The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) (5 page)

B
ernard Dean was in a
foul mood. In the last twenty-four hours, he’d received more bad news than in all his thirty years of active service. Daniel Corbin’s death was not a good sign. Ann’s death was tragic proof of that. Added to these personal losses, a liaison officer from Langley, William Pettygrow, had gone missing. Pettygrow’s unit had access to the details of every agent who needed a change of identity. A quick check confirmed Dean’s hunch—Pettygrow handled Corbin’s file. The reason for the soldiers’ little visit to Jeremy to announce his father’s death was simple. The twenty-year-old secret was out. All Dean had to find out now was who benefitted and why. The Swiss safe-deposit box, the key Ann kept—it was all part of an obscure and sinister puzzle.

Dean thought back to the call he had taken five minutes earlier. The conversation disturbed him even more. Knowing that the call came from an undetectable encrypted cell phone didn’t help. But that voice echoed like a distant memory. They’d met. He’d bet his life on it. Fingers clenched on the wheel of his sedan, Dean was speeding through heavy traffic toward Central Park. It took him a good quarter hour to reach Jeremy’s building. He parked and reached into the glove box for his small-caliber pistol, which he kept in his hand, concealed under his coat. At times like this, you couldn’t be too careful.

Glancing left and right, he reached the entrance in a few strides. Following the Agency’s playbook to the letter, Dean ignored the elevator and took the stairs. In the absence of anybody else, friend or foe, on the staircase, he cursed his age as he climbed the steps. His lungs burned, and his thighs would be aching all day. His stamina was waning, but he still had surprising physical strength on his side and solid experience. The term “nonoperational” agent was never more appropriate, but aging provoked no existential angst for Dean. What it provoked was just one crucial question: If the anonymous phone call was a trap, would he be able to defend himself?

He was still expecting to find out when he arrived outside Jeremy’s apartment, scanning the hallway and peering at the small wall lamps on either side of the elevator. Imitation gold lampshades—an ode to banality of the kind a good agent couldn’t resist. As per his telephone instructions, Dean examined the lamp on the left, running his fingers over it. Behind the lamp socket, he felt a mushy lump and a key. After several attempts, he pulled out the key and, to his disgust, the blob of freshly chewed gum with which his mysterious informer had stuck it in place. Gross-out schoolboy humor, he thought.

Dean dropped the gum to the floor, pressed his ear to the wall next to the door and listened. Silence inside the bachelor pad. Noiselessly, he opened the door and entered a living room whose owner clearly had a very loose grip on the concept of cleanliness. The remains of a snack were scattered across a large glass coffee table. The closed shutters over the floor-to-ceiling windows allowed only a little light in. Tall speakers dominated the four corners of the room. A state-of-the-art hi-fi and plasma TV adorned the wall to Dean’s right. Fifties jazz posters hung alongside modern art. A battalion of empty bottles stood in rows on the floor near the beige leather couch. A glass ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. More were scattered on the rug. If the living room had been designed for conviviality, it had been transformed into an altar to despair and self-neglect. The reek of cold tobacco tickled Dean’s throat.

The CIA veteran walked down the short hallway to the bedroom. Through the open door, he glimpsed the foot of the bed. And on it, Jeremy’s feet.

As laid-back as
ever, Eytan sauntered across the hotel lobby. After one night in the place, he was known to absolutely everybody. For a secret agent, a high profile is the best way to go unnoticed, he joked to himself, even if he didn’t feel much like laughing. When a Metsada agent came across a car with Argentinean diplomatic plates, he had every reason to worry. Since the 1950s, the country had been home base for a whole bunch of Nazi fugitives and not just the small fry. At least he had eliminated two guys whose intentions were anything but amicable.

But the true cause of Eytan’s bad mood was his encounter with Corbin. This surveillance assignment would only be trickier now that the chump had seen his face. The Israeli hit man had been forced to act, but the consequences discretion-wise were disastrous. That encounter changed everything. The call to Bernard Dean was one more complication, but he had to make sure Corbin would be in safe hands. Eytan never expected to cross paths with the CIA veteran again. In some respect, it was the only good thing that had happened all day.

Eytan entered his suite, discarded his combat jacket and shirt on the king-size bed and opened the high-tech case that had been left for him at the hotel reception desk.

D
on’t take this the wrong
way, sir, but are you sure there’s no alternative?” The young woman frowned with a combination of irritation and apprehension. “Jacqueline, ordinarily your insubordination amuses me, but not today. Please, don’t make me pull rank on you.” Bernard Dean couldn’t lose his temper with Jackie Walls. Any other agent would have felt the full force of his anger by now. The small blonde had always managed to wrap him round her little finger. He knew it, and usually it amused him.

“Sir, I’m no expert in witness protection. I don’t mean to disobey orders, it’s just that I’m scared I’ll disappoint you.”

“Barbie,” as her coworkers at Langley called her, was infuriatingly stubborn and surprisingly self-deprecating. “Jackie, save that for someone who’s never seen you at work.”

Her bright, innocent smile emphasized the roundness of her cute face. “Oh yes, silly me. I can’t fool the man who trained me.” She put on a perfect mock-contrite pout.

There, she’d done it again. Unable to resist, Dean rolled his eyes. “And for the last time, lose the pigtails. You look ridiculous.”

“If you read the women’s magazines, sir, you’d know that pigtails are in this summer,” protested Jackie. Dean nodded toward the bathroom door. Grumbling, she headed for it.

Dean leaned over Jeremy, who was painfully opening his eyes.

A major scoop!
St. Peter is black. And he’s looking at me with a worried expression. It’s not St. Peter; it’s Bernard. I must be alive. Apparently I can turn my head. Move my toes. And hands. But my hooter’s killing me. A quick glance tells me I’m in my bedroom, on my bed. What am I doing in my boxers and socks? Think, Jay. I was supposed to be on a plane headed for Switzerland with Bernard at my side. Instead, I’m half-naked at home, and Bernard’s looking at me as if I just popped out of the womb. There’s got to be a gap in my memory somewhere.

Oh shit, it all comes back to me. The men in black chasing me, the bald giant, the right-cross to the snout. Gradually, I begin to focus. Bernard is talking, but not to me. A chick comes out of my bathroom. Blonde, no more than five-four, cute, small boobs, pretty. Late twenties, tops. What’s she doing here? She shakes her head, making her hair twirl. Her jeans and red blouse are a tight fit. I like her. I prick up my ears.

“Happy now, sir?”

Is it me, or is she taking the rise out of the old man?

“Thank you. Sleeping Beauty has finished his nap,” snaps Bernard.

Hey! I’ve had some nicknames in my time, but none that have so offended my alpha male sensitivities. The chick looks at me like a dog eyeing a juicy steak. Get an eyeful, baby. Make the most of it.

“A hot little Beauty,” she opines.

They’d better cut out the Beauty stuff right now. It’s my cue. “Why am I in my bed? Why were two guys chasing me? How come you’re here, Bernard? And who’s Buffy?”

“Four questions on the bounce. I’m glad to see you’re fully functioning again. Allow me to reply, one by one. You’re in your bed because someone put you here after knocking you out cold. Your two attackers are dead. Their bodies have vanished into thin air somehow. I’m here because your Good Samaritan called me. He found my number in your cell phone. As for ‘Buffy,’ her name’s Jackie, and she’ll be your chaperone for the trip to Switzerland.”

Bernard’s talking faster than usual. Is he worried? If so, who for? Himself or me? “Your bag wasn’t touched. Grab a shower and an aspirin, and get to the airport with Jackie. I’m staying in New York to coordinate the whole show.”

I get up. Holy shit, Jackie really is tiny. I thought the Secret Service was pickier about the people they let in. “Sorry, miss, but…Bernard, are you sure she’s gonna be my guardian angel? The two goons and the Jolly Green Giant were in the superheavyweight category.” I quickly fill him in on the chase and my rescue by the giant stranger.

“Give me more on the giant,” he says.

“A white Michael Jordan, huge and incredibly agile for his size. I wasn’t in the best position to give you his precise stats.” Bernard nods but says nothing. The chick moistens her lips as she looks me up and down.

“Jackie will take good care of you. Don’t be fooled by her size, or you’ll be in for a surprise. Powwow over. Get into that shower and get going. Your flight leaves JFK at 5:25. You arrive at 7:25 tomorrow morning, local time.”

Seems like I never get to choose anymore. It’s a pain in the ass. I grab a smoke from the pack on the nightstand and light it up. “What about Mom?” I pull hard on my cigarette.

“I’ll tell you all about it in the car. Promise. Go!”

Twenty minutes later, I’m back in Bernard’s car. My chaperones are up front, like Mommy and Daddy. I’m little Jimmy in the back. Cool. With a teddy bear and a coloring book, I’d be ready for summer camp.

As soon as Bernard pulls away from the curb, he keeps his word and spills the beans. They think Mom was poisoned at the hospital by a woman disguised as a nurse. The security camera tapes are being studied to identify the suspect. He’ll know more when the results come through. To conclude, he recaps: Dad dies god knows how, Mom’s murdered, and some creeps are after me. Bernard’s conclusion is irrefutable.

The Corbin is an endangered species.

At the wheel
of his pickup, Eytan had been idling for a good ten minutes a hundred or so yards behind Bernard Dean’s 7 Series.

111a: surveillance. 111b: protection.

Assassination, he knew. Abduction and exfiltration, he loved. Protection, this was his first time. Questions multiplied in his mind, but there were no answers. Over the last few weeks, he’d gathered scraps of information like pieces of a huge jigsaw that didn’t want to fit together.

He was certain of one thing, at least. Jeremy was at the heart of this whole business. He was the bait for a big, very big, predator.

Wewelsburg Castle, Westphalia, January, 1938.

B
ehind his small steel-rimmed spectacles,
he watched the learned assembly of scientists, archeologists and historians squabbling. The central theme of the meeting was:
Was the Cloak of Odin, God of Gods of Asgard, in Finland or Norway?
The question was important enough for some of the contributors to be ready to come to blows over it. The situation didn’t displease the
reichsführer-SS
. He found the posturing of these hopeless lice incredibly amusing. Since the order had been founded three years earlier, sterile debate and far-fetched projects had been the only items on the agenda. Nonetheless, the Study Society for Primordial Intellectual History represented a major step in furthering ethnic purification and would undoubtedly engender the Reich’s complete racial superiority.

Unfortunately, from the inauguration to today’s bickering, nothing good had come of it. Dangerous and costly missions had been carried out across the world. All had been unspeakable failures. Heinrich Himmler recalled his dream of finding the hammer of the Nordic god of thunder, Thor. What an idiot! And now, just to curry favor with the SS leader, a whole collection of knuckleheads was making the same mistake. Pathetic! The hopes of the Reich’s
de facto
deputy leader now rested with the exploration of the Tibetan plateau led by Ernst Schäfer, a zoologist well traveled in Tibet who was devoted to Nazism and corresponded better with Heinrich’s idea of a scientist: bold, calm and hard-working. With any luck, the expedition would find traces of the Aryan race and, hopefully, the mythical city of Shambhala and its myriad treasures.

The führer had been piling on the pressure for months. Heinrich was running out of dumb excuses to buy time. Fortunately, the
Anschluss
, planned for March, would give Adolf something to chew on. Not to mention the inevitable consequences of Germany’s annexation of Austria. One way or another, the international community would react, and Hitler would stop obsessing about the Study Society’s deliberations. These mind-numbing meetings full of maniacs would be no more than a bad memory.

Two archeologists grabbed each other’s collars. Two historians struggled to separate them. Pathetic. Heinrich battled to stifle a huge yawn that could have disastrous consequences. Dampening all this enthusiasm would be counterproductive. Channeling it was vital. At this stage of extreme boredom, wiping his spectacles with a handkerchief was the only possible distraction. With his glasses in his hands, he couldn’t see a thing. He hated his shortsightedness and, more generally, his fragile body so far removed from the Teutonic ideal he sought to propagate. On his orders, the SS recruited nobody under five feet, ten inches. He was two inches shy of that standard. Fate had dealt him a lousy hand, but his industrious and methodical mind compensated for that injustice.

His spectacles back in place, Heinrich scanned the hall. His Generals Hall filled him with pride. He wanted to make the castle, leased for a pittance, a center of excellence for SS officers. Renovations were under way, and soon every wing would be a hive of activity that would be decisive for the Order’s future. The golden disk encrusted in a marble circle on the floor and the timeworn stone pillars conferred on the building the requisite mystical solemnity. Sunk into deep alcoves, the windows glowed in the moonlight. In three or four years, Wewelsburg would be ready. Heinrich would leave to the next generations an architectural masterpiece and wonder of organization. But for the moment, parasites sullied the place.

Heinrich was on the verge of exploding. He was thinking that only a couple of executions for sedition would appease him when he heard a cough. Turning his head to the right, poised to take the person to task, he saw Hermann Müller standing at attention, squeezed into a uniform too tight for a man of his obesity. His neck oozed over his collar. His ruddy cheeks seemed to indicate imminent heart failure. Quite simply, he looked like Göring. Müller was in charge of interdepartmental liaison in the castle. A position only he believed to be of crucial importance.

Next to the tub of lard, a young man shuffled from one foot to the other. Intimidated or desperate for the toilet, Heinrich couldn’t decide. Then, snapping his heels and stretching out his arm, the baby elephant screeched
“Heil Hitler”
without interrupting the enthusiastic gibbering taking place five yards away.

“
Heil Hitler,”
came the
reichsführer’s
limp response.

“Herr Himmler, may I introduce you to a scientist worthy of the greatest interest?”

“That depends on your ability to distinguish the interesting from the superfluous.”

“You won’t be disappointed, Excellency. I assure you.” Müller almost dared to look outraged.

Such boldness from a notorious yes-man piqued Heinrich’s curiosity. A quick glance over Müller’s shoulder confirmed that the debate had degenerated into a boxing match. “Fine, I’ll listen. I hardly have anything better to do,” Heinrich sighed. “But let’s spice up the encounter, shall we? Hermann, you wager your life on the relevance of what this person has to say.” The fat paper-pusher sputtered, miraculously avoiding a heart attack.
Shame
, thought the
reichsführer-SS
.
That would have saved a bullet.

Heinrich examined the young man. The threat didn’t seem to overawe him in the slightest. “Name and position.” Revitalized by his bet, Heinrich’s voice rang out.

“Bleiberg, Viktor, researcher in nuclear physics and chemistry. I study with Otto Hahn at Berlin University.”

Wonderful, a student! “How old are you?” The affable tone barely concealed Heinrich’s despair. “Twenty-one, sir,” the boy replied nonchalantly.

Müller was sweating profusely.

“Sir,” continued the young scholar.

“Your Excellency, if you don’t mind.” The icy smile promised imminent pain.

“Yes, sorry, Your Excellency. Don’t allow my age to undermine the importance of what I have to say. I matriculated at the university at the age of fifteen. Professor Hahn considers me his best student. I have my own research lab, you know.” Pride shone on his juvenile features.

Heinrich Himmler felt his interest perking up. Events in the rest of the room faded. Nothing existed except the scientist’s voice. Instinctively, Himmler sensed that the young man possessed vital information. “What does he have you working on?”

“The consequences of brief exposure to radiation on the human body, Your Excellency.”

“Continue.” The SS’s undisputed leader sat up.

“I have pursued Madame Curie’s experiments with polonium and radium from the period 1909 to 1914.”

“Spare me the lecture, thank you,” Himmler sniped, waving his hand to dismiss any temptation the scientist might have had to continue in that vein.

“Yes, OK. We know the human body reacts negatively to radiation exposure. However, if we succeed in controlling cell necrosis, we can envisage important biological transformations.”

“I read Marie Curie’s reports, and I have followed Otto Hahn’s work for some time. Your hypothesis is interesting but purely speculative. So far, there have been no conclusive results and no positive experiments in the area that interest me. Moreover, medical ethics are holding back research.”

“With all due respect, Your Excellency, if we bypassed the ethical concerns of the stick-in-the-muds at the university, our chances of success would improve tremendously. Naturally, we’d have to close our eyes to—how can I put it—certain unedifying practices.” A perverse grin accompanied his sly suggestion. The boy might be cracked. He was certainly no choirboy.

Himmler steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we? My time is precious, and I am in no mood to waste it today. Professor Bleiberg, what do you expect from me?”

“I’m asking Your Excellency to appoint me head of a research unit on human mutation. In case you should approve my request, I’ve prepared a list of all that I require. Furthermore, I wish to work according to moral stipulations that I alone shall decide. In science, I believe necessity knows no law.”

“I see. And what can I hope for in return?”

“An
Übermensch
, Your Excellency.”

The
reichsführer
heaved a sigh. “You think your experiments will lead to a superman? As I said, young man, the scientific foundations are shaky.”

“Not any more, Your Excellency. Not since last month.” No smile had ever been smugger.

Himmler leaped up. “Are you telling me…”

“Yes, Your Excellency. I still need to improve my formula, but thanks to controlled exposure to radiation, with a chemical additive, I am able to improve, stably and permanently, the performances of the human body.”