The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller)

by David Khara

  Unfortunately, from the inauguration to today’s bickering, nothing good had come of it. Dangerous and costly missions had been carried out across the world. All had been unspeakable failures. Heinrich Himmler recalled his dream of finding the hammer of the Nordic god of thunder, Thor. What an idiot! And now, just to curry favor with the SS leader, a whole collection of knuckleheads was making the same mistake. Pathetic! The hopes of the Reich’s de facto deputy leader now rested with the exploration of the Tibetan plateau led by Ernst Schäfer, a zoologist well traveled in Tibet who was devoted to Nazism and corresponded better with Heinrich’s idea of a scientist: bold, calm and hard-working. With any luck, the expedition would find traces of the Aryan race and, hopefully, the mythical city of Shambhala and its myriad treasures.

  The führer had been piling on the pressure for months. Heinrich was running out of dumb excuses to buy time. Fortunately, the Anschluss, planned for March, would give Adolf something to chew on. Not to mention the inevitable consequences of Germany’s annexation of Austria. One way or another, the international community would react, and Hitler would stop obsessing about the Study Society’s deliberations. These mind-numbing meetings full of maniacs would be no more than a bad memory.

  Two archeologists grabbed each other’s collars. Two historians struggled to separate them. Pathetic. Heinrich battled to stifle a huge yawn that could have disastrous consequences. Dampening all this enthusiasm would be counterproductive. Channeling it was vital. At this stage of extreme boredom, wiping his spectacles with a handkerchief was the only possible distraction. With his glasses in his hands, he couldn’t see a thing. He hated his shortsightedness and, more generally, his fragile body so far removed from the Teutonic ideal he sought to propagate. On his orders, the SS recruited nobody under five feet, ten inches. He was two inches shy of that standard. Fate had dealt him a lousy hand, but his industrious and methodical mind compensated for that injustice.

  His spectacles back in place, Heinrich scanned the hall. His Generals Hall filled him with pride. He wanted to make the castle, leased for a pittance, a center of excellence for SS officers. Renovations were under way, and soon every wing would be a hive of activity that would be decisive for the Order’s future. The golden disk encrusted in a marble circle on the floor and the timeworn stone pillars conferred on the building the requisite mystical solemnity. Sunk into deep alcoves, the windows glowed in the moonlight. In three or four years, Wewelsburg would be ready. Heinrich would leave to the next generations an architectural masterpiece and wonder of organization. But for the moment, parasites sullied the place.

  Heinrich was on the verge of exploding. He was thinking that only a couple of executions for sedition would appease him when he heard a cough. Turning his head to the right, poised to take the person to task, he saw Hermann Müller standing at attention, squeezed into a uniform too tight for a man of his obesity. His neck oozed over his collar. His ruddy cheeks seemed to indicate imminent heart failure. Quite simply, he looked like Göring. Müller was in charge of interdepartmental liaison in the castle. A position only he believed to be of crucial importance.

  Next to the tub of lard, a young man shuffled from one foot to the other. Intimidated or desperate for the toilet, Heinrich couldn’t decide. Then, snapping his heels and stretching out his arm, the baby elephant screeched “Heil Hitler” without interrupting the enthusiastic gibbering taking place five yards away.

  “Heil Hitler,” came the reichsführer’s limp response.

  “Herr Himmler, may I introduce you to a scientist worthy of the greatest interest?”

  “That depends on your ability to distinguish the interesting from the superfluous.”

  “You won’t be disappointed, Excellency. I assure you.” Müller almost dared to look outraged.

  Such boldness from a notorious yes-man piqued Heinrich’s curiosity. A quick glance over Müller’s shoulder confirmed that the debate had degenerated into a boxing match. “Fine, I’ll listen. I hardly have anything better to do,” Heinrich sighed. “But let’s spice up the encounter, shall we? Hermann, you wager your life on the relevance of what this person has to say.” The fat paper-pusher sputtered, miraculously avoiding a heart attack. Shame, thought the reichsführer-SS. That would have saved a bullet.

  Heinrich examined the young man. The threat didn’t seem to overawe him in the slightest. “Name and position.” Revitalized by his bet, Heinrich’s voice rang out.

  “Bleiberg, Viktor, researcher in nuclear physics and chemistry. I study with Otto Hahn at Berlin University.”

  Wonderful, a student! “How old are you?” The affable tone barely concealed Heinrich’s despair. “Twenty-one, sir,” the boy replied nonchalantly.

  Müller was sweating profusely.

  “Sir,” continued the young scholar.

  “Your Excellency, if you don’t mind.” The icy smile promised imminent pain.

  “Yes, sorry, Your Excellency. Don’t allow my age to undermine the importance of what I have to say. I matriculated at the university at the age of fifteen. Professor Hahn considers me his best student. I have my own research lab, you know.” Pride shone on his juvenile features.

  Heinrich Himmler felt his interest perking up. Events in the rest of the room faded. Nothing existed except the scientist’s voice. Instinctively, Himmler sensed that the young man possessed vital information. “What does he have you working on?”

  “The consequences of brief exposure to radiation on the human body, Your Excellency.”

  “Continue.” The SS’s undisputed leader sat up.

  “I have pursued Madame Curie’s experiments with polonium and radium from the period 1909 to 1914.”

  “Spare me the lecture, thank you,” Himmler sniped, waving his hand to dismiss any temptation the scientist might have had to continue in that vein.

  “Yes, OK. We know the human body reacts negatively to radiation exposure. However, if we succeed in controlling cell necrosis, we can envisage important biological transformations.”

  “I read Marie Curie’s reports, and I have followed Otto Hahn’s work for some time. Your hypothesis is interesting but purely speculative. So far, there have been no conclusive results and no positive experiments in the area that interest me. Moreover, medical ethics are holding back research.”

  “With all due respect, Your Excellency, if we bypassed the ethical concerns of the stick-in-the-muds at the university, our chances of success would improve tremendously. Naturally, we’d have to close our eyes to—how can I put it—certain unedifying practices.” A perverse grin accompanied his sly suggestion. The boy might be cracked. He was certainly no choirboy.

  Himmler steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we? My time is precious, and I am in no mood to waste it today. Professor Bleiberg, what do you expect from me?”

  “I’m asking Your Excellency to appoint me head of a research unit on human mutation. In case you should approve my request, I’ve prepared a list of all that I require. Furthermore, I wish to work according to moral stipulations that I alone shall decide. In science, I believe necessity knows no law.”

  “I see. And what can I hope for in return?”

  “An Übermensch, Your Excellency.”

  The reichsführer heaved a sigh. “You think your experiments will lead to a superman? As I said, young man, the scientific foundations are shaky.”

  “Not any more, Your Excellency. Not since last month.” No smile had ever been smugger.

  Himmler leaped up. “Are you telling me…”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. I still need to improve my formula, but thanks to controlled exposure to radiation, with a chemical additive, I am able to improve, stably and permanently, the performances of the human body.”

  CHAPTER 14

  That bitch killed Mom. Bernard showed me the screen captures from the hospital security tapes sent to his cell phone. He expects the autopsy results to confirm his hunch. While I’m on a plane headed
to the Old World, a doctor’s chopping up my mother and digging around in her organs. The urge to puke makes my gut spasm.

  Strangely, my heart in my mouth, tears choking in my throat, I feel whole today. Despite the grief, guilt and the killers on my heels, I feel alive. I want to live. I need to unravel my father’s secrets, slaughter the woman who killed my mother and unmask the shadowy figures behind all this. Oh yes, I nearly forgot. And smash my fist into the hairless giant’s face.

  “Very pleasant, business class.” My neighbor stretches like a cat. She is dwarfed by the huge seat. Ouch, she’s expecting a reply. I can see it in her eyes.

  “I think three grand one way per person allows us to expect a little comfort.”

  She pouts. It suits her. “Money. That’s all men ever think of, isn’t it?”

  I glance at her small but firm chest filling her shirt. “Not exactly. You’d be surprised by the number of young women who share that passion.”

  “Count me out.”

  Really? An exception. “OK. What does it for you? Sports cars, a beach home in Florida, ripped six-pack abs?”

  “None of the above. I like guns. The moment the bullet shoots out, the slight recoil tingling in my wrist and up to my shoulder. Mmmm.”

  She’s nuts! “Whatever floats your boat,” I mumble, fiddling with the controls to recline my seat.

  She lets out a melodious giggle. “I’m kidding. Bernard warned me you weren’t a laugh a minute, but I didn’t expect to travel with an undertaker.” She glances up at me.

  Sprawled across the arm of the seat, she looks like she’s about to rip my shirt off. “Hey, you want a quick flashback on my life? Bernard did brief you, didn’t he?”

  “Sure. He is amazingly organized, and his records are second to none. You’re right, your file beats all comers for twisted, unfunny shit. I can’t decide what’s saddest—your dad leaving home or the car accident that killed the little girl.”

  She’s crossed the line. Screw my fantasies. Either I punch her, or I jump out of the plane to get away from her. Before I can react, she rubs salt into the wound. “Can’t escape me, huh? That must be annoying. And it’s tricky to get in a good shot in such a cramped space. I really feel sorry for you.”

  Can she read my mind? I lean closer. There’s no point letting the entire business class hear. “Listen up, Buffy. We have another five hours on this plane. If you back off, you’ll be doing us both a favor. Are you here to keep me safe or bust my balls?”

  She wipes that shit-eating grin off her face. Leans closer, too. Her lips brush against my ear. Now I’m tingling. “There are two instances when a guardian angel is no use. When an assailant is prepared to die in order to take out the target. And when the target is just begging to die. Your file amply demonstrated your vulnerability to suicidal impulses. Bernard gave me a mission, and I intend to see it through. I can’t do it without you on my side.”

  “How does that explain your half-assed wisecracks?”

  “A suicide case doesn’t bust a gasket when you grind his gears.”

  Busted! Pop psychology CIA-style. Signs of intelligent life detected. Looks like we have a match on our hands.

  Aboard the same plane, Eytan was cursing economy and its seats for dwarves and children. Fortunately, the airlines separated the wheat from the chaff and spared business class passengers the sight of the plebeians cramped in the back of the plane. Unfolding his knees when they arrived in Switzerland would demand a superhuman effort.

  Meanwhile, he’d focus his anger on the brat poking his tongue out at him while playing on his video-game console.

  DAY 3

  CHAPTER 15

  Landsberg Prison, Bavaria, December, 1924.

  Securing an appointment had proved complicated. The prisoner’s agenda was full to overflowing. To think he was serving a sentence for an attempted putsch in Bavaria. It was more like he was leading a rally in the middle of Munich. Too much!

  Wide-eyed, Christian Delmar peered at the visitors standing in line. Everything seemed to indicate that his organization hadn’t chosen to send him to see this man by accident. Delmar exchanged an incredulous smile with his Spanish acolyte, who had the unpronounceable Basque name Adamet Epartxegui. The two emissaries had met for the first time ten minutes ago and once their mission was accomplished would probably never see each other again. They shared complete mastery of the German language and veneration of a common ideal. Furthermore, both were in their early twenties and concealed their youth under hats and behind mustaches.

  After they had waited patiently for an hour, a guard asked them to follow him. He was considerably taller than both visitors. Christian felt uncomfortable facing this mountain of muscle, made inoffensive only by the hooded eyelids signifying limited cerebral capacity. Adamet—Christian had given up trying to remember his last name—instinctively drew closer to his superior. The crowded jail, harsh lights and rancid odor of soup gave the emissaries nausea. A labyrinth of gray hallways and iron gates led them to the building’s third west wing. With every step, the cold began to pinch a little more.

  The guard stopped outside cell No. 7. To Christian’s amazement, he knocked on the door. A long silence followed. Then a barked command came from inside the cell. The voice carried a natural authority that accentuated the surrealism of the scene. A man with incredibly bushy eyebrows and a square, thrusting jaw opened the door, standing ramrod straight before them.

  “Hess!” That was a typically German way of introducing himself, with his last name and no preamble or beating around the bush.

  “We have an appointment with Herr Hitler. We are Delmar and Adamet.” The Basque didn’t balk at the use of his first name. It seemed to Christian that remaining anonymous suited his colleague.

  “Please come in, gentlemen. Adolf Hitler is expecting you.” With a military gesture, Hess ushered the visitors into the cell. Christian was no longer surprised to discover that “cell” was hardly the right word. Against the left wall stood a large desk with two vases filled with flowers whose name escaped him. To the right, under the double window facing the door, was a perfectly made-up white iron bed. Either Hitler had fond memories of his military years, or the prison authorities provided him with a chambermaid. Delmar stifled his undiplomatic urge to laugh. On the table next to the bed, there was an Art Deco lamp, and a rug lay on the floor. The warmth of the room contrasted with the pervasive icy cold in the rest of the penitentiary and the whole of Bavaria, for that matter.

  His head propped in his hand, an average-sized man leaned on the windowsill, observing the horizon through the gray bars. The sling supporting his left arm was a legacy of the authorities’ brutality at the moment of his arrest. Logically, Hitler should have been a dead duck after his putsch failed. What was happening could only convince the prisoner that his future was bright.

  Christian stared at the immobile figure. Hair shaved over his ears and nape and flopping over his forehead, neatly knotted tie and crisply ironed collar, uniform pants and black suspenders. Adolf the putschist looked like an accountant, insignificant and featureless even. The tuft of a mustache under his nose, protruding chin and a mouth like a scar across his face did nothing to contradict first impressions. But the gleam in his eyes revealed the extraordinary will of a man convinced of his destiny. Christian Delmar had studied history. What did all men of his type have in common? Madness as their only companion.

  For one long minute, deafening silence occupied the room. Hitler seemed miles away, unaware of their presence or ignoring it as unimportant. While Herr Hess glared at the two visitors, who stared, in turn, at their feet, a voice that brooked no argument shattered the silence. “Your company asked me to grant an appointment to two emissaries. You’re here. I’m listening, gentlemen.”

  No room for niceties. Christian spoke up. “Your entourage includes members of our organization. They have informed us of your ideas, your—how can I put it?—vision of the future.”

  “Get to the point. Other peop
le are waiting.” The accompanying dismissive gesture especially irritated Christian. The Frenchman cleared his throat and continued. “Yes, our superiors are willing to lend you the support you require to take power.”

  “You have my attention now.” Hitler knew how to smile. The atmosphere warmed slightly.

  “You will receive funding, the backing of the business sector and logistical and operational support for your party. If necessary, your opponents and rivals could be neutralized or even eliminated.”

  “I shall crush my enemies! The court could have sent me before a firing squad. Instead, it chose to salute my patriotism, my love for greater Germany. It’s not the party that concerns me. I need an army, not sheep in wolf’s clothing whose bombastic speeches disguise their absence of ambition. The German people deserve more than the wretched peace the Versailles Treaty forced upon us.” Hitler punctuated his words with abrupt gestures, as if his forearms had a mind of their own. He jabbed his finger threateningly at his visitors. The dice had been rolled.

  “Let’s be clear. We won’t raise a finger to help you if you refuse to respect the political rules in force in your country. You must follow a legal path to power in order to benefit from our assistance. We will have no problem finding another leader to achieve our aims. Herr Hitler, either you are with us, or you are against us. There is no middle ground.” Christian anticipated another outburst of anger. The only response he received was a smile.

  “Might your organization be as influential as Rudolf claims? I assumed you were madmen in the thrall of esotericism, but it seems to me now that you are looking for more than cheap thrills.” He was turning on the charm. Unpredictable and unfathomable. A real threat.