The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) (14 page)

2001. The new millennium. I’ve lived in the same seedy hotel in a low-rent neighborhood in Paris ever since I left Brussels. Planic’s revelations radically changed the course of my investigation. To understand the present and glimpse the future, I have to explore the past
…

Years go by, and I become more and more decrepit. I glimpsed my reflection this morning while I was waiting for a bus to take me to a crucial meeting with an antiques dealer from London. Disheveled, bearded, bags under my eyes, moth-eaten coat—I looked like a bum. I’ll have to get myself back in shape before I’m reunited with Ann and Jeremy. Tomorrow I fly to Florida to meet a specialist in objects that belonged to Nazi dignitaries. Without Planic, I’d never have stumbled across the SS lead
…

My inquiries have left me in possession of a box and a key, priceless relics from the Second World War. The photo I found in the box sent shivers down my spine. Now all I need to do is put the finishing touches on my final report, the result of twenty-four years of stubborn research, discreet meetings, sleepless nights and constant glances over my shoulder. I’ll give the most important pieces of evidence to Bernard for safekeeping until the federal government corroborates my conclusions and acts. Then I’ll be able to be reunited with my family and get back to a normal life
…

The walls of my studio rental in Paris are covered with press cuttings and archive documents. The Project is there, before my eyes. Danger is all around also. The woman in the bakery looks at me more and more strangely. Could she be one of them
?

This morning, I ripped the wallpaper off my bedroom wall and drilled into it in places. The walls have ears. I’m sure of it. Day or night, I never drop my guard. Suspicious noises have convinced me that the demons are closing in on me
…

I spend my nights in a cyber café and my days wandering the streets. I’ve outsmarted them. I’ve hidden my documents in a supermarket cart covered with cardboard boxes. Mumbling and grumbling, I push it along. People steer a wide berth around me. I’ve found the perfect cover
.

Thanks to the Internet, I’ve been able to access the accounting spreadsheets that prove the Project’s imminent implementation. Jeremy will be able to understand them. He has to!

I’m screwed. They’ve infiltrated my own government. They’re everywhere. By making contact with my CIA liaison officer, I’ve signed my death warrant. I have absolutely no trust in this Pettygrow guy. He’s working for them. It’s obvious. My last chance to get the report into the right hands is Planic. Two people will have access to the documents that lead to this book. Bernard and Jeremy. If you’re reading this, then I’m dead. I’m relying on you to finish what I started. Go to the address indicated in the contents, and find Planic. He’ll put you on the right track. Don’t forget that the Consortium is an underground organization. To find it, you’ll have to dig
.

The notes ended
there. The novel resumed in the next chapter. How Daniel incorporated his notes into the book mattered little. Jeremy stared at his father’s last words. Cold, impersonal, reflecting the obsession that had overwhelmed him to the detriment of his family. He had hoped to find something else. A phrase, a mark of affection, anything that would reassure him of his absent father’s love and convince him, however late in the day, that feelings always win out over national security.

What Jeremy held in his hands had a name. Insanity.

Zaventem, Belgium, Saturday, 6:30 a.m
.

T
he mind-numbing rows of sad
redbrick houses remind me how much I like buildings that reach for the sky, textures, crowds you can blend into without fear. The city that never sleeps. Here, there are more cars than humans. The sidewalks are deserted. It reeks of boredom and suburban routine. Major companies apparently judge the area sufficiently alive to locate their R&D and logistical centers—even their head offices—here. And they say Manhattan is inhuman. If I could choose, I’d rather die anywhere that’s not Zaventem!

For the last ninety minutes, we’ve been staking out, as the spies say, Planic’s house. Eventually, the new day will dawn. Jackie’s and my drawn features testify to complete exhaustion, but Eytan looks ready to compete in the Olympics. We watch the house windows, waiting for a sign of life. Finally, a light filters through the curtains in an upstairs window. Then another one downstairs.

Without a pause for thought, Buffy and the Jolly Green Giant leap out of the car, with me not far behind. Obviously. It’s a long one-way street near a four-lane freeway and hotel for get-ahead executives. It’s ugly. Which confirms my intuition that this place is a dump. On the other hand, it must be a great place to lie low. The houses all look the same. Four windows upstairs, four downstairs, a vast front yard with perimeter fence. Plain, efficient and pukeworthy. I fire one up. The two spooks teamed up to stop me smoking in the car.

Eytan opens the gate and heads for the front door with Jackie right behind. I’m puffing away five yards behind. I miss New York. I miss Mom. Bernard, too. I’m tired. Jackie calls to me. I crush the butt underfoot. Eytan motions to me to move it. I speed up. A woman in her sixties opens the door, dressed to match the neighborhood. Black cardigan, gray blouse, dark pants.

“Can I help you?” she asks softly.

Let’s leave this to Jackie. “We’d like to see Mr. Planic.”

“And you are?” She scans our faces. Apparently dawn visitors are a novelty.

Eytan intervenes. “We’re friends of Daniel Corbin.”

The old lady asks us to wait and closes the door. Smart. For human interaction, a petite angel-faced blonde is better than a Golem over six feet tall. The Belgian Jane Doe appreciates good manners. And speaks good English. Not everything stinks around here.

Ten seconds later, the old lady reappears. The Belgian Jane Doe is a little too efficient for my taste. The others don’t seem to share my suspicions. They’re the specialists. We file straight into the living room. The house is opulently furnished in a style a retired British colonel would like. The kind of guy who collects random stuff on his travels to flaunt to his guests that he’s seen the world. Bottom line, it’s a tad overpowering. Three cracked brown leather Chesterfield sofas form a U around a teak Indonesian-style coffee table. The open northern hemisphere of a globe, held by a black statue of a naked woman with a prominent bust, reveals a well-stocked bar. It’s undeniably tasteless. The walls are covered in still lifes with no real harmony of color or style. The ornately carved gold frames attest to a sickening snobbishness. Three corner tables laden with trinkets, ranging from Chinese statuettes to an antique clock, stand next to the three sofas. Two floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the house offer a view of the wooded yard, hidden from the street. They’re the only appealing aspect of this dark, sinister house. Lamps feebly illuminate the room in an ill-conceived attempt to provide a cozy atmosphere. Claustrophobia sufferers would hang themselves from the huge fan on the ceiling.

Eytan immediately sprawls on a couch and props his lumberjack boots on the table. Classy. I like it. Jackie frowns and whistles disapprovingly. Bald Eagle sighs and removes his feet. Jackie rolls her eyes. I’m surrounded by wackos. Nobody dares to utter a word that would shatter this house’s religious silence, for fear of bringing bad luck.

A motorized hum comes from the stairs. I know that sound. A lift glides down a railing on the wall. Infomercials for these contraptions air all night long back home. The owner of the house must be disabled. Sitting on the gray metal seat, a man with parchment skin, a tuft of unruly white hair and tinted glasses slowly descends in the slender beam of light from upstairs. When it reaches the bottom, the lift motor cuts out, causing Pops to sway uncontrollably. He seems no longer human, but made of straw.

The old lady hurries down and fusses around this pale imitation of a man, releasing the straps that hold the seat in place. She presses a button on the back, and four wheels fold out. The ingenious device means people don’t have to drag wheelchairs around the different floors of their home. The chair and its occupant take up a position at the far end of the table, facing us.

“Go make the bed, Annick. I’ll call if I need you. Thank you.” There’s a surprise.

The moribund old fellow has the voice of a young man.

Annick impassively goes upstairs. The door clicks shut. When we are alone, Jackie speaks up. “Mr. Planic?”

“That’s me. Please take a seat. If you’d like a drink, help yourself. Unfortunately, I can’t do the honors myself.”

He glances mournfully at his chair. He speaks excellent English, with just the hint of an accent. Slav, perhaps. I don’t wish to jump to conclusions, but given his name…

Like two well-mannered children, Jackie and I sit side by side on a couch. God, she smells good. Eytan is the bad boy, sprawled defiantly on a couch all of his own.

“What brings you to my home?”

“We found this book in your bookstore. We’re investigating…”

Before Jackie can finish, he interrupts, “You’re investigating the death of Daniel J. Corbin. You found the book with his notes. At his request, I told my employee—I still own the store—to put the book on a shelf and never move it or sell it.”

“Jeremy here is Lieutenant General Corbin’s son. In his notes, Corbin mentions that you were a member of a secret society, which, as we have found out at a great cost of lives, has very sinister intentions.”

Wow, she’s smoking. Talking like a professor now. Beautiful, athletic, funny and smart. If I get out of this alive, I’ll marry her. Or propose, at least.

“I broke off contact with the Consortium in 1995, when I moved here. The bookstore has been my cover for the last fifteen years. Every day, I expect to get a bullet in the brain. Every night, when I go to bed, I expect never to wake up. Yet I’m still here. I worked diligently for the organization for fifty years. My role was limited to keeping files on potential recruits. No more. At the time, my name was Andrei Kourilyenko.”

As the old man tells his story, our jaws drop.

Y
our father came to see
me a few weeks ago. He knew he was going to die. The Consortium’s name for him was Icarus. Nobody before him had ever gotten so close to the truth. And like the courageous mythological Greek hero, he burned his wings. Daniel had unraveled the whole story. He held one end of the thread and couldn’t help pulling it to see what he’d find. He soon realized that important government departments had been infiltrated. Anybody could be working for the organization. Some agents are never activated. Others are purposefully sacrificed. It’s a cluster organization that is carefully compartmentalized to make those at its heart inaccessible. I call it a work of genius—sufficiently discreet to go unnoticed and powerful enough to influence the fate of humanity through its cunning maneuvers.

“Shortly after I was recruited by Bleiberg, at our first and only meeting, I began fastidiously researching the Consortium. It was impossible to put the chain of command down on paper, so I concentrated on an area that would arouse less suspicion, because it was the reason I had been hired—the recruitment of scientists, particularly those with an SS background. I also took the opportunity to expand my investigation into the history of the Nazi party.”

Eytan interrupted. “Excuse me, but you said you met Professor Bleiberg in Berlin in 1945. He had been declared dead in the explosion that destroyed his research lab in 1942.”

“Yet another maneuver to conceal his existence, Mr.…Morg?” The Israeli agent frowned and nodded. “Please go on.”

“In reality, the problem is knowing where to look. I got a lucky break when a particular incident came to my attention. The NSDAP received funds from various private sources, mostly businessmen. But there was an exception. Several million dollars had been channeled through a Spanish bank. Of all the documents I traced, only one mentioned that transfer. I crosschecked against Hitler’s schedule of meetings and rallies. There was no obvious link to Spain, save for what I found in the visitors’ book at Landsberg Prison, where Hitler was incarcerated after his failed putsch. The prison administration proved exceedingly lax with this particular prisoner but kept a complete record of his visitors. A name caught my attention. Adamet.”

“Why that name?” asked Jeremy.

“It sounds Basque, doesn’t it?” offered Eytan.

“Quite. It certainly stood out among all the Germanic names. Once more, after long and painstaking research, the lead took me to Adamet Epartxegui, the director of a regional bank in Bilbao from 1928 to 1936, when he left Spain to settle in Argentina.”

Eytan racked his brain. The Argentinean tags on the car driven by Jeremy’s attackers in Manhattan; A.E., the initials in Delmar’s notes. Adamet Epartxegui. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

“Why Argentina?” Jeremy looked like an enraptured student firing questions at the professor.

Eytan sighed loudly. “During the Spanish Civil War, a lot of Basques emigrated to the Americas. And they had strong historical links with Argentina. Now shut up and let the gentleman speak, OK?”

“I was just asking. How do you know all that?”

“Basque Country, ETA, terrorism, Mossad. Do you need me to spell it out?” Jeremy fell silent.

“Where was I? Oh yes. When he reached South America, Epartxegui simply vanished for eight years. He resurfaced in 1945 as the boss of a pharmaceutical company, Bleiberg Chemical Incorporated, which soon became BCI to keep the name Bleiberg off any official document. The capital came from all over—France, Japan, Britain, the United States. Millions of U.S. dollars, which was big money back then. The demand for drugs in the post-war years meant exponential growth and profits for the whole pharmaceutical industry. Governments all over the world placed orders with BCI. Soon the company was working with some very prestigious names. You’ve heard of them.”

Eytan felt his stomach lurch. His voice felt like it was coming from outside his body, against his will. “Mengele, Eichmann, Kipp…”

“You might have to explain to your blank-faced friends.” The old man’s tone wavered between sarcasm and sincerity.

Eytan cleared his throat and stared at the floor. “After World War II, many high-ranking Nazis and their collaborators scattered around the world with the Allies’ help, with the aim of countering Stalin’s expansionism. Some settled in Austria, which bordered the Eastern bloc. Others emigrated to Latin America. Most didn’t have to escape. They were helped by French, British and American secret services, which had a dual aim: funding dictatorships working for the CIA and exploiting the expertise these men had accumulated in various domains. The Nazis’ war chest and scientific and industrial know-how bought immunity from prosecution and imprisonment for some of the vilest scum the world has ever known. Politicians call that pragmatism. The press talked about the scandal of former SS men living out luxurious retirements on the Rio de la Plata, but they hadn’t retired. They were working for those countries’ governments.”

“The CIA did this?” Jackie asked, as if her world were crashing down around her ears.

“Don’t be naïve. To counter communist revolutionaries in South America, the CIA supported a bunch of dictators. I know the Agency has done its best to erase what happened from the 1950s to the 1980s, but the facts are undeniable. The French were no better. A lot of wartime collaborators were included in a general amnesty and reinstated in the administration. Why? Pragmatism, of course. In a period of reconstruction, it’s tempting to hold onto men with certain kinds of expertise without looking too closely at their pasts. That’s the way the world works.”

“But Mossad carried out several abductions of Nazis who were holed up in South America, didn’t they?” asked Jackie.

For a moment, Eytan pictured himself as a history teacher dealing with an eager student. “Yes, with mixed results. Our biggest success was Eichmann’s capture in 1960. Mengele always escaped us. We nearly cornered him, but he had support in high places and serious protection. Which reminds me, our opponents in the last few days struck me as a little wet behind the ears.”

Eytan rubbed his thighs nervously. The old man spoke up. “You’re right, Mr. Morg. The Consortium fails only when it decides to.”

“We didn’t beat anybody to get here, right? We just got rid of some people the organization judged expendable.”

“Precisely. You catch on fast, Mr. Morg. Getting back to BCI, it’s a major player on the stock markets through its subsidiaries and holdings in other multinational laboratories.”

Jeremy jumped up, gesticulating madly. “I was right. I knew it! That’s what the documents my father left us were all about. You know the turnover of the main players in the pharm industry? It’s nuts. The top three in descending order: seventy-five billion dollars, forty-one billion dollars, thirty-five billion dollars. Whenever there’s a health scare, they’re suspected of bribing experts to ring the alarm bells and force politicians to launch crackpot vaccination campaigns. Remember the H1N1 virus? Nobody ever finds anything illegal, but stock prices go through the roof. The
London Times
article Eytan read to us mentioned lots of victims. So, this time, it’s serious?”

“They are prepared to play with people’s lives?” Jackie asked with disarming naivety. The other three stared at her wide-eyed. She winced. “I’ll shut up.”

Jeremy came to her rescue. “The answer is yes. Without hesitation, Jackie. But from what you said, Mr. Planic, it sounds like profits aren’t this mysterious organization’s only motivation. Am I wrong?”

“No. Money is the means to manipulate companies and politicians. But it’s not the ultimate aim.”

Jaw twitching, brows knitted, Eytan was losing patience. “Would you cut to the chase rather than keeping us in suspense? We’d all appreciate it.”

“I understand your impatience, Mr. Morg. I’m an old man, and I have few opportunities to tell what I know. I just celebrated my ninety-third birthday. In other words, my life is over. I have greater respect for you, Mr. Morg, than you can ever know. For that reason, I will give you two vital pieces of information.”

Eytan could hardly restrain himself. He sensed Jackie watching him, while Jeremy lapped up the old man’s words.

“The Mexican epidemic will go global with alarming speed. People will die at a terrifying rate. Experts will panic, with good reason for once. Within a month, the whole planet will be gripped in terror. BCI will announce the discovery of an emergency vaccine. Given the colossal worldwide requirements, all the pharmaceutical companies will cooperate to produce and distribute it at a ridiculously low price because, apparently, the economies of scale are so massive. A few days later, vaccination centers and doctors will start giving jabs. Where do you think that will lead us, Mr. Morg?”

Eytan stood up, threw his head back and scanned the ceiling for a nonexistent horizon. His legs were shaking as never before. He wished he could crumple to the floor and let others solve the problems for him. He clasped his hands behind his neck.

“To the implementation of the Bleiberg Project on a planetary scale. But that’s impossible.”

“Which brings us to my second revelation. All the guinea pigs died of side effects from the experiments. Except one. The project’s feasibility has been proved. Which is why it must be stopped. I tracked down the nerve center of the operation after your father’s death, Mr. Corbin. You and your friends have the responsibility of bringing sixty years of history to a close. You must destroy the lab where the first stock of vaccines is kept. Rest assured, you won’t have to go far. It’s here, in Belgium.”

Andrei watched them
walk away. He raged against the cruel weight of the years on his shoulders. They could act. He was condemned to wait in his damned chair for the end to come, feeling his faculties wane day by day. He summoned his nurse to wheel him back to the lift and recalled the day when Bleiberg, after informing him of the risks, offered him a shot of his magic formula. His fear of not surviving the treatment was too strong, and from that day on the shadow of death hung over him. Soon it would carry him off.

Stalin, then Hitler. Imperceptibly, the folly of men had worn him out, gnawed away at him. Fate had imposed on him a long, tiresome life and insidious decline. Wasn’t that the reality of existence? In the end, the destination is always the same. Only the itinerary differs.

Annick tucked him into his bed and went back downstairs to prepare his morning coffee and toast and jam. Andrei let his gaze wander around the gray room. It was too big for a single man. Since his wife’s death from cancer five years earlier, the life had gone out of his home. At least he still had the resources to pay for live-in care. He wouldn’t end up in a hospice. Never mind if the old harpy lacked a sense of humor, she did her job diligently and with devotion.

In a few minutes, his inevitably lukewarm breakfast would arrive. Then he would engross himself in a book to pass the time until lunch. When nostalgia overwhelmed him, Dostoevsky’s
The Gambler
was his only refuge. Alexei’s dissolution would be his companion today. Reading in Russian reminded him of the motherland.

Annick was unusually slow today. First his visitors had revived painful memories, now they were delaying his daily regimen, which could interfere with his delicate digestion. The woman truly didn’t understand the meaning of the word “fast.” His ironic nickname for her was the Flying Belgian, which he thought was hilarious but didn’t impress her. He called out and received no response. He gathered his strength and shouted louder. Panting, he heard slow footsteps on the stairs. He propped himself up on his pillows and folded the white sheets over his scrawny thighs.

“Good morning.” It wasn’t Annick’s voice. It was younger, more resolute, devoid of emotion almost.

“Good morning, Elena.”

“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

“You have a lighter step than Annick, my dear. I fully expected to see you one day or another.” He turned his head. You had to give the devil her due. She was magnificent. Tall, broad-shouldered, her athletic figure accentuated by tight jeans and long-sleeve top. What a shame that her face, once so gentle, had become so cold and sour. Her brown eyes, dark as the night, gave him gooseflesh. Her short dyed red hair accentuated her glacial beauty.

“You didn’t hurt her, at least?” he asked with a tremor in his voice.

Elena walked around and stopped at the foot of the bed. “She didn’t suffer, if that’s what you want to know. Consider that a thank-you for accomplishing your final mission.”

Another innocent life sacrificed to an absurd logic. Annick wasn’t meant to die like that. “So, my turn has come. Wasn’t one corpse enough? Why did you have to eliminate her?”

She smiled. “Have to? I wanted to. I don’t like old folks. What does the great expert on the human soul have to say on the matter?”

He smiled back. “I say that you’re mad, Elena. Look at you. Arrogant, haughty. You disgust me. I can’t believe…”

Andrei’s voice tailed off as a red stain splattered his pajama jacket. Behind the long muzzle of her revolver, Elena impassively watched the blood run down the old man’s forehead and chest.

“You never believed. Otherwise you would never have betrayed our cause, Father.”