“They like it here, same as me. Any case, they can’t go back – malpractice suits waiting for both of them if they do.”
“So they were neurosurgeons back in the States?”
“Nah. Wayne was a cosmetic surgeon. I think Chuck was what you and I would call a general practitioner. They didn’t know each other back then. Both of them answered an advert – clinic in a nice, remote place and a good package to go with it. Not hard – was it? – not in their position.”
*
Knowledge is power, and I was acquiring it fast. First the nugget of information in Müller’s proud description of his grandfather’s technique, which told me that he'd learned to place the electrodes in the brain without image guidance. The indentations I’d seen in the mirror were clearly left behind by a stereotactic frame, which would have been around in grandfather Müller’s day, too, but that was the extent of it. The technique was good, but it wasn’t that precise. Next Colin’s crude account of the way individuals experienced the pain as coming from different parts of the body, toothache and earache in his own case, breasts in one of the girls, abdomen in Delfina, and so on. That was completely consistent; the target was small and the placement wasn’t precise, so the results varied. And now confirmation that the procedure was being emulated here by the two medics, Wayne and Chuck, who weren’t even qualified neurosurgeons. Conclusion: Wayne and Chuck put the electrodes in without guidance, and because they’d done it so many times they could usually be sure of placing them near enough to the target.
In any normal brain.
But my brain wasn’t normal. My brain had been transplanted into a different body. I’d read the whole procedure up after my rehabilitation because I wanted to know exactly what had been done to me. People’s brains vary somewhat in size, and that means the space inside their skulls, the so-called cranial capacity, varies too. Surgeons don’t mind transplanting a brain into a larger skull; what they don’t want to do is transplant it into a smaller one. The bigger skull isn’t a problem: it gives them a bit more room to work in, and when they’ve finished they inject a gel to fill the space and make the brain a nice snug fit so it won’t shake about. And that’s what must have happened to me. I was given the body of a big guy with a bigger head than mine so they would have had to inject the gel. That fact was absolutely crucial. It meant that my brain was sitting lower in the skull than those two clowns in the clinic here were used to. The thalamus wasn't a large target, so there was a fair chance the electrodes they'd put in my head ended up short.
That was the good news. The bad news was that the field under that flimsy fence ran at full whack all the time – Colin had said so when he was showing me the installation. Even if the electrodes in my head were short of the proper target, enough current would probably spread to make me curl up and die in agony if I tried to walk through it.
But I wasn’t planning to walk through it. I was planning to ride through it inside a delivery van. If you put together my off-target electrodes with the shielding effect of being in a metal box – even an incomplete one – there was a faint chance I could end up on the other side of that fence and still be alive to tell the tale.
It was dangerous, very dangerous, but what choice did I have? My delaying tactics with the clinical data couldn’t last much longer. When the statistical analysis was complete I’d find myself writing an application to get another unsafe drug accepted by the US Army. Meanwhile medics all over the world would still be reaching for the Prescaline in the drugs cabinet, and more soldiers and civilians would die. The kidnapping, the money-laundering, the slavery, and all the rest of it would go on. The Guardians of the Reich would continue to sponsor the drive towards a Europe tyrannized by right-wing fanatics. And Delfina would be put up for grabs by Colin, the two surgeons, the kitchen staff, those brutal soldiers, and anyone else who chose to order her into their beds.
I had no right to consider my own safety. I had to accept the risk.
38
On Thursday Delfina and I woke at about 6 am. We went to the door together and she reached up again and kissed me on the cheek. I fought down a strong urge to take her in my arms and kiss her properly. I knew in my heart that I was right to exercise restraint, but it was getting harder each time I saw her. To get it out of my head I dressed quickly and took another turn around the building. I wanted to make sure nothing had changed. I was also hoping that the visibility towards those mountains would be better at this time of the morning, but a light mist had gathered up there. I was still examining the plan from every angle. It was a tedious process but my military experience had taught me that adequate preparation could make the difference between living and dying.
After breakfast I went to Baer with a brand-new ruse.
“Have we tested Xylozib for cross-reactions with antimalarials? I mean, they’re bound to be taken together.”
“Yes, of course. Dopranamid and Quinoxocarb.”
“What about Quinocitab?”
He blinked. “I have not heard of this drug.” He turned to his assistants. “Have you heard of Quinocitab?” They shook their heads.
It was a fair bet that none of them would have heard of it but I hadn’t made it up. I knew about these anti-malarials from the operation on counterfeit drugs. I explained it to them.
“Dopranamid and Quinoxocarb are out of date; there are too many places where the organisms have developed resistance. Quinocitab is made by Kappa Pharmaceuticals, the people who made Quinoxocarb. But there’s no drug resistance to it. Not yet, anyway.”
“And this drug has been adopted by the United States Army?”
“Yes.” Here I was being economical with the truth. Last time I heard, Quinocitab was in Phase III trials, but it was doing well. The chances were that it would be adopted sooner or later. “Well it’s okay,” I said, “we’ve got a list of drugs being taken concurrently by the trial subjects. We just have to pick out the ones on Quinocitab.”
Baer’s face fell. “But that will take many hours!”
Great, isn’t it?
I shrugged. “All the same, we need to do it.”
I left them scratching their heads. They wouldn’t find any subjects taking Quinocitab unless they’d been involved in one of Kappa’s trials. That was only the most distant of possibilities, but they’d still have to trawl the data to find out.
At dinner I joined Baer and his colleagues again, excusing myself to Colin by saying there was an analysis we needed to discuss. Actually I was seeking refuge from his revolting table manners and his incessant, egotistical, sexist prattle. When we’d finished coffee I left quickly to go back to my room.
At ten o’clock Delfina knocked on my door, a knock I now recognized. There was a certain assurance about her, something of the proud bearing she’d displayed before Müller degraded her. Had I begun to restore her self-respect? I hoped so – and I hoped it wasn’t just by keeping her out of the other men’s beds.
“I am cutting patterns for the uniforms now.” She wiggled her fingers and rubbed them briefly with her other hand; the muscles were no doubt fatigued from using scissors. “Actually it is quite interesting. I never did anything like this before."
It was understandable. She had a receptive mind and this was something new for her.
“I thought clothing companies used lasers these days," I said. "They can cut whole stacks at a time.”
“We have nothing like that.” Her face darkened. “I don’t mind work, Jim, even hard work. But I can’t allow myself to be abused by all those men. I must escape from here.”
My body tensed. “But how?”
“There is a gap in the fence. I have seen it from the entrance.”
“Delfina, the cable runs under the fence and under the gap, too.”
“I know, but I will run very fast.”
I drew a breath. “It’s terribly dangerous. And even if you do manage to get through, where will you go? We are miles from any help, and without help you would not last long out there.
”
“So I will die. It is better than spending years here as the plaything of men like Colin.” My concern must have been obvious because she reached a hand out to my cheek and smiled, and her voice softened. “Don’t worry, Jim. I won’t do it as long as we can be together. But after that…”
I nodded, my lips tight.
While she was getting into bed I went to the bathroom, preparing for an early night. Tomorrow was Friday and I needed to be outside shortly after six o’clock, waiting near the kitchen. I’d learn everything I could about the delivery and after that I could put together an effective strategy.
When I got in next to her she cuddled up on cue. I sighed and relaxed, my senses flooded with the feeling of that warm, soft body against mine. If only we could keep this arrangement up for another week perhaps she wouldn’t have to resort to desperate measures.
*
I’d never needed an alarm clock. It was my army experience: I’d be told “Reveille at 0600” and I’d be awake on the dot.
I got up without disturbing Delfina and washed and dressed. She was sitting on the side of the bed when I came back into the room.
I said, “Okay for tonight?” It was a routine question. It didn’t get a routine answer.
She got to her feet. “No, I do not think I can come tonight, Jim. Dr Müller sent one of the soldiers to tell me to go there this evening. Mrs Müller wants to see me.”
The alarm clock was going off now, all right, drilling loudly all around inside my head. Clearly Delfina hadn’t yet heard about this woman’s reputation. It wouldn’t help if I told her, either; she’d just live in dread the whole day long.
It was totally unexpected. Colin had said Mrs Müller didn’t get the new girls, not until they’d done the rounds for a bit. Maybe she’d seen Delfina and taken a special fancy to her, in her own twisted way. Or maybe her husband had decided to remind me who was in charge. Damn him! Damn the pair of them!
Delfina must have read my expression. “Is something wrong, Jim?”
I took a quick breath. “No, no. You have to do as Dr Müller says. You go back to your room now.”
She tilted her head to one side, then put her arms round my neck and I felt her lips on mine, her breasts firm and warm against my chest.
I still had my eyes closed as I heard the door click shut. Then I blinked, and returned abruptly to reality.
I couldn’t let her get into that woman’s hands, I couldn’t. That simply must not happen.
I glanced at my watch, paced around the room, then stood by the window, biting my lip and clenching and unclenching my fists. At any moment now two or three armed rebel soldiers would be driving a vehicle up to the kitchen. The plan I’d based on this routine delivery was near-suicidal – I had no illusions about that – and everything I’d ever learned told me how much the dangers would be multiplied if I wasn’t fully prepared. And I wasn’t, not yet. What the hell was I to do?
It didn’t take long to decide.
Ready or not, I had to make my move right now.
39
I took up a position at the side of the building, just around the corner from the kitchen, waited and listened. It was still and quiet, too cold at this hour for insects to be active. No morning chorus either: I’d only seen one bird since I’d been here, something large that circled over the mountains for a while, then flew off. I was wearing a stout Army shirt over my T-shirt, but despite the extra layer I began to shiver, so I took a break to swing my arms and walk up and down the windowless wall. The minutes dragged by, waiting and listening, walking up and down, then waiting some more. It was during one of these brief spells of exercise that I froze. Something had seeped into my awareness: the sound of a motor, rising and falling, the sound made by a vehicle navigating an uneven landscape. I quickly returned to the kitchen end of the wall and put my head around the corner. The sound got louder, then a vehicle came into view – not a car, not an all-terrain either, taller than that. As it got closer I stayed behind the wall. There was a squeal of brakes and some manoeuvring. The burble of the engine continued for a few moments, then stopped. Peering out I saw a large van, an old model painted crudely in desert camo. At the back were two vertically hinged doors, a wire-reinforced window high up on each one, and a locking handle. As I’d expected, it was a van, not a truck. The front doors opened and I ducked back. I heard the crunch of boots, then the sound of doors being unlocked and opened.
They’ll have their backs to you now. Take another peek.
Two soldiers were standing at the opened doors of the van. One turned slightly and I spotted the holstered semi-automatic on his belt.
No full-time driver, then; just two soldiers, and one of them did the driving. Good, that meant there’d be no one in the back – one question answered. It made sense not to have a driver. It probably wasn’t too hard to find the way – the van must have worn some sort of path by now and it was probably fitted with a NavAid.
There was no vapour issuing from the inside of the van.
Great, looks like it’s not refrigerated. Another question answered.
The door to the kitchen opened and again I ducked back. I heard an exchange of greetings, then the scrape of things being slid across a metal floor. I took a quick look. The soldiers were inside the van, pushing forward crates of vegetables, then handing them down to the second chef and the young sous-chef. There were no other kitchen staff around – the others were probably busy preparing breakfast. I glimpsed carcasses hanging in the depths of the van. Then one of the soldiers looked up.
I pulled back quickly.
Shit! Did he see me?
There was nowhere to hide here and the front corner of the building was too far to get to. I crouched low and manoeuvred my toes for the best purchase on the dusty ground, ready to spring if he came to investigate. Seconds ticked by. My whole body was tens, primed to explode into action, waiting for that soldier’s boot to appear around the corner. And the moment it did the whole plan would go to hell.
The sliding noises and the comings and goings continued. It seemed like I’d got away with it. I breathed out. I’d have to be more careful. When I put my head out again, I’d do it at this low level. I reached for a bunch of the tough grass with some sort of weed mixed in with it and tore it out. As an extra precaution I’d hold it in front of my face each time I peered out.
The noises stopped and I decided to risk another look. They were passing down insulated boxes, which presumably contained some kind of perishable foodstuffs. I withdrew carefully and straightened up, my back to the wall, listening to them taking stuff into the kitchen and returning for more. There were probably boxes with other items: cooking oil, wines, spices, and tinned goods. Perhaps there were supplies for the rest of the establishment: articles of clothing, soap, and detergents for the laundry. It seemed like quite a comprehensive delivery.
The sounds took on a different character now and I squatted down for another peek. The soldiers in the van were accepting empty wooden crates and stacking them. The sous-chef came out with the basket of muslins and handed it up. They must be nearly finished.
I waited until it was quiet before I poked my head out again. The kitchen door was still ajar, but the staff had gone inside and there was no sign of the soldiers. Now would be the time for them to change places with the two who were coming off duty. That could take a few minutes: the new arrivals had to be briefed, and they had to go through the routine of registering their handprints on the security panels. The van doors had been left open.
I won’t get a better chance than this.
I covered the ground in a couple of quick strides and vaulted lightly into the back of the van. The crates were stacked on the right and there was room to squeeze myself in behind them. I paused, breathing lightly through my mouth, and looked around. The partition behind me was fitted with a rectangular window. No doubt that would be in the driver’s rear-view mirror so I’d have to be careful to stay out of his line of vision. Above my head th
ere was a rail with half a dozen S-shaped hooks – meat hooks for hanging the carcasses. I shuffled up with my back to the side of the van, got as comfortable as I could, checked my watch, and settled down to wait. I’d never come in for breakfast at a predictable time – or set a consistent pattern for anything else apart from dinner – so it should be quite a while before anyone noticed my absence.
Twenty minutes later I heard voices. There were two heavy thumps and I saw a couple of backpacks land on the floor of the van. Then I was plunged into gloom as the doors shut with a metallic clang and I heard the squeak of the handle being turned, the lever driving steel bars, one up and one down, into their sockets. There was a further rattle as the key was turned in the lock.
That was it: I was locked in a metal box and unless someone opened the doors again when we got to the other end, I’d be stuffed. My pulse beat a little faster.
Don’t panic. Take one thing at a time. Right now your big worry is those windows.
There were three – one in the partition and one in each door – and the wire mesh in the glass wasn’t fine enough to keep out a radiofrequency field. It was a gaping hole in the shielding. I thought of Colin’s Faraday cage, with its soldered joints and copper spring seals on the door and hinges. This van was nothing like as good. It would attenuate the field, but it wouldn’t exclude it. The danger had just escalated.
The heavy tread of the soldiers’ boots came around the van, accompanied by laughter. They were happy. They’d had an energetic seven nights. Life was good.
The front doors opened and the laughter was loud now, right behind me on the other side of the partition. The doors slammed. I heard the cough of the engine starting and we began to move off. Then there were shouts and a banging on the side of the van. It braked sharply and the engine died.
I passed my tongue over my lips. Had I been spotted?
The van’s front doors opened, boots hit the ground, and there was a rapid conversation. I strained to hear the Spanish but I was getting only snatches. Bottles… cooking brandy… it seemed like something was missing from the list. More footsteps. The rattle of a key, a squeak as the handle to the van doors turned. The doors opened and light flooded in.
The Reich Legacy: A Jim Slater novel (The Jim Slater series Book 3) Page 21