Which suggested that she might have gone looking for the Clockworks. And
if he were wrong–if she wasn’t there–then at least maybe he’d be a
step closer to finding her.
He studied the Freytag & Berndt map of the SemmeringRaxSchneeberg region
he’d picked up in Vienna before he left, and tried to devise a plan.
Without knowing where the clinic or research facility was, though, he
had no idea how to get inside.
The Semmering station was a modest two-story structure in front of which
stood only a green bench and a Coke machine. As soon as he stepped off
the train he was hit by an icy wind; the climate difference between
Vienna and the Austrian Alps to the south was striking. Here it was
bracingly cold. After a few minutes of hiking up the steep, winding
road into the town, his ears and cheeks stung from the chill.
And as he walked he began to feel misgivings. What am I doing? he
asked himself. What if Anna’s not here, then what?
The village of Semmering was tiny. It was one street, Hochstrasse,
lined with Gasthauses and inns, set into the south face of a mountain,
above it a couple of sprawling luxury resort hotels and sanatoriums. To
the north was Hollental, Hell’s Valley, a deep gorge carved out by the
Schwarza River.
Above the bank on Hochstrasse was a small tourist office presided over
by a plain young woman.
Ben explained that he was interested in hiking around the Semmering
region and asked for a more detailed Wanderkarte. The woman, who
clearly had nothing else to do, provided one and spent a good deal of
time pointing out particularly scenic trails. “You can go, if you want,
along the historic Semmering Railway–there is a panoramic vista where
you can watch the train go through the Weinzettlwand Tunnel. There is
also a wonderful place to stop where they took the picture for the old
twenty-shilling banknote. And a magnificent view of the ruins of the
castle of Klamm.”
“Really,” Ben said, feigning interest, and then added casually, “I’m
told there is some sort of famous private clinic around here in an old
SMoss. The Clockworks, I think it’s called.”
“The Clockworks?” she said blankly. “Uhrwerken?”
“A private clinic–maybe more of a research facility, a scientific
institute, a sanatorium for sick children.”
There seemed to be a quick flash of recognition in the woman’s eyes-or
did he imagine it?–but she shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about, sir, I’m sorry.”
“I think someone said this clinic was owned by Dr. Jurgen Lenz… ?”
“I am sorry,” she repeated, too quickly. She had suddenly turned
sullen. “There is no such clinic.”
He continued down Hochstrasse until he came to what appeared to be a
combination Gasthaus and pub. In front was a tall black chalkboard
topped with a green placard for Wieninger Bier and an invitation on a
painted scroll beneath it: “Herzhch Willkommen” A Hearty Welcome. The
day’s specials were advertised in bold white chalk letters.
It was dark inside and smelled of beer. Although it was not yet noon,
three portly men were sitting at a small wooden table drinking from
glass steins of beer. Ben approached them.
Tin looking for an old Schloss around here that houses a research clinic
owned by a man named Jurgen Lenz. The old Clockworks.”
The men gazed up at him suspiciously. One of them muttered something to
the others, who murmured back. Ben heard “Lenz” and “Klinik.” “No,
nothing here.”
Again, Ben sensed unmistakable antagonism. He was certain that these
men were concealing something, and slipped several thousand-shilling
notes on the table, toying with them idly. No time for subtlety. “All
right, thank you,” he said, turning halfway to leave. Then, as if he’d
forgotten something, he turned back. “Listen, if any of you guys have
any friends who might know something about this clinic, tell them I’ll
pay for the information. I’m an American entrepreneur looking for some
investment opportunities.”
He left the pub and stood for a moment in front of the building. A
cluster of men in jeans and leather jackets strolled by, hands in
pockets, speaking Russian. No sense in asking them.
A few seconds later he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was one of the
men from the pub. “Em, how much will you pay for this information?”
“I’d say if the information is accurate, it’s worth a couple thousand
shillings to me.”
The man glanced around furtively. “The money first, please.”
Ben regarded him for a moment, then handed him two banknotes. The man
led him down the road a few meters and then pointed up toward the steep
mountain. Set into the side of the snow-covered peak and surrounded by
tightly packed, snow-frosted fir trees as dense as crabgrass, was an
ancient medieval castle with a baroque facade and a gilded clock tower.
Semmering.
The clinic where Hitler’s science adviser, Josef Strasser, had shipped
sophisticated scientific equipment decades ago.
Where Jurgen Lenz invited a few lucky children afflicted with a terrible
disease.
Where piecing together what he’d learned with what Lenz’s secretary had
said a delegation of world leaders and dignitaries had come to visit.
And where Anna might have gone. Was it possible?
Certainly it was possible; in any case, it was all he had.
The Clockworks had been there all along, hidden in plain sight, and he
had seen it walking up from the train station. It was by far the
biggest property visible anywhere around.
“Magnificent,” Ben said softly. “Do you know anyone who’s ever been
inside?”
“No. No one is allowed. There is much security there. It is very
private, you can never go in.”
“Well, they must hire local workers.”
“No. All workers are flown in by helicopter from Vienna, and they have
living quarters there. There is a helipad, you can see it if you look
closely.”
“What do they do there, do you know?”
“I only hear things.”
“Like what?”
“They do strange things there, people say. You see strange-looking
children arriving in buses …”
“Do you know who owns it?”
“Like you say, this Lenz. His father was a Nazi.”
“How long has he owned it?”
“A long time. I think maybe his father owned it after the war. During
the war the Schloss was used by the Nazis as a command center. It used
to be called the Schloss Zerwald this is the old name for Semmering from
the Middle Ages. It was built by one of the Esterhazy princes in the
seventeenth century. For a while at the end of last century it was, how
you say, abandoned, then it was used for about twenty years as a clock
factory. The old-timers around here still call it the Uhrwerken. How
do you say ?”
“Clockworks.” Ben took out another thousand-shilling note. “Now, just
a few more questions.”
A man was looming over her, a man in a white coat whose face kept going
in and out of focus. He had gray hair and was speaking softly, even
smiling. He seemed friendly, and she wished she could understand what
he was saying.
She wondered what was wrong with her that she couldn’t sit up: had she
been in an accident? Had a stroke? She was overtaken by a sudden
panic.
She heard “… to have to do that to you, hut we really had no choice.”
An accent, perhaps German or Swiss.
Where am I?
Then: “dissociative tranquilizer…”
Someone speaking English to her with some sort of Middle European
accent.
And “… as comfortable as possible while we wait for the ketamine to
leave your system.”
She began to recall things now. The place she was in was a bad place, a
place she had been very curious about once but now wished she wasn’t in.
She had vague memories of a struggle, of being grabbed by several strong
men, of being jabbed with something sharp. After that, nothing.
The gray-haired man, who she now felt was a very bad man, was gone, and
she closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she was alone. Her head had cleared. She
felt bruised all over, and she realized that she was tied down to a bed.
She lifted her head as much as she could, which was not very far because
there was a belt around her chest.
But it was enough to see the cuffs and belts in which she was locked and
fastened to a hospital gurney. They were polyurethane medical
restraints, the kind that also came in leather and were used in mental
hospitals for their most violent and dangerous patients. They were
called “humane restraints,” and she had used them herself back in her
training days.
Her wrists were cuffed and locked and attached by a long chain to a
waist belt that was also locked. The same for her ankles. Her arms
were chafed and painful, indicating that she had struggled mightily.