The Side Effect

Part 1

Chapter 1

Eastern highlands, New Guinea, 1927

The bonfire created an island of light in the sea of darkness surrounding the small village. Karl Baumann sat next to the tribal chief, watching the display. A line of grass-skirt-clad, bare-chested men jumped up and down, gradually moving counterclockwise around the flames as they beat on small, cylindrical kundu drums. The colors of elaborate, individually unique headpieces made of hair and feathers, and the painted faces of the dancing men caught the flickering light.

Baumann had seen this many times in the year he’d spent in New Guinea living with the Anga people. He knew the dance would continue far into the night until exhaustion overcame the visions produced by the smoke pipes.

The chief, both leader of the tribe and village shaman, had once offered his pipe to the German. At first the hallucinations frightened Baumann, but then the kaleidoscopic images produced a feeling of contentment he couldn’t quite explain after the effects left his system.

He tried to compare the experience with what he was familiar. Though similar to being drunk, no dulling of the senses occurred. In fact, awareness of his surroundings increased.

It also had the arousal component of sex. But instead of a crescendo rush toward orgasm, the entire interlude was climactic, giving him a sense that he joined, not with one woman, but with the entire environment—that he was one with nature.

Afterward, he felt no untoward effects of hangover, regrets, or embarrassments. Just a satisfying calm.

Kukote, the villagers called the plant that, when dried, lit in smoke pipes and inhaled, produced the remarkable visions. As Baumann watched the village men dance, he thought of the kukote sample he’d sent back to Germany for analysis.

Soon he would be following it to the University of Leipzig. A year of studying this culture provided the data he’d turn into his anthropology doctoral dissertation.

With that completed, he planned to return to this strange land and its people. He’d only scratched the surface of these isolated pockets of humanity, he realized, and at that moment he had the study of New Guinean natives to himself. There were missionaries around, to be sure, but as far as he knew, he was the only scientist involved in anthropological research on the island.

That American, Margaret Mead, had already made waves with her writings on the sexual mores of Samoans. He’d heard she had her sights on other Pacific locales as well, including his adopted island. Right now he had a head start, and he didn’t want to lose his advantage. An Anthropology Department chair, perhaps at his own university, might be in his future if he planned his moves carefully.

* * * *

Leipzig, Germany, 1927

Two young men wearing white lab coats stood at a counter in a chemistry lab at the University of Leipzig. This late in the day, the large room was mostly deserted. A glass jar sitting on a counter in front of them contained some kind of leafy plant material. Next to it lay a weathered notebook.

I got the assignment for this, Erich Hauptmann said to his fellow graduate student, Fritz Scholz, pointing to the jar.

I’m surprised old man Steiner didn’t steal it for himself—this being a strange plant with strange powers. He chuckled and winked at Hauptmann. But of course, he’ll take the credit for it when you isolate the active ingredient.

Hauptmann, tall and thin, his black hair combed straight back, smiled at the shorter, medium-build man. Isn’t that the way it always works, Fritz? We do the research, and Herr Professor puts his name at the top of the publication. One day, my friend, we’ll be the ones doling out the assignments to the slaves.

Can’t wait for that day. I’ve been having trouble putting together my thesis. How about you?

Hauptmann laughed. Fritz, I haven’t even decided its subject yet. You were always ahead of me in our projects.

Well, you know me, Erich, Fritz said, clearly made uncomfortable by his friend’s remark. When I have a task to do, I’ve got to get started on it as soon as possible. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

No, of course not. He playfully punched Scholz in the shoulder. I wish I could be as focused as you. This, he said, gesturing at the jar, could be what I need to get started, finally.

Do you know anything about this Karl Baumann?

Not really. Some doctorate candidate in the Anthropology Department—a Jew. He apparently spent a year in New Guinea living with the natives. Steiner says this plant supposedly contains a hallucinogen of some sort.

Now I know why the old man didn’t grab this for himself. Of what possible benefit would that be for society? We already have schnapps, and that’s all I need to start seeing things that aren’t there. He laughed.

Hauptmann laughed, too. That I know, Fritz. His face then took on a serious expression. But there could be possibilities here. Perhaps a military use.

Ha! What military? We don’t have any, remember?

Germany will not be under the world’s heel forever. We must look to the future. One day we’ll be back on top again. And our science will pave the way.

If you say so, Erich. As for me, I’d just be happy to make a living. I’ll leave the theoretical applications to the dreamers, like you, and I’ll just make the stuff.

It takes both kinds of scientists to make progress, Fritz—the planners and the producers. That’s what makes us a good team. Something to think about after we get our credentials established.

Well, we don’t have them yet, so I’ll leave you with your schizophrenia plant. He chuckled again. Hey, maybe that Freud fellow would be interested. Anyway, I’ve got to sift through my notes and put them together in a way that makes sense—to Steiner, at least. I’ll see you tomorrow, Erich.

Good evening, Fritz.

As Scholz left the lab, Hauptmann reached for the notebook and began to read.

* * * *

Lae, New Guinea, 1937

Karl Baumann sat in the waterfront café, reading the month-old Völkischer Beobachter, getting angrier by the minute. It was the only German newspaper available in the entire town, much to his chagrin. His coffee, barely touched, sat forgotten on the small table.

Before his country’s defeat in the Great War, this part of the island had been known as German New Guinea. Having German-born residents here was one of the reasons he’d selected this faraway land for study. And at least they had one newspaper here to keep him informed of developments back home. So he read it, even though he knew it was an anti-Semitic rag. But what made his blood boil was that this wasn’t just a fringe publication in Germany, but a widely-read, mainstream newspaper.

Joseph Klemper, owner of the café, emerged from within the building, wiping his hands on an apron. He approached Baumann’s table. Ah, that’s better, he said, lifting his face into the onshore breeze. Hot in there. Mind if I sit here for a while, Karl?

Baumann gestured at an empty chair.

You look troubled, Klemper said as he sat. Trouble with your savages? He gave him a grin.

Baumann shook his head. He picked up the newspaper and tossed it on the table in front of the other German. My good friend, Werner Heisenberg. Those Nazi so-called scientists belittle his work as ‘Jewish physics’. They couldn’t hold a candle to the man. He’s a genius.

Just politics. You know how it goes. Everyone trying to curry favor with the leaders of the new Germany.

Politics? Is there a ‘Jewish Party’? No, Joseph, what’s going on in Germany is much more serious than that. Hitler and his minions are intent on isolating my people from the rest of the country. Making them outlaws will be the next step.

Come, now. It can’t be that bad. Jews like yourself are important members of German society. Hitler can’t achieve the stability he needs without their support.

He can if he makes his racist views a national cause, give the people something to rally against. To make Jews ‘the others,’ not really German, he can provide the gullible with a scapegoat to blame for their misfortunes. It’s been done before.

Perhaps, but I can’t see this happening in our country.

Times have changed. When is the last time you were there?

I haven’t been back since I arrived here, twenty-one years ago. He smiled. I’ve now been in New Guinea longer than I lived in Dusseldorf. This is my home.

The sound of cheers drifting up from the harbor caused both men to look in that direction, a place of considerable excitement that day. Throngs of people gathered around a seaplane, just barely visible from their viewpoint. Amelia Earhart, the famous American aviatrix, was about to take off, headed for the United States and the completion of her round-the-world journey.

As if taking a cue from the impending flight, Klemper asked, What about you, Karl? You’re not planning to take up permanent residence here, are you?

Baumann sighed. No, my study here is done, finally. Now I have to take my findings and analyze them where facilities exist to aid me. He’d come to the end of his New Guinea research, a work that included many discoveries. One in particular, though, dominated the others in importance. But it was an incomplete finding. He still needed to prove his hypothesis with the scientific analysis this primitive land couldn’t provide.

The amazing kukote plant! If only that chemist, Hauptmann, had responded to his last inquiry, he might not be facing this dilemma.

Baumann knew about the test results of the original study of the plant nine years earlier. Hauptmann, being a graduate student, had no control over the distribution of his findings. But now that he’s a big shot in Berlin, he can’t be bothered to reply to me? Did he keep the investigation to himself? Did he even bother to look into it? Ach! Who knows?

Gazing out at the harbor, he made a decision. He would follow up on his discovery, but not in Germany, a country with which he could no longer identify.

America. Where women like this Earhart and fellow anthropologist Mead could be allowed to do great things. Where a Negro like Jesse Owens could race against white men and win. And this man, Roosevelt. Hitler and his gang call him a Jew. Their attempt to denigrate him in this way, though, made an unintentional point. It indicated that in America, such a thing as a Jew becoming President was possible.

The United States, not Germany, would give his research a fair hearing. Yes. That’s where I must go.

Well, back to work, Klemper announced and rose. Good luck with your project.

Thank you, Joseph. My regards to your family. Baumann got up from the table as Klemper disappeared inside the café. With a new sense of purpose, he sauntered down to the dock to see the spectacle.

Chapter 2

Berlin, Germany, December, 1944

You’re serious? You think we should leave now? Fritz Sholz asked his partner.

Erich Hauptmann turned from the window of his office overlooking the Havel River. Still trim at forty-two, he ran the fingers of his right hand through his black hair and faced the balding and somewhat portly man. While we still can, Fritz. Germany is doomed, my friend. We must be practical.

But our forces have the Allies on the run in the Ardennes.

Propaganda, Hauptmann replied, stroking his goatee. Goebbels is still working his magic. They may have achieved a tactical success, but it will be only temporary. The Allies broke through the beachhead at Normandy, and the Soviets stopped the Wehrmacht in the Russian snows. Both forces are now headed this way, pinching us in the middle. The Luftwaffe can no longer prevent enemy bombers from getting through. And our own generals tried to assassinate Hitler. Need any more evidence? Let’s face it. It’s only a matter of time before it will be over for us, regardless of the lies Goebbels broadcasts.

Why not stay and wait? We’re not SS, or even soldiers. We’re just businessmen, Erich.

Hauptmann laughed. "Just businessmen? Sure, but we’re in business with the Third Reich. We make antibiotics and morphine for the war effort. Nothing wrong with that. But don’t forget—we also make Zyklon B, and you know what that poison is used for. We even participated in its test trials. And what about those other experiments we worked on? You can’t ignore these things. The victors certainly won’t."

But we were ordered to, by Himmler himself.

And I’m sure Himmler was ordered as well—by Hitler himself. That’s not going to help him when the Allies discover what went on, and it’s not going to help us. Besides, we had no objections to killing Jews to help the Fatherland. He sighed. We can’t stay and get caught up in the frenzy of retribution. We have to leave.

The Fuhrer will have our heads!

That’s why we need a careful plan. There’s still time.

Where do we go, Erich? Not to the West, surely.

We’ll go to where our money is. Switzerland will be ideal for our new start. Hell, with the formulas we developed and the work we’ve done over the years, we could get into the legitimate pharmaceutical business again. We’re still drug makers, after all.

Scholz collapsed into a leather armchair. All right, Erich. I was thinking along the same lines. I was just playing devil’s advocate to see what the master planner had to say. How do you see us resurfacing in Switzerland?

Hauptmann sat down into an identical armchair across from that of his partner. First we get our money—preferably in U.S. dollars. Then we lie low while we organize our new lives. You speak fluent French, as do I. German immigrants are likely not to be very popular these days, even for the tolerant Swiss. We could pass as Frenchmen. Then eyebrows won’t be raised when we start our new venture. We’d find front men to run the company for us until all of this Nazi business is over. Then we take over.

Why not just retire? We have enough put away to live comfortably.

Hauptmann looked at Scholz for a few seconds. Being devil’s advocate again? He smiled. My friend, we’re still too young to just sit on our asses getting drunk on schnapps.

Scholz laughed. The getting drunk part appeals to me. Seriously, Erich, we’re not those young and ambitious chemists fresh out of university any more. I’ve gotten fat and lazy in my middle age. I don’t know if I have what it takes to start all over again.

Hauptmann sat quietly for a moment before speaking. "We can do it, Fritz. I’m certain of it. Anyway, I have to try. There are many projects we worked on for the Third Reich that could be put to good use later in legitimate products. And there is one drug in particular I’m anxious to develop," he said, his eyes bright.

You’re talking about that crazy idea from New Guinea.

Crazy? Perhaps. But I’m not going to dismiss it out of hand. It’s possible Baumann may have stumbled onto something fantastic. When this war is over, we’ll have the time to investigate this, as well as other things we never finished.

Our records will be going to Switzerland, too, I assume.

"Of course! There’s a wealth of information in those files. I’m not about to leave them for the rest of the world to pry into and steal. They represent fifteen years of hard work. Our work, Fritz."

Hauptmann saw uncertainty in his friend. I’d like to have you with me, but I understand if you’d rather not be part of it. You have a family to consider. With Marta gone these past three years, all I have now is Mark. I kept him away from, shall we say, the lethal parts of our business. But he’s an excellent chemist and researcher, and not happy with what has happened to his country. He’s excited about my plan and will help me get started.

"You mean help us get started, Scholz said, rising from his chair and smiling. I’m with you all the way." He extended his right hand.

Hauptmann stood and shook it. I was hoping you’d agree, Fritz. We’ll need your attention to details. And, he said with a smile, your contribution to the seed money.

Why don’t we get some of that schnapps to celebrate our new partnership?

I could use a drink. Let’s go. We can discuss our plan some more.

The two men retrieved their overcoats and fedoras from a hat rack in the corner. As they left the office, Hauptmann clapped Scholz on the shoulder, and chuckled. We’re not even in Switzerland yet, but I’ve already thought of a name for our new company!

Chapter 3

Beirut, Lebanon, January, 1972

Two men helped Helmut Mauser from the car. With each man holding one of his arms, they walked him across the sidewalk. He could hear the sound of a door opening, and then he was led up a long flight of stairs. Ten paces later, another door opened. As he moved forward, he sensed the wooden floor beneath his shoes change to carpeting. After the door closed behind him, he was put into a cushioned chair, and someone removed his blindfold.

Mauser rubbed his eyes and looked around the dimly lit room. Directly in front of him sat a bearded man in his forties with Middle-Eastern features, dressed in a dark suit. One of the Black September operatives who brought Mauser to this safe house stood behind him, arms crossed. In one corner of the room next to a door that presumably led to a bathroom was a fold-up cot; in the opposite corner stood a small desk. Mauser could see a telephone and what appeared to be an ashtray on its surface. A floor lamp lit with a low-watt bulb provided the only illumination. Heavy drapes covered the room’s single window.

Herr Mauser, I am Abu Daoud, the bearded man said in accented English. I trust this meeting has not been too inconvenient. But we have security concerns.

I understand completely. Mauser turned to look behind him and saw the apartment door guarded by the driver of the car that had picked him up.

Daoud took out a pack of cigarettes from his suit coat. Would you like a smoke? he asked the German.

No thank you.

After lighting a cigarette, the Arab turned his head slightly and pointed at the desk. The man behind him brought him the ashtray. How can I be of service? he asked Mauser.

I think we can help each other, as I explained to your man on the telephone.

Yes, so you said. But I don’t understand what this organization of yours, The Faithful, has to do with me. The force that unites your members seems to be a belief in the Rapture. This is a fundamentalist Christian prediction of the end of days, no?

Mauser nodded and smiled.

How does this belief coincide with my interests? It would seem to be contradictory, Daoud argued.

Yes, it would seem so. The survival of Israel is paramount for the true believers of the Rapture. Mauser’s smile continued.

But...

But after the battle of Armegeddon, according to the prophecy, all Jews who do not convert to Christianity will be destroyed.

What about other faiths—Muslims, for example?

Mauser detected a slight grin in Daoud’s face. I see you’ve done your homework. You know the answer to that. But it’s irrelevant. The people controlling The Faithful have no such beliefs. In fact, we would like to see the end come for the Jews much before any such prophecy can be fulfilled. He smiled again at the Arab.

Ah, so this group is just a cover for your real intentions—a front?

Mauser nodded.

Very clever. Ostensibly a friend of Israel, but actually working against it. I had the organization investigated but couldn’t get past your true-believer members. My compliments, he said as he put his cigarette out and handed the ashtray to his man.

We have our own security concerns, Mauser responded.

All right. We may have similar interests. What are you offering us?

The German sat back and crossed his legs. We have an idea for a way Black September can hit Israel with a devastating strike—one that will have inherent world-wide publicity.

You have my attention.

Are you aware that there are to be Olympic Games this year in Munich?

* * * *

After Mauser left with his guards, Daoud picked up the phone and dialed a number. He gave a coded phrase in Arabic to the man who answered on the other end, and then hung up, his eyes bright with excitement.

What an idea! With the German’s inside information, access should present no problem. And the beauty of it is, even if the mission fails, it will succeed! Mahmoud Abbas will be here tomorrow. I just have to convince him to get Arafat to line up those rich Palestinians he has in his back pocket. With the financing taken care of, we can get started.

* * * *

Geneva, Switzerland, 1979

On a sunny, late Sunday afternoon in May, Mark Hauptmann, Senior and his son drank Cokes on the patio behind their large house on Chemin Michée-Chauderon, relaxing after a soccer-drills workout.

The elder Hauptmann looked at his boy with love and pride. After giving up hope of ever having an heir, he had been blessed, at age fifty-one, with a son. Mark, he said, your footwork is getting better and better. It won’t be long before you’ll be the star of your football team.

The child smiled in appreciation. Like you were, Daddy?

His father laughed, and thought back to the days when he was growing up in Berlin. That was a long time ago, son. I was a decent player, but you’ll be much better.

Daddy, tell me again why you and Grandfather came to Switzerland from Germany.

Hauptmann nodded. He’d often told his son the story, but not recently. Perhaps he is old enough now to understand. It was Hitler’s fault, Mark.

He was a bad man, wasn’t he? the boy asked, tossing the soccer ball into the air and catching it.

No, Mark, he wasn’t. He made Germany great again. He had a vision and a plan to carry it out. And it was working. But he was also a stupid man in an important way.

About the Jews?

Yes. The Jews did him in, because he wasn’t happy just to run them out of Germany for their evil ways. He wanted them dead. And this is what diverted our resources from what we needed to do—win the war. It also gave those against us a reason to destroy him and our country.

So he was a bad man, Mark concluded, continuing to toss the ball.

His father plucked it out of the air and laughed. You’re right, son. You got me there. He could have been a hero, but instead, he ended up ruining Germany. Making it necessary for my father and me to leave and come here. You like Switzerland, don’t you?

Sure. But someday I want to see where you grew up.

You will, son, you will, his father replied and tossed the ball back. Why don’t you go in and see if your mother wants any help in the kitchen.

Can we practice some more after dinner?

If you don’t wear me out, his father said with a smile.

The boy kicked the ball into the grass, grabbed his Coke, and went into the house.

Hauptmann lit a cigarette and thought of the meeting of The Faithful scheduled for later that night. The members were getting restless. It had been seven years since their last big operation.

* * * *

Geneva, Switzerland, Médicaments Nouveaux headquarters, 1997

Herr Hauptmann, your grandson is here to see you.

Thank you, Marie. Send him in, please. Erich Hauptmann rose slowly from his chair and stepped around his desk as Mark Hauptmann, Junior entered the office and closed the door behind him.

Grandfather, you asked to see me?

Yes, Mark. Please sit down. He directed his grandson to one of two leather wingback chairs facing the desk, and he took the other. He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. Mark, I’ll get right to the point. I’m stepping down as head of the firm.

Shock was evident in the younger man’s face. But why, Grandfather? Are you ill?

Erich laughed. If you can call ninety-five years old being ill. No, Mark, my health, surprisingly, remains good. But I think it’s time to turn the reins over to much younger men—men like you. I think I’ve already held onto control of the company far too long as it is. You’ve done well here, and I think that one day this office could be yours.

Like you always wanted for Dad, Mark said and looked away.

Yes. The old man paused and looked briefly down at his lap before continuing. That’s probably why I put off retiring as long as I did. First, ‘Uncle’ Fritz died in that stupid accident, and then your father... His voice trailed off, the rest of the sentence left unsaid.

Mark didn’t reply. Although his father died ten years earlier from a massive heart attack, it still pained him.

"Anyway, I’m glad you decided to uphold family tradition and choose a career in our business. You will