by Chris Pauls
Weiss didn’t need light to find his way. He’d long ago counted the steps: twenty-three past his equipment, turn right for two steps, left for five steps, and then stop in front of the custom-made, six-foot-tall, thick-walled glass enclosure that anchored the end of the room. As he walked, he reached into his pocket and fingered his lighter, flicking open the top so it would be ready to go.
He walked slowly and silently; it was not yet time for haste. When he arrived in front of the glass cage, he paused to listen. No sound but the ticking of gauges. Good. With his left hand, he brought forth his lighter, and with his right hand, he lifted his sweater as if to guard the flame from a breeze. With calm deliberation, his thumb spun the abraded wheel across the flint and a single spark leapt onto the carefully trimmed wick. A thin, blue flame jumped forth.
He quickly began his work. On top of the enclosure, a galaxy of tubing emanated and flowed down the outside, its meandering course ending in a single 16mm by 150mm vial. A drop of jet-black fluid fell into the tube. It was nearly full, but he was determined to get every drop possible. The sound of movement from inside the glass, like cloth on cement, caused Weiss to smother the flame by snapping shut the lighter top with a practiced flip of his thumb. He thought he saw the figure inside turn toward him, but it made no more sound.
As Weiss silently retraced his steps, gathering his coffee and returning to his living room and the warmth of the stove, he thought: The vial is ready. Now I wait only for darkness. It’s time.
2
PRIVATE RESIDENCE. BERLIN, GERMANY.
SUNDAY, APRIL 7, 1912. 6:40 P.M.
The most prominent feature of Army Chief of Staff Helmuth von Moltke’s wood-paneled study was an enormous map of Europe that hung on the wall. Arrows showed the potential paths of various armies and where they might meet if the German Empire found itself fighting a two-front war against both France and Russia. Indeed, Germany had long considered initiating just such a conflict. The map’s battle plan was the brainchild of Moltke’s predecessor, Alfred von Schlieffen, and it bore his name.
The Schlieffen Plan first circulated among German General Staff members in 1905, when the high command felt a war in Europe was inevitable. The strategy called for an initial strike and quick defeat of France in the west before radically turning east and shifting decisive force against Russia, which was historically slow to mobilize. For seven years Moltke had studied the Schlieffen Plan, and for seven years he had felt uneasy.
In his estimation, the gambit’s success was predicated on the precarious notion that the “Russian Steamroller” would be unable to gain momentum fast enough. If any part of the initial campaign in France slowed the German Army, it could prove disastrous when the time came to engage Russia. Germany needed absolute assurance that the Czar would not be able to marshal his forces in time, but the necessary strategy or ingredient had proved elusive.
Until now.
Moltke strode to a sideboard and lifted a decanter of brandy, pouring a celebratory draught of Weinbrand into a snifter. Suddenly, a figure emerged from behind him, and the decanter nearly slipped from his grasp. Moltke flinched, and then relaxed, trying to cover his shock with nonchalance.
“I should have known. How did you get in?”
The young man helped himself to the brandy snifter. He stood about six feet tall, with dark hair and plain features. His expression was inscrutable, and his civilian clothes were impeccable, dark, and neutral. He appeared both threatening and unassuming at the same time. With a lone gulp, he finished the brandy and set down the glass.
“I let myself in,” he replied.
You’ve been trained well, Moltke thought. He refilled the glass and poured himself a second snifter, which he raised aloft. “To a new map,” he said and drank. The man joined him in the toast.
“The time has come sooner than expected,” Moltke said. “It’s why I asked you here. We believe Weiss has finished with his work and is now only delaying. Tomorrow we will take what we need from him. You will leave this week with the vial.”
The young man eyed Moltke curiously. “It’s time for more details, Herr Moltke, about your weapon and of what it is you would have me do. What sickness would cause the Russians to mobilize en masse against it?”
Moltke regarded the young man in turn. “I suspect even you will quail at the sight of the horror it brings. And the Russians will respond just as I say—they’ll exhaust their resources to end the threat.” Moltke put a pen to the map and circled a city in Russia.
“Once we have the Toxic, you will take and release it here, in Perm. A week later, when Perm is in chaos, we will begin our attack of France, per the brilliant strategy of Herr Schlieffen.”
For the first time, the younger man showed a flash of emotion. “Perm is the target? That’s not what we agreed.”
“Of course,” Moltke replied, “Germany’s strategic needs come before personal vendettas. By striking Perm, we eliminate a major munitions center and pin the Russian Army up against the Ural Mountains.”
“And what happens to Kishinev?” The man pointed to a spot east of the Urals near the Baltic Sea. “How do I know the city will be destroyed if the plague is to be unleashed so far west?”
Moltke replied heavily, “I’ll hear no such talk. You came to us. You’re a member of the Imperial German Army now, and you’ll take orders as such.”
The young man tensed, his eyes never leaving Moltke’s as he slowly placed his half-empty glass on the sideboard.
The Army Chief of Staff suppressed his anger at his subordinate’s arrogant indifference to the chain of command. Moltke knew the man was the perfect agent for this important mission, a former Russian who could move undetected in Perm while infecting the city. Germany needed him.
Moltke’s lower lip jutted out. “Consider Kishinev a secondary target. Continue there after assuring the infection is raging in Perm.”
The pair eyed each other warily. A wild look inflamed the young man’s face. “Kishinev must truly suffer for its sins.”
Moltke smiled. “A few drops and Russia will burn Kishinev and everyone in it to the ground.”
The Agent retrieved his glass and held it aloft. “Then let’s drink to wiping Kishinev off the map.”
3
CABIN. HARZ MOUNTAINS, GERMANY.
MONDAY, APRIL 8, 1912. 2:15 A.M.
Weiss fed the notes detailing his return trip from Manchuria into the heating stove, careful to destroy each page. Not one shred of his work could survive. Flames devoured a black-and-white photo of the shaman, still in tribal costume and bound to a cot inside a railway car.
The shaman’s condition had deteriorated dramatically by the time they’d reached the Manzhouli railway. Despite her binds, the woman Weiss now referred to as “the Subject” was insatiably hostile. Weiss kept her shaman mask on, as protection against her aggression and to avoid becoming emotionally attached to the woman underneath.
The days went by with few words; the Interior Department officials had little to say to Weiss. The older one carried a deck of cards in his jacket and spent most of the journey taking money from his junior partner.
Traveling in a confined space with her agonized moaning was unbearable. It made a full night’s sleep impossible. Near the end of the two-week trip, the younger Interior Department man, desperate for rest, tried to muffle her with a gag. If Weiss had been awake, he would have stopped him. The official pulled back her mask, and she viciously latched onto a chunk of his palm. His compatriot intervened, wrenching him free but not before the Subject also managed to bite the older man on the forearm. Her shrieks and the men’s screams woke Weiss, but too late. The damage was done.
Weiss donned gloves, cleaned the Germans’ wounds, and informed them that, most unfortunately, restraints would be necessary for the rest of their journey. The men protested, but Weiss appealed to their sense of German pride and duty. They witnessed what the Subject had become. Weiss promised that if, by some miracle, they weren’t showing sig
ns of disease within twenty-four hours, he would release them. The men relented and allowed themselves to be bound. Then Weiss did the only thing he could: closely observe their condition. His notes chronicled the men’s descent through what seemed to be three fairly distinct stages. One page summarized his findings:
STAGE ONE: Flu-like symptoms, headache, chills, intermittent nausea. Appears like early symptoms of the plague. The men describe a constant uncomfortable ache, and exhibit conscious self-awareness. Duration: approximately eight hours.
STAGE TWO: Murky, intermittent discharge begins to emanate from mouth, nose, and ears. Black, pox-type sores appear on skin. Headaches more severe. Periodic grabbing of the ears. Mental agitation increases. The men still speak, but not always intelligibly. Both pleaded with me to kill them. Duration: approximately three hours.
STAGE THREE: Discharge now flowing freely from eyes. Total loss of higher functions. Ability to communicate is gone. Vocalizations consist entirely of moaning. Demonstrate unbridled aggression toward sound or any human movement. They are no longer men. Duration: Unknown. None of the subjects have yet to die of the disease.
When the train finally reached Berlin, Weiss was met by Helmuth von Moltke and a contingent of the German Imperial Army. With great regret, Weiss informed them of the tragedy that had occurred en route.
“Transport to a laboratory awaits you and your Subject,” said Moltke. “We will take custody of the men and see they are put out of their misery.”
Weiss was shocked that Moltke wanted him to continue in light of what had happened but agreed to keep the original Subject for study. Hopefully, a treatment or cure could be developed. Weiss insisted, however, that he needed to work in total isolation to avoid further tragedies. Moltke consented, in exchange for appraisal on all progress.
With meticulous care, a special glass enclosure was built to house and restrain the Subject in a two-room cabin on Brocken Mountain, the highest peak in the Harz range. From the top of the enclosure, Weiss could safely access the Subject, who seemed to need nothing to survive. Every three days, as had been arranged, Weiss hiked down to Schierke for supplies and to update Moltke on all progress and developments by post. Yet when Weiss returned to his cabin laboratory, he sometimes had a nagging feeling that someone had visited in his absence. On a hunch, he sent a note to a trusted contact in the Interior Department, inquiring about the infected men who had been taken off the train and destroyed.
As the weeks went by, Weiss struggled without success to find a bacterium similar to that which caused the bubonic and pneumonic plagues. He knew one had to be present and suspected that by the time the pathogen was transmitted, it was hiding within other cells.
One thing seemed clear: instead of proceeding to the lymph nodes or lungs, this particular plague form made its way to the brain. There, it nibbled away, causing the kind of violent madness Weiss had seen firsthand.
That theory gained credence when X-ray analysis revealed a dark, fluid-filled sac directly in the middle of the Subject’s skull. Protected by the sac’s defensive membrane, this was where the bacterium likely multiplied before sneaking into the blood that flowed out the nose, mouth, ears, or eyes. Weiss needed the pure strain of bacteria within the sac, and he designed an apparatus to drain the mysterious fluid he named “the Toxic.”
Fitting the apparatus was the tricky part. He’d had to do it with all light extinguished to remove stimuli and calm the Subject. Even then, he’d nearly been bitten. In the dark, he removed her mask from above, then waited for the inevitable thrashing to subside. When it did, he affixed the umbilical halo of the drilling apparatus to her skull. Then, safely removed on the other side of the glass, he sparked his lighter and looked on her unmasked face for the first time. Even accounting for the awful ravages of the disease, she must have been old when she was infected, with lined skin and silver hair. Now the flesh on her face was so rotted that her cheekbones lay exposed. Her ragged, purple lips moved only because of her furiously masticating jaw. Despite age and advanced decay, the Subject remained frighteningly strong. Weiss wasn’t a religious man, but he asked for forgiveness just the same. Then he pulled a lever to initiate the procedure.
His specially-designed probe descended from the halo, drilling straight down into the Subject’s skull. She seemed to not feel a thing. Upon arrival at the sac, a titanium needle extended from the instrument and cleanly pierced the soft pouch. Drawing out the Toxic then commenced, very slowly, at the rate of a 1ml per day, so as to prevent collapse of the sac and possible leakage. He estimated it would take a month to get it all.
Lab work with early samples of the Toxic proved exciting beyond words. Within days, he’d had some limited success interrupting the pathogen’s ability to create enzymes that protected it from antibodies. Not a cure yet, but surely once he’d found the key, a treatment for other forms of the plague would follow in short order. It would be the culmination of a life’s work.
Shortly after this breakthrough, Weiss finally received a return post from his Interior Department contact. The men who had joined Weiss in Manchuria hadn’t been department officials after all. Following cremation, they had been given Imperial German Army military funerals.
After reading the letter, Weiss returned from Schierke to his cabin, only to find carefully concealed footprints in the snow outside. His suspicions seemed to be confirmed: the German Army was watching and manipulating him, as it had from the beginning. But why?
Only one reason seemed possible: They wanted his research and especially the Toxic, not for a cure, but to use as a weapon. When Weiss had told Moltke of the distillation being extracted, his return communiqué asked for a firm completion date, and now that appeared to reveal his true motivation. Weiss then wondered, How long before he tries to seize my work?
As the last page from the file ignited, Weiss shut the door to the stove. He picked up one of five gasoline containers and a lantern, then walked into the dark laboratory for the last time.
Arriving at the containment chamber, he set the gas down, lit the lantern, and braced himself for the Subject’s reaction. All stayed still. He placed the lantern on the floor and removed the nearly full vial. After sealing the Toxic securely, he placed the vial in a larger, airtight metal cylinder with a padded interior. He stowed the tube, 250mm in length, in an unassuming, black leather valise and drew out an imposter vial filled with India ink. Weiss carefully inserted it in the Toxic’s place. Then he thoroughly doused the apparatus in gasoline. The creature instantly raged.
Pausing for a moment in front of the chamber, Weiss’s angular face reflected in the glass, reminding him of his twin sister, Sabine, her features faintly superimposed over his own.
With sudden ferocity, the Subject’s exposed cheekbones and decayed nose slammed headlong into the glass barrier, driving Sabine’s image back into Weiss’s heart.
The Subject’s savageness startled him, as it always did, and he nearly dropped his valise. She pounded her head wildly against the chamber, as if relentlessly beating on the gates of Hell. Weiss returned with two additional cans of gas and emptied them throughout the lab. When finished, he stood next to the chamber and put a hand against the glass.
Weiss felt a terrible pang of grief. The Subject had once been human, a shaman, dedicated to healing others just as he was. Even when doomed to die, she’d sacrificed herself to become part of his work. He pushed aside sentimentality. He could not save the dead, but with the Toxic, there remained hope for the living.
“Thank you,” he said.
Smoke from Weiss’s cigarette wound into the gathering fog surrounding the top of snowy Brocken Mountain, eventually becoming part of its shrouding mist. Valise in hand, he leaned on a walking stick twenty yards from the chalet, which would soon be completely engulfed in flames.
He knew he should hurry, but he wanted to ensure that the entire structure, and everything in it, burned. How long did he have before the German Imperial Army personnel undoubtedly below in Schierke wer
e alerted to the blaze raging just within the Brocken’s tree line? He hoped the early hour would buy him extra time.
His actions made him a marked man. If he were captured, the best he could hope for was life imprisonment. More likely, it would mean a firing squad. He checked the safety on his pistol and returned it to the vest pocket of his jacket.
Smoke poured and billowed from every crack and seam in the cabin. A window shattered, and flames leaped out, taking great gulps of air and greedily licking the eaves before spreading to the roof. Weiss took one last drag from his cigarette and was suddenly knocked to the ground as the building exploded.
He sat up, disoriented, brushing snow and embers from his overcoat. His ears were ringing. There was more formaldehyde left in those tanks than I thought, he cursed to himself, slipping as he scrambled to his feet. The valise had flown from his hand and lay a few yards away. He rushed to it and pulled out the cylinder. A close inspection of the vial inside revealed no damage.
Now Weiss moved with urgent purpose. He faced a nearly two-hour hike down the dark mountain. He’d only descended a hundred feet when the German skidded to a stop. Ahead in the mist, an impossibly tall, black, ghostlike figure stood at the forest’s edge, crowned by a glowing halo. To steady himself, Weiss dug his walking stick deep into the snow. The menace matched his movement, and as it did, Weiss recognized the vision for what it was.