The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) (6 page)

T
hat bitch killed Mom. Bernard
showed me the screen captures from the hospital security tapes sent to his cell phone. He expects the autopsy results to confirm his hunch. While I’m on a plane headed to the Old World, a doctor’s chopping up my mother and digging around in her organs. The urge to puke makes my gut spasm.

Strangely, my heart in my mouth, tears choking in my throat, I feel whole today. Despite the grief, guilt and the killers on my heels, I feel alive. I want to live. I need to unravel my father’s secrets, slaughter the woman who killed my mother and unmask the shadowy figures behind all this. Oh yes, I nearly forgot. And smash my fist into the hairless giant’s face.

“Very pleasant, business class.” My neighbor stretches like a cat. She is dwarfed by the huge seat. Ouch, she’s expecting a reply. I can see it in her eyes.

“I think three grand one way per person allows us to expect a little comfort.”

She pouts. It suits her. “Money. That’s all men ever think of, isn’t it?”

I glance at her small but firm chest filling her shirt. “Not exactly. You’d be surprised by the number of young women who share that passion.”

“Count me out.”

Really? An exception. “OK. What does it for you? Sports cars, a beach home in Florida, ripped six-pack abs?”

“None of the above. I like guns. The moment the bullet shoots out, the slight recoil tingling in my wrist and up to my shoulder. Mmmm.”

She’s nuts! “Whatever floats your boat,” I mumble, fiddling with the controls to recline my seat.

She lets out a melodious giggle. “I’m kidding. Bernard warned me you weren’t a laugh a minute, but I didn’t expect to travel with an undertaker.” She glances up at me.

Sprawled across the arm of the seat, she looks like she’s about to rip my shirt off. “Hey, you want a quick flashback on my life? Bernard did brief you, didn’t he?”

“Sure. He is amazingly organized, and his records are second to none. You’re right, your file beats all comers for twisted, unfunny shit. I can’t decide what’s saddest—your dad leaving home or the car accident that killed the little girl.”

She’s crossed the line. Screw my fantasies. Either I punch her, or I jump out of the plane to get away from her. Before I can react, she rubs salt into the wound. “Can’t escape me, huh? That must be annoying. And it’s tricky to get in a good shot in such a cramped space. I really feel sorry for you.”

Can she read my mind? I lean closer. There’s no point letting the entire business class hear. “Listen up, Buffy. We have another five hours on this plane. If you back off, you’ll be doing us both a favor. Are you here to keep me safe or bust my balls?”

She wipes that shit-eating grin off her face. Leans closer, too. Her lips brush against my ear. Now I’m tingling. “There are two instances when a guardian angel is no use. When an assailant is prepared to die in order to take out the target. And when the target is just begging to die. Your file amply demonstrated your vulnerability to suicidal impulses. Bernard gave me a mission, and I intend to see it through. I can’t do it without you on my side.”

“How does that explain your half-assed wisecracks?”

“A suicide case doesn’t bust a gasket when you grind his gears.”

Busted! Pop psychology CIA-style. Signs of intelligent life detected. Looks like we have a match on our hands.

Aboard the same
plane, Eytan was cursing economy and its seats for dwarves and children. Fortunately, the airlines separated the wheat from the chaff and spared business class passengers the sight of the plebeians cramped in the back of the plane. Unfolding his knees when they arrived in Switzerland would demand a superhuman effort.

Meanwhile, he’d focus his anger on the brat poking his tongue out at him while playing on his video-game console.

Landsberg Prison, Bavaria, December, 1924.

S
ecuring an appointment had proved
complicated. The prisoner’s agenda was full to overflowing. To think he was serving a sentence for an attempted putsch in Bavaria. It was more like he was leading a rally in the middle of Munich. Too much!

Wide-eyed, Christian Delmar peered at the visitors standing in line. Everything seemed to indicate that his organization hadn’t chosen to send him to see this man by accident. Delmar exchanged an incredulous smile with his Spanish acolyte, who had the unpronounceable Basque name Adamet Epartxegui. The two emissaries had met for the first time ten minutes ago and once their mission was accomplished would probably never see each other again. They shared complete mastery of the German language and veneration of a common ideal. Furthermore, both were in their early twenties and concealed their youth under hats and behind mustaches.

After they had waited patiently for an hour, a guard asked them to follow him. He was considerably taller than both visitors. Christian felt uncomfortable facing this mountain of muscle, made inoffensive only by the hooded eyelids signifying limited cerebral capacity. Adamet—Christian had given up trying to remember his last name—instinctively drew closer to his superior. The crowded jail, harsh lights and rancid odor of soup gave the emissaries nausea. A labyrinth of gray hallways and iron gates led them to the building’s third west wing. With every step, the cold began to pinch a little more.

The guard stopped outside cell No. 7. To Christian’s amazement, he knocked on the door. A long silence followed. Then a barked command came from inside the cell. The voice carried a natural authority that accentuated the surrealism of the scene. A man with incredibly bushy eyebrows and a square, thrusting jaw opened the door, standing ramrod straight before them.

“Hess!” That was a typically German way of introducing himself, with his last name and no preamble or beating around the bush.

“We have an appointment with Herr Hitler. We are Delmar and Adamet.” The Basque didn’t balk at the use of his first name. It seemed to Christian that remaining anonymous suited his colleague.

“Please come in, gentlemen. Adolf Hitler is expecting you.” With a military gesture, Hess ushered the visitors into the cell. Christian was no longer surprised to discover that “cell” was hardly the right word. Against the left wall stood a large desk with two vases filled with flowers whose name escaped him. To the right, under the double window facing the door, was a perfectly made-up white iron bed. Either Hitler had fond memories of his military years, or the prison authorities provided him with a chambermaid. Delmar stifled his undiplomatic urge to laugh. On the table next to the bed, there was an Art Deco lamp, and a rug lay on the floor. The warmth of the room contrasted with the pervasive icy cold in the rest of the penitentiary and the whole of Bavaria, for that matter.

His head propped in his hand, an average-sized man leaned on the windowsill, observing the horizon through the gray bars. The sling supporting his left arm was a legacy of the authorities’ brutality at the moment of his arrest. Logically, Hitler should have been a dead duck after his putsch failed. What was happening could only convince the prisoner that his future was bright.

Christian stared at the immobile figure. Hair shaved over his ears and nape and flopping over his forehead, neatly knotted tie and crisply ironed collar, uniform pants and black suspenders. Adolf the putschist looked like an accountant, insignificant and featureless even. The tuft of a mustache under his nose, protruding chin and a mouth like a scar across his face did nothing to contradict first impressions. But the gleam in his eyes revealed the extraordinary will of a man convinced of his destiny. Christian Delmar had studied history. What did all men of his type have in common? Madness as their only companion.

For one long minute, deafening silence occupied the room. Hitler seemed miles away, unaware of their presence or ignoring it as unimportant. While Herr Hess glared at the two visitors, who stared, in turn, at their feet, a voice that brooked no argument shattered the silence. “Your company asked me to grant an appointment to two emissaries. You’re here. I’m listening, gentlemen.”

No room for niceties. Christian spoke up. “Your entourage includes members of our organization. They have informed us of your ideas, your—how can I put it?—vision of the future.”

“Get to the point. Other people are waiting.” The accompanying dismissive gesture especially irritated Christian. The Frenchman cleared his throat and continued. “Yes, our superiors are willing to lend you the support you require to take power.”

“You have my attention now.” Hitler knew how to smile. The atmosphere warmed slightly.

“You will receive funding, the backing of the business sector and logistical and operational support for your party. If necessary, your opponents and rivals could be neutralized or even eliminated.”

“I shall crush my enemies! The court could have sent me before a firing squad. Instead, it chose to salute my patriotism, my love for greater Germany. It’s not the party that concerns me. I need an army, not sheep in wolf’s clothing whose bombastic speeches disguise their absence of ambition. The German people deserve more than the wretched peace the Versailles Treaty forced upon us.” Hitler punctuated his words with abrupt gestures, as if his forearms had a mind of their own. He jabbed his finger threateningly at his visitors. The dice had been rolled.

“Let’s be clear. We won’t raise a finger to help you if you refuse to respect the political rules in force in your country. You must follow a legal path to power in order to benefit from our assistance. We will have no problem finding another leader to achieve our aims. Herr Hitler, either you are with us, or you are against us. There is no middle ground.” Christian anticipated another outburst of anger. The only response he received was a smile.

“Might your organization be as influential as Rudolf claims? I assumed you were madmen in the thrall of esotericism, but it seems to me now that you are looking for more than cheap thrills.” He was turning on the charm. Unpredictable and unfathomable. A real threat.

“Our organization is light years from the clubs for aristocrats titillated by Ouija boards. We have shared values, Herr Hitler. Our objective and yours are linked by the quest for the superiority of the Aryan race. Working together would advance both our causes.”

Rudolf Hess and Adolf Hitler shared a knowing look that testified to a growing interest in Christian Delmar’s arguments. “Let’s suppose I accept your offer. What would you require in return?”

“Nothing you can’t give us.”

“I’ll be the judge of that!” Another unexpected outburst. The emissaries remained unperturbed.

“As I said, nothing you can’t give us. You will take power by legal means, and you will be free to do what you want with it. You will apply the twenty-five-point program you had the NSDAP adopt in 1920. The future of the Jews is of little concern to us. Kill them, imprison them, whatever you want. However, the anticapitalist measures must be revoked or disavowed.”

“The economy is irrelevant. The State must control everything.”

“A serious mistake, sir. You will need the support of industry, the banks and businessmen in order to develop your greater Germany. This aspect of our agreement is nonnegotiable.”

Hess was about to intervene but remained silent. Hitler rubbed his chin and stared at the floor. “I’ll think about it. What else?”

“You will institute scientific research programs in the military, industrial and, very importantly, medical fields. You will fund these programs with our support in both raw materials and hard cash. In return, we will be informed of every plan, formula and invention. We won’t compromise on that either.”

“On this point, our intentions converge. However, I fail to grasp the connection between your offer and your interest in the Germanic race.”

“Our organization pursues the same objective as you, Herr Hitler.”

“A new Germany?”

“No, Herr Hitler. A new world.”

Zurich, 8 a.m.

T
he arrival at Zurich was
torture. After fighting the urge to beat the crap out of his idiot neighbor throughout the flight—and the brat’s incredibly lax mother at the same time—Eytan had to let everybody get off the plane before him to avoid being spotted by Jeremy Corbin. His nerves were frazzled, his knees had seized up, and he was ten minutes behind the stock trader. To add to his frustration, he had left all his weapons in NYC and wouldn’t be resupplied until he arrived at the hotel his people had booked for him.

Fortunately, his surveillance job was facilitated considerably by the sheer predictability of an American agent. The young woman accompanying Jeremy would follow her CIA training to the letter. As a result, she would refuse to take a cab, renting a vehicle and driving it herself. That way, if they were followed, she would be in control of the situation. And she could carry weapons in the trunk. All Eytan had to do was head for the car-rental counter. A sardonic smile on his face, his habitual military bag over his shoulder, Eytan walked through the airport, wondering why he was whistling “The Colonel Bogey March.” As he approached the car-rental counters, he slowed and slipped behind a pillar. The international terminal would soon be swamped with passengers, but for now only a few shambling groups were visible, making his surveillance task all the easier.

The two blonds were filling in forms at the desk. Hanging around to watch was pointless. Eytan left the building. The air was warm. The temperature would reach the seventies in the afternoon. Summer wasn’t Eytan’s favorite season. His massive build was better suited to cooler climates. He climbed into a cab, quickly explained, in perfect German, that his wife would soon appear with her handsome lover and handed the cabbie a bundle of euros. The driver’s sympathetic look received a blank response.

While keeping an eye on the parking garage exit, Eytan considered the possibilities. The Swiss were known for their watches, cheese and, above all, their banks. Could Jeremy and his chaperone be here to recover the documents the Metsada had been chasing after for weeks?

A gray Lexus coupe stopped at the parking garage barrier. The tinted windows made identifying the occupants impossible. Eytan hesitated. He needed to be absolutely certain. The passenger window was lowered. A barely smoked cigarette flew out and bounced on the asphalt. The window closed immediately but not before Eytan had glimpsed Jeremy’s hair. The Israeli agent relaxed, tapped the cabbie on the shoulder, and off they went.

“Yada, yada yada,”
grumbled Jeremy.

“You’re not just a pig, you’re a puerile one.” Jackie’s tone was serious. This time, she wasn’t playing mind games.

“Look who’s talking. After half a day on a plane, I think I’m allowed to enjoy a smoke. Jesus wept!”

“You can wait till we arrive. All I can say is, the car’s no-smoking. End of story.” With a resigned sigh and a final drag, Jeremy lowered the window and flicked the cigarette away. “Now what?”

“We swing by the hotel, pick up the gear left by…No, that’s none of your business. Caffeine refill and a visit to the bank. If all goes as planned, we’ll be on the flight home at one this afternoon.”

“Cool. There’s no point hanging around. I want to be back for Mom’s funeral.”

Jeremy stiffened, fighting a wave of grief.

“I understand. But…” Jackie hesitated, as if sincerely regretting what she was about to say. “There’s next to no chance Bernard will allow you to attend. You’d be playing into the hands of the people gunning for your family. Bernard wants to keep the lid on my assignment with you, so he won’t agree to a major protection operation or even lay a trap for your enemies.”

“I can’t let her go without saying goodbye, Jackie. No way. She raised me on her own, and I was never in the running for Son of the Year. I owe it to her.”

Jackie remained silent. Jeremy interpreted it as a mark of compassion—an unexpected one, at that. When she spoke, her tone had changed. “We’re being followed.”

“What?”

“A black Mercedes on our tail. I’ve been changing lanes and ignoring the GPS for the last few miles, just driving at random. We’re not dealing with a genius, but he can drive.”

“Do you have a plan?” Jeremy realized just how small she looked behind the huge wheel.

“Unarmed, it’s better to avoid contact. Dammit, we’re passing up a great opportunity to snare them and find out more.”

“Them? You don’t think it’s my giant?”

“From what you said and Bernard’s reaction, I don’t see that guy letting himself be spotted so easily.”

“What do we do?”

“Let them follow us. Forewarned is forearmed. We’re ahead of the game.”

A Peugeot taxi
tailing a Lexus that was being followed by a Mercedes. The situation verged on the ridiculous. Eytan smiled. They were doing everything to make life easy for him. Blondie would be watching the Merc, not him. The pursuers, who were anything but smart apparently, wouldn’t pay any attention to him either.

So far, so good. A little inner voice whispered to Eytan
, For how long?