The Forbidden List

By David Grace

At the end of WW II revolutionary technology seized from Nazi slave-labor labs in central Europe was consigned to the Forbidden List to be kept secret forever.

When Deputy Assistant Undersecretary of Defense Daniel Rivers stumbled across it he plotted to make a fortune from its release. Rivers’ scheme was discovered and everyone relaxed when he was quietly silenced with a commitment to the Wheaton Fields Psychiatric Clinic as a paranoid schizophrenic. Relaxed that is until it was discovered that a copy of the data was missing.

Now, competing forces are plotting to be the first to possess the revolutionary discovery.

Caught in the middle of this free-for-all is Dr. Steven Westbrook, the new Medical Director at the Wheaton Fields Hospital. On only Westbrook’s second day on the job he’s confronted with Daniel Rivers’ murder soon followed by a puzzling series of events as the battle to find and exploit the missing technology becomes increasing more lethal and draws Westbrook ever deeper into its web.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Grace
• Release date: Sep 17, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452339054

David Grace

David Grace is an internationally acclaimed speaker, coach, and trainer. He is the founder of Kingdom International Embassy, a church organization that empowers individuals to be agents of peace, joy, and prosperity, and Destiny Club, a personal development training program for university students. He is also the managing director of Results Driven International, a training, motivational, and coaching company that mentors private, parastatal, and government agencies throughout Botswana.

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Chapter One

April 18, 1945 - Southwestern Poland

When the elevator doors opened Colonel Claus Webber was confronted by a scene of frantic activity disintegrating into chaos. One of the pushcarts had overturned, spilling hundreds of documents across the tunnel’s floor. Two of the Jews were struggling to right the cart while a third was on his knees stacking the pages into ragged piles. Two guards watched lazily from the side of the corridor.

Don’t just stand there! Webber shouted. For a moment the guards hesitated. Manual labor was a job for the Jews but after a quick glance at Webber’s face both SS men hurriedly grabbed the edge of the overturned cart. Four days before General Kammler’s Chief of Staff, Obersturmbahnfurher Stark, had left the facility to report to the General in Munich, leaving Colonel Webber in charge. Shortly thereafter Kammler had ordered all the project files crated for transport.

Under Webber’s watchful eye the guards and the three prisoners hurriedly reloaded the cart.

Who was pushing the cart? Webber asked the senior guard.

They were, the Corporal said, pointing at two of the Jews.

Webber took out his sidearm, waved it back and forth three times between the two pale, gray men, then pulled the trigger, shattering the skull of the older slave.

Get him out of here, Webber ordered then turned and walked back down the tunnel. Behind him he heard the cart’s wheels squeaking as the remaining prisoners pushed it to the packaging room where the lab books and blueprints would be inventoried, crated and sealed for shipment.

Three days later a JU-290 swept low over the valley. The mid-April ground was soft and spotted with puddles. For the preceding two days the prisoners and the remaining lab technicians had been laying five centimeter thick planks over the bulldozed earth in a swath barely wide enough to accommodate the plane’s landing gear. Webber bit his lip nervously as the pilot dropped the big ship the last few meters.

Called ‘trucks’, the four-engined JU 290, and its big brother the six-engined 390, were in desperately short supply. Rumor had it that Himmler himself had demanded one and that General Kammler had turned him down, instead sending the plane here to recover its precious cargo before the Russians reached the base. If the plane foundered, if the makeshift runway failed, Webber had no illusions about what would happen to him.

The wheels hit with a thump and the 290 bounded five meters into the air, planks scattering behind it like matchsticks. The wheels came back down and this time it bounced only a meter. On the third hop it stayed down leaving snapped boards in its wake. The big plane rolled on, finally stopping a bare two hundred meters from the end of the cleared earth.

Webber issued a piercing whistle and waved his arm in a circle. A line of crate-laden carts emerged from the cargo elevator. From the other end of the runway the remaining prisoners and lab technicians advanced into the field, hurriedly replacing the broken planks with the last of the fresh ones.

Kammler’s orders were explicit. Webber was to load the plane and have it ready for takeoff by twenty hundred hours. The General would radio coded orders directly to the pilot. Once the plane departed the prisoners were to be killed and the facility flooded. That part would be easy. Originally a coal mine, it required constant pumping to keep it dry. From that point on, it was every man for himself. The Sudeten Mountains in Southwest Poland were hardly on the Russian’s direct invasion route but sooner or later they would show up and Webber had no intention of being there when they did. He looked at his watch. It was 16:00. He had four hours to get the plane loaded and ready to fly.

* * *

April 21, 1945 - Bavaria

SS General Hans Kammler checked his watch and stepped into the small inn ten kilometers west of Oberammergau in southern Bavaria. It felt strange to be out of uniform. The coarse wool pants chafed his legs. Two men sat in the deserted lobby, one black haired, one brown. Kammler immediately noted their sun browned skin and ill fitting civilian clothes. Like himself these were soldiers who had recently left their uniforms behind.

Mr. Adams and Mr. Jones, I believe? Kammler said in University English.

Herr Schmitt? the taller man replied.

Kammler gave his head a quick nod and extended his hand. After a slight pause the man called Jones took it then waved Kammler to the empty seat at a small, scarred table.

Do you have the material? Adams demanded immediately.

It’s been a long day. Perhaps we can conclude our transaction in a civilized manner.

What would you know about civilized behavior? the dark haired man, Adams, demanded.

Gentlemen, insults are a poor way to begin our association. Unless, of course, you don’t want my materials.

We’re not your associates. We’re just here to make a trade.

My services are of at least as much value as the documents. Only I can explain what they mean. Only I can tell you what scientists will be of help to you in exploiting the material. Only I can tell you the sites where other materials can be found.

We don’t need you for that.

You do if you want to beat your Russian friends to them. Kammler paused and looked up at a skeletal balding man, apparently the owner, who was carrying an opened bottle of Riesling and three glasses. Kammler nodded and the proprietor left the General to pour the wine. Gentlemen, let us not ‘get off on the wrong foot’ as you Americans say. If I may, I would like to go over the details of our arrangement. Kammler paused for a moment and, receiving no objection, continued.

I have all of the documents from Site A loaded on a plane and ready to be delivered to any designated location within twenty four hours. It will fly wherever I tell it. It’s destination is up to you. In return, Kammler raised his hand and extended his index finger, I will be given a new identity and American citizenship. A second finger went up. For one year I will work for your government translating and explaining the materials for which I will be paid one thousand dollars per month. A third finger went up. I will immediately tell you all of the other locations and the names of the scientists who worked on advanced programs under my direction. I will be guaranteed employment for at least five years at the agreed salary if I am unable to find private employment on my own. You will facilitate the transfer of assets of mine in various accounts to the United States, tax free. And lastly, of course, you will provide me with excellent references and documentation for any new employment I may wish to seek. Have I correctly stated our agreement?

Yes, Jones agreed. Adams leaned back and scowled.

Excellent. Kammler poured three glasses of wine and raised his own. To new friends.

Jones lifted his glass and touched it to Kammler’s with a bright clink. The edge of Adams’ fingers carelessly knocked his glass on its side, spilling the wine in a pale amber flood. Ignoring the mishap, Kammler smiled and took a deep draft.

* * *

February 11, 1950 - Washington D.C.

The next item on the agenda, General Hawks said, glancing down at his notes, is Project HK 0641. Gentlemen?

The representative from the Department of Commerce raised his pencil and received a nod from General Hawks.

The initial tests are highly positive and Douglas, Lockheed, and Martin are all interested in licensing the technology. Commerce would like to see it moved to the development phase.

We at the State Department have serious reservations, a slender man in a black suit cut in. We feel that the technology will destabilize the Middle East to an unprecedented degree. Given the Soviet Union’s continued activity in the area, we feel that this might result in economic disaster for the region thereby leading to a potential Soviet takeover.

State is opposed, Hawks said, making a checkmark on one of his forms.

Gerald Weaver looked up and caught the General’s eye.

The President feels that this technology is too dangerous to be released at this time.

Hawks pursed his lips but said nothing. Weaver’s argument was the excuse the Administration would rely on for the record. Everybody knew the President was indebted to oil interests who would never allow the technology to see the light of day.

Hawks turned to the last member of the panel.

Charles?

The CIA agrees with State and the White House.

Very well. My superiors at the Pentagon feel that the potential weaponization of this technology constitutes a serious danger to the United States. That’s four votes to one. Until further action, Project HK 0641 is to be designated as ULTRA-BLACK. Review and development of the technology may continue under the Army’s Research and Recovery Administration but no licensing or release of the technology is to be allowed without the approval of this Committee. That completes this morning’s session.

Hawks looked around the table and lightly tapped his pen twice on the walnut veneer. Behind the General his aide made a note that Project 641 was to be added to the Forbidden List.

Chapter Two

Present Day - Wheaton, Maryland

I looked around the anonymous office, the bare, scarred desk and the faded prints of fox-hunting British gentry and wondered what I had gotten myself into, but then decided that I had let too many things slip through my fingers to retreat into a cave now.

You can put up your own pictures if you like, Glenda Bierce offered when she noticed my frown. I paused then gave my head a quick shake.

No, this is fine. What did you say happened to the previous Director, Dr. Lang?

He resigned, for personal reasons, Ms. Bierce said in a tone indicating that Lang’s departure was none of my business. She briskly opened a large accordion folder. Here are your keys, your staff identity card and your security passcard. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a summary of the status of our current patients. Ms. Bierce held out a neat blue file. I leafed through the first few pages, then flipped to the end.

How many do we have in all?

At the present time, seventy four.

For a facility this size I would have thought the population would be higher, a lot higher. How can the hospital sustain itself on such a low patient base?

Our rates are quite substantial. Most of our patients are financially independent. They value our isolation and discretion. Ms. Bierce stared firmly at me as if she had not yet decided if I could be trusted to maintain Wheaton Fields’s reputation for confidentiality.

Still, an institution this large, I glanced around as if to encompass the three story structure that must have contained rooms for two hundred patients or more.

The hospital is owned by the Pennobscott Foundation which I understand has substantial financial reserves. Of course, for any further financial details you would have to ask Mr. Clanton. Ms. Bierce pursed her lips.

If that’s any of your business, I heard the unspoken comment. I locked eyes with Ms. Bierce for a moment then looked away.

Here are your business cards, she continued, handing me a small gray box.

Dr. Steven Westbrook, M.D.

Chief Of Psychiatric Services

Wheaton Fields Convalescent Clinic

10 Bayberry Drive

Wheaton, Maryland 20915

301-555-9786

Is there anything else you need, Dr. Westbrook?

What? Ramrod straight, Ms. Bierce had closed the accordion folder and was staring at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. Uhh, no, I don’t think so. I’ll read the patient summaries and then start fresh tomorrow.

Ms. Bierce nodded and turned away.

Staff meeting at ten in room 204, she announced as she pulled the door closed behind her. I gave the blue file one last look, then wandered to the window. Beyond the thin steel bars was a small open area crossed by a tilt-slabbed sidewalk. In the near distance a boundary was formed by a solid wall of trees. I tried to match the scene to the pictures in the glossy brochure the headhunter had given me.

Wheaton Fields surrounded by Autumn’s orange blaze of sugar maples, aspen, and white oak. Verdant summer fields in all their bucolic glory. The tree-shaded main building outlined against a cloud-strewn blue sky. Each image tastefully captioned with words like ‘restful’ and ‘serene’, ‘peaceful’, and ‘stress free.’

Wheaton Fields provides first class facilities in a secluded location. Our expert staff is trained to provide a confidential, restful, and nurturing environment in which persons suffering from the trauma of high-stress modern life can re-discover their emotional center and re-orient their lives from the negative influences that have plagued them. Our primary goal is to help our patients return to a happy, productive existence and to re-discover joy and satisfaction in their everyday lives.

Judging from the brochure, Wheaton Fields was shooting for the Betty Ford clientele, but considering the hulking stone building, the 1930’s architecture, the linoleum floors, and the empty rooms, reality didn’t seem to match the brochure’s promise. But, I reminded himself, that’s not my problem. As much as some of the patients, I’m here to get a fresh start.

Idly, I leafed through the patient roster, then paused and flipped back one sheet. Daniel J. Rivers, age 42, paranoid schizophrenic. Daniel J. Rivers? Former Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense, Daniel J. Rivers? Rivers had resigned from the Administration, what, a little over a year ago for health reasons? Good God, we had paranoid schizo running billion dollar weapons systems? How long had he been here? I scanned to the bottom of the page. Admitted ten months ago. I made a mental note to review Rivers’ complete file the first chance I got.

I flipped a few more pages then paused again. Elaine Adair? Hadn’t she been nominated for an Academy Award a couple of years ago? Apparently she’d been at Wheaton Fields for about six weeks. And her problem is . . . . ? Reading between the lines the words ‘speed freak’ popped into my head.

How the hell was this file organized? I flipped past several pages but I could find no plan or structure. Perhaps Ms. Bierce had added the sheets in random order just to frustrate me. I removed the fastener and sorted the summaries into alphabetical order, in the process moving Elaine Adair to the top of the list.

Butter-colored beams of light were slipping between the window’s bars. Time to go. I resolved that I would come in early tomorrow and finish reviewing the patient summaries. Squaring the blue folder on the center of my otherwise empty desk, I ended my first day at Wheaton Fields.

Chapter Three

Room 204 was bigger than I had expected with a bank of large windows overlooking the front lawn. Four leather club chairs surrounded a mahogany conference table. Armed with a cup of coffee, I was about to take the seat at the head of the table when two of my senior staff entered. The woman, fortyish, plump, with a tangled halo of reddish-brown hair, paused in mid-sentence when she me then quickly extended her hand.

Dr. Westbrook? Dr. Margaret Riles. I guess you could call me your deputy.

Pleased to meet you. I looked at Riles’ companion, a tall, thin man, all planes and angles.

Dr. Harold Gentry, he replied, a nervous grimace stretching his lips.

Dr. Gentry. I shook Gentry’s hand, the long, boney fingers cold and limp. And your position?

Uhh, I’m the senior Clinical Psychiatrist. I supervise treatment teams one and two. Margaret handles three and four and any forensic psychiatric issues.

Forensic?

Riles gave me a nervous smile. Sometimes we accept patients under special arrangement with the courts.

Wealthy serial killers? I asked with a smile.

Occasionally.

I was joking, I replied, surprised.

The public institutions are overcrowded and if the patient is willing to pay the cost for a private facility, the government is usually more than willing to give him to us.

I’ve never heard of such a thing.

There are only eight institutions accredited by the U.S. Bureau of Prisons to participate in the program. We’re the only one on the eastern seaboard.

Do we have any, ahh, transferees right now? I picked up my blue file. I didn’t see anything in here . . . . my voice trailed off as I flipped through the pages.

Actually, Gentry cut in, fingering his black plastic glasses, there are two. Merle Turpin, a serial rapist from South Carolina and Gerald Fournier, a spree killer from Philadelphia.

I didn’t even know we had a locked facility.

It’s occupies a large part of the third floor, Riles said, glancing over her left shoulder.

Uneasily I looked from face to face then closed the blue file. I see that I have a lot to learn about Wheaton Fields. Well, let’s—

The door banged open and a trim, red-haired man bustled into the room.

Sorry I’m late. Got hung up with a patient. The newcomer stuck out his hand. Russ Mitchell. I’m your token Ph.D. Mostly, I supervise the non-medical staff and help out with overloads on day-to-day counseling and treatment emergencies. Perfect teeth, I thought as I stared at Mitchell’s smiling, freckled face.

No problem, we were just getting started. Mitchell took the chair at the end of the table. I don’t know how much you know about me . . . .

Practically nothing, Mitchell cut in, then laughed. Sorry, I thought that was a question. Please, go ahead.

As I was saying, I did my undergraduate work at U.C.L.A. and got my medical degree from Duke. The Army paid for my education in exchange for a service commitment. For the past four years I served as the Chief of Psychiatric Services at the Walson Clinic at Fort Dix, New Jersey. About two months ago I resigned my commission—

And what was that?

What was what, Dr. Mitchell?

Call me Russ. What was your rank when you resigned?

Major.—

Why’d you leave?

I clenched my jaw and took a breath. Personal reasons, I answered in a flat tone. Mitchell’s face reacquired its idiot smile.

Sure, none of our business, I guess.

What was your normal schedule with Dr. Lang? I asked Riles, pointedly turning away from Russ Mitchell.

"Ahhh, well, as Dr. Gentry mentioned, each of us runs two treatment teams which each consist of a psychiatrist or psychologist, a nurse, and an activities coordinator or a recreational therapist. Each team has between ten and twenty patients and meets with each patient between one and two hours per week. I also have four psychologists, including Russ, and fifteen licensed therapist-drug counselors who follow up with counseling and group therapy sessions. About half of our patients attend from one to three group sessions per week, plus their regular team interviews, plus extra counseling as needed.

Russ generally oversees the psychologists and Dr. Gentry oversees the therapists. They report to me and all four of us get together every Wednesday morning. I give you a separate weekly report every Friday afternoon. You meet with Mr. Clanton, the Executive Director, every Monday afternoon. Each treatment team turns in its weekly notes by close of business on Friday and you review them before our Wednesday meeting.

And the rest of the time?

Well, Dr. Lang pretty much let us do our jobs, though he would drop into group or team meetings from time to time. Naturally, we brought any problems or administrative issues to him.

I nodded and closed my worn blue file.

Is there anything special that I need to be concerned about?

Riles and Gentry quickly glanced at each other then back to me.

Not a thing, Riles said.

We’re good.

Dr. Mitchell?

Smooth as—-, The phone at the edge of the table suddenly issued a series of agitated trills.

I froze for an instant then grabbed the receiver. Westbrook . . . . What - where? . . . Yes, I’ll be right there. The plastic handset clattered as I threw it down. Dr. Riles, would you lead the way to East 207? Apparently patient has knocked out an orderly and barricaded himself in Dr. Metrano’s office.

Before I could take a step toward the door Russ Mitchell pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial.

Russ—

Mitchell held up his hand.

This is Dr. Mitchell. We’ve got an incident. Cut off all the phones in the east wing, right now. The cell closed with a snap. It’s protocol, Mitchell explained. The policy is to prevent an agitated patient from embarrassing the hospital with calls to talk-radio programs or threats to shoot the governor.

Makes sense to me, I agreed. Okay, let’s find out what’s going on. Riles gave Mitchell a quick glance then headed out the door.

Chapter Four

When we turned the corner leading to room 207 I found a uniformed guard and two white-suited orderlies clustered around Dr. Metrano’s door.

It’s open! the guard insisted, a set of keys dangling from the lock. One of the orderlies slammed a meaty shoulder against it but the door barely moved.

He’s jammed a chair or something under the knob.

Stand back, I’ll—

Everybody just calm down, I ordered and strode to the door.

Who—-

This is Dr. Westbrook. He’s taken over for Dr. Lang, Riles told them, hurrying to catch up. The three men paused, then respectfully stepped back.

Who’s the patient and how’d he get in there? Mitchell demanded.

They said it was Daniel Rivers. As for the how, let’s fix the problem first. I didn’t bother to turn toward Russ Mitchell. They’ll be plenty of time later to figure that out later. I pressed gently on the panel. Wood veneer over steel, well braced from the inside.

Mr. Rivers, my name is Dr. Steven Westbrook. I’m the new chief of psychiatric services. Please tell me what you’re trying to do. I heard a muted shuffle of feet, then nothing. Mr. Rivers?

Where’s Lang?

Dr. Lang is gone. I’m his replacement.

You’re lying, Rivers shouted after a long heartbeat.

I looked at the group crowded behind me.

Who’s his primary counselor?

I am, Gentry said, half raising his hand.

How widely focused is his paranoia?

Pretty much everyone is in on the conspiracy against him.

Including you?

Especially me.

Great. I turned back to the door and knocked gently. Mr. Rivers, you’re going to have to help me understand this. This is my first day and I haven’t a clue what this is all about. What is it you want?

They know!

I looked back at Gentry who just shrugged. Frowning, I tried again.

Mr. Rivers, why don’t you let me in so that we can discuss this confidentially.

You’ll lock me up.

I don’t know enough yet to decide what to do, but things aren’t going to get any better with you and me shouting at each other through this door. Please let me in. I promise I’ll listen to what you have to say.

Sure. As soon as I open the door your goons are going to rush in here and carry me away.

No, they won’t. I give you my word. . . . If you’ve got a better solution, I’d like to hear it.

Turn the phones back on.

Not until I understand what’s going on here. I give you my word I’ll listen to you if you’ll let me in.

For five seconds the hallway was quiet, then I heard a clink as a chair was removed from beneath the knob. The orderlies tensed but I waved them back. The door opened a crack. Carefully, I pushed it out of the way, entered, and closed it behind me. The office was flooded with light from the large window behind Dr. Metrano’s desk. Wedged into the left-hand corner was a slightly built African-American man, his eyes large and his face shiny with sweat.

Mr. Rivers, I held out my hand, I’m Dr. Westbrook. Apprehensively, Rivers edged forward as if my palm were studded with poison barbs. Finally, he briefly shook my hand then jumped back into the corner.

I’m going to sit over here. Why don’t you take Dr. Metrano’s chair and explain all this to me.

Warily, Rivers slipped into the executive chair, then rolled it back into the corner as far as it would go.

So? I asked, raising a pair of open hands.

They kidnapped me, you know.

Your family?

The government. I found out something they didn’t want me to know.

I would imagine that as a Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense a lot of top secret material crossed your desk.

Top Secret material? I used that stuff for toilet paper. This was Ultra Secret. Rivers leaned forward and his face turned cagey. That’s the real reason Kennedy was killed, you know, not the Bay of Pigs, not the mafia. He found out things and threatened to spill the beans and they had to shut him down.

Who’s ‘they’?

The men who run this country, really run it, not the puppets they put in the White House. Rivers gave me a calculating stare. Aren’t you going to ask me what I discovered?

It sounds as if it would be healthier for me if I didn’t know.

Hah! Rivers shouted. That’s the most intelligent thing anyone’s said to me since I got here. You bet your ass you don’t want to know, not unless you want to miss the turn on your drive home or crack you skull in your shower or get shot at the ATM machine. . . . You hear that out there! Rivers shouted at the door. I’m not telling him. You can listen in all you like. Rivers turned and gave me a quick grin.

So, what are you doing in here?

Did you know that there are only three or four places in this hospital where you can connect to the Internet?

No, I didn’t. Why is that?

If you connect to the Internet you might copy files to off-site storage. All Internet connections are monitored by the local Gestapo so that nobody talks about anything they shouldn’t. Do you have a laptop? Rivers asked sharply.

Yes, of course.

Don’t try to bring it here.

Why not?

Because they’ll take it away from you. No private computers allowed that might connect with the Internet or that might be used to copy files or burn CD’s. Do you think I’m making this all up?

No, I—

Check it out for yourself. Now, ask yourself, why does a simple psychiatric clinic need such extreme security measures? What do they have to hide?

I shrugged as if to say You tell me. Rivers just laughed.

So, you broke in here to . . . . use the phone?

Very good.

You were going to call . . . ?

Who do you think?

Sixty Minutes?

Rivers laughed harshly.

Why haven’t I heard from my wife the whole time I’ve been here? What does she know about what’s happened to me? What have you told her? Why doesn’t she come to visit me? Does she even know I’m here?

Wouldn’t she have to know? There were court proceedings—

Closed proceedings. I wasn’t allowed a lawyer, no phone calls, and when I was brought into court they had me doped to the eyeballs.

So, you want to call your wife?

Is that so unreasonable? Even murderers and rapists get to have visitors and send letters.

You’re not allowed to send or receive mail?

Even serial killers are treated more fairly than I am.

If I let you call your wife, will you return quietly to your room?

Like you’d do that. Glaring, Rivers pulled a six inch dagger from the elastic waist band at the small of his back and laid it on the desk.

I nervously eyed the dagger, then turned toward the door. Dr. Riles, can you hear me?

Yes. Are you all right?

I glanced uneasily at the knife, then looked back toward the door.

Everything is fine. I want you to have the telephone turned back on.

Dr. Westbrook, Mitchell shouted, that’s completely against policy.

Thanks for the bureaucracy lesson, Dr. Mitchell, now do what I told you.

Dr. Westbrook, I don’t think you—

I want to hear a dial tone in the next thirty seconds. Got it?

Hang on.

I glanced idly around the room then picked up the phone.

Do you know the number?

You think I don’t know my own phone number?

I shrugged. She could have moved after they put you in here. Angrily, Rivers grabbed the phone and began to punch buttons.

Ally, is that you? . . . . Ally, it’s me, Dan. . . . Nothing’s wrong. Why haven’t you come to visit me ? . . . Of course I can have visitors . . . No, wait, I’ll put the doctor on. Rivers held out the phone.

Hello, Mrs. Rivers, this is Dr. Westbrook.

Is Daniel all right? Has something happened?

Everything is fine. You’re welcome to visit him any time you like. . . .Hello? Mrs. Rivers? The a moment the line seemed dead then I heard a crackle of static. I handed the receiver back.

Ally? Ally, what happened—yes, I understand it’s been hard for you. .. . . You have to go?. . . . Ally is this really you? . . . . Fine, then tell me who JB is? . . . . No, who are— Rivers slammed the phone down. They’ve transferred the call. That wasn’t Ally. It was some imposter. . . . Rivers’ voice trailed off and he slumped back in his chair. I reached out my hand.

Come on, Mr. Rivers, I think we’ve all had our quota of excitement for the day.

Rivers’ eyes snapped open and he cowered back in the chair.

I’m just going to walk you back to your room. If you want, ask the orderly to bring you to my office tomorrow and I’ll let you call your wife again.

They won’t like that.

Who?

The people who put me here.

Well, I’ll just have to take my chances with them.

Rivers paused for a second, looked wildly around the room, then his resolve collapsed. He slowly emerged from behind the desk then paused, grabbed my head, and whispered fiercely into my ear: We stole it from the Nazi’s then buried it. They’re all terrified of it. Rivers released me and meekly opened the office door, his arms raised in surrender. I grabbed the knife and followed him from the room.

* * *

Rivers glanced at the wide-eyed doctors and nervous orderlies and marveled at how far he had fallen. If he had only known at the beginning . . . but life was like that. It was usually when you thought you were king of the hill that everything began to turn to shit.

Chapter Five

As they marched him back to his room Rivers couldn’t stop replaying in his head the events that had led to his destruction. He knew the exact day that his precipitous fall from grace had begun. It had been a year and a half ago and had started with the visit from General Adrian Banks.

* * *

The General was a balding, fiftyish man, about five feet six, the fabric of his uniform jacket straining against its brass buttons. He sat nervously across from Rivers, a thin, intense man perfectly dressed in a dark gray Burberry pinstripe with a maroon and gray striped tie over a starched white shirt. The meeting began politely enough, Rivers offering the General coffee, Banks thanking Rivers for taking the time out his busy schedule to meet with him. Finally, uneasily, the General broached the purpose of his visit. His department’s budget has been reduced by 30%. That left barely enough money to pay for his warehouses’ maintenance, security and utilities. With such a huge cut they would have to close their laboratory, fire their civilian employees, essentially close up shop. The cuts must be restored.

Rivers had been briefed about Banks’ department, the Resource Recovery Administration, in a memo no longer than one page. He had allocated two minutes for pleasantries, five minutes to hear Banks’ plea, and three more minutes to get rid of him and move on to really important business.

As I understand it, General, Rivers began, your organization’s mission is to discover useful technology from the material that we’ve . . . liberated over the years.

Absolutely, Mr. Rivers. It’s vital work.

Well, it would seem to me that if there were any useful technology in all these warehouses you administer that you should be able to generate quite a bit of your own funding by licensing it to private industry. That would seem to me to be the way to compensate for any budgetary shortfall.

Banks frowned as if Rivers had suggested that the appropriate solution to a traffic jam was for everyone to get out of their cars, flap their arms and fly away.

Of course, we’re always anxious to generate income for the government but there are unique obstacles we face.

Oh, what would those be? Rivers asked, quizzically tilting his head to one side.

Much of the technology, while based on revolutionary discoveries, is functionally obsolete. It would take a substantial research and development budget to bring it up to current standards. Synthetic fuels, for example. The Germans did marvelous things with bio-mass and so could we, but it would take a hundred million dollars at least to modernize the Nazi’s original plans and construct a test facility, and even then, it would not be economically attractive until the cost of gasoline exceeded $4.50 per gallon.

A hundred million dollars? Yes, I can see that would be beyond your budget. But wouldn’t private industry, Shell, Standard Oil, still be interested in acquiring these plans?

The general waved his hand as if disbursing a bad smell. They’re only interested in working technology, not science. Even if we convinced them to pay us something, and it would be pittance I can assure you, they would do nothing with it, just store the blueprints someplace and forget it.

Somewhat like what you’ve been doing?

We have preserved this technology so that it is ready to be deployed in the case of a national emergency. Once we give it away, it will be lost forever, and the next time the Middle East cuts off our oil, those same companies will charge the government a billion dollars to re-invent it.

Hmmmm, Rivers murmured noncommittally. What other problems do you have generating licensing income?

The provenance on some of our materials is not all we would like it to be.

Excuse me?

The General shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It’s the lawyers. Every time we offer to license any of our technology, the buyer’s attorneys want representations and warranties that the U.S. Government is the legal owner of the technology, that no other person has any claim to any part of the intellectual property, that the material is not in the public domain, that any implementations of the technology by the buyer will be patentable and that if anyone challenges the buyer’s rights to the technology that the U.S. government will indemnify them from any claims. That means—

—Yes, I’m very familiar with representations, warranties and indemnities. And I take it that we can’t do that?

How the hell can we? Banks exploded, then struggled to control his frustration. Look, it’s 1945, forty of our trucks pull up to a deserted factory that was making advanced alloy rocket nozzles. All the Germans have fled. There are maybe fifty starving Jewish slaves cowering in the corners and praying that we’re not the Gestapo come to put a bullet through their brains. We give them food and while they’re eating they tell a twenty-two year old Captain from Indianapolis, ‘That’s the machine that makes the nozzles. That’s the furnace where the metal is smelted. In there is the shop book but on page 62 it says to use 1% antimony but you really have to use .8% antimony or the nozzles will crack after six minutes use.’ So we throw everything into the trucks and ship it back to Nevada. Now sixty years later some lawyer on Park Avenue wants us to prove that we have the uncontested legal right to the formula and the shop book and what the half-dead Jewish slave told the Captain about the formula on page 62. How the Hell are we supposed to do that!

And an ‘AS-IS’ sale?

Impossible. The buyer’s going to have to spend millions to make the technology work, which is not a sure thing. To do that and risk getting sued by anybody from Krupp to the family of the Jewish prisoner is commercially unacceptable.

So, you’re saying that none of the technology you have is saleable, that it’s your purpose is to preserve it against the day that some national emergency might make it valuable again?

The General fiddled with the top button on his coat and wiggled his ass in Rivers’ increasingly uncomfortable chair. I wouldn’t say that applies to all our technology. Some of it is of incalculable value, but, of course, most of that is on the Forbidden List."

The Forbidden List?

Those technologies that are too dangerous or unstable to be released into the public domain.

Oh, you mean things like nerve gas formulas, that sort of thing? Rivers asked leaning slightly forward.

Yes, that, of course, but also the energy stuff.

The energy stuff? That sounds interesting, Rivers thought to himself. In these days of oil shortages and Mid-East crises