The Reich Legacy

by Stanley Salmons

  He had that brisk manner some consultants adopt when they’re impatient to move to the next bed, and he was out of the door before I could quizz him more closely about this mysterious infection.

  I fingered my head. Within a shaved area I found a couple of stitches.

  Cryptococcal meningitis, he'd said. I wasn't familiar with “cryptococcal” but I’d heard of meningitis all right. Could he really sock a meningitis infection with something so powerful it cleared it up in twelve hours? And shouldn’t I have had the mother and father of headaches before all this, especially with my intracranial pressure going through the roof? I could remember quite a bit about the journey but I couldn’t recall having a headache at any stage; I just fell asleep after the driver got me that beer—

  I caught my breath.

  I bet the bastard put something in that beer, something that knocked me for six. Why didn’t I see that before? It must have been the drowsiness – I just wasn’t thinking straight.

  But I was thinking straight now, and they weren’t nice thoughts.

  Because if that driver did drug me, how much of this other stuff could I believe?

  25

  After lunch the following day the nurse brought in my clothes, my carry-on, and my possessions. I got up carefully, because my head was still throbbing, and dressed. Then I checked everything. Keys, fibrepoints, some tissues, a mixture of coins – cents and euros. I picked up my billfold and found my ID and all my credit tokens inside. There were several large denomination bills, both US and Mexican, because I’d changed some money in Munich. The amount looked about right. Perhaps my suspicions were ill-founded and these people were on the level after all. Cell phone?

  Where’s my cell phone?

  I pressed the call button and after a minute or so the nurse came in.

  I said, “¿Dónde está mi teléfono celular?”

  She swallowed and shook her head. Did she not understand me?

  I repeated the question slowly and clearly.

  My Spanish isn’t that bad, but again she shook her head. Her eyes darted this way and that, then she said something about the surgeon and hurried out.

  He strolled in about ten minutes later. “Nurse says you have a problem.”

  “Yeah, where’s my cell phone? Everything’s been returned to me except that.”

  “Really? Okay, don’t worry about it. We’ll take a look around. Someone’ll bring it to you when it shows up.”

  There was more I wanted to know – where was I, what was the name of this place? – but he was out of the door before I could even draw breath. I swore and sat down on the bed. Not having the cell phone was a damn nuisance. I wanted to call Owen Gracey, tell him what was happening.

  I waited but no one showed up. There was nowhere I could go and nothing I could do, so I laid back on the bed and tried to think. It was useless; a train of thought would start but I couldn’t hold on to it. After a couple of attempts to stay awake I surrendered and the shutters came down.

  I was awoken by a single sharp knock on my door. I blinked and opened my eyes. The light entering through the window had faded somewhat and I registered vaguely that it must be late afternoon. Then, with a start, I realized someone was standing at the open door. I eased myself up. He was a tall guy in a white shirt and jeans and he had a holstered sidearm on his belt. Security man?

  He took a couple of steps into the room, picked up my carry-on and jerked his head towards the door. Clearly an alumnus of the same charm school as the one who picked me up at the airport. I eased my feet to the floor and followed him. Presumably I was being taken to another room and perhaps they’d found my cell phone and put it in there for me.

  Although my head still ached I was ready to pay plenty of attention to where we were going. He reached the door at the end of the corridor, placed his palm on the pad’s reader, and we went through. It looked possible to continue through another security door directly opposite but instead we turned right and walked parallel with the front of the building. The corridor was wide and our footsteps were quiet, cushioned by the pale-blue composite flooring. Ahead of us a space opened up – the short wing I’d seen from outside the recovery room. It was the entrance lobby, with a desk, unmanned, and what looked like an office area. We crossed the space and continued in the main corridor beyond, the tall guy striding ahead without a backward glance. He turned left and I did likewise. This corridor was narrower. On the left was a row of doors; on the right there were windows, through which I could see another wing. In my head I now had a provisional map of the building. It was like two capital letters E, placed back to back: three wings to the front, the short central one being the entrance lobby, and three to the rear, of which we were in the central one now. We stopped outside a door with a number on it. He handed me my carry-on, said in Spanish “Your room”, and walked off.

  I watched him go, then tried the door. It opened and I went in. The room was simply furnished in low-end motel style, but it was a reasonable size. There was a double bed, a writing desk, a chair, an armchair, and a wardrobe with drawer units built into it. The flooring was the same composite I’d seen elsewhere, but the desk was standing on a rug with a primitive, presumably locally woven, design. There was no room phone and no sign of my cell phone. I looked for it in every drawer of the writing desk and every drawer in the wardrobe: they were all empty. Unless it was located I’d be cut off from the outside world. I didn’t like that, I didn’t like it at all.

  I opened an internal door and saw a small en suite with a sink, toilet and shower stall. I returned to the room, went over to the window, and drew back the gauzy net curtain. There were no latches on the window; it was fixed double glazing. It looked out across a U-shaped space to a wing opposite. The windows I could see would belong to the corridor we passed by when we came out of the clinic. That one had a security pad on it, so entrance was restricted for some reason. In the open ground to the extreme right I could just make out the flimsy fence.

  I lifted my bag onto the bed, unpacked my few things, and hung them in the wardrobe or put them in the drawer units. Then I went into the en suite and gave my face a quick splash in the sink. When I straightened up in front of the mirror I saw the shaven portion high up on the right side of my head. Stubble was already growing around the stitches in the skin. In addition there were four other sore spots on my head. I rubbed my fingertip lightly over them; they felt like small indentations, in fact I could just about see one of them through my buzz cut.

  What were they doing there?

  I grimaced, went back into the room, and tried to focus my thoughts. What was this place? The surgeon had mentioned a clinic, which seemed reasonable because no way was the rest of it a hospital. On the other hand it didn’t feel much like a company building either. On the desk there were a few Spanish-language magazines and paperbacks. I leafed quickly through them, looking for a company brochure or other information but found nothing. I’d already checked the desk drawers, so I knew there were no clues there. Was there some sort of identification outside, lettering over the entrance, for example? After the clinic area I hadn’t seen any more security doors so presumably I could go straight out through the entrance lobby.

  I opened my door. There was no key on the outside or inside, so I just closed it, then retraced the route we’d taken minutes before.

  The lobby was still empty. I walked up to the twin glass doors and tried one. Locked. Damn. For a few moments I stood there looking out. There was no road coming up to the entrance but there was a gap in that flimsy fence, so it clearly wasn’t electrified.

  If I could get past the locked doors it wouldn’t be hard to leave, but where would I go? It was air-conditioned inside but it looked like it was baking hot outside, and all I could see from here was mile after mile of arid landscape. In any case I’d come here to ask questions about Prescaline. The need for answers hadn’t gone away and I seemed to be in the right place to get them. I had to see this through.

  I de
cided it was best to leave further exploration for the moment. Someone would probably be calling on me before long and I’d get some kind of briefing at last.

  26

  I was in my room, brushing up my Spanish with the magazines, when there was a knock on the door. I glanced at my watch – six-thirty – then got up and opened the door. A strange-looking guy was standing there.

  “Hallo, mate. Heard you just blew in. If you fancy a bite I can take you for a spot of dinner. I’m Colin, by the way, Colin Osgood.”

  Colin Osgood was probably around my own age, but there any resemblance ceased. He was short and pear-shaped, narrow in the chest and round in the belly. His hair seemed to start too far back on his head, and it was brown, frizzy, and dry. His front teeth protruded at odd angles. He gave me a damp handshake.

  I wasn’t going to introduce myself as Colonel, and I didn’t want him calling me Jim – not yet, at least.

  “James Slater.”

  “Welcome aboard, James. This way, mate.” The accent was pure South London.

  He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, so I left my uniform jacket in the wardrobe and closed the door behind me. I had a great many questions for this guy but I had no idea where he fitted into the hierarchy. I needed to proceed with caution.

  At the main corridor he turned left and moments later we reached a T-junction,. We must have arrived at the two wings at the far end. He turned into the wing on the left, opened a door on the right, and I was hit by warm spicy air and a loud buzz of conversation.

  We’d entered a communal dining room. There were four small tables, separated but roughly lined up, with men already seated at three of them. Four longer tables were set at right angles to them a short distance away, and at a quick count there were forty places, all occupied by women. It was the first time I’d seen a dining-room segregated by sex.

  The women were young – some not much more than teenagers. They were taking turns to get up and receive their meals from a serving table over on the far left. Colin didn’t lead me down there, though; he indicated a chair, and we sat down opposite one another at the vacant table. There was room for four places but it was set for two: knives, forks, and spoons, a jug of water, tumblers, a bottle of beer each, and a bowl of that baguette-style bread, which I soon learned was called bolillo. It seemed that the men, unlike the women, would be served at table.

  Colin had obviously noticed my puzzled expression. “The girls work in the factory,” he said.

  “Making…?”

  “Clothes. Uniforms, actually.” But before I could ask him who for he held up a hand. "Don’t worry, Müller will explain everything to you.”

  “Müller?”

  “Dr Erich Müller, he started this place and he runs it.”

  “What’s the name of the company? I don’t even know that much.”

  “Company? Not really a company, mate, more like a commune. Pretty much self-contained. Has to be – nothing else for miles.” His eyes settled on the beer. “Ah, the old cerveza.” He didn’t bother with a tumbler and when he set the bottle down again it was half empty.

  “So what are you doing out here, Colin? Long way from – where was it? Brixton?”

  “Spot on – you’ve got a good ear. Yeah, I’m an electronics engineer. Did my degree at Queen Mary’s. Specialized in radio communications. Obvious choice for me, I was a radio ham in my teens. You’re from the old country yourself, ain’tcha?”

  “Originally, yes. But I’ve been in the States a long time.”

  A man in a white chef’s jacket and trousers emerged from a door in the far left-hand corner carrying a tray. My eyes narrowed. The kitchen was through there. It probably extended to the end of this wing.

  The man came over and served us with starters: a dressed salad of leaves and the sharp-tasting fruits I’d had before. With a “Dig in” Colin went to work on it with a will, following this by tearing off pieces of bolillo with his crooked teeth. It was hard to watch so I averted my eyes. I was wondering what use they had for a radio communications engineer in a uniform factory. Why did they recruit from abroad? Were there no qualified engineers in Mexico? Did he have to get a work visa? I kept the questions to myself and affected only a casual interest.

  I helped myself to the bread and tore off a small piece with my fingers. “I didn’t realise radio hams still existed.”

  He answered with his mouth full. “Ooh yes, very popular, it is. Just the ticket for me. Hated school, see? Shit time for me, that was. No good at sports, see – that’s what the girls go for. Radio’s much better; no one knows what you look like, you just chat, swap details about your kit, that kind of thing.”

  He must have noticed the shaven patch on my head by now, and the stitches, but he'd made no comment. That was odd. Perhaps he was just being polite, although I wouldn't have thought politeness was one of Colin Osgood’s strong suits.

  The chef or waiter removed our empty plates.

  “And after your degree?”

  “Couple of jobs. Second one was good: power transmission, right up my street. Then they bloody make me redundant, don’t they? So I’m on the look-out for something and I see this advert. Great package, flights paid for, couldn’t be better. I send in my CV and get the job. Been here ten years now.”

  The waiter was back. He placed a dish in front of each of us: rice, tortillas, and what looked like beef chilli. Colin attacked it all with gusto and conversation was at an end.

  The meal was tasty and substantial. Colin noticed that my beer was untouched. He pointed. “Not drinking, James?”

  “No, I don’t drink.” It wasn’t true, of course, but I had to be at the top of my game. Colin needed no second invitation. He reached for the bottle.

  “Don’t mind me, then. Mustn’t waste it, must we?”

  The meal was rounded off with black coffee, Colombian, freshly ground. I pointed discreetly towards the men at the other tables. “Who are those guys?”

  “I can introduce you, but not yet. First you need to know a bit more about the way things run around here.”

  “I wasn’t planning on staying more than a couple of days.”

  He gave me a queasy smile. “We need to talk somewhere private. Your room or mine?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Yours.”

  He got up, but before leaving said “Half a mo’” and went over to one of the men. He handed him a small plastic disc and said something I couldn’t hear what he said over the noise of other conversation. The man looked first at me, then glanced in the direction of the women’s tables. Then he nodded at Colin. I heard “Cheers, mate” and he rejoined me. As he did so several of the men got up from their tables and all the conversation in the room seemed to die.

  There was something peculiar about this set-up, something that made me feel very, very uncomfortable.

  27

  Colin’s room was on the same corridor as mine but several doors further up. It was less tidy but otherwise identical. He took the armchair. I wasn’t particularly enjoying his company, so I sat on the edge of the bed to maintain an acceptable distance.

  “Dr Müller plans to see you tomorrow.”

  “Right. And where do I find him?”

  “He’s in the wing opposite the clinic. Someone’ll have to take you there, ’cos the corridor’s got a security lock on it.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “Müller likes to have people around who are useful to him. Take me, for example: I’m good on radiofrequency power transmission, just what he needs. You, well you got some pull with the US Army, I gather.”

  “I only came here—"

  "Look, Müller asked me if I’d have a word before he sees you. Best thing is if I tell you what happened to me when I got here. Okay?”

  I shifted my position a little. “All right.”

  “I told you I applied for this job and got it. So I fly out and they pick me up from the airport and take me to the clinic in that end wing. A guy is in there in a white coat, a doctor
. Asks if I’ve been vaccinated against Q-fever. What the fuck do I know about Q-fever? He says there’s been an epidemic round here, not the normal form, neither, much nastier. They have a stock of the vaccine, he says, and he can do it right away. Sounds good to me so I roll up my sleeve. Next thing I know I’m waking up in bed with a head full of bandages.”

  My skin began to crawl. He went on:

  “I get a visitor, same guy. Says unfortunately I had a serious reaction to the vaccine, Anna-something-or-other.”

  “Anaphylactic shock?”

  He pointed a finger at me. “’At’s it! Put the pressure up inside my skull. They had to make a hole to let some fluid out. That’s why a bit of hair’s missing when they take the bandages off. This starting to ring a bell, is it?”

  I reached up and rubbed gently at the stitches.

  “Yes, mate,” he said. “I’m afraid they did it to you an’ all.”

  I ground my teeth. “Go on.”

  “Well, it’s a load of old cobblers, innit? What they done was, they put this little implant inside my skull.”

  I gave him a tired look. “You’re not going to start telling me this Dr Müller can now control our brains. That’s science fiction.”

  “No, no, mate, much simpler than that! See, there’s a couple of leads going down into something called the thalamus. I looked it up after. It’s some sort of pain centre.”

  “I know what it is.”

  When I recovered from my brain transplant I wanted to understand exactly what had been done to me, so I read as much as I could about brain anatomy. I learned that the thalamus was about the shape and size of a walnut, and that it lay deep inside the brain. It acted like a telephone exchange, receiving signals from the body and directing them to the right part of the cortex. And those signals did include pain.

  A wave of anger swept through me. I leapt to my feet and paced back and forth in the small space. Someone had been inside my head! As if I my brain hadn't been abused enough in the past, someone had done it again, probing around without my knowledge, without my permission, violating my human rights – not just my rights but the proprietorial rights any individual had over their own body. The anger was washed away by nausea. I started to overbreath. I put my fingers to the scar, trying to feel what had been done to me, but of course this was just a couple of skin sutures; whatever damage there was, it was deep inside my head. I ran my tongue round my lips. I was shaking.