off his hand with a clear show of annoyance.

  Before the soldier had even left the room she was telling Müller just what she thought of this treatment. The Spanish was very rapid, but I caught phrases, and I followed the subsequent conversation all too clearly.

  “This is an outrage! Why have I been kidnapped by your thugs? What have you done to me?” here she stabbed a finger at the shaven patch on her head. “It is disgraceful, I demand to be released immediately—”

  “Be quiet!” Müller thundered. Then in a quiet, level tone, “What is your name?”

  She drew herself up. “I am Delfina Rosa Antonia Teresa Santos.”

  “Delfina, you will not ask questions or make demands. I will make the demands and you will obey them without hesitation.”

  She held her head high and huffed derisively. “You’re out of your mind.”

  He sighed. “Take off your dress.”

  I tensed, scarcely able to believe what I’d just heard. She recoiled but recovered quickly, gathered herself, then spat in his face.

  “Cochino!”

  Almost simultaneously she kicked off a shoe and reached down. I thought she was about to brain him with it but she never got that far. As she bent over he advanced a slider and her body went rigid. With a gasp she reached a hand to her lower abdomen. Müller left the slider there as he took a tissue from his pocket and slowly wiped the saliva from his face. He was white with rage. He threw the tissue aside and I could see his fingers as he pushed the slider further. A low moan escaped from her. Now she was clutching her abdomen with both hands, bent double, breathing hard through her mouth. He played with the slider, jerking it forward and back, eliciting a loud cry on each movement, and then he drew it back. She collapsed to the floor, gasping.

  I drew in my feet, about to rise from my chair and yell “Stop this, stop it at once!” but Müller seemed to have anticipated my reaction. Without even looking at me he held up a warning hand. I remembered that I was supposed to be an interested observer here, nothing more. In fact it would probably give the man even more satisfaction if he saw how appalled I was, so I did my best to appear impassive. Inside I was seething.

  “Get up!” he shouted at her.

  Slowly she gathered herself together and stood facing him again, still bent slightly, still breathing hard.

  “If you do not obey me,” he said, “you will suffer. I can make you suffer a great deal. Now take off your dress.”

  She hesitated. He responded by stabbing at the slider. Her head jerked back, mouth open, and my ears rang with the scream. He returned the slider.

  Now all my instincts were compelling me to leap into action. Two, three strides and a strike to the throat is all it would take – except I wouldn’t make it that far. I was quite sure my address was already entered on that panel and all he had to do was move one finger and I'd be stopped in my tracks. After that any prospect of getting out of here and of dismant
ling this ghastly setup would be gone. My muscles were rigid with the effort of maintaining self-control.

  She lowered her head and looked at him. Then she reached behind her neck to unfasten the hook and eye at the top, then behind her back to draw down the zip. The dress came off in one smooth motion and dropped to the floor.

  But Müller hadn’t finished.

  “Now take off the rest.”

  Her voice was hoarse, but the stream of Spanish she loosed at him was like automatic gunfire. He shrugged and pushed the slider, and this time it went further forward than ever. She clasped herself and dropped to her knees with a shout of agony, then she fell to one side, wailing and spasming.

  Her cries echoed inside my head and my eyes pricked with tears. Images floated in front of me: Sally Kent, biting back the pain from a shattered femur, David van der Loos, delirious from malaria, Abby Moore, shot in the spine – I’d served with them all and felt their pain, as I was now feeling Delfina’s.

  You bastard, you irredeemable, sonofabitching bastard. I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do.

  He pulled the slider back. For a while nothing happened. The only sound was the low sobbing coming from Delfina. She dragged herself to her hands and knees and stayed there. Her mouth was open, and saliva trickled from it in a thin, clear stream.

  “Get up,” Müller snapped, “or do you want it all over again?”

  She rose unsteadily to her feet and wiped the back of a hand across her mouth.

  “Now do what I said.”

  She paused, still breathing hard. Then she unhitched the bra, slipped the thin white straps over her shoulders, and shrugged it off. It landed at her feet.

  Müller’s tongue flickered over his loose lower lip. “Schnell!” he shouted, lapsing into his native tongue for a moment. Then back into Spanish, “Rápido! Todo!”

  She hesitated, and he reached for the slider again, but she quickly complied, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her knickers, pushing them down below her knees, and stepping out of them as they fell to the floor. She straightened up again, but the dignified bearing had gone; she looked somehow diminished, head bent forward, arms hanging loosely at her sides.