The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  Perhaps the prospect of curing Europe’s most dangerous disease had caused this slip in discipline? But I couldn’t quite believe it. Perhaps a colleague dropped a word or two to a reporter, or one of Koch’s usually careful and hesitant presentations had been overrated by his peers. A glimmer of hope must have wiped away all logic. I spotted photographs of consumptives pouring into Berlin, certain to find health; on their side hundreds of physicians, convinced to find fame.

  I wondered where Koch was working now and whether the medical establishment would ever forgive such a brilliant scientist.

  An adjacent cabinet showed some of his work before he had been assigned a position as a government advisor in Berlin. He had served in the French War as a military surgeon, where he formed the first theories on the causative agent of typhoid fever. After the war, he went back to his small practice and lived a quiet life. Then, around Christmas 1875, he isolated anthrax bacilli in his basement and killed all of his daughter’s pet rabbits during repeated infection tests. Father and daughter then caught barn mice that suffered the same fate as their long-eared predecessors. In the process, Koch could prove that anthrax was caused by germs. His discovery was a sensation. As a result, he was offered government employment at the renowned Charité Hospital in Berlin.

  The Charité Hospital, Berlin, 1894. (16)

  Among all the snippets of information was a newspaper clipping from the year 1886. Just after his appointment as head of the Institute of Hygiene, Koch had made a short trip to St Petersburg to investigate an outbreak of cholera in a nearby town. According to the papers, he’d contained the disease and then he’d given a short presentation at the St Petersburg medical faculty before returning to Berlin.

  My neck began to tingle; a hint of excitement spread from there down my shoulders and into my fingertips. The chances were extremely low that Moran and Koch would have met, and that ideas on bacterial weaponry had been exchanged. Frozen, I stared at the piece of paper, my mind moving around possibilities and impossibilities. I slapped the cabinet’s wooden frame and left the museum.

  The stairs up to my room seemed unusually steep today. Halfway up, I was out of breath.

  Sherlock was still sitting on the floor, surrounded by notes. ‘You had a question,’ he said.

  ‘Not important.’ I sat down huffing. My stomach hurt. My feet hurt. August was unbearably hot and I was unbearably large. How could I continue to grow well into October? Sometimes I suspected two or three children in that enormous stomach of mine. But most women at eight months pregnancy didn’t look much smaller.

  ‘Here.’ He held out a cup of cold tea.

  ‘Thank you. I need to talk to Dr Robert Koch.’

  One of his eyebrows flickered upwards. I told him about my trip to the museum. ‘I’d also like to use this visit to trick Moran.’

  His eyes slid from my face down to my stomach. The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘That might work. Dinner?’

  ‘Let me catch my breath first.’

  Three days later, I stood in front of Koch’s house. I had sent a calling card the previous day. Now, my hand trembled over the knocker. He would throw me out, I was certain. Without wasting another thought, I grabbed the brass knocker and banged it against the wood. Three times.

  Shuffling, then the clinking of a chain, the rasping of a key being turned. The door opened a crack. A grunt, more shuffling yet, and a quiet curse.

  ‘My apologies. These… letters!’ the housekeeper groaned. Two large sacks were blocking the entrance. The woman peeked over my shoulder, then back at me. ‘Oh, I had expected Dr Kronberg.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct,’ I drawled in a poor attempt at staining my German with an American accent. ‘Women can study and practice medicine in America. I’m Dr Kronberg.’

  My title combined with my sex and my expectant glance sent her a step back, with her arm jerking the door open all the way until the handle hit the wall.

  ‘Thank you.’ I stepped in, my eyes sweeping over the abundance of letters. ‘From tuberculosis patients?’

  Another grunt. ‘For a year now, Dr Koch has received two such loads every week. From everyone with consumption or consumptive relatives.’

  I doubted it. That would make more than fifty per cent of the European population. What I saw were perhaps two to three hundred letters. At the most.

  She beckoned me through the hallway into the sitting room. ‘Dr Koch will be with you shortly.’ Then she disappeared.

  I remained standing next to the door and closed my eyes. My mouth was dry. The large clock on the wall ticked and I tried to make my heart slow to its rhythm. Footfalls in the corridor. I took a deep breath and turned around.

  He stood at my height — five and a half feet — and seemed to shrink a little now. The knuckles of his hand turned white against the doorframe, one foot sliding back an inch. I took off my bonnet so he could see the magnitude of the fraud.

  ‘I am appalled,’ he whispered, stepped in, and closed the door.

  ‘I betrayed your trust. I apologise for this,’ I said.

  He snorted. ‘With what do I deserve the honour of your visit, Mrs Kronberg?’

  Odd, how quickly a university education and graduation can be wiped away. I pondered how I should answer. Shooting my thoughts and opinions at him would be of little help.

  He continued in the high and thin voice so typical of him. ‘My time is limited.’

  ‘I’m still the same person. I worked hard to get a medical degree, just like you. I worked hard to get further in life, against all expectations of society. Just like you, Dr Koch.’

  He had been born into a family of mine workers. Both his parents were ambitious, his father an engineer and mine foreman. They could barely afford their son’s tuition. Koch was a genius and a fighter. It had taken him years of hard work to get out of the anonymity of a small town practitioner and to reach the fame of one of the most renowned scientists in Europe.

  ‘The natural sciences are full of opportunities,’ I continued, ‘for men. I cannot accept such illogical limitations.’

  He poured himself a brandy, then stood by the window. ‘What is the reason for your visit?’

  ‘In spring of 1886, you visited a small town close to St Petersburg. You contained a cholera outbreak and presented your observations at the medical faculty in St Petersburg. Did you ever touch upon the topic of germ warfare during your talk?’

  His eyes darkened, beard quivered. I imagined his Adams apple frantically pushing the brandy down his oesophagus.

  ‘I discussed spreading of disease in general.’ He coughed.

  ‘Have you ever been approached by the military?’

  ‘Of course. I served in the war.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Did anyone ever ask you if pathogenic bacteria could be used in weaponry?’

  His irritation was palpable. ‘I work to heal disease, not to cause it.’

  I waited.

  After a minute or two, he lost his patience. ‘No one ever asked such an absurd question.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Koch.’

  The clock announced the ninth hour. He glanced at it, impatient.

  ‘Your questions are highly… unusual,’ he said.

  ‘I’m aware of that. But it’s of the utmost importance that I find answers. Did you mention, during your presentation or later in conversation with faculty members, historical accounts of the deliberate spreading of disease?’

  His face hardened, his fingers tightened around the crystal glass. I had never seen him so upset. The usually quiet and rather shy man was boiling with anger. ‘Dr Koch, I’m not asking you to forgive my bold behaviour. I did what I had to do. I’m not asking anyone to accept what I deem right.’

  He exhaled and slowly shook his head. ‘I must apologise,’ he said quietly. ‘I have been a most unbefitting host. I didn’t even offer you a seat.’ He waved his hand at the armchair. ‘Coffee?’

  I nodded, and he called for the housekeeper.

 
Once the coffee was served he sat down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  ‘As I already said, I discussed germ theory and epidemiology. And I gave several examples. John Snow’s observations on London’s last cholera epidemic was one of them. My presentation centred on water as a vector for cholera transmission. The epidemic was located in Kolpino, a small town at the river Izhora that flows into the river Neva only a few miles northeast and then enters St Petersburg.

  ‘A faculty member was concerned about transmission of the disease to the city. I told him that the number of germs would be too dilute and that cholera bacteria prefer warm temperatures and gut contents to thrive. They would be weakened from such a long time in cold river water. But I also stated that if a number of cholera fatalities were to float down the Neva into St Petersburg, chances were that the disease would spread. Corpses can carry a great load of cholera germs, much like packages dispatching deadly disease. I gave an example of Barbarossa disposing of dead soldiers in water wells in order to infect his Italian enemies. His attempt was soon discovered and not very successful. Floating bodies are conspicuous. People will be warned and measures taken.’

  ‘Had a transcript of your presentation been published?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I studied the tips of my shoes and decided to not share my conclusions with him. ‘I always thought of you very highly, Dr Koch. And I still do.’

  He nodded once — a stiff movement, the tip of his beard tapped against his chest.

  ‘Could I ask one more thing?’ I didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Would you please report me?’

  There was something in his expression that told me he had considered it initially. There was also amusement mingled with the surprise. I explained what I needed. He agreed, but showed his discomfort when I couldn’t give him my reasons for the enquiry other than it had to do with my safety and that of the child.

  Dr Koch’s first graduate course in bacteriology in Berlin, 1891. Koch is seated in the front row, 4th from the left. (17)

  — twenty-five —

  We needed someone to shine a light on this chaos of half-knowledge. Late in August, Mycroft did just that — a beacon arrived in the shape of a thick letter.

  Sitting on my bed, I deciphered numbers to letters, words, sentences. The lamp on the nightstand spilled its twitchy light over Mycroft’s scrawl.

  A soft knock and an, ‘It’s me,’ announced Sherlock just before he picked the lock. He called it exercise. Investigating without the satisfaction of solving the mystery and catching the culprit was depressing him.

  ‘This arrived three hours ago. Read it,’ I said, massaging my ankles and nodding to the eight pages I had just written.

  He took off his hat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, slapped cold water on his face, poured a brandy, and sat down.

  Soft rustling of hands on paper, of paper on cotton blanket, breath pushed through nostrils, and the occasional clonk of brandy glass upon nightstand. I listened while stretching my abdomen. My ribs were being pushed out. Kicks against my stomach sent acid up my oesophagus.

  ‘Hum…’ he said and rubbed his eyes. ‘My brother appears to have obtained a good spy or two.’ The snide remark was washed down with a sip of alcohol. ‘And he extracted information from the good Dr Walsh.’

  He rummaged in the drawers of the nightstand, took out his pipe and tobacco, stretched his legs, and began to smoke. The billowing curtains pushed at the clouds of smoke.

  As it so often did, the clicking of pipe against teeth preceded his first comment. ‘Admiral von Tirpitz plans to build a battleship fleet to rival Britain’s in twenty years. He says the German Empire needs to expand in order to remain strong. The once-fragmented people will gladly believe him. The man who can convince others of his version of truth wields a dangerous weapon.’

  ‘He speaks about Britain as an enemy,’ I said. ‘The enemy, no less. Whether he really believes that or not doesn’t matter. He certainly uses it to gain support for his battleship plans. If the Germans really wanted to keep that secret, they shouldn’t have set up a naval base on Helgoland.’ How odd, I had referred to the Germans as though I wasn’t one of them. But then, hadn’t I always referred to humans as though I didn’t belong?

  ‘Indeed. But, then… politics are often clumsy. Driven by wants, rarely by needs. But this,’ Sherlock pointed his pipe at the stack of papers, ‘must have surprised even Mycroft.’

  He threw me a sharp glance. ‘The transcript of the interview with Dr Walsh worries you.’

  I tipped my chin in reply. Walsh had stated that James saw Russia as the main threat to Britain. But he’d become more curious about Germany after I had lied about the Kaiser planning a war.

  ‘Yes. It does worry me. But I’m also aware that my statement was only the last drop to flood the bucket. James was already involved in espionage and he already had the idea of using germs as weapons after Moran showed him the transcript of Koch’s presentation in St Petersburg. Even if Koch hadn’t talked about corpses transmitting cholera, someone else would have ignited the spark.

  ‘Talk about germ theory and how disease is spread has occupied everyone’s mind since the announcement of the tuberculosis remedy. Kinchin told me he had been waiting for this to happen.’

  ‘I neither blame you nor your mentor, Anna.’

  ‘I know. I was blaming myself.’

  ‘One question remains,’ he said. ‘We were able to reconstruct Moriarty’s motivations and most of his actions. Russia growing into a threat to Britain’s resources in India and China, and hence, threatening Moriarty’s assets as well.

  ‘Simultaneously, the German Empire appears to evolve into an aggressive power with a growing naval force and excellent — if not the best — scientists at the forefront of medicine, bacteriology, chemistry, and physics. An imaginative and logical mind will arrive at the conclusion that such a country has the potential to invent modern weapons that could kill with much greater effectiveness than anything we have seen before. Walsh stated that Moriarty only wished to defend the British Empire. A presumptuous lie! From what I learned about that man, I must conclude that his motivation lay foremost with his personal interests and investments, and if Britain might profit from his actions as well, no harm had been done. Ha!

  ‘Now. The one question that has yet to be answered is what or whom precisely Moriarty intended to target with his bacterial weapons. He cannot have planned to spread disease in the whole of Russia and Germany. He neither had the resources nor the men to accomplish this. It would cause chaos; it could hardly ever be controlled and might even turn against him. He must have had a precise aim. But what was it?’

  I heaved myself off the bed and began pacing the room. Images of Moran stirring his tea and pouring more and more sugar into it, his insanely aggressive, but brilliant idea of packing deadly bacteria into sugar cubes. ‘Moran and James favoured anthrax, and I found it impossible to change their opinion. The risk… They didn’t care…’

  Sherlock watched, unspeaking, calm grey eyes following me around the room.

  ‘Oh!’ I cried, holding my aching back.

  ‘What is it?’ He jumped up.

  ‘An idea hit me.’ I continued my rounds through the room and he settled back on the armchair, pipe between clenched lips. ‘We developed weapons for germ warfare,’ I muttered. ‘As you know, of course. The Kaiser’s favourite toys are battleships. Russian railroads threaten British resources. The best place to spread disease is in isolated spaces. Battleships are isolated. Trains are isolated.

  ‘Of course I cannot be absolutely certain. I can only pick what seems most likely. James and Moran strongly favoured the idea of spreading anthrax. They didn’t care that spores… Oh, you don’t know — spores of anthrax bacilli are like eggs that retain the ability to hatch for tens, or even hundreds, of years,’ I hastened to explain.

  ‘Um… what was I saying? Oh! They did not care that anthrax spores can contaminate land for generations. Claiming anthrax-contaminate
d land is dangerous. Cattle will die, sheep will die, and people will die from eating the anthrax-contaminated crop. The farther it was spread, the greater the danger.’

  I rubbed my hot scalp. ‘But none of that is a real problem when one plans to spread the disease in confined spaces where the targets are isolated for a sufficient period of time. How long would it take for a train to go from Moscow to, let’s say, China's border?’

  He scratched his chin. ‘Four to six weeks, perhaps.’

  ‘Perfect! Infect all food and water that will be consumed in a train, and Russia would be unable to deliver soldiers or draft animals anywhere beyond a one-week radius. Infecting all men on a battleship is just as simple. James and Moran discussed the use of anthrax-contaminated bullets. They wanted them badly! Even though the use on a battlefield wouldn’t make sense. Sticking a bayonet through a soldier would be just as practical. But in a completely isolated space like a battleship — it does make sense. One such bullet hits the target, or a small bomb with anthrax spores as the payload — think of my hornet bomb! — and ninety per cent of the men will contract the disease. Brilliant!’

  His arm had wilted a little. The pipe hung limply from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘What?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Nothing.’

  What had I said? I searched though all the words that had spilled from my mouth, but couldn’t find anything particularly shocking.

  He sucked on his pipe. The thing had gone cold. He lit it again. An impatient, almost aggressive gesture.

  ‘It is easy to hypothesise the sequence of events,’ he began. ‘Moriarty earns part of his riches by trading opium and cotton from China and India. He hears about Moran’s report on Russia’s railway plans, he interviews him and offers him employment in order to gain more information.

  ‘He sees the British Empire’s limited interest in Russia’s plans and her non-functional secret service, so he decides to form his own, while forging plans to protect his lucrative opium and cotton resources. He is aware that shooting railway workers will draw suspicion. But infecting and killing them all with a disease a few of them are likely to catch anyway, and with no one expecting a bacterial weapon, he has found the perfect solution — breed deadly bacteria and spread them among railway workers, soldiers, or civilian passengers.