The Colossus (4 page)

Berlin, Germany

Headquarters of Berliner Pharmaceuticals

Former chairman Peter Schultz entered his old office and made his way slowly across its polished marble floor, remembering with fondness the days he had spent there. Now his son served as chairman. Today, with his son away in Antwerp, Peter Schultz was going to address the board. He checked himself in the floor-length mirror by the large walnut desk. His hair was thinning, but elegant. Silver. His figure was lean, his skin wrinkled, but tan. Vanity remained one of his vices, but the years
had
treated him well. Schultz still felt handsome, energetic, and ambitious.

Ambition was a great driving force in old age, Schultz had always maintained. In one’s youth there was time to procrastinate. At his age, he hadn’t a moment to waste. And he wanted, more than anything, to leave behind as glorious a legacy as his father had left him. He straightened his navy blue jacket, turned, and swept the agenda for the morning off the desk’s mirror-like surface.

There was a knock on the door. It opened and Hans Altgeld strolled in. Schultz smiled at the sight of his faithful man of action. Thickset, with bleached blond hair of an almost comical shade of yellow, Hans carried his fifty-odd years well. Hans did work for Berliner of the white-collar and semi-white-collar crime variety. Low-level
espionage and sophisticated threats were part of Hans’s daily responsibilities. Stopping research from appearing in scientific journals in order to keep Berliner’s stock high was another asset he provided. Usually it involved arranging expensive gifts and lunches for editors and eminent research scholars and making sure various bits of research in question were debunked or talked up—whichever was more useful. There had been a few incidents where physical violence had been necessary to encourage some people to see things from Berliner’s perspective. But Hans was always up for a challenge.

Hans glided toward the desk and stood beside it with hands folded behind his back, managing to dwarf it with his demeanor.

Schultz extended his hand. Hans engulfed it in his beefy one. “
Wie geht’s
, Hans?” Schultz said. “Surely, you aren’t here to see me.” He chuckled. “The chairman is out of town.”

Hans’s work at Berliner had remained unchanged under Schultz’s son. Without speaking, he set a key on Schultz’s desk.

Schultz raised an eyebrow.

“Lars Lindstrom is dying,” Hans said.

Schultz put both palms on the desk and leaned into it. An enormous weight had been lifted off his being with those few words. Lars was the last remaining link to Hiram Rosen, Samuel Rosen, and the Indus pills. With him gone—soon, hopefully—he was free. Berliner was free.

“Finally we can bury the past,” Schultz said. “Once I’m done addressing the board,” he pointed to the room next door, “I’ll drink some champagne. A lot of champagne!” He rubbed his hands together. “This is excellent news!”

Hans’s expression remained impassive.

Schultz recognized the look in Hans’s watery gray eyes and picked up a phone. “Start without me,” he said to his son’s secretary and settled into the worn leather chair. “I haven’t been in this room much since we last met. Five years ago, wasn’t it?” He waved Hans to a chair in front of the desk.

“Five years ago, following Hiram Rosen’s death, we intercepted two packages from his lawyer’s office,” Hans said in a dull monotone.
“One addressed to a Dr. Klein, care of a London post office box, the other to a Dr. P.S. Oup, care of a PO box in Manhattan. Both packages contained a sheet of paper each and a vial of pills. We burned them.” Hans pointed to a fireplace at one corner of the room.

“A moment of triumph,” Schultz said, wondering what Hans was getting at.

Hans nodded. “Since the packages contained the key to decode Hiram’s research, we surmised that Hiram had sent his work in coded form to Lars Lindstrom and Dr. Oup, whom we haven’t yet identified. We hired a company to monitor Lars’s phone after Hiram died. We also monitored Hiram’s old business partner Kevin Forsyth, Maxine Rosen, and Ernst Frank. A software tap that would send me text messages every time one of them made a phone call and used words such as research, tablets, India—”

Schultz gave an impatient wave. “I remember all this! I’m old. Not gaga.” He turned his eyes toward the boardroom. He ached to celebrate the decades of work, the frustrating, humiliating hours spent with the FDA, the Euro Medicines Approval Board, and all those in power, to get their assurance that Berliner’s two new drugs would receive the adulation they deserved. Brocarax was Berliner’s soon-to-be-launched miracle cholesterol drug, and Janperin was a revolutionary anti-obesity drug. He should be talking about them to the board right now, not reliving the past with his old henchman.

Hans went on as if he hadn’t heard. “When Lars received the research, he informed Hiram’s lawyer that all he would do about it was keep it safe. True to his word, he did nothing. We considered the matter closed.” Hans took a breath, shifting in his seat. “Now Lars has developed a conscience, I’m afraid.”

A point made at last. Schultz let out a soft curse. “Even if Lars is suddenly interested in fulfilling Hiram’s wishes, without the key to decode it, the research is still useless.”

Hans didn’t respond.

Schultz’s brain kicked into problem-solving mode. It was what he had been raised to do, and did well. This matter would have to end with him.

“What is Lars doing about it? And what is this key? Obviously you’ve been up to something.” Schultz picked up the key Hans had placed on the table.

“It’s the reason I’m here,” Hans said. “Lars went to Chicago to see Hiram’s daughter.”

“Does Lars think she has the text to decode the work? I thought she knew nothing of the matter.”

“It would seem that she knows nothing. Lars merely wanted to hand over the research to her since he’s dying. I tried to check with you about going to Chicago, but you weren’t available. You did say I could take action if needed.”

Schultz nodded.

“I managed to get this locker key from Lars and frightened him a little. Heavy-set men speaking English with a German accent can be scary.”

“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor, Hans,” Schultz said with a small smile.

Hans continued. “Anyway, I used this key to access the locker where Lars said he kept the research.” He pulled a sheaf of papers seemingly out of nowhere and placed them on Schultz’s desk.

Schultz’s eyes scanned over the documents. “I cannot be sure if this is Hiram’s work or not. Get these looked at by an expert. At any rate, we must get all copies of the research from Lars, once and for all.”

“Ya,
mein Herr
.”

“Drink?” Schultz opened a small cabinet by the desk, considered its contents for a while, and took out a bottle of Pierre Ferrand cognac. “I don’t usually drink cognac at this time of day, but it is what calms me.” He offered Hans a glass.

Hans began sipping his drink.

Schultz considered his glass. “Can you taste the anise, sense the sandalwood?”

“Years of eating bratwurst and sauerkraut have dulled my taste buds,” Hans offered.

Schultz put down his drink. “How about the person who has the second supposed copy of the research?”

Hans shook his head. “The action has all been on Lars’s end. There may not even be a second copy.”

“Let’s not underestimate Hiram,” Schultz said. “Continue the taps on everyone’s phones.”

Hans agreed with a tilt of his head. “What if the Rosen girl gets involved?”

“We wait and see what she does,” Schultz said. “Find someone in Chicago to keep an eye on her.” He swirled the golden liquid in his glass, stood up and paced the room. “We have too much to lose if Hiram’s findings about the Indus pills see light. I hope you know that.” Schultz held out his hand for Hans to shake and end the meeting.

Hans didn’t move. He said with some hesitation, “
Mein Herr
, five years ago, we didn’t speak much about this.”

Schultz looked askance at his faithful man.

Hans’s father had worked for Berliner on an assembly line after the war. During the war, he had been a young SS guard. When all former SS were being prosecuted and jailed, Schultz had used his influence and given Hans’s father and a few other low-level SS guards jobs at Berliner. In the process, he had saved the Altgeld family and won their undying loyalty.

Schultz clenched and unclenched his fists. His arthritis was acting up. “I hoped this old wound would never have to be opened again.” He paused before continuing. “Samuel Rosen was once head chemist at Berliner. A brilliant man. He passed on his research on some health pills from the Indus Valley to his son, Hiram.”

For an instant he could see his old friend, dark and intense, perched on a corner of his desk, staring down at him, giving
him
orders. Only Samuel had ever dared to talk straight to Schultz. He had admired him for it.

Schultz stared into his glass.

1943. Schultz could see Samuel being dragged away to Krippenwald labor camp. He had made a decision then to continue Samuel’s work—it was far too important to be left unfinished. Schultz set up a lab to continue Samuel’s research on the Indus pills.

The scientists at the lab made a discovery—one with disturbing implications. It might have been prudent to take the discovery public, make reparations, and be rid of the whole business. But Berliner was not the pharmaceutical power in those days that it was today. The negative publicity in the fifties, when German companies were only just picking up the pieces after a devastating war, would have dealt a fatal blow to Berliner.

It had been a grave error of judgment.

Schultz put his hands in his pockets. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Hiram found out what damage the Indus pills could do. What harm they had already done.”

Hans’s eyes narrowed.

Schultz settled back in his chair. “I have destroyed all the pills. The last few were in those vials we intercepted. However, if the scientific community embraces Hiram’s findings, even without the pills for proof, it could be catastrophic.”

Schultz wondered if his eyes betrayed his fears. “Along with his findings, Hiram will reveal our association with Nazis and concentration camp workers!”

“But Bayer had strong Nazi ties, too,” Hans said indignantly. “They were part of IG Farben—and Farben created Zyklon B! Bayer even used Auschwitz inmates for their rubber works. No one cares about the Nazis anymore.”

Schultz leaned forward, his long arms nearly spanning the width of the desk. “Very well,” he bellowed. “
I
could lose everything. Berliner’s reputation and my life as I know it. Is that reason enough for you?” He took a giant gulp of cognac. The drink burned through his chest.

Hans stood up. “It is,
mein Herr
.”

“No Rosen will stand in my way again,” Schultz murmured. “Do what it takes and bury this matter. But no blood. From now on, Berliner’s name must remain unsullied.” He breathed in deeply, lifted the drink to his mouth, and drained the last drops of cognac from the glass.

University of Chicago

History Department

“An archeologist?” the librarian mused. “Let me see if I can unearth someone to help you.” She suppressed a laugh at her pun and picked up a phone.

Max looked around. Fresh-faced students buzzed about, sipping steaming coffee or nibbling on donuts and bagels.

Being here felt almost normal. The incident at her kitchen and her apartment, the whole business with Lars and Papa’s death seemed eons away. She had stepped back into a less troublesome time. At least she hadn’t felt in mortal danger back in those unsure undergraduate years.

She turned around suddenly. Was she imagining it, or was someone following her? She decided not to think along those lines, or she’d go totally mad. The shot fired at Lars, the same gun touching her skin—they had done their job. She
was
scared. Terror stricken, more like. And yet, here she was. It didn’t mean she was brave. It was just that the previous day seemed so removed from her present sense of reality. Standing here amidst these students, surrounded by stately, old, comfortable-looking buildings, it felt almost absurd thinking on those lines. She decided it was a good thing. For now anyway. All she was going to do was some harmless research. How threatening could that be to anyone?

A slim young woman wearing pencil jeans that looked sprayed on walked up to the desk. Max tried to smooth the front of her wrinkled cotton skirt with her palm.

*
*     *

Dr. Julian McIntosh leaned back.

Classes were over, exam papers corrected. Why was he not feeling the sense of accomplishment he normally felt at this time? His choices for the summer were not unexciting. Dr. Jackson had requested his help to conduct research for a textbook he was writing on religion and related architecture, with a focus on Vietnam and Cambodia. A trip to the Angkor Wat was in order. Dr. Jackson was a brilliant man, if tedious at times. Still the work would—might—make up for that. Julian rubbed his eyes. And he mustn’t forget the paper he had started working on for the conference in Prague next summer—use of Japanese iconography all over the world. With a special focus on Japan’s Buddhist iconography. Fascinating subject.

He suppressed a yawn. He wasn’t bored, surely. No, what he was was tired. He had been up late keeping Raquel company while she worked. My Raquel Stanton, he thought with pride. Girlfriend, banker extraordinaire, beautiful beyond compare, independent. And yet somehow, horribly insecure.

Raquel was the kind of person who liked to make and check off lists of high-powered weekend activities—sky diving, hot air balloon rides, jet skiing. She compared notes with colleagues about what everyone had done over weekends. “Did you check out the new jazz club on Huron? Tim Robbins played there last night,” some colleague might say. And Raquel would spend all her free time trying to get tickets to some other frou frou show to compete, with the expectation that Julian would join her regardless of the event. All
he
wanted to do was sit in a coffee shop with a nice book and—

Stop
, he told himself. He always philosophized when bored.

The phone rang. He grabbed it. “McIntosh here.” He listened for a while, “Sorry, my area isn’t South Asia but—pardon? Yes I know a little about the Indus Valley. Sure, I’ll see her now.”

The distraction would be a welcome one.

Julian walked over to the washroom and splashed water on his face. He returned to his desk and clicked on email. Dr. Jackson had some questions about an ancient Vietnamese text. The second was from Raquel—would he be coming over for dinner to her place tonight? She was going to try and make it an early night. She had a ton of work to do.

Julian sighed.

*
*     *

Max stood outside Dr. Julian McIntosh’s office. It was a tiny room with one small window facing 59th Street. The door was slightly open.

As she was about to knock, her cell phone rang. It was Kim, her assistant.

“Hi,” Kim said, “You wanted me to remind you about the sausage-making class at the Butcher and Larder at 11:30. Oh, but you’re busy today, aren’t you?”

Max put a hand over her mouth. She had rescheduled all her meetings for the day but had forgotten about the sausage class. She had been wanting to go for weeks. Maybe she could start her research after…but the class would last two hours.

“I forgot,” she said, her voice a disappointed croak. “Do you want to take the class?”

“I’d love to!” Kim said. Max felt a surge of envy burn through her chest. “And don’t worry,” Kim went on, “our handsome interns have the deliveries covered.” A bell rang in the background. “Oh, that must be the free-range meat guy you asked me to meet.”

Max fought an urge to run to the market to shop for fresh vegetables, head for her cozy kitchen after, and start cooking, never to stop. She wanted to go to Dirk’s Fish and Gourmet shop and talk about the day’s catch. She wanted to do all this so badly that it hurt. She hung
up. Tears sprang into her eyes. She wiped them with a vigorous palm and knocked on the door of the professor’s office.

“Come in!” a friendly voice called.

She walked in. “Hello, I’m Maxine Rosen. Err…Max.” Max’s cheeks felt hot. She knew she was blushing and she wished she wouldn’t. Blood rushed to her cheeks, giving her a patchy, wine-stained look.

But it couldn’t be helped. Dr. Julian McIntosh was very, very good looking. His eyes were somewhere between green and hazel, and they were large. His mouth was full, and yet there was nothing feminine about his lips. He had a bluish shadow of stubble on his chin, and his auburn curls were unruly. Just begging to be played with. Max felt her breath catch at her throat.

He got up from behind his computer, leaned back against his desk, and smiled. His slender body was dressed in a crumpled white linen shirt and narrow chocolate corduroy pants. On any other man, his slight frame and narrow pants would have looked silly. But given his professorial aura; his deep, rather unexpected voice; and his office decorated with haphazard piles of books and papers and a half-dead potted plant, it was rather perfect.

“You have questions about the Indus Valley,” he was saying. “My area of expertise is East Asia.” Max suppressed a groan of disappointment. “But as it turns out, the Indus Valley is an area of private interest—a hobby, if you will. Oh, sorry. Julian McIntosh.” He extended his arm. When he said “Julian” in his rather unusual accent, Max blushed once more. What a wondrous name, she thought. What a glorious accent! What a killer smile!

Max managed to take his warm grip and gave his hand a good shake despite her ruminations. She opened her mouth to say her name once more, but that ground had already been covered. She was glad she could recall that much, despite the tingling sensation in her ears.

She gave her head a quick shake to clear it. “Thanks so much for seeing me. Um, I was hoping you could take a look at this.” She opened her grandfather’s diary and showed him the embossment.

“Is this an imprint of a seal from the Indus Valley?” he asked eagerly.

“An imprint of a copy of an Indus seal. It’s amazing that I remember, since my grandfather told me all this years ago,” Max added with a laugh. “The original belonged to a man they called the Colossus. My grandfather was given a copy when he visited a dig at the Indus Valley.” She took out the plastic bag the seal was in and handed it to Julian.

Julian pulled out the seal and studied it. “When was he there?”

“1935.”

Julian turned his eyes to the ceiling. “The first expedition when they discovered the Indus civilization was in the early twenties.” He wrinkled his nose. Max noticed a dusting of light brown freckles on the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. “He was there not long after. How interesting.” He went to his bookshelf and pulled out a book. He flipped a few pages and handed it to her.

Max looked at the picture of the seal in the book.

“The picture in the book is of the most common type of seal found in the valley,” he said. “Your grandfather’s seal is similar—it has the unicorn. Well,” he smiled, revealing dimples. Could he be any more perfect? “We call it that. But it’s most likely an ox.”

Max peered at the picture and the Colossus’s seal. Julian stepped closer to show her the unicorn in both. He was wearing a glorious cologne that was soft, peppery, and yet so masculine. She found herself sniffing at his curls.

“Look,” he said. “The second horn is probably just behind that horn there—one-horn unicorn, hidden horn—voila, just a plain old ox.” Julian rubbed the space between his eyes. As if addressing a class, he went on, “Indus seals were usually square, about three-quarters of an inch to an inch and a quarter. Yours is unusual—it is round. Most have animals—oxen like this one or elephants, tigers, crocodiles even. What else…hmm…some have shown prototypes of the Hindu God Shiva—the Indus Valley may have been the cradle of Hinduism. There are usually inscriptions on seals, but we don’t know what they
say, sadly. Some say the script is Dravidian, but….” He shrugged. “No one knows for sure.”

Max nodded doubtfully.

“Not helpful?” he said, his eyebrows raised.

Truth was, she didn’t know what was relevant and what wasn’t. Her fingers went up and down the length of the cylinder of the seal. It was smooth all over, but her fingers landed on one rough portion near the end of the cylinder. Something had been drawn there. She looked at it closely. Drawn close to the bottom of her grandfather’s seal was a small broken type of square divided into four quadrants, and there were dots in every quadrant. It was unmistakable. A soft moan escaped her lips.

It was a Swastika. She looked at it closely. It wasn’t tilted like the Nazi version. And the dots? What did those mean? The Swastika looked like it had been made using a penknife or some sharp object. Had Opa done it? But why? He was Jewish! He had been put in a concentration camp, for God’s sake.

“Find something?” Julian McIntosh took the seal from her.

“A Swastika!” he said. “How interesting.”

Max felt a chill seep through her. Had the swastika always been there? Was there one in other Indus Valley seals? She started to ask Julian when suddenly she was in no mood to learn any more. No mood to read the diary. Perhaps Opa had revealed something in it that was so distasteful that he had torn and burned away much of it in shame.

Max bit hard on her lip, wondering what to do.