by Ranjini Iyer
“Since you are familiar with the origins of this work, I am making a huge assumption that you might still have an interest in it. If not for my sake, do this for my father’s. But please do not involve my daughter. I want to spare Max any pain associated with this work. I trust you to do the right thing. Call my lawyer at 773-555-8327 if you need to.
“Yours most gratefully, Hiram Rosen”
Max gripped the arms of her chair. The room began to blur. Don’t faint, she told herself over and over. She put down the letter, moved unsteadily to a corner of the living room, and threw up all over a pot of pink begonias. Memories of Papa began playing like a movie in her head, and she broke into heaving sobs.
Lars went to her and held her shaking shoulders.
“That was insensitive of me,” he said in a pained voice. He handed her a large white handkerchief and led her back to her chair.
“You think this means Papa didn’t commit suicide,” Max whispered. “These threats from Berliner…you think they were carried out? Is that how he died?”
How angry she had been with her father. And now, this…this meant she had been unfair to him for years, even if it was only in her thoughts.
But how was it possible? Scientist and researcher Dr. Hiram Rosen’s death was caused by alcohol and aspirin poisoning, accidental or self-inflicted, the newspapers had reported. There had been no doubt in the police’s minds about that, she remembered.
“Perhaps they drove him to suicide,” Lars said with some hesitation.
Max tried to suppress the pangs of grief filling her chest.
“But how? Why?” she cried. “I mean, what is this research about, anyway?”
“I must give you some background. About me, about this whole business. I’m going about this all wrong.” Lars pursed his lips and pressed his hands together. “But first, a glass of water for you, my child.” He went into the kitchen.
Max took the water from him and sipped slowly. They didn’t speak for a while. Max stared at the floor, her mind numb, her body drained of strength.
“Let’s see,” Lars said slowly. “I was a student at Berlin University when I worked with Samuel. This was in the mid to late thirties. During this time, Samuel was invited to India on an archeological dig. They had found some mysterious little green discs in the Indus Valley—medicinal pills—that the locals claimed was the pill of immortality.”
“Really?” Max said.
“Well,” Lars said with a wave of his hand, “they were health pills that helped the ancient Indus people live longer lives, a potent combination of herbs and vegetable matter. But because of its legend, Samuel was excited.”
“What happened then?” Max refilled their cups with fresh coffee.
Lars smiled gratefully. “Samuel brought some back to Germany. We found that the pills did prolong life by reducing metabolic rate. My memory fails me now as to the details. But I do remember that we found a contagious bacterium in the pill. In 1939, the war began. As a Jew, Samuel’s heritage became an issue when the Nazis came to power. When Berliner couldn’t protect him anymore, he was sent off to Krippenwald labor camp. We were unable to finish our work.”
“So Papa presumably took over the work you and Opa had left unfinished,” Max said. “But Papa worked in genetics. What’s the connection between your work and his?”
“I don’t know,” Lars said. “After Samuel was taken away, I couldn’t bear to remain in Germany. I went to London. There I met my future wife and took over her family patisserie. It was a good life and I lost all interest in returning to a career in pharmaceuticals. Samuel and I stayed in touch off and on, but we never met again.” Lars stared out the window, eyes unfocused. “Samuel once mentioned to me that Hiram was interested in our work on the Indus pills. I didn’t know the extent of Hiram’s involvement in Samuel’s research until after your father’s death. But by the looks of it, he unearthed something about the pills that made Berliner nervous.” Lars turned back to face Max. “I called on you because I thought you might have some relevant papers Hiram or Samuel may have kept.”
“I have nothing work related of Papa’s,” Max said. “As for Opa, he burned almost all of his papers in a fit of rage one evening. All I have left from him is his seal and a diary, but most of it is torn and burned.”
“Why don’t you give this some thought?” Lars said. “Perhaps you might be able to guess the key to decode Hiram’s research.”
“It’s a really, really long shot,” Max said. She put her hands over her thighs to stop them from jiggling, picked up her sandwich, and stared at it. Gosh, she was hungry. How morbid that she would want to eat despite their conversation, despite throwing up, despite feeling such raging sorrow. Disgusted with herself, she took a defiant bite.
“Of course, once we crack the code, if we ever do, we’ll need the actual pills,” Lars said, his face somber. “For peer review, et cetera. Otherwise Hiram’s findings, whatever they are, will make a weak case.”
Max stared at Lars. “Papa arranged to send this to you five years ago. Why did you wait this long to—?”
Lars turned away. “My wife was ill at the time. She died, but there was our daughter. I didn’t want to put her in danger.” He paused. “In case Hiram had been—well, if Berliner Pharmaceuticals had in any way been involved in his passing. Besides, the second package containing the key to decode the research and the vial of the pills never arrived. All I had was his research, but it was coded and therefore gibberish. I called Hiram’s lawyer and told him that I would protect the research but would do nothing with it. It was a coward’s act, but…” Lars shrugged.
“What did the lawyer say to that?” Max asked.
“What could he say? He agreed that without the key, the research was useless. He asked me to let him know if the key ever surfaced. But it never did. He was rather puzzled that I had received the package containing Hiram’s research. Hiram had rerouted it several times and sent it to a post office box in London addressed not to me, but to Dr. Klein, about which I received detailed instructions.”
“Who’s Dr. Klein?” Max asked.
“Me! Your grandfather called me that. Klein means “little one” in German. I was rather young then, you see.”
“All right, what about the second package?”
“That had been sent directly from the lawyer’s office, also to that same PO box. But it didn’t reach me. Possibly mislaid. Or, more likely, stolen.”
“By Berliner?”
“Only they would have known Samuel’s nickname for me,” Lars said. “So yes.”
That her father had been involved in all this intrigue stunned Max. It was as if she hadn’t known him at all.
“What changed your mind?” Max said with a frown. “Why now?”
“I needed to do it,” he said tightly.
Max was surprised at the calm she was starting to feel. Lunches delivered late were usually enough to leave her in a cold sweat. Maybe this was how numbing fear felt.
“I called Hiram’s lawyer again a few days ago and asked him for your contact information,” Lars said. “And well, here I am.”
Max tried telling herself that knowing the truth about Papa was better, even if it burned a hole inside her that might never go away.
“Hiram’s lawyer had asked me when I first called him five years ago if Kevin Forsyth was involved in Hiram’s work in any way,” Lars said. “Do you know him?”
“Kevin Forsyth is father’s former business partner.” Max said sharply. “I don’t know him and I don’t trust him. Papa and he started a business years ago. It failed. Papa never told me the details, but he hinted that Kevin Forsyth cheated him somehow. Papa was bitter about it for a long time.” She shifted in her chair. “He started drinking. It was bad.”
“I’m sorry,” Lars said softly.
“So is Kevin involved?”
“Not to my knowledge or the lawyer’s,” Lars said. “But apparently, despite everything, Hiram admired Kevin, which is why the la
wyer mentioned him.”
Max closed her eyes. Her shoulders slumped forward. “This whole thing is as hopeless as it was five years ago.”
Lars stood up and went to the windows facing the lake. “Remember I said I was here to say goodbye to some friends? Well, a few weeks ago, I found out I had stomach cancer. Stage three.”
“Oh no—I’m so sorry,” Max said.
She had seen death at close quarters. Papa’s death had been a shock, but it had made her angry more than upset. Mama’s passing had been different. Her mother had died of lung cancer when Max was ten. She had watched helplessly as her mother suffered through the intense pain of her disease, seen her smile through it all until the very end.
Lars took a deep breath. “I thought about Hiram as I sat making plans. I thought I’d destroy his research. Years had passed. No one was asking about it. But I couldn’t. And since I didn’t have Hiram’s help in the form of the key, I’m taking the liberty of asking for yours. Despite his wish that I keep you out of this.”
Max didn’t know how to respond. She was still smarting from the shock of Lars’s revelations. “What sort of code is it?” she asked.
“I was told it’s a substitution cipher—using one letter for another—or a book cipher where the substitution is based on a portion of text. Or it could be a more complex one.”
Max turned to her enormous movie collection. “I saw a documentary about complex coding once. About the Enigma machine. It was used to send secret messages by Germans.” Max realized her voice had grown animated.
Lars smiled.
Max was embarrassed. “Papa and I loved movies. We’d watch our favorites over and over again. Sometimes I wish I could watch movies all day,” she said wistfully. “Whether I am stressed or happy, I watch movies. Or I eat.” She looked away, upset with herself for being so candid.
“Well, I hope it isn’t coded like your Enigma machine,” Lars said. “You said you still have Samuel’s diary. Is it here?”
Max walked over to a small safe and opened it. After looking through it for a few minutes, she said, “It must be in the safe at my catering kitchen. Sorry, I’m horribly disorganized.”
“Can we go look for it now?” There was urgency in Lars’s voice. “I leave for London tomorrow.”
Max had never before felt more exhausted. It was as if the last hour had torn her into ribbons. And she had so much to do for tomorrow.
She looked at Lars’s desperate face. “Sure,” she said.
CHAPTER THREE
Lars opened the cab door and followed Max into the back seat.
“Randolph and May please,” Max said to the driver.
They stared ahead in silence, listening to the lilting beats of middle-eastern music as the streetlights zipped by.
“Do you think we need to be afraid of Berliner?” Max asked.
Lars scratched his chin. “This is probably a forgotten matter.” He paused for a second. “But it wouldn’t hurt to be careful.”
Max wasn’t sure if she ought to feel reassured or frightened. She glanced at Lars, but his face remained impassive.
Lars went on. “The person who must have engineered the theft five years ago—of the key and pills Hiram sent me—is Peter Schultz. Peter was heir apparent to the Berliner throne when Samuel and I worked there. He was ruthless and ambitious. He’s as old as me, late seventies. Retired now. I checked. Only he would remember me after all this time. Only he knew that Samuel called me Dr. Klein.”
An old memory surfaced in Max’s mind. “Oh my goodness!”
“What is it?” Lars asked.
“Some months before Papa died, he received a job offer from Berliner. The offer was coming directly from Chairman Peter Schultz, they said. I remember Papa being part amused, part disturbed. When I asked him why, he told me Opa had once worked for Schultz. Might that have been their first threat to him? A veiled one?”
“It’s the sort of thing Peter would do,” Lars said drily. “Try and buy Hiram off. And when the bribe of the job didn’t work, they probably made stronger threats.”
“Are you sure they didn’t…well, I mean can we be sure my father committed suicide?” Max said.
“Peter Schultz is ruthless,” Lars said, “but murder is beneath him.”
“One other thing,” Max said. “How did Berliner even know that Papa had arranged to send you the document in the first place?”
The cab lurched to a halt at a stoplight. “Once Hiram died, they must have figured I was the only one Hiram could trust that knew about this research and about the Indus pills in particular.”
“Hmm. But what was—or is—Berliner afraid of? What does Papa’s research contain that is enough to scare such a powerful company? This contagious bacteria you found in the pill?”
“I’m not sure,” Lars said. “I left Berliner as soon as Samuel was sent to Krippenwald. I do know that Berliner continued working on the pills even after Samuel was taken away. Maybe they found something awful and eventually realized that Hiram had discovered it too.”
They arrived at Max’s kitchen in the West Loop area. The streets were deserted. The only place with some life was an edgy new Chinese restaurant about a block away. It glowed under the light of bright red lanterns.
“Oprah’s studio is there.” Max pointed. “The area is not the safest at night, but the rent is affordable.” She unlocked the door to her kitchen.
Lars walked into the simple but immaculate space. “Very nice,” he said. “You run a catering company, then?”
Max nodded. “Max’s Lunchbox and Catering,” she said. “We provide gourmet lunches to executives in the Loop area. It’s a struggle sometimes, especially since the severance from my old job is dwindling.”
Lars smiled. “How long have you had this company?”
“Over a year. Before that I was a senior research associate at Granger Foods. Fiddling in a lab with chemical-laden cream cakes became meaningless. Sensing my lackluster attitude, they promptly laid me off.”
“Samuel was a good cook,” Lars said, turning the pages of a cookbook. “Did you study at culinary school?”
“I have a masters in food chemistry and an associates degree from the Chicago Culinary Institute. Papa wanted me to study science. I love food. So I combined the two!”
Max opened a safe in the matchbox-sized office area she had cordoned off in one corner of the kitchen.
An almost hysterical laugh escaped her. “Before you knocked on my door today, I thought I had problems! Well…here goes nothing.” With a growing sense of anxiety mingled with anticipation, she reached into the depths of the safe and pulled everything out. A mass of papers tumbled onto the cement floor. She and Lars began going through them.
“Question is,” she said, “is Berliner still keen on hiding this? I mean if we manage to decode the research, can you be sure we won’t be in danger?”
Lars made circles with his forefinger on a sheaf of invoices. “I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that I cannot die in peace knowing I let my friend’s son down. If you’d rather not pursue this, it’s all right. But if you do, together we might be able to crack this. After all, I knew Samuel well. And you know your father best.”
Max felt a gush of affection for Lars. He had said know, not knew. Perhaps it was a slip of the tongue, but he truly seemed to care. She gave his hand a little squeeze.
“I don’t see anything resembling a journal or diary,” Lars said at last.
Max cursed. Might it be at home after all?
The door opened with a loud crash.
There stood the oddest-looking man Max had ever seen. He was short and heavyset, like someone who lifts weights but also eats too much bad food. His hair, which stood up in tufts, was sort of blond, well, yellow really. His face was jolly, even a bit stupid. He looked like a dull but sweet school principal.
He shut the door, bolted it, and came closer.
“Wei geht’s, how are you, Herr Lindstrom,” he said in a soft voic
e.
Max let out a gasp. Lars turned pale.
“Looking for something?” the intruder went on in broken English. He collected every single sheet of paper Max had pulled out of her safe and made a small pile. He went through them with care, grunted with satisfaction, and poured some liquid on them from a small bottle. Then he lit a match and threw it on the pile.
“What are you doing?!” Max leapt forward to rescue some of the papers, but the intruder held her away with an outstretched arm and smiled, his eyes crinkling up in amusement.
They watched the flames go up, consume the papers, and die down completely—all in a few seconds. A small pile of smoldering ash was all that remained.
The blond dusted off his hands.
“Do I know you?” Lars asked slowly.
“My mistake,” the man said with a small bow. “I represent old friends from Germany.”
“What do you want?” Lars asked.
Max watched, horrified, as the man pulled Lars toward him.
“You’re trying to be brave, Herr Lindstrom. That isn’t good for anyone’s health. I want the research. Where is it?”
Lars didn’t speak.
The blond pulled out a small, shiny pistol and attached something to its end. Max felt the room start to swim about her. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound escaped her.
The blond put a finger to his lips. “Nein, nein, Fräulein, we must make no noise.” To Lars, he said, enunciating every word, “Perhaps I wasn’t clear the first time. Where is the research?”
“In London,” Lars said, his voice quavering.
“Where?” he pressed.
Lars hesitated. “In a locker,” he said.
“I shall have the key to that locker, bitte, please.” The blond extended a large hand toward Lars.
“I don’t have it,” Lars said.
“Of course you do. You told Hiram Rosen’s lawyer that you were going to give her the research.” He pointed to Max. “That ash there isn’t the research. So either you have the papers or you have the locker key. There’s nothing in your hotel room or her place. I checked.”
