Chapter 10

In the Lab

“But are you okay, Susanna?” To Pero, it sounded like her world was imploding.

“Nein, nein, I am not. The police are all over. I left the museum shoot immediat after Herr Redmond and Heep were entführt, kidnappen. I have been trying to call you for over ten minutes. I could not call you before, the polizei officier was keeping an eye. I do not trust anyone. I cannot. Except my sister Bertha,” Susanna pronounced it Bear-ta, “Bertha is living here in Berlin, she is agreeing to coming over immediat. While I try to call you again and again, she has arrived. She is here with me now. I do not want to be alone.”

“Okay, easy does it. Tell me what happened, slowly. I need to understand everything.”

“It is just like my mother again. Demands, unknown peoples, they are going to die and, scheiße, I cannot save them.”

Pero almost yelled down the line to try to instill confidence, “Susanna, hey, please, listen to me. Yes, we can, I know we will, we will save them.”

Sam concluded his call with Max in Zurich, and Pero waved him over, keying the speaker. Pero was still trying to calm Susanna, “Together Susanna, together, we can save them, you have my word.” He heard her breathe loudly, pause, and still he could hear her sobbing lightly. He put the phone on the desk as he introduced her to Sam. “Susanna, listen, here’s my close childhood friend, Sam.”

Sam looked at Pero, pointed at the phone and mouthed “That the one?” Pero nodded. He mouthed, “Oh,” his brow was furrowed.

Pero shook his head, as much to clear it as to get Sam on track, “Sam, get your phone working again, Langley needs to hear this. Susanna, let your sister hear on speaker, okay?”

“Ja, here … can you hear me?” He told her they could.

Sam’s phone connected, Berger answered. Sam told him to conference Lewis urgently. Lewis came on immediately. Pero told them to listen; stay quiet and listen.

“Okay, Susanna, from the top, everyone is listening—and remember, you’ve got the resource of the US government, but what’s more, you have the best mind in Europe sitting next to me—I mean Sam.”

“Nein, nein, ist das meine schwester … my sister Bertha.” No, that’s my sister.

Sam knew the name. “Not Bertha Reidermaier, the chemist?”

“Yes, it is she. I am with her now. She is also listening.”

“Hallo.” Bertha’s voice came in. She had a thicker accent.

Lewis chimed in “Oh my God not another …”

Sam answered for them all, “Can it Director Lewis, please. If Bertha Reidermaier will help, we have a brain trust here you could never, in a million years, call on. Now, Susanna and Bertha, on the line we have two people, one is Director Lewis of the CIA, the other is my contact who is in communications there too, Director Berger. Both are top level. Now, fellows in Washington, you have here as a Nobel candidate within two years. Makes my bunch at CERN look like students. Sorry, Doctor Reidermaier, and please proceed, Susanna, if I may call you that.”

“And, Susanna, remember you have my word.” Pero reiterated, “We’ll get them back, somehow. So, from the top, please …”

“Okay.” They could all hear her take a deep breath. “We had finished filming the second S-Bahn scene, Herr Redmond coming down the metal scaffolding stairs to the museum, you know, scenes Three-B and Four-A, mit ambient light. Then Herr Tische shows up mit die polizeibeamter—how you say it? Police officer? Police boss? So, they yell at Heep—want to know where you are—and Herr Redmond goes over to see what is wrong. Herr Redmond tells Herr Tische that his bank is out, to leave us alone and to leave the closed set. Herr Redmond thought it was about the money for the film financing. Die polizeibeamter, he then bedrohen Herr Redmond, no, sorry, threaten him. He told Herr Redmond, he is not to talk in dieser weise to a senior German citizen of good standing. Heep gets Herr Redmond quieter, less angry. Then Herr Tische and die Polizeibeamter leave, we think. The other three police officers on the set seemed happy they leave. One of them tells Heep, who speaks fluent German, Berlin German … Did you know … that der name von polizeibeamter is Oberlutenant Hans Paltzer, he was an East Berliner definitely, ex-Stasi, an offizier, they do not trust him.

“So, we go back to filming. It is mittagessenbruch, ah … yes, lunch break. Herr Redmond and Heep are in their trailer reviewing video. The police are keeping good security, we think.”

Every modern film camera comes with a side-by-side video feed, so you can see the day’s shoot immediately. It was normal for Heep and Danny to review tape in private.

She continued, still upset, Pero could hear it in her voice, “The crew and I, we set up for the afternoon, still keine, sorry, no Herr Redmond or Heep. I go to find them. They are not there.” She took another breath. “There is blood on the floor, a lot of blood, and a note. I took the note before the police could find it. I have it here. Can I fax it?”

Sam gave her the number, reading it off a label on the machine next to his computer. He said, “But not on an open fax Susanna.” Sam was smart. He didn’t know where they were, but if the fax machine was included in the private hotel room, security was okay, but not if she would send it downstairs to the switchboard.

Susanna’s answer was strong, “I may be in shock, but I am not stupid.” Sam looked chastened. Pero patted his shoulder. “I have a hand scanner and die faxe will come from my computer. I reduced the image. Das original is about forty-five by twenty-five centimeters. It should be arriving … about … now.” A fax paper started to come out of Sam’s fax in the lab. “Anyway, here is what it says … thirty hours. Das ist alles.” Nothing else.

Sam brought it over. “She’s right, that’s all it says. I’ve pushed resend to you, Berger.” On the speaker, Berger responded with thanks.

Pero looked at it. Something was missing: corners—the paper wasn’t square, it was a special shape. “Susanna, where was the paper, exactly?”

“On the floor next to the blood.” That was no help.

“Susanna, anything on the other side?”

“It is just a papierortmatte, a restaurant paper, how you say it? A place paper? For under your dish. It has a logo on it: Borchardt.”

Pero realized immediately, it was a place mat from Borchardt on Französische Strasse in what was once East Berlin. He knew right then, the thirty hours matched the timing, it was a dinner reservation invitation from Tische: Borchardt Restaurant, Berlin, tomorrow night. Bring sample was also in the invitation—unwritten, maybe—but there just the same. He explained to all who were listening. Berlin it was, the sample was Tische’s party favor.

How to get Heep and Danny back? Pero had no idea. And why do they want the sample so bad? The thought nagged at him. His brain plagued with questions, he blurted one out, “Why was Nazi gold in the US in the first place, in a US Treasury Deposit in Manhattan?”

Lewis had the answer. “The gold teeth deposit, that’s what it is called. I got the info just now from the State Department, who were busy denying any knowledge up until now. Before 1950, the Counterintelligence Center, known as the CIC, picked it up and sent a sample to Fort Knox for assay, and then the whole shipment was sent to the US as part repayment of the German war debt. War spoils in effect. Fort Knox assayed it and came up with impurities. Calcium impurities, human tooth, as well as some alloy residue. They put two and two together—exterminated Jews’ teeth fillings—and told the Treasury to sell it, dump it. Apparently, they didn’t. A man called Fellars, working with the Marshall Plan and the OSS, didn’t want to lose the asset. He was funding both, the Plan and the OSS, which was, by 1948, the CIA—as well as advising MacArthur on his chances to run for President. Anyway, Fellars stashed it in the US Treasury deposit vault in lower Manhattan. He considered it a US asset, Jewish teeth gold or not.

“Then, it seems, two months ago that building was scheduled for renovation. They inventory the contents, preparing to move it to another location and, on examining the gold, see it is reddish. Red gold has a value twenty percent higher on the open jewelry market. A young, inexperienced Treasury officer takes it upon himself to assay the gold and make the US Treasury a profit, swapping red gold at $470 an ounce for regular plain yellow gold he could buy at $418 an ounce. So he posted the sale quantity as a lot on an Internet precious metal commodities auction site. It became a plain metals’ auction. He says he didn’t realize the significance of the assay description. But Jewish groups did. They had seen such red gold before when Stalin sold some. Some of that Stalin gold actually had mercury fillings still embedded. So they guessed where the US gold also came from.

“The Jewish groups have forced questions now being asked in closed session in the Senate, right now. That’s why State was able to admit it to us. But, in all honestly, it’s hardly a secret inside the government anymore.”

Pero responded with anger, “Well, it’s a secret to us, shameful in fact. But what about the radioactivity, didn’t they know about that?”

“I was coming to that … Anyway, so the gold is already sold and shipped to Switzerland, a precious metals’ dealer, very reputable. It’s shipped, gone. Jewish groups are angry, blaming the Swiss. The Swiss are sick of people accusing them of being anti-Semitic and insist it leaves. The rest you know. It has been refused. It sits in a customs bond, technically outside of Switzerland.”

“So, why don’t they ship it back?”

“The metal dealer had paid for it, it’s his technically. But now he wants rid of it. He knows it could develop into a lengthy law case and be bad for Switzerland with the Jewish complication. The US Treasury doesn’t want to give the money back nor get tainted gold—remember they know it’s tainted now because of the concentration camps’ connection via Stalin’s history. To make matters worse, some Senators may use this to leverage the CIA. They do have access to CIC documents from 1947, and that would still embarrass the CIA of today no end, so Treasury has asked State to push the Swiss to dump it on the dealer. No one that we know of has any idea about the radiation. They’re all playing hardball. And without evidence—meaning that sample you have there—the Swiss police cannot hold the gold, nor will a Judge give them a court order to re-examine the shipment. Lawyers in Zurich, we think, taking orders from the Treasury, are blocking that, maybe CIA operatives helping. To sum up: the gold is not in Switzerland, it’s in no-man’s-land.”

Lewis wasn’t through, “If the evidence you have pointing to a different history doesn’t turn up within forty-eight hours, then the dealer can sell and ship it onwards, so the Zurich judge says. If the dealer doesn’t sell it on, our sources say he’s bankrupt. He has demanded in an open fax … Bergen got a copy … that the US to take it back because the police say it’s tainted! Bergen and I think it means he knows it is tainted with Uranium, but unless someone knows about the sample you are holding, anyone else would think he’s talking about the Jewish concentration teeth knowledge again.

“But, get this—the US Treasury and the State Department claim it was sold, period, good gold, good-bye.” Or did he mean good buy? “If State is also involved, it means the White House is involved. I suspect it’s the Jewish teeth connection. If there’s no evidence on US soil for the Jewish groups other than CIC documents, but that can take months. Everyone here will want this to disappear—including anyone holding a noisemaker. Like the package you are holding. Remember, once it moves again, Treasury can always claim that the gold they sold was different, there’s been a confusion. Out of sight, out of mind, even if the original Treasury assay was suspicious. No evidence, or a switched trail, equals a clean record. So State, Treasury, the dealer, maybe even the Swiss government, wants this gold to disappear or change ownership.” Lewis was still fired up, almost as if he were telling this story for the first time, putting it all together for them all. “And get this, our sources say the police haven’t questioned the dealer. He may not have known it was tainted beforehand—but he damn well knew when they wouldn’t give it to him. And then about thirty minutes ago, the dealer got an offer—out of the blue—for fifty-five dollars a troy ounce more than the dealer paid for it. Just enough to look legit for a supposed company in Thailand, big jewelry region, trinkets. Seems almost legit for some very red gold.”

“What’s the real value?” Pero asked.

“Bergen intercepted that email as well, NSA helped. A cool cash offer of twenty and a half million. Plus shipping, airfreight. They say they’ll send a plane.”

Pero was willing to bet they would. “Lewis, I’ll wager you anything you like that TruVereinsbank is putting up the money. Once they get that gold, Heep and Danny may be expendable. As well as us. We’re the only ones who know what’s inside. The inside is worth a hell of a lot more than twenty million.”

Bergen answered, “About ten times that. And geopolitical advantage. The Thailand buyer may be a front for North Korea. But there is no way to move that much radioactive material from Europe.”

Pero shook his head, the stakes were huge, “Look, let me think about that. Meanwhile, can you think of a way to stall that sale to Thailand? It may be the only bargaining chip we have.”

Lewis was firm. “Oh yes, I can.” He didn’t say we. Lewis was getting personal again.

Pero clapped his hands, “Okay, I’ve got this far, it’s time I made my way back to Berlin with the sample.” Then he winked at Sam.

Giraffe looked at his friend and shook his head. “Pero, you said people were following you. All they need to do is catch you and take the sample. Maybe we could use some help?” He nodded toward the open phone, the one to Washington.

Pero was sure there was too little time for that. “Sam, I need to find out where the operative is—the one I am sure is watching CERN. They knew I was headed here, right? Then, we need to find out where they’re holding Heep and Danny.” He moved closer to the speakerphone to make his voice louder. “And although we need to know the DG’s involvement here, Lewis, for God’s sake don’t tell the DG anything, you or Bergen.”

They both agreed, immediately. It was not that Pero thought the DG was in on this uranium scheme, he was probably working on suppressing the Jewish gold angle for the White House. But Pero had a plan slowly percolating through his gray cells. He thought he knew how to get the bag back to Tische in exchange for Danny and Heep, or find out how to rescue them before the CIA or the Swiss police made them expendable by allowing the gold to disappear. For his plan to work, he needed silence, no feeding information back to Tische, via the DG—White House or not.

What had suddenly dawned on Pero was that he had figured out why—how—nations would pay through the nose for this cloaked uranium.

But before he stopped the phone calls, to bolster Susanna’s confidence and to release some of his adrenalin, Pero ripped into Lewis for not having protected Heep and Danny in time. It was petty, he knew, but in truth, he knew he was more than a little scared. When scared it helps to yell at somebody. Lewis was simply at the receiving end. Pero finished with, “Those were field agent instructions, and you were supposed to comply.”

Lewis replied somewhat meekly, sounding sincerely sorry, but explained he had no Station anymore in Berlin, so men were on the way from Frankfurt and Koln. It didn’t help. Lewis knew he had had almost an hour, and had blown the chance to protect them.

Pero warned him not to make the same mistake again, reminded him to protect Susanna and Bertha, then pressed “end” and closed the phone down. Lewis and Bergen might be mad, so be it.

Meanwhile, Pero’s brain concentrated on his new tack … some of the truth he now felt sure he had figured out. And now was the time to try to unravel all the clues. He felt sure they were all there, ready to be put in order. How better to do this puzzle work than with three of the finest minds in Europe?

What he had suddenly realized was that the idea of shipping disguised gold could be an amateur play, one bound to fail now that people knew the gold was to be watched. He needed to be sure. The phone to Berlin was still up but silent.

“Everybody, you still there?” He heard their replies clearly. “Okay, now, all of you, don’t say anything, just listen … I have an idea of what’s happening here. Just listen and then I’ll ask for comments, clearer thinking. Ready?” The two Berlin voices on the speakerphone said they were and Sam nodded. “Okay, good … here goes …

“The IAEA—the International Atomic Energy Agency—is a policing body as well as a negotiating autocracy. Some of the finest legal minds have helped craft the UN treaties over the years, from SALT to other nuclear limitation treaties. I met Gurdon Wattles once, brilliant mind, drew up the SALT Treaty. Anyway, the IAEA also monitors and detects agreements for normal use. For example, if a French reactor was installed in Iran, you want to make sure that the natural output of that electricity generating plant is measured and cataloged. Reactors produce electricity and they produce depleted uranium and they produce the building blocks for nuclear arms: enhanced, condensed, uranium. If it’s a plutonium reactor, the output is even more valuable as an arms’ supply source.

“Okay, the IAEA comes along and scientifically knows—measures and monitors—how many tons of radioactive material goes in and then comes out of these plants. It all ships in the form of rods, each rod is a set size, right?”

Berta confirmed, as did Sam.

Pero continued, “Right. It’s science, not guesswork. They measure the output, four in, four out, they measure the shipment, they count the rods, and the rods sit underwater in safe storage in giant heavy water baths. Then, they put cameras and inspectors on the whole thing. Nothing gets by them. Libya, Iraq, Iran, China, India, Pakistan, South Africa, Syria, Lebanon, Kazakhstan, Vietnam … the list of the countries they monitor is long and their task is never done. I know, we did a documentary on them.” He paused, “Anyway …

“Now, imagine you have a ton of non-rod-shaped, radioactive material that would have a rem signature almost like the spent rods give off but with reduced radioactivity. Ton for ton, if made into rods, the same stuff would appear to be similar to the fuel rods from those nuclear plants. Maybe seen underwater they would seem exactly the same. Right? The dummy stuff could still have tons of rems streaming off its shiny surface and yet be useless for real bomb making. It won’t be plutonium, but without a chemical test, who would know the difference?” He paused, took a breath while Sam looked increasingly concerned. “To transform the Treasury gold-covered uranium into bomb material, you would have to run the gamut of every other monitored piece of equipment to make such bomb material. Like refining plants and loads of centrifuges. Like Iran. Right? You’d stand out as if trying to make bomb material simply because of the handling, refining you would have to do to transform the poor quality Nazi uranium.

“And who could you sell it to as it is? Worthless old Nazi uranium? Rogue nations or terrorists to make a dirty bomb? Hardly worth the effort because it won’t make an efficient detonable bomb. Would it make a good dirty bomb? Yes, but not cheaper than stealing, say, the nuclear waste material from one good-sized metropolitan city hospital.

“But, imagine if you turn it into unstable but not very dangerous fuel rods, pretending to be lethal spent fuel rods. The newly made fake reactor rods made with Nazi Uranium would give off tons of rems but pack no punch because they’re not plutonium but old unstable Uranium. Hey, but if those rods, those dummy rods made of Nazi uranium, were in a bath of heavy water mixed in with real plutonium rods, don’t you agree they then could hide the sheep among the wolves?” Pero was getting worked up by his own imagination. “But what about the wolves you swap your sheep for. Right? You can swap the uranium rods out for new, really lethal, reactor plutonium residue. The old Uranium masquerading as plutonium. The real plutonium rods now encased in, I don’t know, a repeat of gold sheathing? Those ingots—or even the plutonium rods in a smuggled shipment, could be sold to Libya, Iraq, Iran, North Korea, or to criminals, or rogue military states … the list is, sadly, frightening.”

“Mein gott …” was heard from the phone speaker while Sam was still shaking his head.

Pero continued, “The IAEA would conduct its inventory in the heavy water bath, measure the radiation in that spent-fuel-rods heavy water tank the size of a gymnasium, and all would appear to be normal or close to it. Right?” Sam was nodding, Pero told the Berlin phone, “Sam agrees. So, meanwhile a ton of real, potent, bomb-grade plutonium would be secretly whisked away to a deep subsoil lab somewhere. Perhaps even ex-Soviet scientists could be doing what they have done for forty years, only for more money: making bombs. Sophisticated, lethal, world-politics’ altering, powerful atomic bombs.”

Sam, sitting very still, his eyes half-closed, still said nothing. Susanna and Bertha Reidermaier in Berlin were now similarly quiet. Only the faint crackle and hum of the speakerphone punctuated the quiet.

Pero hadn’t wanted to tell Langley. If they knew of or believed his version of the real use of the shipment of gold and uranium, every agency resource would kick in, and they would consider the loss of his friends as unfortunate collateral damage on a path to crush Tische and whomever he was working with or for. Pero desperately felt he needed to save his friends. Surely, there would be time for CIA action and recovery of the uranium and plutonium later if Pero calculated correctly. Moving tons of material takes time. Tische had made one mistake, he had set a deadline of thirty hours, thirty hours was way too short to move that uranium. Pero felt he had time to save his friends.

Sam was the first to speak up. “Christ Pero, you’re a devious bastard. It would work, damn it, it would work. Oh, good God damn I hate these people.”

“Who Sam?” the speakerphone broadcast.

“Scientists making the damn things. Think I hate the politicians and those power-mad thugs? No, they’re more human than the scientists who spend a lifetime learning secrets of the universe, speaking the language of God, math, and then they allow themselves to build something that can vaporize fellow living beings. They make me so damn angry.” He smashed his fist on the table and dented the metal top. Sam was a very strong man.

Bertha chimed in, “Ja, it ist vat we fight against every day. Not to have science used by these people.”

Sam continued, all business now, “Pero, if what you say is true, if it is even possibly true, we need to think this through. First, they would have to smelt the gold and extract the uranium. The density of the uranium would sink in a smelter and you could pour off the gold. But there is no place I know that could do this, every worker would die within hours, as you smelt the ingots. Even here we could not do an ounce in our ovens and shop.”

Bertha wanted to know: “Where is here please?”

Sam answered “CERN, Geneva.”

“Ach, dat Professor Sam Turner.” She said it in a way that reminded Pero of someone who was tasting a new dish, savoring every morsel. “Das forschungspapier, research paper you presented in Rio last year, it was good but ihr displacement theory is wrong mit the chemical equations you used. I have data for you to help better erklären sie” (explain it). Sam was looking very intense, he grabbed a pen like he was expecting this pre-Nobel scientist to dictate.

Pero interrupted, “People, can we stay on point here?” Sam nodded, and he heard two “ja’s” from the speaker. “Okay, Sam, what would you need? Heat, a pot, some shaper for the rods—I assume it would have to be recast into rods, the uranium?”

“Yes, it would have to be, but not molded, they would need to extrude it, five centimeters in diameter to match, to pass visual inspection.”

“Okay. What plant would have an automated smelter and an extruder that size?” Pero referred to a pressure squirter that forces, extrudes, molten material—whether plastic or metal—through a hole of a certain size. Windowpane extruders are flat, those for metal rods are perfectly circular.

Samuel was shaking his head, “But they would not be able to separate …” He paused and smacked a hand on his thigh, “Ah, but they don’t care, do they, Pero? It is the uranium they want, the rest—the gold—can be wasted, right? The gold has a value way less than the illegal value of the uranium—not to mention plutonium. And later, anyway, all they have to do is cast that residue gold into ingots and sell it off. It’s not the damn gold they want, it is the fake rods! Christ, they can sell those rods for millions, maybe even billions, to countries wanting to swap the old uranium rods for plutonium that would escape IAEA scrutiny.” Sam was shaking his head. “But still I do not know of a smelter that could handle all this, let alone an extruder.”

“Think my friend, who smelts stuff in this region? And who did we see on a school field trip years ago making gears that start as an extruded bar of any diameter?”

Sam’s eyes widened, “Damn, you’re right, the watch companies. They have automatic smelters, untouched by human hands to make sure the watch parts are perfectly true and pure steel. A fine steel extruder handles much higher temperatures than ones for uranium or gold, it could work.”

“What about the plants around here?” Sam knew the region better than Pero.

“No way, Pero. We’re in charge of water and soil contamination for this whole region because of our work here at CERN. That was the deal. We take samples and fly helicopters for air sampling up and down this region, from Lyon to Lausanne and over the lake. If anything were being done in this region, we’d know it. Couldn’t they simply be doing this overseas? Maybe Thailand?”

“You ever hear of a watch factory in Thailand? It would stick out like a sore thumb. No, it has to be here, where a factory would be only one among many. I am sure it’s here, and I’ll tell you why. Because if any radioactivity escaped the plant, they would have a perfect excuse: the radium in the dials, years of watch making pollution. One declaration of ‘Oops,’ and Switzerland would close ranks to avoid unemployment or collapse of the watch business. Wouldn’t the Swiss want to mask a small air or water leak?”

“Yes, and for that reason no one in the watch industry dares use the stuff, not since 1982 when the entire watch industry had to stop using it, it was causing cancers. So it’s a dead end.”

“Is it? When did Tische start funding this little venture? Let’s say they—the Stasi—started their operation in the ’50s or ’60s, wouldn’t it have been reasonable, back then, for the locals to expect a little leakage now and then?”

“Pero, you’re getting too far away from reality here. If they are still doing this or preparing to with this shipment you’re thinking, about … no, no … current environmental laws would make them stand out, no matter how careful they were. And besides, how could they get the gold into such a plant without anyone knowing? You saw what happened when we even opened your bag.”

“I don’t know, but TruVereinsbank does—Tische is desperate, exposed, relying on Stasi contacts and muscle. That level of desperation can only mean he’s got something already in operation, already underway, already—maybe for years—doing exactly this. Twenty million or ten times that is not sufficient reason for his desperation.”

The phone emitted the two women’s agreement and chagrin. Sam sat on the edge of the desk, looking dejected.

Pero laughed, “Come on people, we’re figuring this out. Don’t lose hope. Now let’s hope Lewis comes back with something we can use, Thailand or not.”

Bertha, the expert chemist, suddenly added, “Scheiße … und you have another Problem. Cadmium. Nuclear rods require cadmium for the making of them. Ach, what is the word for ablauf?”

“Flow.” Susanna translated.

“Ja, flow. Not a catalyst, but cadmium molecules will be rejected by the molten uranium or plutonium and will migrate to the outside, acting as a lubricant for die extraktion. It is an old process. New rod processors use magnetic extruders. There are only four of those in the world. If you are right and these ingots will be made into nuclear fuel rods in a watch factory, Wird hat müssen, sorry, they must have cadmium for the process.”

“Okay, it’s worth a shot. We’ll look for that when we get a hot trail, or … wait! Maybe that is the trail. Good job Bertha! Sam, you and Bertha work on shipments of cadmium into Switzerland first, then spread your search outward. Me, I have to get going. I have a date in Berlin. If I hear anything from Lewis about TruVereinsbank, I will call one of you, right away. Then they will call another, and then that person will call another and so on. We’ll make a telephone tree, okay?” Everyone said yes.

Sam asked, “Now, how are you going to get out of here? How can I help?”

Pero had a plan. It was simple. “Ah ha! Watch!”

Pero told Susanna—still on the coded phone, “Susanna, I am going to hang up and call you on the hotel room phone …”

“Why, why not call me on your handy? Heep left it on the table.”

Ah, Tische left it behind. So that wasn’t an accident. Pero also knew Tische had probably copied the SIM card and would be tapping the line. Good. “Susanna that’s perfect, we’re winning already. I am going to call that cell phone and lie to you, just play along, they’ll be listening, I’m sure. Do an act: you are completely distraught, you are crying. Okay? Just agree to anything I say.”

“I won’t have to pretend very hard. I still feel Drohend,” (threatened).

“Chin up, Susanna, this will work fine. And when I leave, keep Sam and Bertha talking on the secure phone, his, he’s got one like mine.”

“Are you all CIA?”

“Yes and no, he’ll explain later … here’s his number, he’s infrared ported your code to his phone so it will work safe and secure.” And Sam read out his cell phone number, along with the 5-5-5 sequence.

They all hung up. Pero told Sam to run the cleaning cycle that sounded like a washing machine in the sample box as background noise, and Pero called her again, on the open cell phone. “Susanna …” She burst into tears telling him about the kidnapping all over again. He got her calmed down, she was doing a perfect job. It was his turn, “Okay, I was just arriving in Lausanne …” On his schedule, it was time for the second TGV to arrive from Paris, “I got off the first because I was being followed and then took the next one.” He gambled that the aftershave man he suckered off the train had moved heaven and earth to catch up with him while he was, supposedly, waiting at Vallorbe to catch the next train. He went on, “I am taking the next train to Geneva, to go to CERN and give them the bag. They can give it to the police.” That should make Tische pay attention. “I’ll call you after I get there.”

She was into her part now, “What about Heep and Danny?”

“I have something Tische will want more than this dumb bag. I know what he’s doing and where. He’ll want me more than them.” It was a bluff, but he knew Tische would use Heep and Danny as bargaining chips to get Pero to reveal everything. He was counting on it. He’d expect Pero to ask to speak with or see them, and he intended to do just that.

Wait, he thought, there’s something else he’ll expect. “Susanna, has Amogh called?” Her answer was a surprise.

“Yes, apparently someone called Mbuno is trying to thank you, his wife is doing fine, but he needs to talk to you.”

“Okay, I’ll call him, don’t worry I’ll call you back within the next two hours. Bye.”

Then Pero immediately called her back on the other coded phone, on speaker, and congratulated her. She told him a man in a green coat had arrived, German Internal Security, with a man showing ID from the US embassy, to protect her.”

Sam mouthed: Lewis’ people?

Susanna answered his silent question, “Bertha is calling the embassy to verify … yes confirmed. I am feeling safer, danke Pero, danke fur alles.” Thank you for everything.

“No, Susanna, it is I who thank you and also apologize. Please don’t cry anymore.” He could just imagine the tears in those blue eyes. “I will, forever, be sorry I got you into this mess.”

“Forever sounds,” she inhaled “hopeful. Bye.” Then she hung up. Sam gave Pero a teenage look and snicker saying lucky devil.

Pero? He was puzzled. What had he said to encourage her? And yet, he felt that little pang you do when an adventure may be beginning. Hopeful. Hope. It was a good word under the circumstances.

“Come on Sam, I need to get out of here.” Sam handed Pero the sample from the box in the film bag inside the Russian bag. Pero grabbed the phone and his train bag.

As they walked back the way they had come in, locking the lab behind him, Sam was worried about something. “Pero your clothing is contaminated. That many rems, it’s bound to be. Look, there’s a gym here. We scientists need to exercise occasionally. They have a locker full of gear to borrow. No one remembers to bring sweats and such. We can give you a change …”

“No, they need to see me in the same clothing.”

“Well okay, but how about putting a track suit in that bag and when you’re done doing whatever it is you plan to do, you can change?”

“Okay, Sam, I won’t argue. Lead the way.” They turned sharp right and three doors down was a small gym and sauna closet. On one wall were lockers. Sam went to the first one and after a few seconds, brought out an Adidas gray suit, black stripe down the leg. “That’s about right, I think. Remember to ditch the coat and underwear. You’re stuck with the shoes and socks.” Pero opened the bag and took out the shower cap with the blood-soaked towel. “Merde Pero, that’s nasty! You lose that much blood?”

“It looks bad, never mind. Throw these out, will you? Don’t want to attract too much attention.”

Sam took a corner of the shower cap and, at arm’s length, went to the last locker and dropped it on the floor. “Doctor Marc’s closet, he’s in America for two weeks. Plenty of time to get this mess cleaned up later.”

“Okay, let’s go, I have a train to catch. And when I call, you hop the next flight to Berlin, agreed?”

“Yeah, I get to meet Bertha, oh and your Susanna …”

“She’s not my Susanna. Behave will you?”

“Well, not yet she isn’t, but there’s hope. No?”

Pero thought Sam was, always, a boy at heart—adult smart, but a child emotionally.

* * *

Nyon is the canton capital, a small town on Lac Leman, in the State of Vaud before one enters the Canton de Genève when the lake changes name to Lake Geneva. Pero stood on the platform, direction Genève, and waited for the local train, due in three minutes. He had driven with Sam in that silly cart back to the car, hot-wired it again, Sam shook his finger at Pero. Then, Pero drove cross-country through Grilly and into Divonne and ditched the car again, making sure the note and compensation money was on the driver’s seat again.

In Divonne, he hired a taxi and turned south to Nyon. He was then in Switzerland proper. Passport control south of Divonne was simple, the Russian bag giving him confidence. As it turned out, he didn’t need. No one even looked.

As the train pulled into Nyon station, he opened the door and got on. No one else got on, and he didn’t spot anyone on the train who seemed interested. The trick was to get to Geneva station and spot someone, have them see that he spotted them, and run back the way he came. Then he would have time to lose them. He was gambling that any Stasi from Berlin would not know the region as he did from his school days.

If Tische thought he was running toward CERN—Lausanne-Geneva then onto CERN—Tische would think his course of action was clear: get Pero, get the sample. Meanwhile, Sam would be free to travel, and Tische wouldn’t know they knew what the sample was. It was the only advantage they had—their knowledge and Tische’s false assumption.

As he alighted from the train in Geneva, he spotted the tail but made sure the man didn’t know he knew. Pero kept his face open and innocent. The open call to Susanna had worked. He took the steps down, used the tunnel passageway, and walked back up into the main ticket hall where the information counter was. He needed the tail to follow, so he took his time. As he asked the information attendant questions about CERN, he palmed the timetable for the intercity trains in Switzerland and slipped it into his pocket. He glanced above his head at the track and time of departure/arrival board with the ever-present accurate railroad clock face. Quickly looking away, he calculated he had forty-five seconds until the express train to Basel departed. That would do.

Switzerland runs on time. If the station clock said 17:14:15, that was the exact time. If the Basel train left at 17:15, he had forty-five seconds. Simple as that. Geneva was a head stop, the train would, always, leave on time.

As he turned, he spotted them, two of them and made deliberate eye contact. They wore the same leather coats he was familiar with from Tempelhof. In Switzerland, they looked out of place. Way too fascist. One was covering the street entrance, the other the platform access. Pero put a look of shock on his face.

They didn’t know the station. Behind the information and ticket hall was the second hall with the down ramp to the second under-track tunnel, with access to the quays. Pero ran as fast as he could. They followed. As he rounded the corner into the second hall, he ran into a third man, knocking him flat. The two behind him started yelling. Pero vaguely saw the man he had knocked down had wiring in his teeth and stitches on his cheek. Danny’s victim. He stretched his legs.

Pero had never been a very good runner. He was muscular, at least his legs were, and he could sprint, but one hundred yards and he could be toast. He had fifty more to go, and he was already out of breath. As he reached the banister for track number four and started to climb, two steps at a time, one of them reached him from behind and pulled on his jacket. Pero did what any self-respecting operative would do. He turned and kicked the man in the face. Someone blew a whistle. Pero started yelling “Au voleurs, au voleurs!” Thief, thief! His accent was local, so help was immediate. A woman with an umbrella was the final insult to the hardened Stasi. She whacked him as he tried to board the moving train, right on Pero’s heels.

Pero saw his assailant tumble over. Pero was clear. The train accelerated with usual Swiss efficiency, plenty of hydroelectric power. Pour it on, please, Mr. Engineer.

This train ticket collector was, déjà vu, not amused, they never are with rowdy behavior on their trains. He was taller and thinner than the little mother from the night before, but the anger was real. Unlike her, he could not be bribed. Try and you’ll be arrested. In Switzerland, you’re guilty until proven innocent. With what he was carrying, he’d spend quite a long time in jail.

Pero had to explain himself, so he lied. He said he had pulled a wodge of money out of his pocket, just like this and as he was about to buy a ticket and they had seen his cash. The conductor scolded him, took the requisite second-class fare to Basel, and told Pero to sit down and not cause any more of a disturbance for the ninety-minute ride to Basel.

“Oui, monsieur, merci. Je m’excuse …” What Pero didn’t explain was that he’d be getting off before Basel at Bulle.

Bulle was the gateway to Saanenland. Pero needed transportation to Berlin. He was sure all the airports would be watched now. But Gstaad is in Saanenland. Her residents, the truly rich, had loads of private planes at Saanen, where the single runway airport was laid out, running along the valley floor beneath towering skiing mountains. In Bulle, he could get a taxi to Saanen. And in Saanen, hopefully, a private plane for hire.

Pero had an hour left on the train. Time to change and try to call Nairobi. It was late, but he felt sure Amogh and Mbuno could still be at the Aga Kahn Hospital.