Side Effects

by Michael Palmer

  Side Effects

  Michael Palmer

  Michael Palmer

  Side Effects

  PROLOGUE

  Mecklenburg, Germany August 1944.

  Wirli Becker leaned against the coarse wood siding of the officers' club and squinted up at the late afternoon sun, a pale disk rendered nearly impotent by the dust from a hundred allied bombings of industrial targets surrounding the Ravensbriick concentration camp for women. He closed his eyes and for an instant thought he heard the drone of enemy planes somewhere to the south. "Not a moment too soon, Dr. Becker, " he muttered. "You will be leaving this hellhole not a moment too soon." He checked the chronometer his brother, Edwin, had sent him from "a grateful patient" in the Dachau camp. Nearly fifteen-thirty. After months of the most meticulous preparations there were now only hours to go. He felt an electric excitement. Across the dirt courtyard, clusters of prisoners, their shaved heads glistening, worked on bomb shelters, while their SS guards jockeyed for bits of shade beneath the overhangs of barracks. Becker recognized two of the women, a tall, awkward teenager named Eva and a feckless Russian who had encouraged him to call her Bunny. They were but two of the three dozen or so subjects whose examinations he was forced to omit in the interest of escape. For a minute, Becker battled the urge to call the two scarecrow women over and tell them that fate had denied them their parts in the magnificent work that scholars and generations to come would hail as the start of the Beckerian population control. Beckerian. The word, though he spoke it daily, still had a thrilling ring. Newtonian physics, Shakespearean drama, Malthusian philosophy, upon so very few had human history bestowed such honor. In time, Becker was certain, this immortality would be his. After all, he was still six weeks shy of his thirtieth birthday, yet already acknowledged for his brilliance in the field of reproductive physiology. Adjusting the collar on the gray-green SS uniform he was wearing for the last time, the tall, classically Nordic physician crossed the courtyard and headed toward the research buildings on the north edge of camp. The Ravensbriick medical staff, once numbering more than fifty, had dwindled to a dozen. Himmier, bending to the cry for physicians in military hospitals, had suspended the experiments in gas gangrene and bone grafting, as well as those on battlefield cauterization of wounds using coals and acid. The doctors responsible for those programs had been transferred. Only the sterilization units remained, three of them in all, each devoted to the problem of eliminating the ability to procreate without impairing the ability to perform slave labor. Becker strode past the empty laboratories-another sign of the inevitable-and turned onto "Griinestrasse, " the tarmac track on which the officials and research facilities of his Green Unit were located. To the east, he could see the camouflage-painted chimney tops of the crematorium. A gentle west wind was bearing the fetid smoke and ash away from the camp. Becker smiled thinly and nodded. The Mecklenburger Bucht, fifty kilometers of capricious Baltic Sea between Rostock and the Danish island fishing village of Gedser, would be calm.

  One less variable to be concerned about. Becker was mentally working through the other incalculables when he glanced through the windows of his office. Dr. Franz Miiller, his back turned, was inspecting the volumes in Becker's library. Becker tensed. A visit from MWIER, the head of the Blue Unit and director of reproductive studies, was not unusual, but the man was considerate to a fault and almost always called ahead.

  Was Miiller's visit on this of all days a coincidence? Becker paused by the doorway to his office and prepared for the cerebral swordplay at which the older man was such a master. He congratulated himself for holding back the documentation, however scant, of Blue Unit's deception.

  Miiller's blade might be as quick as his own, but his own had poison on its tip. Miiller, he felt certain, was a sham. The Blue Unit work concerning the effect of ovarian irradiation on fertility looked promising on paper. However, Becker had good reason to believe that not one prisoner had actually been treated with radiation. The data were being falsified by Miiller and his cohort, Josef Rendl. Whether they had gone so far as to assist prisoners in escaping, Becker was unsure, but he suspected as much. His proof, though skimpy, would have been enough to discredit, if not destroy, both men. However, their destruction had never meant as much to him as their control. In an effort to gain some tiny advantage, Becker opened the outside door silently and tiptoed up the three stairs to his office door. Not a sound. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Becker opened the door quickly. Miiller was perched on the corner of his desk, looking directly at him. "Ah, Willi, my friend.

  Please excuse the brazenness of my intrusion. I was just passing by and remembered your mentioning that Fruhopfs Reproductive Physiolog was among your holdings." First exchange to the master. "It is good to see you, Franz. My library and laboratory are always yours, as I have told you many times." A perfunctory handshake, and Becker moved to his seat behind the desk. "Did you find it?"

  "Pardon?"

  "The Fruhopf. Did you find it?"

  "Oh. Yes. Yes, I have it right here."

  "Fine. Keep it as long as you wish."

  "Thank you."

  Miiller made no move to leave. Instead, he lowered himself into the chair opposite Becker and began packing his pipe from a worn leather pouch. Not even the formality of a request to stay. Becker's wariness grew. Hidden by the desk, his long, manicured fingers undulated nervously. "Sweet? " he asked, sliding a dish of mints across the desktop. It was Miiller's show, and Miiller could make the initial move.

  "Thank you, no." Miiller grinned and patted his belly. "You heard about Paris?"

  Becker nodded. "No surprise. Except perhaps for the speed with which Patton did the JOB."

  "I agree. The man is a devil."

  Miiller ran his fingers through his thick, muddy blond hair. He was Becker's equal in height, perhaps an inch or so more, but he was built like a Kodiak bear. "And in the east the Russians come and come. We wipe out a division and two more take its place. I hear they are nearing the oil field at Ploesti."

  "They are a barbarous people. For decades all they have done is rut about and multiply. What our armies cannot do to them, their own expanding population will eventually accomplish."

  "Ah, yes, " Miiller said. "The theories of your sainted Thomas Malthus.

  Keep our panzers in abeyance, and let our enemies procreate themselves into submission."

  Becker felt his hackles rise. Cynicism was the finest honed of Miiller's strokes. An irritated, angry opponent left openings, made mistakes. Calm down, he urged himself Calm down and wait until the man declares himself. Could he know about the escape? The mere thought made the Green Unit leader queasy. "Now, Franz, " he said evenly, "you know how much I enjoy discussing philosophy with you, especially Malthusian philosophy, but right now we have a war to win, yes?"

  Miiller's eyes narrowed. "Quatsch, " he said. "What?"

  "I said Quatsch, Willi. Absolute nonsense. First of all, we are not I'A k going to win any war. You know that as well as I do. Secondly, I do not believe you care. One way or the other."

  Becker stiffened. The bastard had found out. Somehow he had found out.

  He shifted his right hand slightly on his knee and gauged the distance to the Walther revolver in his top left drawer. "How can you impugn me in this way?"

  Miiller smiled and sank back in his chair. "You misunderstand me, Willi.

  What I am saying is a compliment to you as a scientist and philosopher.

  Surtout le travaille. Above all the work. Is that not how you feel? On second thought, I will have that sweet, if you please."

  Becker slid the dish across. Here he was, bewildered, apprehensive, and totally off balance, and still with no idea of the reason for Millier's visit. Inwardly, and grudgingly, he smiled. The man was slic
k. A total bastard, but a slick one. "I believe in my research, if that is what you mean."

  "Precisely."

  "And your research, Franz, how does it go? " Time for a counterthrust.

  "It goes and it stops and it goes again. You know how that is."

  Sure, sure, but mostly it doesn't exist, Becker wanted to say. Instead, he nodded his agreement. "Willi, my friend, I fear the war will be over anytime now. Weeks, days, hours, no one seems to know. I have no notion of what will happen to us-to those in our laboratory-after that. Perhaps our research will be made public, perhaps not. I feel it is crucial for each unit, Blue, Green, and Brown, to know exactly the nature and status of the work being done by the others. That way, we can be as well prepared as possible for whatever the future brings." Becker's eyes widened. "I have decided to start with your Green Unit, " Miiller went on. "A meeting has been scheduled for twenty-one hundred hours this evening in the Blue Unit conference room. Please be prepared to present your research in detail at that time."

  "What?"

  "And Willi, I would like time to study your data before then. Please have them on my desk by nineteen hundred hours." Miiller's eyes were flint. Becker felt numb. His data, including the synthesis and biological properties of Estronate 250, were sealed in a dozen notebooks, hidden in the hull of a certain Rostock fishing boat. His mind raced. "My… my work is very fragmented, Franz. I… I shall need at least a day, perhaps two, to organize my data." This can't be happening, he thought. Nineteen hundred hours is too early. Even twenty-one hundred hours is too soon. "Let me show you what I have,"

  Becker said, reaching toward the drawer with the Walther. At that instant, Dr. Josef Rendi stepped inside the office doorway. Rendi's aide, a behemoth whom Becker knew only as Stossel, remained just outside in the hall. They had been somewhere out there all the time. Becker felt sure of it. Rendl, a former pediatrician, was a short, doughy man with a pasty complexion and a high-pitched laugh, both of which Becker found disgusting. Becker's information had it that Rendl's mother was a Jew, a fact that had been carefully concealed. For a frozen second, two, Becker sized up the situation. Miiller was but two meters away, Rendl three, and the animal, Stossel, perhaps five. No real chance for three kills, even with surprise on his side, which, it seemed now, might not be the case. The battle would have to be verbal… at least for the moment.

  Becker nodded at the newcomer. "Welcome, Josef. My, my. The entire Blue Unit brain trust. What a pleasant honor."

  "Willi." Rendl smiled and returned the gesture. "Leutnant Stossel and I were just passing by and noticed the two of you in here. What do you think of the meetings? A good idea to present our work to one another, no?

  " You smarmy son of a Jenv whore, Becker thought. "Yes. Yes. An excellent idea, " he said. "And you will honor us by presenting the Green Unit biochemical studies tonight? " Rendi, though an oberst, exactly the same rank as Willi, often spoke with Miiller's authority dusting his words. Becker, fighting to maintain composure, sucked in an extra measure of air. "Tonight would be acceptable." Both of the other men nodded. "But, " he added, "tomorrow evening would be much better."

  Because, he smiled to himself, I intend to be a thousand kilometers away from here by then. "Oh? " Franz Miiller propped his chin on one hand.

  "Yes. I have a few final chemical tests to run on Estronate Two-fifty, Some loose ends in the initial set of experiments." As Becker scrambled through the words, searching for some kind of purchase, an idea began to take hold. "There's an extraction with ether that I was unable to complete because my supply ran out. Late yesterday, several five gallon tins arrived. You signed for them yourself." Miiller nodded. Becker's words became more confident. "Well, if you would give me tonight to complete this phase of my work, I shall gladly present what I have tomorrow. You must remember that what I have is not much. Estronate Two-fifty is far more theory than fact. A promising set of notions, with only the roughest of preliminary work on humans."

  Miiller pushed himself straighter in his chair and leveled his gaze across the desk. "Actually, Willi, I do not believe that what you say is true." The words, a sledgehammer, were delivered with silky calm. "Wh..

  what are you talking about? " The question in Becker's mind was no longer whether Miiller knew anything, but how much. His trump card-Blue Unit's falsified data-would have to be played. The only issue now was timing. "What I am talking about is information that your work on Estronate Two-fifty is rather advanced."

  "That's nonsense, " Becker shot back. "Further, that you are lacking only stability studies and the elimination of a troublesome side effect-some sort of bleeding tendency, is it? — before more extensive clinical testing can be done. Why, Willi, are you keeping this information from us? You have here, perhaps, the most awesome discovery-even the most awesome weapon-of our time, yet you claim to know nothing."

  "Ridiculous."

  "No, Willi. Not ridiculous. Information straight from a source in your laboratory. Now either we receive a full disclosure of the exact status of your work, or I shall see to it that Mengele or even Himmier receives the information we have."

  "Your accusations are preposterous."

  "We shall judge that after you have presented your work. Tonight, then? "

  "No. Not tonight."

  It was time. "My work is not ready for presentation." Becker paused theatrically, drumming his fingertips on the desktop and then stroking them bowlike across one another. "Is yours?"

  "What?"

  Becker sensed, more than saw, Miiller stiffen. "Your work. The Blue Unit radiation studies. You see, the two of you are not the only ones with-what was the word you used? — ah, yes, sources, that was it.

  Sources."

  Rendl and Miiller exchanged the fraction of a glance. The gesture was enough to dispel any doubt as to the validity of Becker's information.

  "Willi, Willi, " Miiller said, shaking his head. "You try my patience. I shall give you until tomorrow night. Meanwhile, we shall organize our data and present them at the same time."

  "Excellent, " Becker said, reveling in being on the offensive at last.

  "And, please, do try to have some of your human subjects available for examination. It would lend so much to the understanding of your work."

  This time, Miiller and Rendl shared a more pronounced look. "You don't really care, Willi, do you?" Miiller said suddenly. "I… I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Franz."

  "You see only yourself. Your place in history. The here and now mean nothing to you. Germany, the Reich, the Jews, the Americans, the prisoners, your colleagues-all are the same to you. All are nothing., @ "You have your mistresses, and I have mine, " Becker said simply. "Is immortality so homely that I should throw her out of my bed? You are right, Franz. I do not concern myself with petty day-to-day issues. I have already reached planes of theory and research that few have ever even dreamed of. Should I worry about the price of eggs, or whether the Fiihrer's hemorrhoids are inflamed, or whether the prisoners here at Ravensbriick are pathetic inside the wire or without, on top of the dirt or beneath it?"

  "Willi, Willi, Willi."

  Miiller's voice and eyes held pity rather than reproach. Becker looked over at Rendl, and there, too, saw condescension, not ire. Don't you dare pity me, he wanted to scream. Revere me. The children of your children will prosper because of me. The lebensraum for which so many have fought and died will be attained not with bullets, but with my equations, my solution. Mine!

  Miiller broke the silence. "We are all with the same laboratory. We all stand to lose much if we fall into disfavor-either now with the Reich or soon with the Allies. I expect a full disclosure of your work with Estronate Two-fifty, Dr. Becker."

  Becker nodded his acquiescence and silently prayed that his portrayal of a beaten man would be convincing. Minutes later, the three men from the Blue Unit were gone. Becker closed his eyes and massaged the tightness at the base of his neck.

  Then he poured three fingers of Polish vodka from a bottle
Edwin had sent him, and drank it in a single draught. The encounter with Miiller and Rendl, triumphant though it had been, had left him drained. He fingered his chronometer. Was there time for a nap?

  No, he decided. No sleeping until this filthy camp with its petty people and skeleton prisoners was a thing of the past. He walked briskly from his office to the low, frame, barracklike building that housed the Green Unit's biochemical research section.

  With glances to either side, he backed through the rear door and locked it from the inside. The wooden shutters were closed and latched, creating a darkness inside that was tangible. The flashlight was by the door-where he had hung it that morning. Using the hooded beam, Becker counted the slate squares making up the top of his long central workbench. Reaching beneath the fifth one, he pulled. The cabinet supporting the slate slid out from the others. Beneath it, hidden from even a detailed search, was the circular mouth of a tunnel. "And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air…"

  Alfi Runstedt sang the words as he dug, although he had no idea of their meaning. The song, he knew, was the American anthem, and this day, at least, that was all that mattered. As a child in Leipzig, he had spent hours beside his family's new Victrola memorizing selections from a thick album of anthems of the world. Even then, the American "Star Spangled Banner" had been his favorite. Now, he would have the chance to see the country itself and, even more wonderful, to become an American.

  "Oh say does that star spangled ba-a-ner-er ye-et wa-ave… With one syllable, he rammed the spade into the sandy soil. With the next, he threw the dirt up to the side of the grave. The trench, three feet deep, was better than half done. Lying on the grass to Alfi's left, two meters from him, were the corpses of the peasant woman and her son, which would be laid inside as soon as the proper depth was reached. Alfi Runstedt paid them no mind. He was stripped to his ample waist. Dirt, mingling with sweat, was turning his arms and walrus torso into a quagmire. The thick, red hair on his chest was plastered into what looked like a fecal mat. His SS uniform pants were soaked and filthy. and the home of the brave. 0-oh say can you see…"