fathom it, to be quite honest. But I know who you really are.”
She was terrified, more frightened than she’d ever been before. Her
heart was hammering; blood rushed in her ears. She knew she had no
backup.
Lenz stopped short, a few feet from the exit, and closed the door. When
he turned around, his face had gone dark with rage.
CHAPTER FORTY.
Ben joined the modest crowd of journalists and cameramen assembled
outside the Wiener Stadthalle Civic Center, the large, beige stone
structure where the International Children’s Health Forum was to be
hosted. He made eye contact with a cold and miserable-looking
man–paunchy, middle-aged, dressed in a fraying tan trench coat. Ben
extended a hand. “I’m Ron Adams,” he said. “With American Philanthropy
magazine. Been standing out here long?”
“Too damn long,” the rumpled man said. He spoke with a cockney accent.
“Jim Bowen, Financial Times. European correspondent and pathetic
wretch.” He shot Ben a comic, mock-baleful glance. “My editor
sweet-talked me into going with promises of schnitzel and strudel and
Sachertorte, and I thought to myself, “Well, that’s a bit of all right
then.” Higgins will never hear the end of it: there’s a solemn vow. Two
days of standing around in this lovely frigid rain, my little piggies
turning into popsicles, down to practically my last fag, and all we get
are the same damn press releases they’re faxing all the bureaus.”
“But you must be seeing some pretty grand poobahs sauntering in and out.
I’ve looked at the guest list.”
“Well, that’s the thing–wherever they are, they’re not here. Maybe
they’re just as bored with the program as everybody else. Probably all
decided to nip out and take a quick skiing vacation. Strictly B-list,
the only people I’ve caught sight of. Our photographer’s taken to
drink, he has. I think he’s got the right idea, too. I’ve got half a
mind to pop down the corner for a pint, except they serve the ale too
damn cold in this country. Ever notice that? Plus which, the stuff
they make tastes like piss.”
The big names weren’t here? Did that mean that the Sigma conclave was
taking place elsewhere? Ben’s stomach plummeted: Had he been misled?
Perhaps Strasser had been mistaken. Or perhaps he and Anna had made a
false assumption somewhere along the line.
“Any rumors about where the muckety-mucks are hanging out?” Ben kept
his tone light.
The cockney scribe snorted. “Bloody hell. Know what it is? It’s like
one of those sodding nightclubs where all the really hip people get
shown to a special room, and the squares get stuck in a pen with hay on
the floor.” He rummaged through a badly squashed and nearly empty pack
of Silk Cuts. “Bloody hell.”
Ben’s mind raced. Jurgen Lenz was clearly calling the shots here. Just
as clearly, the real action wasn’t taking place at the conference at
all. The answer was no doubt to be found in the Lenz Foundation’s
activities. And here, an indirect approach would probably yield the
quickest results. Back at the hotel, he worked the phones, keeping one
eye on his watch. He wanted to collect as much information as possible
before he and Anna compared notes at the end of the day.
“Cancer Foundation of Austria.”
“I’d like to speak with the administrator in charge of fundraising,
please,” Ben said. There was a click, several seconds of hold music–
“Tales from the Vienna Woods,” naturally–and then another woman’s
voice: “Schimmel.”
“Frau Schimmel, my name’s Ron Adams, and I’m an American journalist in
Vienna, working on a profile of Jurgen Lenz for American Philanthropy
magazine.”
The administrator’s voice changed instantly from wary to exuberant:
“Yes, certainly! How may I help you?”
“I guess I’m really interested–especially in light of the International
Children’s Health Forum–in documenting his generosity, the extent of
his support for your foundation, his involvement, that sort of thing.”
The vague question elicited an even vaguer reply. She went on at
length, then he hung up, frustrated. He had called the Lenz Foundation
and asked a low-level staffer for a list of all charities they funded.
No questions were asked: as a tax-exempt institution, the Lenz
Foundation was obligated to divulge all of its gifts.
But what he was looking for specifically, he had no idea. He was
probing mindlessly. There had to be a way to penetrate the facade of
Jurgen Lenz, philanthropist. Yet there seemed to be no logic to the
type of grants
Lenz made, no commonality, no organizing principle.
Cancer–Kosovo-Progeria–The German-Jewish Dialogue? Those were the
main ones. But if there was a connection, he had yet to find it, even
after calling three different charities.
One more try, he told himself, and then move on. He got up from the
desk in the hotel room, got a Pepsi from the little refrigerator,
returned to the desk, and dialed another number from the list.
“Hello, Progeria Institute.”
“May I speak to the administrator in charge of fund-raising, please?”
A few seconds went by.
“Meitner.”
“Yes, Frau Meitner. My name is Ron Adams …”
Without much hope he went through his now-standard interview. The woman
was, like all the administrators he talked to, a great fan of Jurgen
Lenz and delighted to sing his praises.
“Mr. Lenz is really our chief benefactor,” she said. “Without him, I
think we could not exist. You know, this is a tragic and exceedingly
rare disorder.”
“I really don’t know anything about it,” he said politely. He realized
he was wasting time when there was none to spare.
“To put it simply, it’s premature aging. The full name is
HutchinsonGilford Progeria Syndrome. It causes a child to age seven or
eight times faster than he should. A ten-year-old child with progeria
will look like an eighty-year-old man, with arthritis and heart problems
and all the rest. Most of them die by the age of thirteen. Seldom do
they grow taller than the height of the average five-year-old.”
“My God,” Ben said, genuinely appalled.
“Because it’s so rare, it is what is called an ‘orphan disease,” which
means it gets very little funding for research, and the drug companies
have no financial incentive to find a cure. That’s why his help is so
terribly important.”
Biotech companies… Vortex.
“Why do you think Mr. Lenz takes such a personal interest?”
A hesitation. “I think perhaps you should ask Mr. Lenz.”
He sensed the sudden chill in her voice. “If there’s anything you’d
like to tell me off the record …”
A pause. “Do you know who Jurgen Lenz’s father was?” the woman said
carefully.
Did anyone? “Gerhard Lenz, the Nazi doctor,” Ben replied.
“Correct. Off the record, Mr. Adams, I’m told that Gerhard Lenz did
some ghastly experiments on children with progeria. No doubt Jurgen
Lenz simply wishes to undo what his father did. But please don’t print
that.”
“I won’t,” Ben promised. But if Jurgen Lenz was not Gerhard’s son, why
the interest in the same causes’ What sort of bizarre masquerade was
this?
“You know, Mr. Lenz even sends a few of these poor children to a
private sanatorium in the Austrian Alps that his foundation runs.”
“Sanatorium?”
“Yes, I think it’s known as the Clockworks.”
Ben bolted upright. The Clockworks: the place where Strasser had sent
the senior Lenz electron microscopes. If Jurgen was Gerhard’s son, he
would have inherited it. But was he really using it as a sanatorium?
He attempted a breezy tone. “Oh, where’s that?”
“The Alps. I don’t know exactly where. I’ve never been there. It’s
exclusive, private, very luxurious. A real escape from the bustle of
the city.”
“I’d love to talk to a child who’s been there.” And find out what’s
really going on.
“Mr. Adams,” she said somberly, “the children who are invited are
usually at the very end of their brief lives. Frankly, I don’t know of
any who might still be living. But I’m sure one of the parents wouldn’t
mind talking to you about Mr. Lenz’s generosity.”
The man’s apartment was a fourth-floor walk-up in a dismal apartment
building in Vienna’s twelfth district, a small and dark place that
smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cooking grease.
After the death of their beloved son at the age of eleven, the man
explained, he and his wife had divorced. Their marriage had not
survived the stress of their son’s illness and death. Prominently
displayed next to the sofa was a large color photograph of their boy,
Christoph. It was hard to tell his age; he could have been eight or
eighty. He was completely bald, with a receding chin, a large head with
a small face, bulging eyes, the wizened countenance of a very old man.
“My son died at the sanatorium,” the man said. He had a full gray
beard, bifocal glasses, a scraggly fringe around a bald pate. His eyes
were filled with tears. “But at least he was happy at the end of his
life. Dr. Lenz is a most generous man. I’m glad Christoph could die