“As I said yesterday, I’m not one of the committee members.” I gave him a confidential smile. “Let’s just say I’m in a position to advise them.”
“And does this take much of your time?”
“Not a lot, no. They have other advisers. But I have a strong interest in anything that affects the welfare of our soldiers. It’s a painful business when you go into an area to sort out a military problem and instead you lose men to disease. I speak from personal experience. Obviously I can’t say more than that.”
“Of course, I understand.”
We had more coffee, and he persuaded me to take another small pastry.
He sat back. “I understand you are interested in our new product, Xylazib.”
“I’m working up some background on it, yes.”
“Xylazib is not simply an excellent choice for you, Colonel; it is the only choice. It is quite unique. As I’m sure you are aware, yellow fever is endemic in central Africa and South America, where your troops are operating at this time. The virus has many different genotypes, and the existing vaccine is not always effective. Xylazib is an enhancer: you still must use the vaccine, but Xylazib makes the immune system able to recognize the virus in all its forms. So the body resists the infection.”
“And side effects?”
He spread his arms wide, his smile revealing small, even teeth. “I am glad to say we have seen no bad side effects. We expect to receive FDA approval at any time, and the way will then be clear for you.”
I inclined my head. “You know, it would be very helpful if I could examine what you have so far from the clinical trials of that drug.”
He cupped his hands together and looked pained. “I regret, Colonel, this will not be possible.”
It was the answer I’d been expecting but I hadn’t given up, not yet. This wasn’t about neo-Nazi aspirations, whether I believed them or not. This was about a good soldier committing suicide and a close buddy being blown to bits by a drone.
“Let me put my cards on the table, sir. We have some concerns about your drug Prescaline, which we adopted a couple of years ago. Since that time several soldiers who were taking the drug became psychotic; some went rogue, killed a lot of people, civilians included. Your trials had to be conducted with a large cohort and I would have expected a side-effect such as that to show up.”
His face came forward, the expression earnest. “I understand your concern. I assume you have not a direct link between Prescaline and these unfortunate cases.”
“Not direct, no. Just highly suggestive.”
“How many individuals are involved?”
“That information is classified. Let’s just say more than single figures.”
He nodded. “I am not a scientist, Colonel; my own background is in financial management. But this much I understand. In any large scientific experiment there will always be some unexpected results. Most of the time they have no rational explanation at all, and it must be concluded that they have occurred by pure chance. It would be misleading to include such results in the final analysis. It is a perfectly routine practice – statisticians call these results ‘outliers’. My statisticians inform me that Prescaline is perfectly safe, but in a large clinical trial there will always be a few unexplained results. Unless they form some sort of consistent pattern they, too, will be considered ‘outliers’.”
“That’s exactly my point. I’d like to have a look at your outliers. We want to know if the behaviour we’re seeing follows the same pattern.” I met his eyes. “And let me say this. We’re real interested in Xylazib, but we need to be sure what we’re giving to our soldiers is completely safe. That’s why I’d like to see the raw data from the Prescaline trials, too.”
"The Prescaline trials, too?" A slight tic pulled at the corner of his mouth, and I had the impression he was calculating furiously, weighing up the pros and cons. Then he smiled and opened his hands. “I did not make myself clear. Of course I am not unwilling to show you anything you wish to see. Normally not, of course – these matters are commercially sensitive – but because of your special interest I can make an exception. Nevertheless, as I have explained, this is a research facility. All commercial aspects – initial testing, production, packaging, marketing, clinical trials, data processing – all such things are given to more specialized subcontractors. It is a common practice, yes?”
“Outsourcing? Yes, it’s common, but—”
“For me it is the only way.” Again the lenses of his spectacles caught the light, and all I could see was the apologetic smile. “I do not have this expertise, so I must rely on people who do.”
It’s all too smooth. He’s being evasive. I wonder what would happen if I rattled his cage a bit.
“Perhaps I could raise another point of concern. It’s the information I have that your company supports right-wing organizations.”
He stiffened, and his lips tightened. “Really, Colonel, you are an intelligent man. You should not believe rumours put out by our competitors.”
“So you deny your involvement with an organization called ‘The Guardians of the Reich’?”
Again the lenses flashed. Had I gone too far?
“Why should I deny it? ‘The Guardians’ is a reputable charity. Colonel, history judges whether a war was right or wrong. But for me the soldiers who fight the battles are heroes, all of them. They are ready to give their lives for their country. And if they make that sacrifice they leave often families behind who are in need.” His back straightened. If he’d been standing up I rather suspected he’d have clicked his heels. “We are not ashamed of these contributions. We help the families of heroes. We are proud that we do it.”
It sounded to me like a prepared speech. I decided to let it go.
I waved my hand vaguely as if to dismiss the topic. “Okay, that’s just incidental, really. Let’s return to the real question: Xylazib and Prescaline. You’re saying I can’t inspect the clinical trial data?”
He leaned forward. “No, no, I did not say that." He leaned back again. "But for this you would have to visit the contract research organization that manages these things.”
“Which is where?”
“It is located in North America.”
North America, I noticed, not the United States. I frowned. “That far away?”
He smiled. “There are economic reasons. And in these days communication is easy, so distance is not important.”
“Where exactly in North America?”
“Mexico.”
23
Some people have romantic notions about Mexico and for all I know they’re right. I probably have a different slant on the country, because for me the picture it brings to mind is one of guerrilla groups, drug cartels, corrupt police forces, vigilantes, and people trafficking. The company Holle directed me to was in the Mexican state of Chihuahua, which shares a long border with Texas and New Mexico. Being that close to the US border made me feel a little more comfortable.
I considered going back to Hereford first, but it would have been a waste of time, particularly as Holle was happy to leave me with fresh coffee and the remains of the patisserie while he went off to organize the visit. He even got Frau Schenk to make all my travel arrangements, which would be paid for by the company. In fact he seemed to be falling over himself in his anxiety to convince me that everything was above board. US Army contracts were obviously very profitable for them and he wanted to ensure my cooperation.
So I thanked him for his hospitality and one of his staff drove me through the rain back to Munich airport. I flew to Heathrow, where I changed for Dallas, and from there I caught a flight to the grandly named General Roberto Fierro Villalobos International Airport at Chihuahua city.
They’d booked me aisle seats on every leg of the journey so I couldn’t see anything out of the window. Instead I took the time to think about how I was going to manage things after I got there, when the statisticians came out with the figures from the trials. We did quite a
bit of statistics in my Geography degree, but that was twenty years ago, and it almost certainly didn’t include the type of analysis they’d use in clinical trials. Still, I could look at the outliers and maybe even take some figures away for Harries – a lot depended on how guarded they were at this other company, and what Holle had told them they could and couldn’t reveal. I needed to call Hereford to tell Owen Gracey where I’d gone, but I figured there’d be time enough to do that when I reached my destination. Which wouldn’t be long now as the plane was coming in to land, buffeted by thermals. I’d been flying with the sun, so it was still Tuesday as I emerged into the arrivals hall.
I was met by a thick-set, unsmiling guy wearing wrap-around sunglasses, which he didn’t take off, and a loose shirt outside his jeans. He wasn’t my image of a company’s front-end employee, but perhaps things were more casual out here and first impressions didn’t count. He led me to the car park and over to an elderly sand-coloured Toyota all-terrain. Again it wasn’t my idea of a company car, but this was presumably a low-budget outfit. The Toyota had, of course, been sitting in the broiling sun and the inside was like an oven. I took the front passenger seat and he got in behind the wheel. The radio came on with the engine but not, it seemed, with the air-con, which was either non-existent or didn’t work. My ears were bombarded by two presenters laughing and chatting over each other in Spanish too rapid and confusing for me to follow. This gave way to a group featuring a bad singer and a thunderous drummer of the sort you could hear anywhere in the world. The driver made no move to turn it down. Before we left the city he stopped to fill the tank, so I figured we could be in for a long ride. While he was paying for the gas I took off my tunic and also surreptitiously turned the volume control down. By this time the heat had given me a raging thirst, and it was a relief when he came back with two opened cans of cold beer, one of which he passed to me.
“Cerveza, señor.”
I accepted the can. It was slippery with condensation. I lifted it to him in a slight toast.
“Gracias. Está muy caliente.”
I figured this might open him up a little but it didn’t. The radio came on and he immediately turned the volume up again.
Within half and hour we were driving through undulating savanna, mainly coarse grass and low scrub with the occasional farm. The radio continued to blare but it was receding now, like it was coming from the end of a tunnel. Even with my sunglasses on everything seemed too bright, and I was having trouble focusing.
Must have been the long journey. Or was that beer stronger than I thought?
The last thing I remember before I closed my eyes was that I hadn’t yet called Owen Gracey.
24
My eyes opened into an achingly white room. My head weighed a ton and it felt like my heart was beating right inside my skull and threatening to break out. I was in a semi-reclined position on a narrow bed. Freshly laundered sheets were tucked tightly round my middle. The air was warm and smelled faintly of cardboard and disinfectant. There were diffuser panels on the lights in the ceiling.
I’d awakened into a nightmare like this once before. Back then it was a military prison hospital. My breathing quickened.
Don’t tell me I’m going through all that again!
I closed my eyes and tried to get some order into my thoughts. The last time it happened I’d been paralysed by a taser rifle. I moved my legs and arms, wiggled my fingers and toes. I wasn’t paralysed. I tried lifting and turning my head to each side but the movement set off a fresh wave of pain behind my eyes and I fell back against the pillow.
Where am I and what in hell’s name am I doing here?
The pain eased back to a throb again and I made another effort to concentrate. On the previous occasion I had no memory for events immediately before I lost consciousness. This was different: I had a clear memory of landing at the airport in Chihuahua city, being picked up by a thick-set guy in sunglasses, and driven off in an old Toyota. In a situation like that I’d normally be on maximum alert, looking out for landmarks, registering every turn, storing a mental map of the route, yet I must have fallen asleep—
I heard the door open and the way the sound played around the walls told me I was in a smallish room, not a ward. A nurse appeared at the bedside, took a look at me, and said something quickly in Spanish. The only word I caught was cirujano. What the hell did I want with a surgeon? It was no good, I couldn’t get the words out in English, let alone Spanish. She went away and the door closed.
The guy who came in a few minutes later was wearing a white coat, unbuttoned. His face was pudgy, like it had been put together with plasticene, and the brown hair I could see was thinning. I put him in his early fifties. He looked cheerful, which he could afford to be. He didn’t have a head on him like mine.
“Hi there, glad to see you’re back in the land of the living! You’re one lucky hombre.”
His accent was faintly Texan. He wasn’t Mexican – that was for sure.
I passed my tongue over dry lips and croaked, “Lucky?”
He smiled, but it was a one-sided smile that I didn’t like. “Yeah, lucky we have a good clinic here. You rolled up with a bad case of cryptococcal meningitis. Been to Africa lately?”
Another croak. “Yes.”
“That’s where you must have picked it up. Your intracranial pressure was through the roof – that’s why you passed out. We made a small hole in your skull to relieve the pressure. The infection’s been treated, so you should be okay now. You’ll have a sore head for a bit, is all.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Twelve hours or so. You can get up when you feel like it, but take it slow and don’t overdo it. We best keep you under observation a couple more days. Then you can get on with your business. Okay? Anything you need, the call button’s right here.”
He brought down a push-button switch on a lead, then left the room.
Cryptococcal meningitis? I withdrew an arm from under the sheets and lifted my hand to my head. My fingers encountered bandages. That’s why my head felt so heavy. Shit.
It was all too much. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.
*
When I woke up again bright sunlight was streaming into the room. The big clock on the wall said eleven-thirty. I hadn’t slept like this in a long while. It must have been the after-effects of the anaesthetic. Or the infection.
What day is it?
If I turned my head carefully I could see the side table, and sure enough my watch was there, the familiar, old-fashioned Army-issue self-winder. I fumbled for it, put it on, and checked the date. Thursday morning.
Good God, I’ve been here for two days! What about these people I was meant to see? Are they wondering where I am? There’s no way I can contact them, either – I didn’t get the name of the company. I remember asking Holle but somehow the conversation got diverted. Maybe I’m here already – I was met at the airport and the surgeon said this was a clinic, not a hospital.
I turned back the sheets, sat up gingerly, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Immediately my head started to pound again and I had to keep still for several minutes to let the room stop going round. Then I reached my feet to the floor. It was covered with a pale blue composite, slightly spongy to the touch and cool, but not uncomfortably so. I stood up carefully, winced at a fresh stab of pain, and went over to the window. There was nothing much to see: a sunbaked landscape with a sparse covering of tough grasses and the odd stunted tree, and in the background some mountains, floating in the heat haze. Then I noticed the fence. It was about twenty metres away and so flimsy as to appear pointless: just a row of posts with a single wire threaded between them. Perhaps it was electrified to keep out – to keep out what, exactly? Cows, horses, goats? No sign of those. Wild animals? I didn’t know what wild animals they had in these parts. I didn’t even know where I was.
I turned away from the window. I had my balance now, and I paced the room carefully for a bit. It was too smal
l to do that comfortably, so I opened the door and explored the corridor outside. I walked slowly up and down but the door at each end was locked with a security pad. A row of windows provided a view along the frontage of a low, sand-coloured building. That meant I was in one wing. There was another wing sticking out and it was a lot shorter, because I could see past it to a third. Even here, in the very front of the building, no attempt had been made to cultivate the parched ground, which didn’t look any different to the scrub landscape I’d viewed through the window in my room. As I scanned around I saw, about twenty metres away, the same fence I’d spotted earlier, so it presumably went right around the building. Just this much mental effort was making my head throb again. I went back to my room and crawled into bed.
The nurse woke me for lunch: a tray with salad, some sharp-tasting fruits, not all of which I’d seen before, and a bowl of baguette-style bread. There was water to drink; coffee probably wasn’t too good for me right now. I ate everything, surprised by my own appetite. I tried to think, but I felt tired and my mind just wouldn’t stay there. I couldn’t fight it, so I just let myself drift off to sleep.
On the tray that evening was a spicy chicken dish, with guacomole and beans. When I’d finished, the nurse took away the dishes and then came back. She made a circular movement with her fingers and pointed to my head. Evidently she’d been told to take the bandages off. She detached the free end and began to unwind. There seemed to be yards of it. Her fingers were trembling. What was she so nervous about and why was she unwinding the damned thing? A skilled nurse would have dipped into her pocket for a pair of dressing scissors and cut straight through it. When she’d finished she stepped back and made a ball of the bandage. At that moment the surgeon came in.
The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3) Page 13