opened electronically.
Rattenhuber drove down the ramp, pausing for Bormann to get back in, and they entered a dark tunnel, passing two SS guards, and finally came to a halt in a brightly lit concrete garage.
There were two more SS guards and a young, hard-faced Haupsturmfuhrer. Like his men, he wore a sleeve-band on his left arm that carried the legend 'RFSS'. Reichsfuhrer der SS. The cuff-title of Himmler's personal staff, a device of Bormann's to deter the curious.
'So, Schultz, how goes it?' Bormann asked.
'No problems, Reichsleiter.' Schultz delivered a perfect party salute. 'Are you going up?'
'Yes, I think so.'
Schultz led the way towards a steel elevator and pressed the button. He stood back. 'At your orders, Reichsleiter.'
Bormann and Rattenhuber moved inside, the colonel pressed the button to ascend and the doors closed. He carried his Schmeisser and there was a stick grenade tucked into his belt.
'Not long now, Willi,' Bormann said. 'The culmination of many months of hard work. You were surprised, I think, when I brought you into this affair?'
'No - an honour, Reichsleiter, I assure you,' Rattenhuber said. 'A great honour to be asked to assist with such a task.'
'No more than you deserve, Willi. Zander was not to be trusted. I needed someone of intelligence and discretion. Someone I could trust. This business is of primary importance, Willi, I think you know that. Essential if the Kamaradenwerk is to succeed.'
'You may rely on me, Reichsleiter,' Rattenhuber said emotionally. 'To the death.'
Bormann placed an arm about his shoulders. 'I know I can, Willi. I know I can.' The lift stopped, the door opened. A young man in thickly lensed glasses and a white doctor's coat stood waiting. 'Good evening, Reichsleiter,' he said politely.
'Ah, Scheel, Professor Wiedler is expecting me, I trust.'
'Of course, Reichsleiter. This way.'
The only sound was the hum of the generators as they walked along the carpeted corridor. He opened the door at the end and ushered them through into a working laboratory, furnished mainly with electronic equipment. The man who sat in front of a massive recording machine in headphones was similarly attired, like Scheel, in a white coat. He had an intelligent, anxious face and wore gold-rimmed, half-moon reading spectacles. He glanced round, took off the reading spectacles and got up hastily.
'My dear professor.' Bormann shook hands affably. 'How goes it?'
'Excellent, Reichsleiter. I think I may say, it couldn't have gone any better.'
Fritz Wiedler was a doctor of medicine of the Universities of Heidelberg and Cambridge. A fervent supporter of National Socialism from its earliest days, a Nobel prizewinner for his researches in cell structure and one of the youngest professors the University of Berlin had ever known, with a reputation as one of the greatest plastic surgeons in Europe.
He was a supreme example of a certain kind of scientist, a man totally dedicated to the pursuit of his profession with a fervour that could only be described as criminal. For Wiedler, the end totally justified the means, and when his Nazi masters had come to power he prospered mightily.
He had worked with Rascher on low-pressure research for the Luftwaffe using live prisoners as guinea pigs. Then he had tried spare-part surgery, using the limbs of prisoners where necessary at Geghardt's sanatorium near Ravensbriick where Himmler often went in search of cures for his chronic stomach complaint.
But it was as a member of the SS Institute for Research and Study of Heredity that he really came into his own, working with Mengele at Auschwitz on the study of twins, first alive and later dead, all to the greater glory of science and the Third Reich.
And then Bormann had recruited him. Had offered him the chance of the ultimate experiment. In a sense, to create life itself. A challenge that no scientist worth his salt could possibly have turned down.
'Where are the rest of the staff?' Bormann asked.
'In the
Rattenhuber drove down the ramp, pausing for Bormann to get back in, and they entered a dark tunnel, passing two SS guards, and finally came to a halt in a brightly lit concrete garage.
There were two more SS guards and a young, hard-faced Haupsturmfuhrer. Like his men, he wore a sleeve-band on his left arm that carried the legend 'RFSS'. Reichsfuhrer der SS. The cuff-title of Himmler's personal staff, a device of Bormann's to deter the curious.
'So, Schultz, how goes it?' Bormann asked.
'No problems, Reichsleiter.' Schultz delivered a perfect party salute. 'Are you going up?'
'Yes, I think so.'
Schultz led the way towards a steel elevator and pressed the button. He stood back. 'At your orders, Reichsleiter.'
Bormann and Rattenhuber moved inside, the colonel pressed the button to ascend and the doors closed. He carried his Schmeisser and there was a stick grenade tucked into his belt.
'Not long now, Willi,' Bormann said. 'The culmination of many months of hard work. You were surprised, I think, when I brought you into this affair?'
'No - an honour, Reichsleiter, I assure you,' Rattenhuber said. 'A great honour to be asked to assist with such a task.'
'No more than you deserve, Willi. Zander was not to be trusted. I needed someone of intelligence and discretion. Someone I could trust. This business is of primary importance, Willi, I think you know that. Essential if the Kamaradenwerk is to succeed.'
'You may rely on me, Reichsleiter,' Rattenhuber said emotionally. 'To the death.'
Bormann placed an arm about his shoulders. 'I know I can, Willi. I know I can.' The lift stopped, the door opened. A young man in thickly lensed glasses and a white doctor's coat stood waiting. 'Good evening, Reichsleiter,' he said politely.
'Ah, Scheel, Professor Wiedler is expecting me, I trust.'
'Of course, Reichsleiter. This way.'
The only sound was the hum of the generators as they walked along the carpeted corridor. He opened the door at the end and ushered them through into a working laboratory, furnished mainly with electronic equipment. The man who sat in front of a massive recording machine in headphones was similarly attired, like Scheel, in a white coat. He had an intelligent, anxious face and wore gold-rimmed, half-moon reading spectacles. He glanced round, took off the reading spectacles and got up hastily.
'My dear professor.' Bormann shook hands affably. 'How goes it?'
'Excellent, Reichsleiter. I think I may say, it couldn't have gone any better.'
Fritz Wiedler was a doctor of medicine of the Universities of Heidelberg and Cambridge. A fervent supporter of National Socialism from its earliest days, a Nobel prizewinner for his researches in cell structure and one of the youngest professors the University of Berlin had ever known, with a reputation as one of the greatest plastic surgeons in Europe.
He was a supreme example of a certain kind of scientist, a man totally dedicated to the pursuit of his profession with a fervour that could only be described as criminal. For Wiedler, the end totally justified the means, and when his Nazi masters had come to power he prospered mightily.
He had worked with Rascher on low-pressure research for the Luftwaffe using live prisoners as guinea pigs. Then he had tried spare-part surgery, using the limbs of prisoners where necessary at Geghardt's sanatorium near Ravensbriick where Himmler often went in search of cures for his chronic stomach complaint.
But it was as a member of the SS Institute for Research and Study of Heredity that he really came into his own, working with Mengele at Auschwitz on the study of twins, first alive and later dead, all to the greater glory of science and the Third Reich.
And then Bormann had recruited him. Had offered him the chance of the ultimate experiment. In a sense, to create life itself. A challenge that no scientist worth his salt could possibly have turned down.
'Where are the rest of the staff?' Bormann asked.
'In the
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