The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) (4 page)

Tower of London, May 1941
.

T
he English doctors had done
a remarkable job. The crash landing wasn’t part of the plan. The broken ankle either. Another three weeks’ rest, and he’d be gamboling around Berlin. No doubt the führer would be proud of him and the risks he’d taken for the grandeur of the Reich. Even Himmler and Göring would stop shouting their mouths off. For months, he’d suffered the humiliations in silence—excluded from crucial meetings, sidelined from decisions about the war. But this mission was his and his alone. And he was going to change the course of history.

The unhappy child, bullied by a controlling father who had moved the family to Egypt for business reasons, wasn’t doing so bad. He’d developed a taste for insubordination from an early age, but only when he was twenty-one and the Great War was raging did he rebel against his father’s strictures, abandoning his boring business school to enlist in the hope of becoming a fighter pilot. The war ended before he could join the battle for the sky, but at least he’d broken free of his oppressive family. Then came the move into politics and the decisive encounter with Adolf Hitler. Together, the two men rose through the ranks of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. After the failed Beer Hall Putsch in 1923, they were incarcerated in Landsberg Prison, Bavaria. For eight long months, Hitler dictated to him what was to become the foundation of the new world order,
Mein Kampf
. The Nazis’ hour of glory lay on the horizon. Rudolf Hess’s had already passed.

The sound of a key turning in the lock brought him back to the present. The cell door opened. Douglas Douglas-Hamilton, the fourteenth duke of Hamilton, ducked his head to enter the room. The architects of the Tower of London had not designed the building for lanky aristocrats. The prisoner examined his visitor. Six feet six inches tall, slim and perfectly nondescript. In his tweed suit, he looked like a giant green bean. To Rudolf, he was the caricature of a British lord: crooked teeth, hair flopping over his forehead, long nose. In short, the duke was the epitome of ugliness.

Once he was through the door, Hamilton straightened up, thrust his hand out and pumped the prisoner’s hand. He glanced around and found the room on the comfortable side. A cozy bed next to a chair and a desk covered with newspapers. Multicolored vials were lined up on the window ledge. Very German. “My dear Rudolf, I’m very pleased to see you being so well treated. Forgive the amateur dramatics, but in the present circumstances it’s important to make people think you’re being incarcerated.”

Standing up with some pain, the Nazi pulled over the chair and sat down. “My lord, it’s a pleasure for me, as well. MI6 explained the necessity of this masquerade. It suits me perfectly. I won’t be a difficult guest. Once our agreement is finalized, and I have been released, I’ll take advantage of my stay in your fine country to visit Oxford. My father wanted me to study there.”

Hamilton let out a stiff chuckle, which he concealed behind an awkward cough. “I shall be your guide. I spent lovely years there. How are you? Our last meeting dates back to the Olympic Games, I believe.”

“True. We shared breakfast in your hotel in central Berlin. I won’t lie. I’m impatient to return home. My ankle is on the mend. Other than that, I’m as well as can be.”

The Scotsman admired the German’s flawless diction with no trace of accent. But the duke had more important things on his mind than the Nazi leader’s diction. At the duke’s request, a guard discreetly brought in a second chair. His task accomplished, the man left, locking the door behind him. “Herr Hess, now that we are alone, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“With pleasure. Peace between our two nations is a pressing issue. Thanks to the prospect of our forthcoming treaty, an invasion of the Russian front is imminent. Our army is massing its troops to attack the Bolsheviks, to the delight, I should imagine, of the Americans and Mr. Churchill.”

“Excellent news! We have no wish to see Stalin become a major player on the world stage.”

“We’ll ensure he doesn’t. Have faith in the führer’s strategic genius. In a few weeks, the support of your air force will guarantee us a crushing victory. We shall celebrate Christmas in Moscow.” In his excitement, Rudolf pummeled his good knee with his fist.

“God willing,” Hamilton replied with a wolfish grin.

“And as good things always come in pairs, I should tell you that one of our scientists has obtained some very promising results.”

The duke’s eyes opened so wide, they threatened to pop out of their sockets. His face was a picture of pure covetousness.

“His latest experiments seem to confirm every hypothesis,” Rudolf Hess continued smugly. “Ours and yours. There is, of course, still work to be done, but we’re on the right track.”

The duke nibbled his lower lip. He could hardly conceal his eagerness, but his upbringing reasserted itself, and he restrained himself. “Radiation might work, then? What does your expert say? Remind me of his name again.”

“Bleiberg. Professor Viktor Bleiberg. He is enthusiastic, as you can imagine. But he is a man of science and constantly demands more tests and more guinea pigs. Thank goodness we’re not short of subjects to experiment on.” The Nazi’s smile faded when he saw the duke’s stern expression.

Hamilton cleared his throat. “Bleiberg? I confess I’m somewhat surprised. The name sounds Jewish.”

“Indeed. But you must remember, my dear Hamilton, that as this project is ultimately my responsibility, I decide who is Jewish and who isn’t.” Hess looked offended. It was a pretense. In reality, the project was Himmler’s. In the power game being played out in Berlin, Hess’s grasp of strategy had proved sadly deficient. Hitler’s official deputy had soon found himself relegated to third place in the regime, behind the unbearably duplicitous megalomaniac Göring. And now Hitler swore only by Himmler.

The entrance of an insignificant man in a tight-fitting gray suit jerked the Nazi out of his thoughts. The man bowed slightly to the duke and gave him a brown leather briefcase. Hamilton extracted a thick file. Taking the briefcase with him, the messenger exited, shutting the two men in together once more.

“Let’s see, as far as the Jews are concerned, do as you please. You are the masters of continental Europe. But if you have no objection, I would like us to go through Herr Hitler’s proposed treaty together. Churchill will sign it as soon as I give my approval.”

“It will be a pleasure. I can’t wait to put an end to this sham imprisonment and move into more comfortable accommodations.”

The examination of the treaty setting out the conditions for peace between Britain and Germany took many hours. Hess’s enthusiasm was a contrast to the duke’s stoicism.
The English are quite inscrutable
, mused Hitler’s emissary.

“Excellent. I have an appointment with the prime minister this evening, and I think things will move fast. To be absolutely thorough, there is one point that needs clearing up. If everything goes as planned, I shall look forward to taking you to the opera next week.”

The German’s face lit up. His bushy eyebrows twitched at the mention of classical music. “With pleasure. I’m touched that you should remember how much I love opera.”

“Don’t mention it, truly. Let’s try to conclude, shall we? My last question concerns the antidote. Do you have the formula with you?”

“Antidote is not the right word. Rather than reverse the effects of the radiation, the solution apparently allows the cells to avoid necrosis. Bleiberg is very particular about the nuance. Scientists, you know.” Hess’s jocular tone elicited no response. The endless hours of discussion appeared to have gotten the better of Hamilton’s good nature. Hess cleared his throat and reached toward the pile of books on the floor next to his bed. He opened a fine edition of
Hamlet
and took out a carefully folded piece of paper, which he handed to the duke.

“Here. I learned the elements by heart without understanding a single line. That’s how secrets are spread. I jotted down the formulas and the ingredients.” Hess thought he saw a slight trembling of the aristocrat’s hand when he took the piece of paper. Without a word, Hamilton tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket and knocked on the door. As it swung open, he reached out to shake the German emissary’s hand.

“Herr Hess, I am very grateful, on behalf of my organization, for your devotion. I’ll keep you informed as soon as I receive further instructions.” A warm glow spread across the Nazi’s cheeks. He’d done it! No nation could counter a British-German axis. Moreover, humanity was about to experience its most significant evolution. All thanks to him. Their handshake was virile. Hamilton left the cell, and the door swung closed. Then the slot in the door opened. The duke’s large head appeared in its frame. Gripped by sudden anxiety, Hess hobbled over.

“Oh, it completely slipped my mind, but I fear I shan’t be able to take you to the opera after all.”

“Why so?” The anxiety deepened.

“You see, Rudolf, Churchill has absolutely no intention of signing any agreement with Hitler. In fact, we hope to convince America to join the conflict shortly. We trust the arrogance of your Japanese friends will help us persuade Uncle Sam.”

“What? But you said…”

“Tsk-tsk, Rudolf. A grown man like you shouldn’t allow himself to be taken in. I see now how Himmler succeeded in overtaking you in the führer’s affections.”

“You knew?” seethed Hess. Panic turned to rage.

“Naturally. MI6 isn’t staffed by no-hopers. What’s more, we have informed Hitler that you were carrying a draft peace treaty, and he has denied all knowledge of your plan. He has completely dissociated himself from your initiative.”

“But he…” Hess’ voice trailed off as thoughts swirled in his brain.

Hamilton stepped back from the opening. “Your case looks pretty hopeless, I fear. And now that I have this,” the duke said, patting his breast pocket, “along with the name of the scientist in charge of the Big Project, you serve no purpose. I am sincerely sorry.”

Hess stared at the floor in despair. He shook his head incredulously.

“We will make contact with this Bleiberg chap,” Hamilton went on. “As for you, as of today, you are no longer in full possession of your mental faculties. Can you imagine the beauty of it? The louder you protest, the more apparent your madness will be to the whole world. You will be tried after the war and will rot in jail. We’ll make sure of that. By the way, I’m not the duke of Hamilton. My poor fellow, your naivety is quite pitiful.”

Rudolf lunged at the door, screaming in a mix of German and English. “Bastard! You have no right!
Sie sind verrückt!
Curse you and your consortium! The führer will raze your cesspit of an island. You’ll die under our bombs, and our panzers will flatten the last vestiges of your decadent civilization!” The phony Hamilton smiled and closed the slot. The muffled hammering of fists on steel echoed down the hallway. Soon, there was nobody there to hear.

Rudolf Hess was secreted away in a British jail until the end of the war. In 1946, at the Nuremberg trial, he argued that he had attempted to bring the war to an early end by offering Britain an alliance with Germany. He was sentenced to life in prison for conspiracy and crimes against peace. Hess became prisoner No. 7 in Spandau prison, West Berlin. He remained locked up until August 17, 1987, when his guards found him hanging in his cell. He was ninety-three years old.

He filled many notebooks during his captivity. They were all burned.

A
s he did most mornings,
Eytan watched the sun rise. It would be a warm, sunny day. Summer was on its way. He prayed that his mission would be over before the thermometer soared into the high eighties. The walkways in the park were already swarming with tourists of every color, language and origin. He knew of no other place that so deserved the name melting pot. It didn’t displease him. He genuinely enjoyed observing humanity. He had worried that constant killing would deprive him of part of his own humanity, but in fact the job gave him a greater sense of accomplishment than loss. A cup of cappuccino in hand, he watched the entrance to Corbin’s building. Eytan’s steely gaze scanned the street while he replayed the events of the previous weeks in his mind. He was convinced of one thing: The denouement of this affair was approaching. At last.

The possibility that his “client” had already been eliminated crossed his mind. He promptly dismissed it, figuring that he was a good half day ahead of the invisible enemy he had been playing cat-and-mouse with for the last few months. Three hours spent leaning against the park wall had led the agent to two conclusions. First, the neighborhood was populated by the extravagantly wealthy. If a killer wanted to slip unnoticed into any of its buildings, the dress code was suit and tie. Second, the target was not the kind of guy to head off for work at dawn. So Eytan waited. Patience was an integral part of his job. Luckily, there was something handy to read. Eytan dug into his pockets for some change and fed it into one of the colorful newspaper boxes vying for his attention. He chose
The New York Times
, to his eyes the most authoritative of the papers on offer. The layout was appalling. Only an American could understand this mishmash of headlines, columns and words. But what did they say? No pain, no gain.

As ever, the news encapsulated a world in chaos. The economic debacle had engendered a cultural crisis. The measured optimism of the global stock markets glossed over the beating the great unwashed were taking—unemployment, rampant poverty, evictions.

These reporters seemed to be rediscovering scourges that had afflicted the underclass since the dawn of time, well before the advent of financial chicanery. Nothing new there. NBA and NFL franchises were busy trading players, but Eytan skimmed over the sports pages. In the Middle East, the situation remained unstable. In Africa, the West continued to plunder resources—a gigantic new oil field had been discovered. In the United States, Medicare reform was once more the big issue.

There was a health scare in Mexico. An especially deadly influenza virus, according to the
Times
. Local and international organizations, under the supervision of the World Health Organization, had established quarantine procedures to isolate blah blah blah. Eytan smiled. It’s awesome how you can feed people the same old bullshit time and again without them noticing. In three months, face masks would be everywhere, pharmaceutical firms would be selling millions of doses of a miracle vaccine to overanxious or corrupt governments…

After going through three sections with one eye on the news and the other on Corbin’s building, he felt like he was getting a permanent squint. The paper joined the remains of his breakfast in a nearby trashcan. Around ten, the sidewalks and streets began to busy up. Long-distance surveillance became tricky. Eytan considered crossing but had no desire to wind up a pancake on the blacktop.

While waiting for the walk sign at the nearest crossing, Eytan noticed a black Chrysler limo pulling up outside the building. The limo didn’t stand out in any way in this upscale neighborhood. It was the tags that attracted Eytan’s attention—pale blue with a curved red band at the top and “Diplomat” clearly printed on them. Eytan memorized the number: D PR08-68 UN. He racked his brains. D for Diplomat, obviously. UN for the United Nations, simple. But he felt a growing sense of foreboding. Shit, what did PR stand for again?

The traffic stopped. Pedestrians crossed. Two bulky guys got out of the limo, which immediately merged back into traffic. Eytan walked faster, then broke into a sprint as the guys entered the building.

PR. The country code for Argentina.

Crucial discovery: I
can sleep without getting wasted the night before. Now that’s encouraging news. Bernard shook me up last night, but can I blame him? I’m caught up in something straight out of an Ian Fleming novel.

Considering the circumstances, I’m shocked to realize that the events of last night have left me feeling great, like I’ve awakened from a long sleep, shucking off my torpor and stepping back into reality. But which reality? I’m confused, which is only natural. The trip to Switzerland will provide the key to this whole strange business. I’ll drop by the hospital to give Mom a hug before I leave. I owe her that, at least.

The phone rings. I get up. Weird. Something’s wrong. The walls are straight, the floor’s flat. I’m not staggering. I was almost used to lurching instead of walking. In a straight line, the phone’s not so far. I pick up. A woman’s voice asks if I’m Jay Novacek. I nearly blow her off. I’m Jeremy Corbin. But I’m not sure the name’s very safe. So I say yes. She talks. The more she says, the less I understand. The handset slips from my grasp. My knees buckle. I crumple to the floor. I rewind the words. “I’m very sorry to tell you your mother died this morning from a heart attack. My sincere condolences. Could you drop by today to take care of some administrative matters?”

I thought it would take longer for my world to collapse. My father, then my mother. The earthquake starts in my gut, and soon I’m trembling from head to foot. Tears erupt from my eyes. I want to trash the whole place, demolish the walls with my bare fists. A second later, I’m sobbing, sprawled on the rug. The pain is massive and overwhelming. Not her, not now.

Suddenly, it hits me. I’m next.

My cell phone vibrates. Startled, I grab it without thinking. It’s Bernard. “Bernard, Mom’s…”

“I know. We have to act fast. You’re in danger. Do exactly what I say.” He talks, I listen. I sense he’s scared. I’m scared, too. Now I’m not sure I want to croak anymore. At least not before I’ve gotten to the bottom of all this. Not before I get payback.

I skip the shower and get dressed fast. I stuff random clothes into my black leather travel bag. Passport in pocket, I throw on a jacket, pull my Yankees hat down low and head out. Following Bernard’s instructions, I bypass the elevator and take the stairs. Cigarette dangling, I race down them. Twelve flights at this speed will soon tone up those calves. I glance at my watch. Ten in the morning. I nearly slip on the thick red carpet that the building’s interior designer felt obliged to put in the lobby. Looks good, but it’s gonna kill someone one day.

I glance down. A guy’s running up the stairs. Black suit, shades, buzz cut—the full
Men in Black
outfit. I get a nasty feeling about the guy. I double back, heading for my floor. Look up. Jesus, another guy—the first guy’s clone—is coming down. I’m trapped. No time to think. My only chance is the fire escape. Nobody’s going to save me. It won’t happen. The building’s full of money grubbers. At this time of day, they’re already at their desks. Through a door, down a hallway. Running. The two undertakers can’t be far behind. In under five seconds, I’m at the window.

Shit! A third hit man has this base covered. He’s coming in. And like an idiot, I’m headed straight for him. I’m screwed. Weirdly, he’s not dressed like his buddies. They’re channeling the prez’s Secret Service operatives. He’s straight out of the woods, in combat pants and jacket, lumberjack boots, green long-sleeve crew-neck shirt and no shades. He’s as bald as a coot and has to be at least six-feet-six. I don’t like the look on his face, but I can admire the smooth way he draws two guns equipped with silencers.

I look him straight in the eye, but it’s like he sees through me. He takes off feet first and whacks me in the belly with his size 14’s. Winded, I fall on my butt. I’ve been getting too friendly with the floor lately. Two muffled bangs. Then two more. It’s good to know dying doesn’t hurt. Woozy, I lower my head to check out the holes in my stomach. No blood.

The bald guy’s flat-out facing me, guns outstretched, eyes focused on something over my head. Four cartridges bounce and roll on the carpet. I turn my head to see what’s behind me. The two goons are sprawled face-down. I spin back around to see the giant’s reaction. Without using his arms, he flips back onto his feet. Very impressive. The guy seems almost laid back. He holds out a paw the size of Michael Jordan’s. I grasp it and haul myself up with a lot less grace. “Who are you?” It’s as good a question as any.

“You don’t recognize me?” he asks in surprise. I think. Nothing comes to mind.

“No. Should I?” It’s as good an answer as any.

“I’m your best friend.” Yul Brynner grins and clocks me. Back on my butt. But this time he’s punched my lights out.