The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3)

by Stanley Salmons

  I’ll bet he gets in early.

  The contact details were still on my phone. The call was picked up on the second ring.

  “Harries.”

  “Er, Dr Harries, sorry to disturb you first thing. This is Jim Slater.”

  There was a pause. “Colonel Jim Slater?”

  “That’s right. Do you have a moment?”

  “Yes, Colonel, for you I do have a moment.”

  It was the closest to warmth I’d ever heard from him. Perhaps Stefan had told him about the outcome of the counterfeit medicine business. He’d have been pleased about that, if he was ever pleased about anything.

  “I’m in the UK at the moment, seconded to the 22 SAS. One of their people went off his head in Africa, killed a lot of civilians. I’m looking into a possible connection with a drug he was given. I wonder if I could get your opinion on it.”

  “What drug are you talking about?”

  “It’s a prophylactic for dengue fever: Prescaline.”

  There was a long silence. Then he said slowly, “If we’re going to discuss Prescaline I think it would be better to have this conversation on a secure link. Do you have a holoconference suite there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Contact me from there in half an hour.”

  19

  I hadn’t used the holoconference suite here before, but it was designed along pretty much the same lines as everywhere else: a small, windowless room with the projector on a low table in the centre, and a chair with a console in front of it. I picked up a few folding chairs and stacked them against the wall. The last conference had obviously involved several people. Mine was a one-to-one and I could just as easily have used a video link on a computer. The great advantage of the holotransmission was that it was totally secure. Perhaps it would be more correct to say I knew of nobody who’d succeeded in hacking into one, but that was good enough for me.

  I made the connection and Harries’ holo-image appeared, head and shoulders only, straight black hair neatly parted, face as gaunt as ever, lips set tightly. Some people had a charisma that drew people; others, like Harries, made them feel permanently on edge. But I’d seen him wipe the floor with a cagey CEO, and when it came to drug safety I had huge respect for his expertise.

  I didn’t spend time on pleasantries; I knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. I just gave him my suspicions, based on the data that emerged from my trawl of the records, and waited.

  “Prescaline,” he said, with some deliberation. “This one did come across my desk, because of the prospect of Government procurement. I had a look at my notes after you phoned. The committee wanted to approve it; I expressed doubts.”

  “Why was that?”

  “The data from the clinical trials. You know, Colonel, I see a lot of this material, so I’m used to the incidence of side effects – nausea, rash, drowsiness, arrhythmias, all that sort of thing. There was absolutely nothing unexpected in the figures submitted by the company. That satisfied the committee, but it raised my suspicions. I don’t say they hadn’t recorded such side-effects, they had. But I applied the average figures for incidence of side effects to the size of cohort they’d recruited for the trials, and the figures aligned precisely with what the company had submitted. Too precisely. I said I thought the data had been manipulated, but I was accused of being supercritical and over-ruled. From what you say, my suspicions may have been justified. Of course, what you’ve uncovered is terribly circumstantial. Statistically speaking, you’d need a far stronger case before you could mount a challenge.”

  “You mean a lot more soldiers going on the rampage and killing people?”

  He inclined his head. “You could put it that way.”

  “What if you could obtain the original data from the clinical trials – before they were doctored?”

  He gave a short, humourless laugh. “If they’re falsifying data are they going to invite you to examine the original records? I don’t think so.”

  “Take your point. Do you know anything about them?”

  “Lipzan Pharmaceutica? Not a lot. Based in Germany, isn’t it? An independent, not big pharma. Lucrative contracts from the US Department of Defense would make a big difference to a small company like that, so there’d be a strong temptation to cut corners.”

  “Well, thank you very much, Dr Harries. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

  “Before you go, this may be of interest. Another of Lipzan’s drugs has completed Phase III trials, and it’s with the FDA at the moment. It’s done very well up to now, so it could go through.”

  “That is interesting. What’s it called?”

  “Xylazib. It seems to be very effective in extending immunity to Yellow Fever, so if it’s approved it’s sure to be of interest to the military.”

  “X-Y-L-A-Z-I-B?“

  “That’s correct.”

  I wrote it down. “Thanks very much.”

  His thin lips tweaked in a slight smile. “Not at all, Colonel. As I understand it, your past actions have probably saved a lot of lives. I hope you have some success with this one.”

  *

  I closed the door of the holoconference suite and walked back to my quarters, thinking about the conversation I’d just had. The picture was filling out a bit, but in other ways I wasn’t much further on. One thing Harries said stuck with me, though.

  If they’re falsifying data are they going to invite you to examine the original records? I don’t think so.

  What if they were obliged to let you do just that? Suppose there was some sort of misdemeanour, financial or otherwise, that justified a full investigation, preferably a surprise visit so they couldn’t wipe the computer records? It was worth poking around a little. Max Keller was ex-FBI. I phoned him at Cuprex International as soon as I got to my room.

  “Jim! How the hell are you, old buddy?”

  “I’m good, Max. How are things with you?”

  “Oh, same old, same old. Say, is this a social call or do you need a favour? I’m here for you, either way.”

  I chuckled. “It’s good to talk to you, Max, but yes, I do need a favour. Is there an outfit in Germany that’s roughly equivalent to the FBI?”

  “Sure, that’d be the BKA, the Bundeskriminalamt.”

  “When you were with the Bureau did you ever have dealings with them?”

  “I did, but Jim, that was way back. Why?”

  “I’m looking into the dealings of a company called Lipzan Pharmaceutica, based near Munich. I’d like to know if the Federal Police out there has a file on them.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard to find out. I’ll ask around. Can I phone you back?”

  “Sure, I’ll text my number to you. Whenever you like, Max, day or night. I say that because I’m in the UK right now.”

  “What the hell are you doing in… never mind, some other time. Talk to you soon.”

  *

  It was six hours later when the call finally came through. I’d just sat down to dinner with Bruce and some of the other guys, but I excused myself and went outside.

  “Yes, Max. Any luck?”

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, Jim, but could be you’re opening a real can of worms with this one. There’s a guy at the BKA, name of Schröder, Viktor Schröder. He’s put together some kind of dossier on this Lipzan outfit. He’d prefer to discuss it with you in person. He’s based in Berlin. Any chance of you hopping over there?”

  I thought for a moment, but only for a moment. “Sure. Any particular time?”

  “He’ll make time. I’ll send you his contact details.”

  “Thanks a bunch, Max. By the way, do you know what branch of the BKA this guy is in?”

  “Yeah. Counterterrorism.”

  20

  I wore my US Army dress blues, complete with ribbons. As an afterthought I added the water-repellent nanovelour cape, which was a good call because when we landed at Berlin’s Tegel Airport it was bloody cold and pouring with rain. I’d given Viktor Schr�
�der my arrival details and he’d sent a Merc to pick me up. It arrived, big, black, and beaded with water, and stopped in a roofed-over pick-up zone. The driver pointedly opened the rear door, so I took the hint and got in the back – if he didn’t want to talk it was fine with me. He drove the car smoothly away and the moment we left the shelter of the pick-up zone the rain set up an incessant thrumming on the roof. From where I sat I could see little more than a watery urban landscape and a blur of red tail lights. All I knew was that he’d be heading for the GTAZ, the Joint Counterterrorism Centre in Treptower Park. We joined an autobahn and the windscreen wipers slap-slapped at double speed for the whole journey.

  When we reached the GTAZ the pass on his windscreen opened the main gate. He rolled slowly through and pulled up outside the building. It was still tipping down and we both ran for the entrance. The driver shepherded me through security and with a stiff bow left me waiting at the reception desk. Minutes later I was shaking hands with Viktor Schröder.

  Schröder was tall and spare, with straight brown hair and startlingly blue eyes. He said, “Thank you for coming here, Colonel.”

  He’d assumed we’d be speaking in English, which was a relief as my German was very limited.

  “Thanks for the ride from the airport. I had no idea it was this far.” I was leaning on the American half of my accent. For this interview I wanted to come over as SAF, not SAS.

  “Yes, it is not so easy to get here otherwise. I may offer you coffee?”

  “I’m good right now, thanks.”

  “Then please come.”

  I followed him to his office on the first floor. The room was light and airy and the windows looked out onto a pleasant landscaped area. The trees displayed the fresh green they reserved for springtime, and their leaves glittered in the pelting rain. In weather like this it was easier to admire them from indoors. He didn’t go to the desk but gestured politely to a couple of easy chairs next to a low table. He placed his elbows on the armrests and interlaced his fingers in front of his chest. I took the other chair.

  “Now, Colonel. You have come here because you are concerned about a company called Lipzan Pharmaceutica.”

  I didn’t need to give him the full story. I told him the US Army had standardized on one drug from this company and we were considering adopting another. A contract like this was valuable and normally we’d deal only with large companies with an established reputation. I felt that the security checks conducted on the previous occasion hadn’t been sufficiently thorough. It was a small company and we needed to be sure it wasn’t under investigation for any reason.

  He nodded his understanding.

  “Tell me, Colonel, does anything about this company appear to you to be unusual?”

  “Not really. Well, yeah, there was one thing. Lipzan was established in 1947. That was just after the Second World War. Most of Europe was on its knees, so it seems like a weird time to be setting up a brand-new company. How did it stay afloat – and how did it avoid being taken over by one of the major pharmas?”

  He smiled, half closed his eyes. “Yes, all this is relevant. Do you know something about the Second World War?”

  “Yeah, as it happens, I do. I was interested in it at one time.”

  During my officer training we studied some of the classic campaigns and land battles. That was enough for the others; it wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to understand where those actions fitted in the context of the overall conflict. I read up a history of the war, and then another one. I was hooked for a while. I’d never paid much attention to history at school, but this was really interesting. It was about to get more interesting.

  “Allow me to give you something to read to, so to say, set the stage.”

  He took a book from the table. There were a couple of paper markers stuck in the pages and he opened it at the first one and passed it over. Two paragraphs were indicated with a long pencil mark in the margin. I began to read.

  It is the 29th of April, 1945. After four-and-a half long years the end of the war in Europe is nigh. Germany is shrinking before the advance of the Allies in the West and the Russians in the East. The Red Army has reached the outskirts of Berlin. The streets of the city are grey and deserted except for a few women hurrying away from the invading army, scarves wrapped around their faces, babies or bundles of precious possessions clasped to their chests. They flinch at every sound: the rattle of small arms fire, the regular percussion of heavy artillery. They keep to the road, skirting or climbing over piles of rubble, all that remains of buildings which have collapsed and toppled over the pavements. Dust rises from broken concrete, bricks and plaster. It hangs in the air, jerking with the louder explosions. It obscures the sky.

  It was a scene I’d imagined myself, and my own experience of urban warfare made it the more real to me. It went on:

  At Vosstrasse 6, the Reich Chancellory lies in ruins. A little further north, eight and a half metres under the ground, Hitler and his entourage are in the Führerbunker. Hitler is apoplectic with rage. He rails against the generals whose divisions have failed to arrive. He accuses Reichsmarschall Göring and Reichsführer-SS Himmler of betraying him by attempting to negotiate with the Allies and bringing shame on the whole nation. Eventually, in a quieter mood, he consults Goebbels and arranges matters to follow his death, which is now inevitable.

  He then returns to his rooms and records these decisions in a Last Political Testament, which he dictates to his secretary Traudl Junge. Among other things he blames ‘International Jewry’ for starting the war, and hopes for a renaissance of the National-Socialist movement with the realization of a ‘true community of nations’. He cancels the decree naming Göring as his successor and sacks him from his state offices and from the party. He does the same with Himmler, then appoints a new cabinet. He also dictates his Last Will. The documents are signed and witnessed by Hans Krebs, Wilhelm Burgdorf, Joseph Goebbels, and Martin Bormann. Bormann is appointed sole executor. Within days all these people will be dead.

  I handed the book back to Schröder. “I don’t get it. It says in there all the witnesses to Hitler's final documents were dead within days, so how come we know all this?”

  “Some details came from interrogation of Hitler’s personal valet. The rest – well, we have the Wills.”

  “What – you mean here, at the BKA?”

  Schröder laughed politely. “No, not us, I mean the British and Americans. You see, there were three original copies. These were given to messengers to smuggle out of the city. The first messenger was Heinz Lorenz, Hitler’s deputy press attaché. He was travelling under an alias as a journalist from Luxembourg, but he was intercepted and the Wills were discovered; they were sewn into his shoulder pads. He revealed the existence of two more copies and their messengers were arrested by the Americans.”

  It was interesting stuff but at the same time I was beginning to think I was in the wrong room, talking to the wrong person. What had any of this got to do with Lipzan?

  I said, “You’ve done a lot of research on this…”

  He held up a hand. “Perhaps you are thinking that these things, which happened over a hundred years ago, could not possibly influence events now?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess I am.”

  “You must be patient a little longer, Colonel.” Schröder got up, crossed to his desk and came back with a few sheets of paper stapled together. “This is an English translation of the Private Will. Much of it needs not to concern us. Please look at this paragraph.” He held out the document and pointed. I took it from him, and read Hitler’s words:

  What I possess belongs – in so far as it has any value – to the Party. Should this no longer exist, to the State, should the State also be destroyed, no further decision of mine is necessary.

  I placed the sheets on the low table and looked up, eyebrows raised.

  “Do you notice,” Schröder said, “in so far as it has any value? You see, Colonel, Hitler liked to give the impression that he was a
man of modest means and that he had never benefited personally from being the country’s leader. His one concern, he said, had been his people. If this was true, then the Will would be to us of historical interest only.” He met my eyes, and his own acquired a new intensity. “But it is not true. Hitler was worth a fortune.”

  “He was?” This was new to me.

  Schröder picked up the book again, and opened it at the second bookmark. He placed a finger on the page, then said, “I just give you some examples. His book Mein Kampf. From 1933 every couple in Germany who were married were presented with a copy. The State paid for the books, and he received the royalties, worth millions of dollars. He said he got no fees from the book, but he did.” He glanced down at the page. “People paid for admission to his meetings. He said the fees went to the Party, but they went to him. He had his image copyrighted, so he received a commission from every picture that was hanging in every office around the country, and from every postage stamp with his face on it. And so on.” He closed the book. “He paid tax on none of this. When he was sent a tax form he put lines through it. He said the Chancellor does not pay tax and,” he gave a short laugh, “for some reason no one wished to disagree.” He tossed the book on the table. “When Hitler took his own life on the 30th of April, 1945, he was worth, in today’s money, billions of dollars.”

  I whistled softly. “Where did it all go?”

  Schröder pointed at me. “That, Colonel, is the question. The property, of course, could not be concealed: the apartment in the centre of Munich, the mansion, the villa at Berchtesgarden. He purchased that villa as a small house, then built houses for his henchmen, an SS barracks, anti-aircraft emplacements – this project alone cost millions of dollars. Then there was his art collection. Over eight thousand paintings were recovered from a disused salt mine at Ataussee in Austria. They had been hidden in forty miles of tunnels fitted with shelving. But these things accounted for a fraction only of his wealth.”