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

by Stanley Salmons

  “And that’s assuming he paid for them himself.”

  “Quite.” He inclined his head. “It is clear that there was much more to be found, and this interested the Americans very much – naturally, yes? – the war had cost them a great deal of money and they wished to get some of it back. The funds had been placed in what you call ‘safe havens’, a complex arrangement of bank accounts in Switzerland and Holland. America’s Office for Strategic Studies – these days you would call it the CIA – found one of them: a Swiss bank account which alone would be worth well over a billion dollars in today’s money. There were known to be other accounts but Max Amann, the financial wizard who made the arrangements for him, died in 1947. The secret died with him.”

  He sat back and crossed his legs. I picked up the translation of the Will and the Testament and read it through quickly. Then I looked at him. His expression was neutral, if anything slightly amused. Clearly he was waiting for a prompt.

  “So that’s it? That’s the end of the road?”

  He leant forward and tapped the table with a forefinger. “We believe not. We believe some – perhaps all – of the money was used to establish a pharmaceutical company. A pharmaceutical company called Lipzan.”

  21

  Schröder sat back, watching me again with that Mona Lisa smile, awaiting my reaction.

  I looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying this legacy of Hitler’s – worth billions of dollars – was used to start up a drug company?”

  “Yes.”

  “In 1947.”

  “Yes, that is when it was registered.”

  I frowned. “I thought US policy after the war was to dismantle German industry.”

  “At first this was true, Colonel, but only at first. In 1947 President Truman reversed the policy. The Cold War was beginning, and America needed a strong Europe as an ally.”

  “So this guy – this master banker or accountant or whatever he is – registers Lipzan and then dies. Kind of convenient, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged.

  “How do you know that was where the money went?”

  He held up a finger. “Ah, we do not know, Colonel; we suspect. You see, the documents show that the company was set up with a Charter to transfer fifteen per cent of all profits to an organization called ‘The Guardians of the Reich’.”

  That much German I did have. “Guardians of the Empire?”

  “‘Reich’ also can mean ‘Realm’. No doubt they would prefer this interpretation. It is a registered charity for assisting the families of German soldiers killed in combat.”

  A Charter.

  I thought for a moment. If the Charter was drawn up in such a way that it couldn’t be bypassed it would explain why the big pharmas had no interest in taking over the company. With fifteen per cent of the profits being siphoned off, it would be an unwise investment. Still…

  “With a drag like that on them I can’t see how they’d stay afloat.”

  “There could be two reasons.” He counted them off on his fingers. “One, remember that this organization had a large injection of capital at the very start. Two, they have an excellent record of getting their drugs onto the market. You know, most new drugs fail at some stage: they cause unacceptable side effects or they are not compatible with other drugs, and so on. Lipzan has had very few such failures.”

  I thought about Harries’ suspicions. A record like that could be no accident. The company may have been cooking the books for some time. Schröder continued:

  “When the Bundeskriminalamt – the BKA – was formed in 1951 Lipzan was the subject of one of the first investigations. You know, at the end of the war many Nazis who were wanted for war crimes could not be found. Our people believed that this ‘charity’ was used to help them to escape from the country.”

  “And was it?”

  “It was impossible to say. The payments appeared to be genuine. They were made to the estates of soldiers who were recorded as fallen. In 2030 there was another investigation because the company was suspected of avoiding tax and supporting right-wing organizations. Again it was unsuccessful and no charges were brought.”

  “But you think that’s what they’re doing?”

  “Do you remember Hitler’s Testament – how he hoped for the National-Socialist movement to rise again? We believe that the Charter was not so much a Charter but a contract, a contract intended to carry out Hitler’s last wishes by establishing a new Reich.”

  I pointed at him. “So you’re saying the drug company was a smart way both to launder Hitler’s money and to perpetuate the Nazi dream.”

  He closed his eyes and nodded. “What is the name ‘Lipzan’ if you take out the L and the P?”

  I visualized it. “It’s ‘Nazi’, backwards. That’s interesting. What about the L and the P?”

  “I don’t know. But it could be P for Partei, L for lebt.”

  “‘The Nazi Party lives’?”

  He shrugged. “This is a guess only. Of course they would not make it obvious.”

  I thought about what he was saying. “So a lucrative contract with the American military could result in a good deal of money going into right-wing organizations.”

  “Not just right-wing: far right. You are aware of the increase in neo-Nazi incidents in Europe: mosques bombed, synagogues burned, marches, assassinations?”

  “Of course. And you think the company is responsible for those?”

  “Perhaps not directly. We believe Lipzan works in more subtle ways. They feed on discontent: poverty, unemployment, foreigners, the spread of Islam, all such things. These are the objects of hate that can bring together right-wing parties, not just here in Germany but throughout Europe, perhaps even beyond Europe. And they are succeeding; these parties are winning more and more support. And with such parties comes the hooligan element that commits acts of violence.”

  “And you can’t nail the cash flow?”

  “No. The money path…ah…”

  “Money trail?”

  “Thank you, money trail, is very well hidden. Not even the parties who receive money know where it is coming from. Probably it goes into their books as ‘anonymous donation’.”

  I was trying to share Schröder’s vision of a small German pharmaceutical company reaching its tentacles into every European country, but it was a struggle. The whole thing, including the interpretation of the name Lipzan, smelled of paranoia. Maybe Schröder had a particular bee in his bonnet about it. When an idea dominates your thinking to that extent you can find yourself fitting all the evidence to it. I didn’t want to make the same mistake.

  “Herr Schröder, we’re talking about something set up in 1947. Do you really think this has been going on for generations?”

  Maybe my scepticism was showing, because he became even more intense, tapping a finger on the table again for emphasis. “Yes, we do. These people know very well that the time is not yet here for a revolution. But the goal is passed on from father to son like a sacred trust, a torch that must be kept burning until everything is ready, and then…” he opened the bunched fingers of both hands into the air, miming a Europe bursting into flames. He waited for a moment to make sure I’d grasped his meaning, and when I tilted my head in acknowledgement he relaxed back into his chair. “You see now, Colonel, why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted you to know this, before more American money goes to fund extremist politics that could destabilize all of Europe.”

  We sat in silence for a full minute. If they had solid evidence, they’d have moved against this company – or its charitable object – long ago. Schröder’s case was flimsy, based on small indications, suggestions, suspicions, and inadequate material garnered during failed investigations. Over the years it probably amounted to a fat file and no doubt he was convinced by the sheer weight of paper. It wasn’t enough for me, and it wouldn’t be enough for a court of law. Any lawyer worth his salt could dismantle it and get it dismissed as a malicious and totally u
njustified attack on a successful company that supported a reputable charity.

  I took a deep breath. “Herr Schröder, I understand what you are saying but I can’t see what I can do. If this new drug clears the FDA hurdles there’d be no good reason why the Army shouldn’t approve adoption.”

  He spread his hands. “But someone like you should be able to influence the procurement committee…”

  I was just about to deny any such influence, then I stopped to think. What if I were in a position to influence the procurement committee? Would Lipzan have an interest in me? You bet they would. I'd neglected to tell Owen Gracey about the flight to Berlin, but this wouldn't prolong the trip by much and I could report back to him after that.

  “I must go.” I got to my feet and he stood up smartly. We shook hands. “Thanks for your time, Herr Schröder. This has been an interesting conversation, very interesting. I’ll see what I can do and I’ll let you know where it goes.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. It has been a pleasure for me. In case you need more information, this is my card.”

  It was quite a while since I’d seen a business card – I’m used to swapping addresses between phones. I knew the Japanese still used cards; perhaps it was similar over here.

  “Thank you.” I put it in my billfold, then we shook hands. I held onto his hand a little longer. “By the way, Lipzan Pharmaceutica. Would you happen to have the contact details of the CEO? It might be helpful if I paid them a visit.”

  22

  It was a one-hour flight from Berlin to Munich, and it was raining there as well, or maybe the storm was travelling with me. I took a cab to Taufkirchen.

  Lipzan Pharmaceutica occupied a modern, two-storey building. Security was a lot lighter than at the GTAZ, and certainly less tight than you might expect from an organization dedicated to world – or at least European – domination. At the reception desk a security man took my name, picked up a phone, and hung up after a brief conversation.

  He rolled his eyes up to me and said, “Hier warten."

  I waited.

  The bustling, heavy-breasted woman who came down to meet me was dressed in a navy business suit over a high blouse. She introduced herself in good, if accented, English.

  “I am Frau Schenk, Herr Holle’s Personal Assistant. Herr Holle asks if you would like a short tour before your meeting.”

  “Thank you. I would like that.”

  I accompanied her down a well-lit corridor. The walls were white, interrupted on the left by a series of doors with wire-reinforced glass panels. Inside I glimpsed white benches and glassware. She turned, gesturing to the doors.

  “These are the laboratories. If you like to see inside please choose one for yourself.”

  I suppose my sensitivities had been raised by my conversation at GTAZ the previous day, because I read this as We have nothing to hide. I chose a door and we went in. I didn’t expect to learn anything from looking at a lab, and I didn’t. Except that this didn’t look like synthetic chemistry to me; inverted microscopes, laminar flow hoods, racks with glass bottles rolling slowly inside a temperature-controlled cupboard – all these suggested activities based on large-scale cell culture. One of the white-coated staff looked up with only mild interest at what must have been a familiar intrusion. I was tempted to speak to him but decided it was unwise. I nodded to the PA and we went back to the corridor. She walked briskly to the end and turned right. Now there were doors on the right as well as the left and she opened each in turn: autoclave room, hot room, cold room, dark room with several fluorescent microscopes, and rooms with more specialized equipment like mass spectrometers, ultracentrifuges, and an electron microscope. It was the kind of stuff you’d expect to find in any well-resourced research establishment.

  In the last of these rooms several young men were seated at monitor screens. There were cabinets behind them and I detected the quiet hum of cooling fans. Frau Schenk explained.

  “Here is our computer facility. Franz?” She attracted the attention of one young man, who was sitting in front of a screen that displayed a rotating structure consisting of spiral coloured ribbons, folded back and forth on one another. He stood up and she spoke to him briefly in German.

  He said, half to her, half to me, “Sure. What we’re doing right now is modelling molecular interactions between drugs and receptors. We do it in 2D here, and we have a dark room in back where we can set up a holodisplay to do it in 3D.”

  I said, “You sound like you’ve lived in the States.”

  He smiled. “Did my PhD at Stanford. Stayed on there a while.”

  I nodded, then gestured at the screens. “So are you doing this on line?” It was an innocent-sounding question but I already knew the answer; I’d heard the cooling fans.

  “That’s not secure. Any case it’d be too slow. We have our own mainframe. It runs fast, and the programs are pretty neat.”

  “Right, and all this is for molecular modelling?”

  “No, other times we use computer models of metabolism and hormone interactions, stuff like that. We can do a lot of preliminary testing on those before we go full scale.”

  “I see. What about testing on animals? Do you do that here?”

  He looked at Frau Schenk to provide the answer. Frau Schenk’s eyes alighted on me for a moment, and I guessed she’d had to answer this question before. She was probably wondering if I was an animal rights activist. My uniform evidently suggested otherwise because she replied, “When this is necessary it is done at another, secure establishment.”

  I made a move towards the door and lifted a hand. “Okay, thanks, Franz.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  We continued down the corridor and I followed as she turned right again. The corridor was evidently U-shaped, which meant we were heading back towards the entrance lobby.

  “There are no production facilities in this building, then?” I said.

  “Oh no, this is a research establishment only.”

  Now we were in the lobby again and she led me up a flight of stairs and along another corridor. There wasn’t any glass in these doors, just small panels carrying names and titles suggestive of senior administrative personnel. We paused outside the door at the end. She knocked, announced “Colonel Slater”, and gestured me in with a “Please”.

  A tall, slim figure rose from behind his desk to shake hands. I took in ginger hair, bleaching at the temples. His suit was dark brown with a fine stripe. It looked expensive.

  “Holle,” he said. “Thank you so much for visiting us. I hope you have enjoyed your short tour of our facilities?”

  I found myself looking into clear grey eyes behind gold-framed spectacles. “Thank you, Herr Holle. You have nice, modern laboratories. This building must be fairly new.”

  “Recently we have had a refurbishment. The original buildings are, of course, much older.” He pointed out of a corner window. Across an area of grass, backed by trees, was a tall red-brick building that looked more in keeping with the 1947 foundation date.

  “We use those buildings for conferences,” he continued, “and to accommodate visiting staff.”

  I turned back from the window. “I gather you don’t have any production facilities here.”

  “No, no. Here it is basically a research centre. Production is contracted out.” He indicated a group of armchairs and I sat down, but he remained standing. “Now, Colonel,” glancing at his watch, “it is the time for some coffee, I think. Will you join me?”

  “Thank you.”

  He went over to his desk, buzzed the intercom, and spoke in German. Then he returned, sat down, and said, “I hope you like patisserie. We will have some from a maker in Vienna. They are very good.”

  We indulged in some light conversation about the weather at this time of year and how it compared with the United States. Minutes later the coffee arrived. The PA must have been on her starting blocks.

  We continued to chat over coffee, strudel, apple cake, and other delicacies. I knew
what he was up to. He’d had time since my call yesterday to confirm that I was who I said I was. If he was very smart, or well connected – and I suspected he was both – he would have learned that I was in close touch with General Harken at Washington, which wouldn’t do my story any harm at all. Sitting here in my full uniform complete with all the campaign and medal ribbons I would fit the picture he’d already formed. Now he needed to extract a little more about me, what I knew and what I could do for them. I supplied neutral answers.

  He tried again. “I have a confession to make, Colonel.”

  There was something disturbing about the way his spectacles caught the light. It gave him a slightly manic appearance which was at odds with the guilty hunching of the shoulders.

  “Oh yes, what’s that?”

  “I looked you up before you came here. It was not hard. You attracted a good deal of media interest when you returned from Africa.”

  I closed my eyes and nodded slowly. “That was a while back.”

  “I visited Africa once. A wonderful country. Have you been back since?”

  Interesting question. Surely he couldn’t know? I played safe.

  “Yeah, as it happens I was there not so long ago.”

  “No media interest this time?”

  I huffed a short laugh. “When I was made full colonel my role changed a good deal.”

  “For example now you are on the procurement committee.”

  It was next to impossible for any outsider to know who was on the procurement committee. For a start there was more than one committee. And because pharmas would love to lobby – or even bribe – the committee members deliberating over their particular drugs, their identity would be a closely guarded secret. I wasn’t going to overstep the mark, but I was pleased that he’d taken the bait I’d dangled when I’d phoned him the day before.