Michael Palmer’s Bestsellers
THE SISTERHOOD
“A suspenseful page-turner … jolts and entertains the reader.”
—Mary Higgins Clark
“Terrific … a compelling suspense tale.”
—Clive Cussler
FLASHBACK
“The most gripping medical thriller I’ve read in many years.”
—David Morrell
EXTREME MEASURES
“Spellbinding … a chillingly sinister novel made all the more frightening by [Palmer’s] medical authority.”
—The Denver Post
NATURAL CAUSES
“Reinvents the medical thriller”
—Library Journal
SILENT TREATMENT
“A Marathon Man-style plot loaded with innovative twists … extremely vivid characters.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Michael Palmer has been a practicing physician for more than twenty years, most recently as an emergency-room doctor and a specialist in the treatment of alcoholism and chemical dependency.
BANTAM BOOKS BY MICHAEL PALMER
The Sisterhood
Side Effects
Flashback
Extreme Measures
Natural Causes
Silent Treatment
Critical Judgement
Miracle Cure
The Patient
And available soon in hardcover
Fatal
The characters, events, institutions, and organizations in this book are wholly fictional or are used fictitiously. Any apparent resemblance to any person alive or dead, to any actual events, and to any actual institutions or organizations, is entirely coincidental.
SIDE EFFECTS
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam edition published April 1985
Bantam reissue/February 1995
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1985 by Michael Palmer.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78121-5
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
To Jane Rotrosen Berkey,
my agent, my friend, my muse;
and, of course, to Danny and Matt
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgment
Prologue
The Present 1 Sunday 9 December
2 Monday 10 December
3 Tuesday 11 December
4 Wednesday 12 December
5 Thursday 13 December
6 Friday 14 December
7 Friday 14 December
8 Sunday 16 December
9 Monday 17 December
10 Tuesday 18 December
11 Wednesday 19 December
12 Thursday 20 December
13 Friday 21 December
14 Friday 21 December
15 Friday 21 December
16 Saturday 22 December
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgment
A novel is hardly the sole endeavor many believe. I am both grateful and fortunate to have had Jeanne Bernkopf, my editor, and Linda Grey, editorial director at Bantam, in my writing life.
PROLOGUE
Mecklenburg, Germany
August 1944
Willi 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 Ravensbrück 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 Ravensbrück medical staff, once numbering more than fifty, had dwindled to a dozen. Himmler, 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 “Grünestrasse,” 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 Müller, his back turned, was inspecting the volumes in Becker’s library. Becker tensed. A visit from Müller, 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 Müller’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. Müller’s blade might be as quick as his own, but his own had poison on its tip. Müller, 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 Müller 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. Müller as 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 Fruhopf’s Reproductive Physiology 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.” Müller 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 Müller’s show, and Müller could make the initial move.
“Thank you, no.” Müller 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.” Müller 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,” Müller 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 Müller’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?”
Müllers eyes narrowed. “Quatsch,” he said.
“What?”
“I said Quatsch, Willi. Absolute nonsense. First of all, we are not 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?”
Müller 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 Müller’s visit. Inwardly, and grudgingly, he smiled. The man was slick. 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,” Müller 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.” Müller’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 Rendl stepped inside the office doorway. Rendl’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. Müller 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 Jew whore, Becker thought. “Yes. Yes. An excellent idea,” he said.
“And you will honor us by presenting the Green Unit biochemical studies tonight?” Rendl, though an oberst, exactly the same rank as Willi, often spoke with Müller’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 Müller 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.” Müller 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 mor
e theory than fact. A promising set of notions, with only the roughest of preliminary work on humans.”
Müller 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 Müller 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 Himmler 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, Müller 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 Müller exchanged the fraction of a glance. The gesture was enough to dispel any doubt as to the validity of Becker’s information.
Side Effects (1984) Page 1