The Heisenberg Legacy (Sam Reilly Book 11)

by Christopher Cartwright

  “I’m afraid not. Your grandfather was explicit that the contents of this safe-deposit box should never, under any circumstances, ever be discovered by your father – and certainly not by me.” The lawyer lowered his head and winked. “You know how it can be.”

  Alex gave him a practiced and reassuring nod, although he had no idea what the damned lawyer meant. “Sure. All right. What do you need me to sign?”

  The two lawyers handed him several papers and he happily signed each one without reading it at all. His grandfather had entrusted this man with something he felt very strongly about, and the man had maintained this secret for nearly three decades. He was happy to trust him, even if he was a lawyer.

  Whipple and Thompson signed next to his signature, checked that everything was in order. Then they both pushed to their feet and left. Only Whipple returned, carrying a single manila envelope. He handed it to Alex. “I hope you find whatever it was Mr. Goodson wanted you to find in there.”

  “Sure,” Alex said. “I can’t imagine what that should be.” He tore the envelope open and found a single piece of paper with a set of numbers followed by a brass key. He looked up at the lawyer. “What’s this about?”

  Whipple smiled patronizingly. “I’m sorry, you didn’t think I actually stored it with us all those years, did you?”

  “If it’s not here, then where is it?”

  “In a safe-deposit box, Wells Fargo Bank, 363 Broadway.”

  Chapter Three

  Alex caught the subway to Lower Manhattan. He then walked the three blocks to the address Whipple had given him. His face was set hard and impassive, hiding his inner turmoil. He had been quiet and reserved ever since the meeting with the lawyer. It didn’t make any sense whatsoever. His grandfather had been dead for nearly a decade and his father less than a week. Why should he be so worked up over his grandfather?

  He knew the answer of course – his grandfather had made the time to see him and had been opposed to sending him to military boarding school at the age of five.

  He stopped and glanced up at the large red and yellow Wells Fargo sign above the entrance. Brass surrounded glass walls and doors, revealing a mixture of old school and modern banking. Alex stepped inside.

  Clean. Opulent. Legitimate. If there was such a thing as the smell of money – this place had it. A glance around the room, and he felt out of place.

  Alex waited in a short queue to see a teller.

  When his turn arrived, he stepped up and greeted the teller and gave her his safe-deposit box number. She asked him to take a seat on one of the leather couches provided, and that someone would meet him shortly to discuss the matter.

  Alex thanked her and took a seat.

  Five minutes later, the manager – a short and portly man with a moustache that reminded him of the banker from the board game, Monopoly – ran his eyes across Alex. There was a slight amount of recognition in the man’s face, followed by a broad smile.

  Alex stood up. “I think you’re after me.”

  “Mr. Goodson!” the bank manager embraced his hand warmly, like an old friend. “My name is Peter Doran. I was so very sorry to hear about the loss of your late father.”

  “You knew my father?” Alex asked.

  “No. I’m afraid I didn’t. But I had a close working relationship with your grandfather. He was quite explicit how he wanted to leave something for you and that it had to be after your father died. I wasn’t quite certain I would ever get to meet you, I’m retiring next week.”

  “Congratulations.” Alex made a show of his white teeth as his lips formed the smile he thought the response required. “What are you going to do with your retirement?” he asked, as he had learned was the correct thing to do.

  “I’d like to make time to do some of the things I should have done in the last forty years of my life. Read the books I like, make the time to spend with my grandchildren that I didn’t get to spend with my own kids, maybe even take my wife on a European vacation.” The bank manager met Alex’s eye with a polite smile. “Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  “When you do, let me offer you some advice – make the time to be with them. You’ll never regret it, no matter how important you feel your work is.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that,” Alex replied, with a practiced curve of his lips. “When I have children.”

  There’s no way I’m ever having children, dirty, nasty little creatures that they are…

  “I’m sorry, I digress,” the bank manager apologized. “Now. You must be curious what this is all about?”

  He smiled patiently. “Yes. To be honest today was the first I’d ever heard about it.”

  “Of course, of course, you’re right.” The banker opened the doors of a private elevator for him. “If it makes you feel any better, it pleases me to hear that. You see, that means your grandfather’s wishes were followed exactly as instructed.”

  Alex walked behind the banker, stepping into an elevator. The banker explained the procedure while the lift descended what appeared to be several stories below ground. There, he would be left in the private depository on his own, where his key would grant him access to his grandfather’s safe-deposit box. Each box worked on a digitally managed, rotating system. Only Alex’s safe-deposit box would be accessible, despite the vault presumably storing hundreds of identical such boxes.

  The banker held the doors and waited for him to step out of the elevator. “When you’re finished here, Mr. Goodson, simply press the up-button. Then I’ll return to show you the trust your grandfather left you.”

  “My grandfather left me a trust?” Alex was skeptical of such a gift.

  “Yes.” The old banker smiled. “And from what I understand, it’s large enough that you’re unlikely to spend it within your lifetime.”

  Alex fixed his eyes on the banker. “He left me a lot of money?”

  “Much more than I ever earned in my forty-five years at the bank.”

  “My grandfather barely had a dime to his name, he died in a rented apartment in the Bronx. If there’s money here, you must be giving it to the wrong guy.”

  “You are the correct recipient, Mr. Goodson, I can assure you. And concerning his wealth or lack of it, you’re very much mistaken.”

  Alex gave up. Whatever his grandfather did or didn’t leave him, he would discover within due time. Talking to the kindly old banker served him no further purpose.

  He sighed heavily. “All right. I’d better take a look at what my grandfather has left for me.”

  The banker stepped into the elevator and nodded. “Of course, of course. Remember, just press this button when you have finished.”

  Alex watched the steel elevator doors close. The entire elevator was built into the vault, so that as it rose, the platform disappeared into the ceiling above, making it overtly apparent that no one from the bank could have remained to spy on him. But Alex was cynical enough to suspect that there would be slyly concealed cameras to monitor the bank's interests, anyway.

  He stepped closer to the base of the elevator and looked up. The dark shaft rose high into the basement of the main building. When the elevator finally came to rest at least twenty stories above, a large metallic door slid across the ceiling, entombing him in the bank’s vault.

  Alex’s lips curved into his first genuine smile for the day as he glanced around the wall to wall metallic room. The entire place appeared sterile as a surgical operating theatre. The room even smelled of disinfectant, like a hospital. It was as though the people who stored their most valuable possessions in this place, wanted to wipe away their fingerprints and DNA – erasing all evidence of their presence. Actually, not so far-fetched, his cynical side noted.

  Taking his single brass key out of his pocket, Alex stared at it. The thing looked out of place in this modern bank building. It belonged to the lock of a pirate’s treasure chest.

  What were you involved in, grandfather?

  Alex grinned for the second time today.


  The people who banked here weren’t only storing their most valuable possessions. They were storing secrets.

  He spotted the façade of a single locked box – the only one visibly different in the entire vault. On it was an electronic keypad. Next to which, was a single keyhole.

  Alex read the note below:

  INPUT SAFE-DEPOSIT BOX NUMBER AND INSERT KEY.

  ONE ATTEMPT ONLY. INCORRECT MATCH AND ITEM WILL BE LOCKED PERMANENTLY.

  Alex confirmed the safe-deposit box number, inserted the brass key he’d received, and turned the key. Despite the outwardly old appearance of the key, the boxes were futuristic and advanced. The façade disappeared into the dark alcove behind the vault. Roughly thirty seconds later, the original safe-deposit box was replaced with a new façade.

  This one was simply identified by the number Alex had input.

  He put his hand on the small metallic handle and pulled. The safe-deposit box remained rigidly fixed. A moment later, the box glowed red and the entire room was scanned by some sort of laser. Alex glanced around the chamber as more than a thousand laser beams crisscrossed throughout the vault, as though it was confirming the number of persons inside the room and their location. Seemingly content with its findings, the computer then released the drawer which slid effortlessly outward.

  What were your secrets, grandfather?

  Alex looked inside the box.

  A single leather-bound journal stood in the middle. He opened it. The first page had a handwritten message addressed to him.

  Dear Alex,

  I’m sorry for the loss of your father. Despite your differences, he loved you very much. This journal explains everything. Please read it carefully. I am certain you will know what must be done and that you will achieve what I could not within my lifetime. Good luck.

  Your loving grandfather, Wilbert Gutwein.

  Chapter Four

  The Pentagon, Virginia

  Sam Reilly had never been a big fan of the Washington D.C. area, but that didn’t matter, because his father hated the place. Ever since Sam had joined the family business, his father made him run all the company’s errands in D.C. For a guy obsessed with money and power, Sam’s father was practically paranoid about going anywhere near the place.

  Which wasn’t to say that Sam knew the area all that well. He knew the strip of road from the Ronald Reagan Airport to the Pentagon and a few similar places very well indeed – but that was about it.

  One of the Pentagon drivers had picked him up, barely speaking once he made sure he had the right passenger. Sam was used to it. Many people around here acted like saying “good morning” was the same as giving away state secrets.

  Despite the heavy traffic, it wasn’t long before he had reached his destination. Able to comfortably accommodate hundreds in its lobby, the building was immense. Sam was whisked through a security line, then escorted to the office of the Secretary of Defense, a large room with blue carpet, a massive desk, and two small tables for meetings – four seats each. It wasn’t the kind of place for a big, open meeting. Just a few generals and maybe a head of state or two. Secrets passed through this unpretentious, innocuous room day and night.

  The door was closed by an aide. They were alone. The inconspicuous air-tight seal made Sam's ears pop.

  The Secretary of Defense greeted Sam with a firm handshake. She was a slim but muscular woman with stark red hair. Intelligent, commanding, and often intimidating, she wore her dark business suit and her permanent scowl with equal severity.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice, Sam.” As soon as she released his hand, she added, “What do you know about the German nuclear weapon project during World War II?”

  Sam blinked. “Not much, ma’am, except that in the early 1930’s, a scientist named Werner Heisenberg was awarded a Nobel Prize for the creation of quantum mechanics. He paved the way for the atomic bomb. I understand that Germany had a nuclear weapons project, but they were unable to progress to a completed prototype.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. We were informed that they didn’t have enough D2O, or heavy water. Heavy water has the same chemical formula as any other water, H2O, except one or both of the hydrogen atoms are the deuterium isotope of hydrogen instead of the regular protium isotope.”

  Sam laughed. “I’m a little rusty on my chemistry, but if you say so, ma’am.”

  She ignored his comment. “Norsk Hydro built the first commercial heavy water plant at Vermork, Tinn, also in the early nineteen thirties. Since Norway was under German control during the war, Norsk Hydro were obliged to provide the German Nuclear Weapons Project its needed supply of heavy water.”

  “But the water went dry?”

  “On February 27, 1943 the British led Operation Gunnerside succeeded in destroying the heavy water plant.”

  “And that’s what saved the world from a nuclear Germany in World War II?”

  The Secretary of Defense cocked an eyebrow. “You have no idea how close that statement is to the truth. Since the discovery of nuclear fission in late 1938, deuterium oxide – aka heavy water – has been used as a neutron moderator that captures neutrons.”

  Sam stared at her. “And that’s useful for making an atomic bomb, because?”

  The Secretary of Defense scowled. “Sit, sit. We may as well be comfortable.”

  Sam pulled out a chair for her. Once she was seated, he dropped down into the comfortable leather chair next to her.

  “There are two ways to make a nuclear weapon. Through isotopic separation of U-235 from natural uranium, you can develop weapons grade uranium, which can then be used to make a nuclear bomb. Alternatively, and by far the fastest and cheapest route is to breed and extract plutonium.” The Secretary of Defense frowned at Sam’s puzzled expression and sighed. “Heavy water slows down neutrons. A fast neutron will not be captured by a uranium-235 nucleus. Thus, neutrons must be slowed down to increase their capture probability without fissioning.”

  “Which produces weapons-grade plutonium?”

  “Exactly.”

  Sam poured ice water from a pitcher into a tumbler. He arched an eyebrow in question, but the Secretary just shook her head. “So without access to heavy water, the German nuclear weapons project was bound for failure.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. “The Uranium Club, as it was known, didn’t really get going until 1939. At that time, they were turned over to the Reich Research Council in a reduced capacity in 1942 because they weren’t producing enough results to satisfy the Führer.”

  “No results, huh?” Sam drank half the glass, placing the tumbler down on the fine deep brown table. Apparently, no one was worried about damaging the polish. “It turns out that when you send all your Jewish scientists to concentration camps, it slows down your research.”

  She gave him a stiff smile in acknowledgement. “In the spring of 1945, American troops raced through the area where the program had been moved. There, they captured or destroyed a lot of paperwork, equipment, and a prototype nuclear reactor – all which they brought back to Oak Ridge. By August, the Manhattan Project had developed the technology needed to make Little Boy with which we used to bomb Hiroshima, and Fat Boy, which we dropped on Nagasaki. Do you know anything about Die Koloratursoubrette?”

  “No, ma’am, nothing whatsoever.”

  The secretary pushed to her feet and began to pace back and forth on that blue carpet, a floor that had been trod in worry many times over the years. She said, “On April 22, 1945, Colonel Boris Pash commanded the Alsos Mission – an Allied team of military, scientific, and intelligence personnel to determine enemy scientific developments during World War II and specifically, the progress of the German nuclear energy project – after rendezvousing with the 1269th Engineer Combat Battalion at Freudenstadt, crossed the intact bridge at Necker River in Horb, and set his eyes on the small German town of Haigerloch.”

  “I’ve heard of Haigerloch. Didn’t they find the remains of an experimental nuclear reactor in an old barn
there?”

  “Hidden in the beer cellar of a castle in the small south German town of Haigerloch, to be exact,” the Secretary of Defense corrected. “As you can guess, the team dismantled the machine and took it back to Oak Ridge, where the scientists from the Manhattan Project reverse engineered some of its specifications to overcome their own barriers.”

  Sam nodded. “I’m sure I read about it somewhere, years ago.”

  “What you probably didn’t read about though, was that when Colonel Boris Pash finally captured Werner Heisenberg at his retreat in Urfeld, on May 3, 1945, he discovered a set of plans for a fully functional nuclear weapon.”

  “Germany had engineered a functioning nuclear bomb?”

  “Yes. They beat us to its development by nearly six months. If it wasn’t for the luck of a fire in Haigerloch, which destroyed their heavy water reserves, Germany would have been able to produce multiple nuclear weapons. Just think what sort of outcome that would have meant for the Allies in World War II? We might be living in a very different world.”

  “A horrifying thought.” Sam shook his head. “What’s this all about, ma’am?”

  The Secretary of Defense answered without hesitation, “There’s a young man, named Alex Goodson.”

  “I don’t know that name, either, ma’am.”

  Her lips formed a curt smile. “One day, he’s nobody special – a computer geek who likes to play video games, a young man placed on the high-functioning end of the Autism spectrum. He’s bright, antisocial, but not a big achiever.”

  “Go on.”

  “The next day, his father dies, and he’s called to Manhattan – an inauspicious and rather ominous name in this case – as sole beneficiary of a will. Not his father’s will, but his grandfather’s. His grandfather was a German immigrant originally named Wilhelm Gutwein who changed his name to William Goodson when he arrived here during World War II, using forged papers.”