The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller)

by David Khara

  “When you behave like a human being, you’re not at all objectionable. Now get dressed. I ordered room service. We’ll leave for the bank as soon as we’ve eaten.”

  I like being with this woman. I feel good at her side. With her, I’m not anxious or on edge. She feels something for me, and that makes me happy. At least one piece of good news this week.

  Eytan pushed the right sleeve of his camouflage jacket up to the elbow. He heaved a sigh and let it fall back down to his wrist. The marks on his skin had always depressed him. Surgery could easily get rid of the ugly blemishes. But would he still be himself? He’d asked himself the same question dozens, even hundreds of times. It would haunt him as long he lived. That’s why he hated inaction. With idleness, reminiscences wormed their way into his mind, slipping through the crack of boredom. And for the last two hours, Eytan had been bored stiff.

  As usual, he’d picked up his gear as soon as he arrived at the hotel—the same one as the odd couple he was tailing. After loading up with guns and clips, he took a quick shower and shaved his head, chin and eyebrows. A chat with the receptionist revealed the lovebirds’ room number and the strange fit Mr. Ingalls had thrown in the lobby, causing panic among the guests.

  He couldn’t say why, but Eytan was starting to feel a kind of affection for his “client.” This walking-disaster case amused him. It was a change from the usual bastards he had to deal with—double agents, terrorists, shady diplomats.

  The black Mercedes was still parked on the avenue outside the five-star hotel, with a perfect view of the parking garage exit. In theory, the tinted windows guaranteed its occupants’ anonymity. In theory. Two hours’ waiting didn’t even touch the surface of Eytan’s bottomless well of patience, but he had a furious urge to have some fun. He strode over to the Mercedes and knocked on the driver’s window. A good twenty seconds later, it opened a fraction, barely an inch. Not enough to see inside.

  “What do you want?” asked a baritone voice, speaking German in a dialect specific to the Zurich area. Luckily, Eytan knew some of its subtleties.

  “Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Grossmünster Cathedral. Which way is it?”

  Another few seconds ticked by. “No idea. Ask in the hotel. Have a good day.” Polite but brisk. The window closed to end the conversation. As he straightened up, Eytan’s wallet dropped onto the road and skidded under the car. He cursed and hunkered down to pick it up.

  With Eytan on his knees and stretched under the vehicle, the car’s occupants could see only his broad back. Having retrieved his wallet, Eytan Morg stood up and gave a friendly wave in the direction of the taciturn driver.

  Crossing back to the hotel, the agent grinned to himself.

  “Don’t screw with me.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The punch hit fresh air. The little blonde spun away from right hooks and uppercuts with astonishing ease. The guy’s technique wasn’t too shabby, but she was simply too fast for him. Overbalancing slightly, he pivoted and aimed another kick at the young woman. She blocked and immediately riposted with two straight lefts to her opponent’s face.

  Crouching behind one of the many trashcans on the dark street, Eytan enjoyed watching Blondie’s athleticism, complete mastery of combat techniques and marvelous speed and coordination. Of course, she was in her current situation because of a glaring error that should have been fatal. Letting her pursuers catch up with her in this alleyway would get her bawled out by the worst instructor in the most pathetic intelligence service in the world. Luckily, rather than blowing her away, the two goons appeared to be under orders to capture her and get information out of her. Easier said than done.

  The two guys were the slippery type. Lithe and sinewy, they were overconfident as they closed in on their prey. Before he could finish his sentence—inaudible from Eytan’s vantage point—the first attacker was sucking up a headshot that sent him flying into the garbage bags, his nose a bloody mess. The second guy didn’t make the same mistake, attacking cagily, his guard high.

  As the ballet went on, Blondie continued to find openings, but her punches began to lack penetration. She wasn’t dealing with a beginner. Toe to toe, the fight swung in the guy’s favor. Eytan wondered why she didn’t draw the pistol he glimpsed now and then under her jacket. Both of them were taking unnecessary risks in the hope of obtaining vital information. No prisoners was the only rule. A true professional wounds, interrogates, kills. By flouting the basics of the job, apprentice agents come to a sticky and early end. How many had he seen trip up by underestimating the realities of life in the field?

  The guy with the smashed snout was coming around. And it looked like he’d learned his lesson. Sprawled in the garbage behind Blondie, he drew his gun. Eytan immediately leapt out of his hiding place, unsheathed two knives from his waistband and sprinted hard. Attacking from his position, with two leaping, spinning, spiraling warriors duking it out, was taking a risk even for a fighter of his caliber. To hell with discretion. Leaving a young lady to die here wouldn’t further his investigation and would bring dishonor on him.

  He covered the twenty yards in a flash. The first blade buried itself in the neck of the guy fighting Jackie, who stared in dismay as he keeled over, spurting blood. The second landed between the eyes of the first attacker, who slumped back into the garbage with no hope of a second resurrection.

  Eytan stood facing Jackie, who looked like she didn’t know whether to be grateful or afraid. “Agent Jacqueline Walls, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “You know me? Who are you?” she gasped, out of breath.

  “A friend. For now. You messed up by letting Jeremy go into the bank alone. I don’t know who these guys are, but they’re not amateurs. Did you seriously think they wouldn’t spot you? You hoped to catch them out by keeping an eye on Corbin from a distance?”

  Jackie shrugged sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Incompetence and stupidity! You should have anticipated that a second surveillance team had been assigned to the job.”

  Before she could protest, Eytan went on, “You still have a lot to learn in the art of staying discreet. Now run along, and stick close to your client. I’ll take care of the stiffs.”

  “You’re with the Agency?”

  “Not really.”

  Without batting an eye, Jackie drew and leveled her gun at Eytan’s face. “Tell me who you are. Fast! I’m in no mood for bullshit games.”

  Eytan towered over her and stared into her eyes. “Child…”

  In a flash, he grabbed the gun and twisted it back on its owner. It was so fast and controlled, Jackie couldn’t resist.

  “Strike fast.” Another sudden movement knocked the young woman backward. At the same time, a slap sent the gun flying out of her hand. By the time Jackie’s butt hit the deck, Eytan had caught the weapon and was pointing it at her.

  “Kill without blinking.” Eytan tossed the automatic into the trash. “Those are the basics of our trade. Do your job, and stay alert. I won’t be able to get you out of every hole you dig. The stiffs are all yours now. My regards to Dean.”

  He turned and strode back to the street. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Jackie picking herself up, already dialing a number, surprised to be breathing, most likely.

  The bank vault looks like Fort Knox. Armed guards at every steel door. Basically, the architect designed a marble-lined bunker. The Swiss are hospitable but a touch too obsequious. Wealth has that effect. I didn’t catch his name, but it doesn’t matter. Klavich, Kravich, something with a Slav ring to it. A tight ass. His pigeon-toed, knock-kneed shuffle proved it with every step. Like a master of ceremonies at the court of Louis XIV.

  Along the way, I give a little wave to all the security cameras. It’s dumb, but it cracks me up. I feel kind of buzzed—a side-effect of the gunk in Jackie’s injection, maybe. In fact, I’m floating on air. Back to reality. One huge door, two guards and three cameras later, we enter the small box vault, as my escort calls it. Good news. I w
on’t have to drag a huge parcel around with me. He steps aside and ushers me in. Hundreds of little doors line the walls. Boris—I’ve decided the name suits him—opens one up and removes a brown rectangular box about a foot long. He exits after pointing out the button I need to press when I’m done. I wonder if the john works the same way.

  I remove the lid of what could be a regular shoebox. Inside, I find a gray file closed with a red tab, a road map folded in four and something the size of a pack of cigarettes wrapped in brown paper. I stuff everything into my backpack. I’ll examine it later with Jackie.

  I hit the button. Let’s get outta here. Am I going to take a bullet in the head as soon as I set foot on the street?

  CHAPTER 19

  Berghof, the Obsersalzberg, Bavarian Alps, January, 1943.

  My faithful Heinrich, I am relieved that you survived this odious attack.”

  “Thank you, mein Führer.”

  “Please, take a seat.”

  Himmler settled into one of the eight armchairs surrounding the small round table, on which cups of coffee had been served to Europe’s two most powerful men. And yet the scene was grotesque. The Great Hall could hold a hundred people easily. Heinrich felt like a lead figurine lost in an oversized dollhouse. He hated the place. Of all the Nazi dignitaries, only he had refused to take a house nearby. All the usual bootlickers had rushed to buy homes to stay in the führer’s good books: that morphine-addicted pig Göring; the competent and therefore dangerous Goebbels; the uptight military man Jodl; and many others who jostled for Hitler’s mercurial affections.

  How the hell could they put up with these pitifully overwrought decorations?

  The Gobelins tapestries depicted crude hunting scenes. The green chairs clashed with the red carpet. The beamed ceiling seemed in danger of collapsing on the room’s occupants at any moment. Heinrich already missed the martial atmosphere of his headquarters in Westphalia. There, at least, he was the absolute sovereign who bowed before no man. The news he brought would make his conversation with Hitler tricky. For now, Heinrich’s position was guaranteed by the boundless devotion of his troops and the rapid progress being made in his extermination program.

  “How many men did you lose?”

  “The losses aren’t too heavy. Four members of my personal bodyguard and two soldiers from the camp.”

  “It’s the work of the communists!” Stamping his foot, Hitler shouted at the top of his voice, “We must crush them too. Eliminate them with no mercy, one by one until there are no more!”

  “Mein Führer, the communists had nothing to do with this. Goebbels gave you a version of the facts intended to bolster the army and our people in the march toward Moscow. Blaming the Bolsheviks serves our cause. I came to set out to you the true circumstances of the explosion.”

  Hitler froze. He swept the hair from his forehead, a sure sign of annoyance.

  “What are you saying? Why wasn’t I informed? How can one be expected to rule a nation with false information?” Predictably, Hitler took on his world-weary air and flopped into the chair opposite Heinrich. He had been developing more and more of these spoiled-child affectations.

  “That is why I am here today, mein Führer. We are currently hunting down seditious agents within the Abwehr itself. Given the sensitive nature of the information, bringing it in person seemed more judicious than sending a telegram.”

  “Traitors in the ranks of the Abwehr. Nothing surprises me anymore. They’ve been sabotaging my work from the very beginning. You will unmask those responsible, won’t you, Heinrich?” It wasn’t a question but an order.

  “I hope to expose Wilhelm Canaris shortly. We must be sure to net the whole ring before we act. Rest assured, the matter will be settled within the next few days.”

  “Good, good. So, tell me what really happened in Poland.” Until now, the conversation had gone as expected. But storm clouds were gathering.

  “Five years ago, I met a young scientist named Bleiberg who was working on the effects of radiation and chemicals on the human body. His research was worth taking further, so the SS invested colossal sums in the construction of a secret laboratory in the basement of Wewelsburg Castle. In the next two years, the research team made spectacular progress. Very soon, tests on prisoners became necessary. I therefore ordered that the experimentation center be moved to the camp hospital at Stutthof, near Danzig.”

  “Excellent. Communist and Israelite scum deserve no leniency. By the way, your scientist’s name, Bleiberg, doesn’t that sound Jewish?”

  “I ordered an inquiry, which proved him to be a good German, mein Führer.” Heinrich preferred a lie to a sterile debate. Yes, Bleiberg was Jewish. The SS would take care of him once his research was completed.

  “Good, good. What happened then?”

  “The tests on humans were unpredictable and…” Hitler gestured with his left hand to interrupt his subordinate. Heinrich thought he saw the hand shake.

  “What tests are you talking about? What was the aim of all this mysterious research?”

  “Professor Bleiberg claimed to be capable of modifying the human body to recreate the pure Aryan race as described in ancient writings.”

  “The Hyperboreans? How ironic! We have sent expeditions to the Orient looking for Shambhala, to the North and where else besides, hunting for the roots of the Germanic race, and you’re telling me that science has solved the question? Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

  “I wanted to be certain, mein Führer. Besides, with the French campaign and the planning and, er, difficulties of Operation Barbarossa, I didn’t wish to add to the burden on your shoulders.”

  “As considerate as ever, Heinrich. I appreciate it.”

  Heinrich replied with the sympathetic smile that served him so well in all circumstances. Behind his little round glasses, it was impossible to guess what ideas were germinating and what ambitions he nurtured. God, he loved that!

  “I have a substantial workload, also. There’s no lack of conspiracies, and the organization of the Final Solution requires complete concentration to ensure no crucial logistical details are overlooked. The team at Degesch has worked hard to deliver the Zyklon B ahead of schedule. As a result, however, there was a delay while the gas chambers were being built. We barely avoided a situation that would have been detrimental to our objectives. In sum, we were both too busy to waste time with conjecture. I wanted to bring you a feasible project or abandon the whole operation and move onto something else.”

  “I see. Please, go on.”

  “For two years, none of the test subjects survived the mutation process. Some died from the exposure to radiation. Others were unable to withstand the injections following exposure. The medics gradually stabilized each step, but the subjects developed rampant cancer. Then, at the end of last year, Professor Bleiberg requested that I visit Stutthof because he had important news for me. He knows me well and is aware that if someone whistles, I rarely come running.”

  “Except when your master whistles.” A subtle but significant reminder. Heinrich smiled once more.

  “Indeed, mein Führer. So, I was convinced that a welcome surprise awaited me in Poland.”

  “Let’s go straight to the conclusion, shall we? Jodl’s waiting his turn for a briefing on the Russian Front.”

  Jodl? Let him wait. “Very well. One of the subjects had survived the radiation, tolerated the injections and had not been laid low by a tumor. Bleiberg mentioned a high long-term cancer risk but thought he could develop a serum to stop the cell necrosis. Subject 302 was brought in. A pure marvel, mein Führer. The professor had turned a spindly Jew with stereotypical racial characteristics into a sturdy blond child. Even his nose was no longer hooked.”

  “Are you sure the operation was genuine? I assume it could have been easy to introduce a decoy. We both know that scientists are adept at such trickery.”

  “That’s why I insisted on the whole process being filmed and photographed. There is no room for dou
bt. Subject 302 is the first functional prototype of the Übermensch.”

  “Why isn’t he here with you?”

  Heinrich took a deep breath to gather his nerve. “The child came to me quite docilely and gave a perfect salute. Most likely to allay my suspicions. I approached and ruffled his hair. Suddenly, he seized my service weapon, and before we could stop him, he shot holes in the vats of chemicals in the laboratory. Explosions gutted the building. In the confusion, he escaped. I was lucky to get out alive. Bleiberg and his team scrambled to save their archives. Their corpses must be frozen in the ruins.”

  Adolf Hitler wearily rubbed his eyes. “You didn’t capture the subject?”

  “No, mein Führer. Two of my elite units are still scouring the area. He must have died or gotten help. We will leave no stone unturned.”

  “You almost had good news for me. I’m grateful for your honesty, Heinrich. Keep me informed of developments. Before I let you go, give me something to celebrate.”

  “Treblinka and Sobibor have achieved cruising speed. Auschwitz-Birkenau is functioning at full capacity. Zyklon B is proving a highly efficient alternative to carbon monoxide. I estimate that sixty percent of European Jews will be eliminated within two years. We could go even faster, but I wish to keep the healthy ones available as a labor force for the war effort.”

  “Good. Excellent. Leave me now, Heinrich. Tell my secretary to show Jodl in. We have a counteroffensive to prepare on the Eastern Front.”

  Heinrich Himmler rose in silence. After an impeccable salute, which elicited a distracted response and no eye contact, he strode away, down twin flights of steps and approached the heavy wooden door. Hitler’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Heinrich! Just out of curiosity, what is this Übermensch operation’s code name?”

  “The Bleiberg Project, mein Führer.”

  CHAPTER 20