The Monkey Handlers

by G Gordon Liddy

  “From a one fifty to a Citation Two.”

  “A one seventy-two should do it.”

  “We got a one seventy-two?” asked Arno.

  “We will have,” Stone answered, “as soon as you and Saul borrow one out at the Mohawk County airport. It’s an uncontrolled field, and there are plenty of them there. Should take a screwdriver and a pair of needle-nose pliers, which you’ll find in my uncle’s toolbox in the shed out back. You’re gonna jump out of it, Arno, okay?”

  “Lemme take a hacksaw, too,” said Arno. “It’s all aluminum, should be easy to cut through the hinges and take the right door off. I won’t have to fight the slipstream gettin’ it open that way.”

  “All right,” said Stone, “I’ll buy the poor bastard owns it a new door later. Now, the thing we’re short most of is time. Not just because the bad guys are probably working on Eddie and Sara as we speak but because of this.” Stone waved the daily paper at them. “Daybreak is at zero four three four, and I don’t want Arno hanging from a chute silhouetted against the sky. Make a great shot in a movie, but this ain’t Hollywood, and if they spot him, it won’t be a camera the hostiles’ll be pointing up Arno’s ass.”

  The men all smiled at the thought of Stone’s last remark, relieving the tension. He nodded toward Pappy Saye. “Pappy, get a knife from the kitchen. Wings, go down the basement and get the finest file you can find in the toolbox, then you two guys head for the shed out back. Take some newspaper. Pappy, you scrape the rust off everything in sight. Wings, you’ll find some aluminum screen frames sitting out there waiting for me to patch them. File the frames. Catch the rust and the filings on the newspaper and fold them up separately and carefully and bring them to me in the kitchen.”

  “Rust?” asked Pappy.

  “You’ve been too many years outta BUD/S, Pappy. Rust is the common term for ferric oxide.”

  “And,” said Wings Harper, “ferric oxide and powdered metallic aluminum in equal parts makes—”

  “Thermit,” Stone finished for him. “Arno’s going to need it. Saul, empty the coffee can in the kitchen. It should hold about a quart of liquid. Keep the press-on lid. Take it to the basement. You’ll find the heating-oil storage tank there. There’s a spigot on the bottom to drain off water and crap. Let it run until pure oil’s coming out, then fill the can. Arno, go out to the shed with Pappy and Wings. You’ll find some bags of fertilizer there. It’ll have some fancy name on it, but it’s just ammonium nitrate. Take the—”

  “Hey, my mind’s not gone like Pappy’s, Mike,” said Arno, “I remember. I’ll mix the fuel oil into the fertilizer just right. But what’re we gonna use to set her off? She needs a hell of a jolt. You got detonators out in your shed, too?”

  Stone laughed. “No, but Aunt May’d sure like to. We’ve got pocket gophers in the lawn. While you’re at it, there’s some ‘Gopher Gas’ out there. Looks like miniature dynamite sticks with fuses. Bring that in, too.”

  “That won’t set off no ammonium–fuel oil mix, Mike, you know that.”

  “That’s not what it’s for, Arno. It’s for you. I’ll tell you what to do with it later. Trust me, I’ve got just the thing for the fertilizer. Okay, let’s move. I want to be in and out of that place before the animal-welfare mob assembles for the day. When the word gets out that Eddie Berg’s in there, they’re liable to try to reenact the storming of the Bastille. It’ll be wall-to-wall cops, which we don’t need.”

  “We know what Sara looks like, Mike, but what about the Berg kid?”

  Stone produced a newspaper photograph of Eddie Berg. “This is the best we’ve got. He’s a tall, skinny guy. Six three. Sorry about the coffee, but we have to be ready for surgical shooting.” Stone smiled at Arno Bitt. “We’ll see how good you are with that ‘Ballbreaker-Ballerina’ of yours.”

  “That’s Ballester-Molina,” said Arno, “and you promised me ammunition.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “Good. The Graf Spee’s been waitin’ a long time to get back into action.”

  16

  “P’mission t’come aboard.” Joe Clift, licensed pilot of the Port of New York, said it with a casual salute as he stepped from the gangplank to the weather deck of Ake Maru. The deck officer, an English-speaking Dutchman who recognized Clift from their days together coming upriver from the Atlantic, returned the salute equally casually and made an entry in his log on the small podium next to him.

  “You’re back early, Joe,” the deck officer observed with a smile. “No luck ashore?” He spoke with the British accent he had learned in school. Clift thought he sounded like Basil Rathbone.

  “Nah,” said the pilot, “small town, not much action. Be glad to get back to the city tomorrow. We all set to go with the tide in the morning?”

  “Right. Cargo’s all stowed. Just awaiting delivery of some scuba tanks for those rag heads holed up in the two inside compartments down on the number-two deck.”

  “Who are they? I never saw them.”

  “Nobody but the captain does. They say there’re four of them. Levantines, supposed to be doing some kind of research, but I don’t know how. They just sit in those compartments, use portable toilets and have their food brought to them. If they ever do come out, the crew’s supposed to let them do what they want. Use a compass to tell them which way Mecca is so they can pray. All very odd.”

  “They never go ashore?”

  “Can’t, no papers. Don’t seem to want to, anyway.”

  “Well,” said the pilot, “I’m gonna hit the head and crash. Gotta be at work oh-early-thirty in the morning.” As the pilot turned to leave, four men appeared at the top of the gangplank. Each pair was carrying an end of a large, single-tank scuba rig. One tank was marked with a painted number 1, the other with a 2. Without a greeting of any kind, the first man said, speaking English with a German accent, “You are to tell us where go these.”

  The Dutch officer spoke to them in German, which the American pilot didn’t understand, then used the telephone on the bulkhead to call a crewman to escort the two Germans. When they were out of earshot, the officer said to the pilot, “Now we’re ready. Just as soon as those two are ashore again, we just wait for the tide so you can ‘do your stuff.’ Is that how you say it?”

  Clift smiled. “Yeah, that’s how we say it. You learn fast.”

  “Let’s hope the captain’s guests don’t stay late.”

  “The Germans? Here they come back now.” The two men turned to watch as the men who had brought the scuba gear crossed to the gangplank. “Not them,” said the deck officer, looking down at a note on the podium next to him that bore his log and instructions. “The captain’s having guests for breakfast. You know how polite the Japanese are. He won’t say anything even if they make us miss the tide. One of us is supposed to speak up and remind him.”

  “So, how long does it take to have breakfast?”

  “One of them’s a reporter. Maybe the other’s a photographer, I don’t know. The reporter’s going to interview the researchers before breakfast. Early. They’re supposed to know the schedule.”

  “Well,” said Clift, “thanks for the tip. I’ll say something myself if it starts getting late. If the captain gets pissed at me, it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to spend months at sea with him.”

  * * *

  “I’m here voluntarily, you idiots! Let me go!” Sara Rosen, standing in front of the same elevator bank through which she had attempted to evade pursuit during her ill-fated first visit to the Riegar plant, twisted her slender body from side to side in a vain effort to free her upper arms from the tight grasp of the two hulking laboratory assistants flanking her. The men ignored her, and the nonplussed uniformed security guard, not knowing what else to do, returned to his post at the entrance to the plant.

  The red-colored Down arrow blinked off. With a whisper, the number-two elevator door opened before them, and Georg Kramer, on his way home after a very long day that ran into the night, stepped out.

&
nbsp; From Kramer’s dress and bearing, Sara could tell he was someone of importance. “Hey, mister, tell these goons to leggo of me, will ya? I brought the pictures like I said I would. Are you the one I’m supposed to give them to?”

  Kramer stared at Sara. He recognized her at once from her newspaper photograph. “I can’t believe you’ve got the gall to break in here again! What are you talking about?” He gestured to the two men to release Sara. They did so grudgingly but stayed close against her, warily.

  “I told you—or somebody—on the phone. I know you’ve got Eddie Berg in here, torturing him. Well, he doesn’t have the pictures, I do. So here they are.” Sara reached into the side pocket of the light cloth jacket she was wearing, withdrew the Polaroid photographs, and held them out, straight-armed, in front of her so they touched Kramer’s suit coat. Instinctively, he backed away from them.

  “Go on, take them! They’re what you wanted, aren’t they? So there’s no point torturing poor Eddie to find out where they are. Let him go, and we’re both outta here.”

  Kramer was indignant. “I really don’t know what makes you think…” Kramer stopped in midsentence, understanding suddenly dawning on him. He stared from one laboratory assistant to the other. “Do either of you know what she’s talking about?” Both men, although plainly uncomfortable, remained silent. “Well, do you?” Kramer was furious. The accumulated resentment of Metz, the fatigue, the stress all combined in his voice.

  The man to Sara’s left spoke. “The man, Berg, is with Herr Metz and Dr. Letzger in the primate laboratory. We are the girl to bring.”

  “And the photographs,” the other man chimed in.

  “Metz!” Kramer almost shouted. “Letzger! I am in charge here!” But he knew he wasn’t. He knew that a telephone call to Hoess would only confirm his humiliation. Defeated, he spoke to Sara. “I know nothing of any of this. Remember that. I wash my hands of all of you! Of all of this!” So saying, he brushed aside Sara and headed for the door.

  The elevator door had closed again. The man on Sara’s left hit the button. The car was still there, so the door opened immediately. Sara waved the photographs at him. “What am I supposed to do with these?” she asked.

  Without speaking, the lab man took the photographs from her hand, regrasped her upper arm, and, together with his partner, half-carried Sara into the elevator, pushed number twelve, and waited impassively for the car to arrive. When it did, the men, never speaking, led Sara down and around several halls until they came to a halt outside the door to Letzger’s office. The man to Sara’s left entered, looked around, and, seeing that it was empty, went to the telephone console on the secretary’s desk and punched in an intercom number. Moments later, he spoke briefly in German, then hung up the phone. In English, he said to Sara, “We wait.”

  Moments later, Metz entered the room. He looked right at Sara but spoke in German to the man at her left. The man handed over the Polaroid photographs. Metz looked through them quickly but carefully, stuffed them into his pocket, then said to Sara, “Thank you for returning our property to us, Miss Rosen. Now, you wanted to see your friend, Mr. Berg, yes? Very well, you may join him. There you shall have your curiosity satisfied. Our chief of research, Dr. Letzger, will answer all your questions. But, just so you will not feel too harshly about us, I tell you that we are in agreement. We do not experiment on your animal friends. It is quite an expensive waste of time.”

  “But we know you have all kinds of animals here!” Sara protested. “We’ve traced the shipments.”

  “Of course we have them … rabbits, pigs, mice, rats, dogs, cats, and so on. Your government demands it. So, we buy them, bring them here, kill them—quite humanely, by the way—after the appropriate time has passed. The floor below is filled with them, waiting their turn. We send your government the necessary paperwork certifying that we have done all sorts of terrible things to them, and get the necessary licenses to sell our products in return. But I assure you we never do those things. Why waste the money?”

  “But—” said Sara.

  Kramer cut her off. “Dr. Letzger will be happy to answer all your questions. Now you must excuse me. Thanks to your Mr. Berg, this has been a very long day for us all. I have a ship leaving in the morning, and I must get some sleep. Good night.” Metz spoke again in German to Sara’s guards, instructing them to take her to Letzger, and ordering all his personnel not needed by Letzger to stay and sleep the rest of the night on the eighteenth floor. Everyone was on duty until the ship in the Riegar dock sailed in the morning. Then he picked up the telephone and called Letzger to tell him Sara was on her way to him.

  Sara’s shoulders ached as she was walked down the hall. Her big escort’s grip on her upper arms and their half-lifting action put some of her body weight on joints never meant to bear it. With relief, she spotted a white-coated figure down the hall, patiently waiting outside a door. As she drew closer, her relief turned to unease. The man looked like someone she had seen in old newsreels about World War II, a larger-sized version of Dr. Joseph Goebbels, Nazi Germany’s Minister of Propaganda. Sara felt a chill in her Jewish bones. Despite Metz’s protests, something very wrong was going on here.

  There was neither warmth nor humor in the smile with which Dr. Letzger greeted Sara; it was icy. “Ah, Miss Rosen, the clandestine photographer.”

  “Where’s Eddie Berg?” Sara demanded.

  “Patience, young lady, you are about to be reunited. I understand Herr Metz has informed you that we are innocent of any mistreatment of animals?”

  “I didn’t expect you to admit it.”

  “Then let me prove it to you.” Letzger opened the door to his primate laboratory. Sara’s two guards took a tighter grip on her and hustled her inside the brightly lit room. The layout was as she remembered it, only now much of the apparatus was in use. She took one look at the closest device and reacted with such horror, she broke the grip of one of her guards. Even as she screamed in revulsion, she struggled to get to the Ziegler chair in which a primate was immobilized, his head held bent backward and rigid in a stereo-taxic device. Wires ran off from sensors taped to his chest and back. An eye had been removed surgically and a steel bar of the head-clamping stereotaxic device inserted into the oozing socket and tightened against the skull bone behind it. Two stainless-steel clamps held the mouth open a sufficient distance to permit entry of another steel rod that fixed the tongue to the bottom of the mouth, immobile. The primate’s other eye was wide open, surgical retractors stretching its upper lid high up to the eyebrow, and the lower down and taut against the cheek. Held in a frame directly above the eye was a glass bottle containing a colored liquid. A metering device caused a drop of the liquid to fall onto the exposed eyeball at regular intervals, where it ran down the eye to pool temporarily in the corners, then trickled down the cheek.

  The substance being dripped into the eye was clearly irritating, as the eyeball was inflamed, and, at the impact of each drop, the primate’s body stiffened in pain and an agonized cry, unintelligible because of the tongue restraint, issued from the partially open mouth. With her momentarily free arm, Sara brought her hand to her mouth involuntarily as she vomited. The vivisected primate was Eddie Berg.

  “Now, now, young lady,” Letzger said with sarcastic calm. “You wanted to see what we do here, and when we show you, and you see that we are not touching a hair on the head of your precious animals, you react this way?”

  “You filthy Nazi son of a bitch!” Sara shouted. “I brought you what you wanted! The big guy has them. Now let him go! He can’t tell you anything; he doesn’t know anything!”

  “Ah,” Letzger purred, “but he can tell us something very important.” Letzger gestured toward Eddie Berg, tight in the grip of the restraining devices and crying out more loudly in between the drops searing his remaining eye. He was blind, but he wasn’t deaf, and he could hear that somehow his tormentors had captured Sara. In mock astonishment, Letzger said, “You think we are doing this just to inflict discom
fort on your interfering friend? Such a waste that would be! This is an experiment. It has shown that the substance being tested is not suitable for use by humans. Come now, surely you didn’t think we would employ the notorious Draize test? The one that uses rabbits because they are cheap, have big eyes, and are easy to handle? We are not so stupid! The eye of a rabbit is an inappropriate and inaccurate model of human ocular damage. There are fundamental anatomic differences between the human and rabbit cornea, eyelid, and tearing mechanism. No clinician, toxicologist, or ophthalmologist uses Draize data to treat humans. Those so-called acute-toxicity tests used in industry are completely useless. You know it and we know it. Think what you will of us, Miss Rosen, but do not take us for fools! Riegar did not get to be the largest and most profitable pharmaceutical company in the world by the stupidity of trying to apply animal test results to humans. The secret of our success is, as you see, that we use humans.”

  Letzger said something in German, and Sara’s guards relaxed their grip upon her. Immediately, she started toward Eddie Berg. “Ah, ah, ah,” Letzger said, “the data we wanted are in our computers. We shall be releasing your young man from the restraints and terminating the acute-toxicity test. I assure you that the next test he and the others here”—Letzger swept his arm to include the room—“will be subjected to will be completely painless.” Letzger reached for a paper towel. “Here, my dear, wipe your chin and hands and behave yourself.” In German, he ordered one of his assistants to clean up Sara’s vomit from the floor. The man took a handful of paper towels and squatted to attempt to clean up the mess. “No, no, you idiot,” Letzger said in German, “use a mop with disinfectant. This is a scientific laboratory, not a saloon!”

  Sara watched intently as the bottle above Eddie’s eye was removed and the retractors holding back the lids taken out. Then the eye was sprayed with an aerosol can. “What are you doing to him?” Sara shouted.

  “Please stop these silly outbursts!” Letzger replied. “The spray is lidocaine hydrochloride, a topical anesthetic. It will stop the pain. The fluid dripped into his eye was irritating but not destructive. He will be able to see perfectly well from that eye shortly.” Then to the assistants, he said, “Continue.” The rod was removed from Eddie’s eye socket, and it was packed with antiseptic-treated gauze to which lidocaine had been added. Finally, Letzger said, “Mr. Berg, we are about to remove the tongue restraint and take you from immobilization. But, if you do not behave, you shall be restrained again, do you understand?”