Soldier M: Invisible Enemy in Kazakhstan

by Peter Cave

  Weiss had developed a philosophical attitude to what had basically been a second life for him. He had been incredibly lucky, and more than a little cunning. When the Allies had liberated Auschwitz, he had managed to slip through the net disguised as one of the Jewish prisoners. Undetected even after six weeks in a temporary transit camp, he had finally managed to buy his ticket to freedom from an American sergeant for a handful of gold nuggets. Whether that sergeant had ever known that those nuggets came from the dental fillings of murdered Jews, Weiss had never known, or cared. He had evaded everybody – even the British SAS units on special duty to round up and arrest known and suspected war criminals. At the time, that was all that had mattered.

  For the gold itself, Weiss had cared even less, for it had represented but a small fraction of the fortune in stolen jewelry and valuables he had amassed during his four years in the death camp. It was that fortune which had bought him the identity of Conrad Weiss, a retired Swiss watchmaker, and his passage to Bolivia.

  But luck was at best a temporary phenomenon. The two men now mounting the gangplank of his boat both testified to that.

  Bluff it out, then. Play the cards you held and hope for the best, Weiss decided. Propping himself up against the stern rail, he tried to look innocently surprised.

  The first man aboard had a smile on his face, but his eyes were cold.

  ‘Herr Weiss?’

  The reply was non-committal. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Ah, you are worried, cautious. As of course you should be,’ Tovan Leveski murmured in good German. His hand dropped slowly and gently towards the front of his well-cut jacket, slipping open the buttons. He studied Weiss’s eyes, following every move.

  ‘Let me assure you, Herr Weiss, that we mean you no harm. We are not what you probably think we are. For a start, both of us are completely unarmed.’ Leveski pulled his jacket aside carefully, to show that he was not wearing a waist or shoulder holster. He half-turned to his companion, motioning for him to do the same.

  Weiss’s surprise was genuine now. ‘Who are you? What is it you want with me?’

  ‘Just to talk. We have a little proposition to put to you. One that I think you will find extremely fascinating, my dear Doctor.’

  The German’s sharply honed survival instinct cut in automatically, despite Leveski’s disarming manner.

  ‘Doctor? Why do you call me doctor? I was a simple watchmaker in Switzerland until my retirement.’

  The cold smile dropped from Leveski’s face. ‘Please do me the courtesy of crediting me with intelligence, Doctor. I have not come all this way to be insulted. You are Dr Franz Steiner. You were in charge of the medical research facility at Auschwitz from 1941 to 1945. Your highly specialized work concerned the grafting and transplantation of amputated limbs in human subjects. You were several years ahead of your time in recognizing the problems of spontaneous rejection – a problem which, I might add, has since been much more widely studied.’

  Something told Steiner that, armed or not, Leveski was not a man to antagonize. His bluff had been called, yet no threats had been offered – only a tantalizing reference to his work. Steiner found himself increasingly fascinated.

  ‘You have overcome the rejection problem? Isolated the antibodies which cause it?’

  Leveski shook his head. ‘Not yet, Doctor. But we will – or rather, you will. With our help, of course.’

  Steiner suddenly realized that his first question remained unanswered. He repeated it. ‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’

  Leveski dipped his hand carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out his identity card, which he flashed under Steiner’s nose. ‘My name is Tovan Leveski. My companion is Viktor Yaleta. As you see, we are both official representatives of the government of the USSR.’

  Leveski saw the look of uncertainty which flickered across the German’s ice-blue eyes. ‘You are surprised, Doctor. You should not be. The fact that we may have been enemies in the past has no relevance to our business here today. It is something which transcends accidents of birth, mere geographical boundaries. We are talking about science, Doctor – pure science. Medical reasearch – the very future of the human race. Does that not interest you?’

  Steiner shrugged off the pointless question. ‘Of course. Who could fail to be interested?’

  Leveski nodded towards the hatch which led down to the boat’s cabin. ‘Then perhaps we can discuss this in greater comfort?’

  Nodding thoughtfully, Steiner turned, leading the two Russians to the short companionway.

  ‘So, how did you find me?’ Steiner asked, more relaxed now that the danger seemed to have passed, and mellowed by a large glass of local brandy.

  Leveski smiled. ‘Find you, Doctor?’ He inclined one shaggy eyebrow. ‘We never lost you. We have known your exact whereabouts since 1946. We simply had no use for your particular talents until now. Your work was well ahead of its time, as you probably realize.’

  Steiner sipped at his brandy. ‘And what exactly are you offering me?’

  Leveski spread his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘Virtually anything, my dear Doctor. The resources of the finest and most comprehensive research facility in the world. Unlimited funds, an inexhaustible supply of human subjects for experimentation. And, probably most important to you, Doctor, total freedom to conduct biological experiments without any ethical or moral restraints. The chance to play God, in fact.’

  Even if Steiner had not already been hooked, this last phrase would have clinched it. His eyes had a dreamy, faraway glaze to them. ‘This research establishment you spoke of. What is its actual purpose?’

  ‘To push the boundaries of medicine, surgery and biochemistry to their ultimate limits – and then beyond,’ Leveski said grandly. ‘To dream impossible dreams, and then to make those dreams come true. To travel on unknown roads – and to make new maps for others to follow in the future.’

  Steiner’s heart surged. It seemed that he had heard such dreams outlined before, not so long ago. But those dreams had gone sour, decried and finally smashed to dust by a world which did not understand. Now, suddenly, it was as if he were being given a second chance.

  ‘And my colleagues? Who would I be working with?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Others like yourself. Scientists who have dared to work in areas avoided by the squeamish and faint-hearted. We scoured Europe for them – the concentration camps, the germ-warfare establishments, the genetic study centres set up by your late Führer in his dream of a pure master race. All supplemented with the cream of our own scientists, of course.’

  ‘The human subjects? You would use your own people for such experiments?’

  Leveski shrugged carelessly. ‘Some. Dissidents, activists, criminals, lunatics – the scum of our society. Polish Jews, prisoners of war, Mongolian peasants – the world is seething with displaced and expendable people, Doctor. As I told you, our supply of subjects is virtually inexhaustible.’

  There was only one, comparatively minor question left to ask.

  ‘What about my wife and sons?’ Steiner wanted to know.

  Leveski shook his head firmly. ‘I am afraid that our offer is for you alone, Dr Steiner. You must simply disappear without trace. They would be well provided for, of course. Your own needs would also be well catered for. There will be no shortage of available women where you are going.’

  Steiner considered the matter unemotionally. There was just one last point to be cleared up.

  ‘Suppose I turn down this proposition?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah.’ Leveski looked apologetic. ‘Unfortunately, you now know too much to be left alive. Perhaps you are aware that at this moment several Israeli assassination teams are highly active throughout South America. We would simply pass on our information about your whereabouts to one of them. It would then be just a matter of time.’

  The Russian broke off, to turn to his compatriot. ‘Viktor, why don’t you tell the good doctor how the Israelis’ vic
tims die?’

  The other man spoke for the first time, in a deep, guttural voice. His thick lips cracked open in a bestial, malicious grin. ‘Choked to death on their own genitals,’ he grunted, with obvious relish. ‘Hacked off and stuffed down their throats.’

  Leveski stared Steiner coldly in the eyes, letting the image sink in. ‘Mind you, they might have something a bit more special for someone who used to perform surgical amputations without anaesthetic,’ he volunteered.

  Steiner held the Russian’s gaze, the ghost of a smile playing over his lips. ‘When do we leave?’ he asked.

  Chapter 4

  London – January 1993

  Lieutenant-Colonel Barney Davies glanced around the Foreign Office conference room with a slight sense of surprise. He had not been expecting such a high-powered meeting. Nothing in the message he had received had given any indication that this was to be any more than a briefing session. Now, noting the sheer number of personnel already assembled, and the prominence of some of them, Davies could tell that this was to be no mere briefing. It looked more like a full-blown security conference.

  He reviewed the cluster of faces hovering around the large, oval-shaped table. Nobody seemed prepared to sit down yet; they were all still waiting for the guest of honour to arrive. It had to be pretty high brass, Davies figured to himself, for he recognized at least two Foreign Office ministers, either of whom could quite comfortably head up any meeting up to and perhaps including Cabinet level. He teased his brain, trying to put names to the faces.

  He identified Clive Murchison almost immediately. He had had some dealings with the man during the Gulf War, the successful conclusion of which probably had something to do with Murchison’s obvious and rapid climb up the bureaucratic ladder. Tending towards the curt, but irritatingly efficient, Murchison was of the old school, the ‘send a gunboat’ brigade. His presence alone reinforced Davies’s feeling that this meeting was serious stuff.

  Naming Murchison’s colleague proved a little trickier. Windley? Windsor? Neither name seemed quite right. It fell into place, eventually. A double-barrelled name. Wynne-Tilsley, that was it. Michael Wynne-Tilsley. Still technically a junior minister but well connected, tipped for higher things. Word was that he had the PM’s ear, or maybe knew a few things he should not. In political circles, Davies reflected, that was the equivalent of a ticket to the front of the queue.

  There were half a dozen other people who meant nothing whatsoever to Davies. Whether they were civil servants or civilian advisers, he had no idea, although there was probably the odd man from MI6 or the ‘green slime’ in there somewhere.

  There was, however, one more face that he definitely did recognize. Davies’s face broke into a friendly grin as he strolled across to the slightly hunched figure in the electric wheelchair. Reaching down, he gave the man’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘Well, you old bastard, what are you doing here? Thought you’d retired.’

  Piggy Baker looked up, grinning back. ‘I had … have. They dug me up again to bring me in as a special adviser on this one.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Barney, good to see you.’

  The two men shook hands warmly. Finally, Davies drew back slightly, appraising his old comrade. He noted that Piggy no longer bothered to wear his artificial leg.

  ‘So what happened to the pogo stick? Thought they would have rebuilt you as the six billion dollar man by now. All this new technology, prosthetics and stuff.’

  Piggy shrugged carelessly. ‘They did offer, a couple of years back. But what the hell? I’m too old to go around all tarted up like Robocop.’ He broke off, nodding down at the wheelchair. ‘These days, I’m happy enough to ponce around in this most of the time.’

  Davies nodded, his face suddenly becoming serious. ‘So, what’s all this about? Looks like high-powered stuff.’

  Baker’s face was apologetic. ‘Sorry, Barney, but I can’t tell you a thing until the briefing. OSA and all that, you know.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Davies had not really expected much else. He knew all about the Official Secrets Act, and official protocol. He had come up against it himself enough times.

  There was a sudden stir of movement in the room. The babble of voices hushed abruptly. Glancing towards the large double doors, Davies was not really surprised to see the Foreign Secretary enter the room. He had not been expecting anyone less.

  The Foreign Secretary headed straight for one end of the oval table and sat down. ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we get down to business?’ he said crisply. He glanced across at Wynne-Tilsley as everyone took their chairs. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to introduce everybody before we begin the briefing.’

  Wynne-Tilsley went round the table in an anticlockwise direction. Just as Davies had supposed, most of the personnel were civilian advisers or from the green slime, the Intelligence Corps.

  The introductions over, the Foreign Secretary took over once more. ‘Gentlemen, we have a problem,’ he announced flatly. ‘The purpose of this meeting is to determine what we do about it. Let me say at this juncture that it is not so much a question of should we get involved as can we get involved. Which is why I have invited Lieutenant-Colonel Davies, of 22 SAS, here today.’ He paused briefly to nod towards Davies in acknowledgement, before turning to Murchison. ‘Perhaps you would outline the situation for us.’

  Murchison rose to his feet, riffling through the sheaf of papers and notes in front of him. He spoke in a clear, confident tone – the voice of a man well used to public speaking and being listened to.

  ‘Essentially, we’ve been asked by the Chinese to infiltrate former Soviet territory,’ he announced, pausing for a few moments to let the shock sink in. He waited until the brief buzz of startled exclamations and hastily exchanged words were over. ‘Which, as you might gather, gentlemen, makes this a very sticky problem indeed.’ Murchison then turned to face Davies directly. ‘The general feeling was that this is an operation which could only be tackled by the SAS if it could be tackled at all – although the complexities and nature of the specific problem could prove even beyond their capabilities.’

  It seemed like a challenge which demanded a response. Davies rose to his feet slowly, addressing the Foreign Secretary directly.

  ‘You used the word “infiltrate”,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘An ambiguous word at the best of times. Some clarification would be appreciated.’

  The Foreign Secretary nodded. ‘I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant-Colonel, and I understand your reserve. Just let me assure you that we are not talking about an invasion force here, nor would we go in with any hostile intent. However, it is possible that your men would encounter hostile forces.’

  Not much wiser, Davies sank back into his chair. ‘Perhaps I’d better hear the rest of the briefing,’ he muttered.

  Murchison rose to his feet again. ‘I think the background to the problem will be best explained by Captain Baker,’ he said. I know Lieutenant-Colonel Davies is well aware of his colleague’s position, but for the rest of you I had better explain that Captain Baker was for many years with SAS Operations Planning and Intelligence. He has been called here today because he has been close to this particular story for a long time.’

  With a curt nod in Piggy’s direction, he yielded the table and sat down again.

  ‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t stand, gentlemen,’ Piggy began, a wry grin on his face. He paused for a while, marshalling his thoughts. Finally, he took a deep breath and launched into his rehearsed brief.

  ‘Just after the Second World War, it became apparent that the Russians were gathering together scientists, doctors and medical staff from all over Europe for some sort of secret project,’ he announced. Turning towards Davies, he added a piece of more personal and intimate information. ‘As it happens, I had a personal encounter at the time, and there are three plaques mounted outside the Regimental Chapel at Stirling Lines because of it. So you might say that I have always had a deep and personal interest in the ongoing st
ory.’

  So, Davies thought, it was personal – to them both. Family business. An old score that needed settling. But why now? Why the Chinese involvement? He listened intently as his old friend went on, now with a deeper sense of commitment.

  ‘Suffice it to say that when I moved to OPII initiated a monitoring operation on this project, which has been kept up to the present day,’ Piggy continued. ‘And although there has been no official liaison with our own Intelligence Corps, I believe that they too have been keeping an eye open, as, indeed, have our American counterparts.’

  Davies broke off briefly to cast a questioning glance towards Grieves, the officer from the green slime. The man nodded his head wordlessly, confirming Piggy’s suspicions.

  ‘We know that the original project was code-named Phoenix by the Russians,’ Piggy went on. ‘Everything suggests that it was never officially embraced by the Soviet government, but placed largely under the control of the KGB, and kept under tight security wraps. For that reason, our intelligence is patchy, to say the least, and we have had to surmise quite a lot of what we were unable to know for fact. What we do know, however, is that in 1947 a secret research facility was set up in a fairly remote and mountainous region of Kazakhstan, fairly close to the Mongolian border. While we still do not know the exact purpose of this original facility, we have always assumed it to be a biological research project of some kind. It is also logical to assume that the underlying concept of this research facility was in military application, although there may have been some spin-offs into mainstream science. It is more than possible, for instance, that the dominance of Soviet and Eastern Bloc athletes during the fifties and sixties was directly due to steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs which were developed in the Kazakhstan facility.’