by P J Skinner
He put on some gloves and wiped the frost off the catch, fiddling with it without attempting to dislodge it. Boris Klein appeared and watched him fumble.
‘Are you ready, Kurt?’
‘Ready? How can anyone be ready for this?’
‘Come on, old friend. You can do it. You’ve done this hundreds of times.’
‘Yes, I have. Thank you. I need to do this alone. My concentration must not be broken.’
‘I understand. You will not be disturbed. Let me know if you need help.’
Kurt Becker nodded. He heard the door close behind him. The canister was heavy and he struggled to get a good grip on the catch. It opened with a pop as the air equalized and a short metal tube slid out onto the table. It looked intact and undamaged by forty years in various freezers, but there was only one way to find out. With great care, Becker unscrewed the top and shook the contents out into a large petri dish. A grey slime ran out of the tube followed by what looked like a shrivelled piece of rubber which fell into the centre of the dish. The finger was grey and the nail was hanging off. It looked like it had been mummified. He poked it with his scalpel, a feeling of dread coming over him. Reaching over to the bench he picked up a bottle of sterilised saline, which had the same salt content as blood, and squirted it onto the finger. He cleaned off the slime by moving the digit around in the liquid and then transferred it into another petri dish. This he filled with more saline. The finger stubbornly refused to assume a healthier colour and looked like a twig on a stream bed. He put the lid on the dish and put the finger in the fridge.
Half an hour later the finger had rehydrated and looked a little better. Becker cut a minute piece off the end and macerated it gently in saline. He dropped the resulting liquid onto a slide and put a glass cover on it. Then he put it under the powerful microscope. Bending over the lens, he searched the liquid for whole cells. He could only see a grey soup with broken bits of cell content and structure. He was not too concerned by this trial run as he had cut a piece from the extreme end of the finger. It was only to be expected that the extremities would be rotted to some extent. He went back to the table and dissected the finger with precision cuts in order to reach the inner flesh.
The fresher material was not in great shape either but he could see some whole cells in the liquid, which he transferred to some clean saline. He put this liquid under the microscope in a petri dish and used a micropipette to breach the walls of one of the cells. With great care, he used the rubber bulb on the same pipette to suck up the contents of the cell. He then squeezed the bulb again and pushed the contents out into the saline and looked closely at them. They were whole but they were a nasty grey colour. Perhaps they needed more hydration. Were they viable? There was no way of telling. He simply didn’t have time to check.
He took another petri dish out of the fridge. This contained the empty egg cells harvested from German women undergoing fertility treatment in Calderon. A colleague had collected them over several months and kept them frozen for shipment to San Blas. When Kurt Becker questioned the ethics of using the eggs without permission, his objections were dismissed. ‘Who’s going to miss a couple of eggs?’ said Boris Klein. Using a clean micropipette, Becker removed one of the empty eggs and placed it in another petri dish beside the finger cells. He sucked the contents out of another finger cell and expelled it by microns into the egg cell. With elaborate care, he removed this and placed it in a new petri dish half full of saline. Repeating this procedure, he made twenty egg cells with new contents. He wiped the sweat off his brow and put a lid on the petri dish. He put the finger and the other cells in petri dishes into the fridge. Then he tipped the newly filled eggs into a warm dish with a weak electric current running through it.
He sat down exhausted by his effort. His watch said that it was nearly midnight. He felt like Dr Frankenstein. Was he creating a monster? He had never thought about it. All those years, missing his family and working ceaselessly for the good of the Reich, it had never occurred to him to ask himself if this was a good idea. The Führer was a great leader but, in the end, there was little doubt that he was insane. What if that madness was genetic? He rubbed his eyes. This was not the time to develop cold feet. There was nothing more to do this evening. He meticulously cleaned the laboratory and the surfaces. Leaving the lab, he bumped into Boris Klein who was waiting outside on a chair.
‘Is it done?’ he asked.
‘Yes, the process of fusion is underway. Did you inject the woman with hormones?’
‘Yes, while she was asleep in the car.’
‘It should only take a day or two to make her ovulate and for her womb to accept the eggs.’
‘She’s a fine looking young woman. I’d certainly like to be shut in a room with her for an hour or two.’
‘Are you crazy? Don’t you dare touch her. What if you impregnated her? She’s our only chance, and it’s a long shot.’
‘Fingers crossed then. What are our chances of success?’
‘I have no idea. It’s in the lap of the gods now.’
CHAPTER XXVI
Ramon Vega blinked in the bright lights. Beads of sweat clung to the makeup on his face. He was tempted to rub it off.
‘Stay still, Mr Vega, we need to take readings from your skin tone.’
‘Can you please hurry this up? I need to get out of here.’
‘Will do. Darling, can you put the corduroy jacket on Mr Vega? There, that looks much more learned.’
‘It’s a pity you don’t wear glasses Mr Vega, to add gravitas,’ said his assistant, a short girl with blonde hair who leaned in close to his face, so close he could smell her breath mints.
‘I can’t help it if I’m handsome,’ said Ramon, winking at her. ‘And it’s Dr Vega not Mr’
‘Apologies. Just another few minutes.’
When the photographer was satisfied, Ramon went back upstairs to see Guido Luna. He had to wait for him, because they were reviewing the final proofs of the article in another building. Sitting in Luna’s office, Vega was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the close quarter flirting of Nadia, when he heard the elevator pinging and Guido Luna appeared clutching the proofs.
‘Good morning, Ramon. I trust you slept well.
‘As well as can be expected. I should’ve stayed here with you.’
‘Would you like to see the proofs?’
‘Yes, please.’
Guido laid them out on the table. There was a big headline on the front page – Secret Nazi Enclave in Sierramar. The two-page spread had various images from the report reproduced as well as in-depth analysis of Ramon’s report. The effect was stunning. Ramon imagined the reaction that it would provoke in Calderon. There was still a blank space for an interview and the photograph they had taken of him.
‘Okay, so let’s get that interview started,’ said Guido.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘Of course, is there anything wrong with the special? We can still edit it if you think we are missing something or have got something wrong.’
‘No, nothing like that. I have some friends whom I believe to be in danger because of this Nazi cult. Can you help me get the article sent to the press in Sierramar?’
‘Listen, there is no way we would let other newspapers steal this scoop in tomorrow’s editions but I can give the story to the Reuters agency to distribute first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Reuters?’
‘Yes, they will spread it globally and all the newspapers in Sierramar will have the story by the afternoon. Does that help?’
***
After finishing his interview and making it clear to the photographer that he didn’t care which picture of him would appear in the article, Ramon asked Guido if he could use a telephone to contact Sierramar. He was directed to the office of a journalist who was out doing some research into a story. Settling into the office chair, he pulled out his notebook and looked for the number of Gloria’s father
. He tried ringing the operator but then remembered that he could ring straight through from Miami.
‘Don Sanchez?’
‘Yes. Is that Ramon? How are you, my boy? Having any luck?’
‘Great news, sir. They are publishing an exclusive article tomorrow and will give the information to Reuters to send worldwide.’
‘That’s fantastic news. I’ll go down to their offices in Calderon first thing in the morning and get the print-outs.’
‘What will you do with them?’
‘I’ll take them to Holger Ponce. He’s the source of most of the communications coming out of Calderon. He must be in touch with the group in San Blas. It may be our only hope of stalling them.’
‘Good luck, sir.’
‘Thank you, Ramon. It will be my pleasure. I hope we’re not too late. My unwillingness to accept my past nearly killed my daughter and has put Alfredo and Sam in terrible peril.’
‘How could you realise that these people were still so fanatical? I can’t believe it myself.’
‘It’s incredible. By the way, I’m going to the south tomorrow as my daughter is in hospital with a broken arm.’
‘Oh no, how did that happen? I hope it wasn’t related to my report. It has caused enough mayhem.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not serious. Another casualty of this saga.’
‘Let’s hope she’s the last. Give her my best wishes and let me know if you get any updates on Alfredo and Sam.’
‘I promise that I’ll ring your hotel, if I get any news.’
‘I’ll be waiting for the chance to come home to Sierramar. I hope it will be soon.’
‘If you’re short of money, I can send you some. That’s something I can do for you.’
‘Thank you, but the Miami Herald are being most generous in their payment for the scoop and it’s likely that I’ll be asked to appear on the news and talk shows in the USA so I don’t think that money will be a problem from now on.’
‘Okay, I’ll keep you posted.’
***
Hernan Sanchez got up early the next morning and had a quick coffee before asking his driver to get the car out. They drove through the streets ahead of the rush hour and parked outside the Reuters offices. Hernan read the paper without interest, trying to will time forward. When they opened the office to the public, he climbed out of the car and was first through the door. Wheezing with effort, he went straight to the reception desk where the receptionist was swallowing a couple of aspirin and looked as if she might faint.
‘Can I see the bureau chief right away, please?’
‘I’m afraid he’s not in until later.’
‘This is urgent. Is there anyone else?’
‘Yes, Javier Sanchez is in. How about him?’
‘He’ll do. Tell him Hernan Sanchez is here.’
‘Is he a relative?’
‘Probably.’
Luckily there was no fight in her and she waved him through. He went into Javier Sanchez’s office and introduced himself. Javier Sanchez looked a little intimidated to have Hernan Sanchez in his office. Being a good newsman, he was well aware of the reputation of the man standing in front of him.
‘It is an honour to welcome you here, Don Sanchez. To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I believe that you have received a report from Reuters in Miami about a breaking story in Sierramar. I’d like a copy.’
‘We don’t usually give out that sort of information.’
‘I don’t usually ask for it.’
Twenty minutes later, Hernan Sanchez was on his way to Holger Ponce’s house in the suburbs with several copies of a facsimile in a white envelope.
***
Hernan Sanchez waited in the sitting room until a bleary-eyed Holger Ponce staggered in, still wearing his silk dressing gown. His large gut poked out between the folds and he dragged them together with a grumpy gesture that suggested a fit of pique.
‘This had better be important,’ he said, falling back into a chair.
‘Oh, I think you’ll find that it’s worth getting up for,’ said Sanchez, who had not sat down. He threw the printout onto Holger’s stomach and turned around to look out the window through a gap in the curtains. The early morning sun was pushing its way through the clouds like a boxer heading to the ring. The volcano looked at once magnificent and terrifying in its potential to take out the city of Calderon in one tantrum. It was not long before he heard a gasp followed by something more like a gurgle. Turning around, he was about to say something when he saw that Holger was clutching his left arm and was mouthing something that would not come out. Serves the bastard right. He went over and whispered in his ear. ‘That’s what you get for threatening my daughter, you scum.’ Then he called out to the maid.
‘Senorita! I think you need to alert the hospital and get them to send an ambulance immediately. The Minister’s had a turn and I fear that it’s life-threatening if he doesn’t get attention soon.’
He picked up the print-out and was going to take it with him but thought the better of it. Putting it back in the envelope, he handed it to the maid, who was frantically trying to dial the hospital and looked like she might also succumb to a heart attack with fright.
‘Senorita, I’m sorry to leave you in this situation but I must go to an important meeting. Can you give these papers to the Minister’s aide? He’ll deliver them.’
She nodded mutely, struck dumb by shock.
‘Good day.’
Sanchez was unable to stop smiling on the short journey to the airport. His pride had been severely wounded by the treatment he had received at the hands of Holger Ponce and the brutal result of his revenge matched his philosophy of ‘an eye for an eye.’ No one could accuse him of anything other than rushing over to show an old friend a shocking news article. He beamed at the driver and strode across the airport to catch a chartered flight being too impatient to wait for the scheduled one at midday. The driver fondly imagined that his boss was going to see a new girlfriend and was happy for him.
‘Have a good trip, sir.’
‘I will now, thank you.’
***
By the time he got to the hospital, Hernan Sanchez was desperate to see Gloria. Whilst he knew that she was okay and had only fractured an arm, she was still his only child and much beloved. The hospital reception directed him to a wing on the second floor, which was dedicated to private patients. As he passed the nurses station, one of them asked him who he was.
‘My name is Hernan Sanchez. I am here to see my daughter Gloria. They told me downstairs that she is in room two zero six.’
‘Yes, that is correct, sir.’
‘May I see her?’
‘You go on ahead, Mr Sanchez. Oh, and by the way, congratulations.’
Congratulations? What was the woman on about? Had she mistaken him for someone else? He found the room and knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
‘Sweetheart, it’s me at last.’
‘Papi! It’s so great to see you.’
‘You too, my flower. How’s the arm?’
‘The arm?’ She looked confused for a moment. ‘Oh yes, fine, fine. Didn’t the doctors tell you?’
‘Tell me what? Oh God! Is there something else wrong with you?’
‘Not wrong exactly, Papi. I think you’d better sit down.’
Sanchez pulled a chair up to his daughter’s bed and held her hand. Please, don’t be cancer again, he thought. I wouldn’t survive a second loss.
‘So? Tell me.’
‘Don’t look so worried. It’s good news. Well, I think it is anyway. I’m pregnant. You are going to be a grandfather.’ She trailed off. The look of astonishment on Hernan’s face rippled back and forwards for several seconds before he managed to speak.
‘You’re what? How? I thought you couldn’t have children. The doctors…’
‘They were wrong. I was vomiting a lot on this trip and I
mentioned it to the medical staff here. They did some tests and, well, I’m going to have a baby.’
‘Who’s the father?’
‘Alfredo.’
‘I’ll murder the swine.’
‘You may not get the chance.’
‘Oh no, I was only joking, I completely forgot they were still prisoners. Forgive me, my angel. I am the happiest man on earth right now.’
‘Forgiven. You couldn’t be happier than me. It’s like a miracle.’
‘Do you have any news about the others? Segundo told me he was going straight back to get them.’
‘No, he only left last night. He’s going to rescue them alone.’
‘He’s not the only weapon we have. I have some great news of my own. Ramon’s research has been published in Miami and Reuters is distributing it today. Every newspaper in Sierramar will have the revelations tomorrow and the news will spread like wildfire.’
‘That’s fantastic news. Hopefully, when it gets to San Blas, the Nazis will flee the country and let Alfredo and Sam go free.’
‘I can’t imagine why the Nazis would bother to hold them anymore, now that their whereabouts have been discovered.’
‘It’s a mystery. I can’t help feeling there’s more to this than meets the eye.’
CHAPTER XXVII
Segundo woke up when it was still dark and left the hotel in the dim street lighting to walk to the main square in Lago Verde. A cold wind pierced his jacket. The place was deserted but a kiosk at the bus stop was selling bus tickets and breakfast. Chasing some sticky pastries down with a hot sweet coffee, he waited for the first bus to San Blas. The dawn was breaking but the clouds were dark grey with rain. The streets were nearly empty, except for a tourist couple from the port of Guayama, who were sitting together at the bus stop, half asleep. Segundo was surprised at the lack of passengers going to work.
‘Where is everyone?’ he asked the bus driver. ‘What time do they start work in San Blas?’
‘Are you joking? Those German racists won’t let anyone from Sierramar work at their village. They say it would ruin the concept.’
