Falkirk

SS-Sturmbannführer Jÿrgen Vogt stormed into the Becker Chemical Company, slamming wooden doors against metal frames as though they had personally offended the Reich.
An ambitious major climbing the ranks of the infamous Nazi secret service, Vogt had long since lost his regard for anyone, German citizen or otherwise, who could not further his career in service to the Führer. The petite, middle-aged woman who shrieked and nearly leapt to her feet upon his entry was little more than a blur in his vision as he strode past.
“Sir, please. May I help you, sir?” she asked, darting around her desk in a race to beat him to the door that led to the company leaders’ offices.
He halted, squared to tower over her, and offered a crisp salute: “Heil Hitler.”
She shrank back, but echoed his words.
“Good,” he said after a moment of uncomfortable scrutiny. “Where may I find Herr Becker?”
His words formed a question, but his tone demanded submission.
The woman backed toward her desk, feeling with her hands behind her. “Herr Becker? He is here, I believe. Let me phone him—”
“No. His call dragged me out here, to the middle of nowhere, away from vital business of the state.” His gaze was almost as cold as his sneer as he peered around the small reception area. “I will go to him. Where is his office?”
“Sir, please, let me—”
He closed the gap between them, causing the woman to bend awkwardly over her desk to avoid his touch.
“Where. Is. His. Office?”
“At the end of the hallway, through those doors.” She pointed a shaky finger toward a set of double doors beside her desk.
“Good. Danke.”
He glanced toward the door where his driver, Unteroffizier Uwe König, stood. “See that we are not disturbed.”
Neither the sergeant, nor the secretary, missed his implication.
Vogt eyed the woman one last time, nodded curtly, then disappeared through the double doors. He passed two closed doors on his right and one on his left before reaching another set of double doors at the end of the short hallway. Without breaking stride, he gripped both handles and flung the doors open.
A balding man in a light gray suit dropped his pen on a stack of papers and rose slowly, as though the action required every ounce of strength his legs possessed. Neither his expression nor his movement betrayed the sudden jolt in his heart rate or the flood of heat that traveled up his neck.
“Sturmbannführer, welcome. Please, come in,” the man said. “Would you like some tea?”
Vogt’s eyes never left the man’s as he strode across the office to stand at the edge of the desk, where he snapped to attention and offered another salute. “Heil Hitler.”
“Yes, yes. Heil Hitler,” the man said, raising a weathered palm. “Now, sit. You may not need refreshment, but I am old, and a visit from the SS makes one’s mouth dry, you know.”
Vogt scowled. “I have no time for pleasantries. Why am I here, Herr Becker?”
The old man’s mouth twitched. Everyone knew better than to disrespect a Nazi officer, but they also understood these men respected only strength, only force. One needed to tread carefully when handling an adder. “Because we have discovered something to help our Führer, why else?”
Vogt cocked his head and waited for Becker to continue.
“Now, would you like tea, Sturmbannführer?” Becker asked with a smirk that belied his trembling hand. He stepped to a side table and poured steaming liquid into two delicate cups, then dropped a cube of sugar in each. “Cream?”
“No, thank you,” Vogt said.
“Please sit, Sturmbannführer. Our conversation may take a moment, and I know you have been on that motorbike for some time this morning.”
Vogt’s legs and rear ached from the rough ride in the sideboard. Reluctantly, he nodded, sat in the well-padded chair opposite Becker’s desk, then accepted the cup and saucer from his host. The steam that curled into his nostrils smelled wonderfully bitter.
“I assume you know of our weevil problem?” Becker said as he settled back into his chair.
Vogt’s cup clanked against his saucer as he glared up.
“Terrible creatures. They burrow and nibble and, well, they reproduce faster than any vermin in the fatherland,” Becker continued without acknowledging Vogt’s irritation. “You see, my company, along with a few others, was tasked by the government to find a solution to this problem. It appears the little devils are causing issues across our farmland, even destroying many crops in Poland and other places that now feed our troops. Isn’t it interesting how something so small can gum up the gears of our great machine?”
“Quite,” Vogt muttered.
“What is also quite interesting, Sturmbannführer Vogt, is what scientists discover along the path to an objective; what they accidentally uncover.”
Vogt leaned forward and set his tea on the desk. “Go on.”
Becker’s lip curled slightly. “My chemists tested many solutions. Finding a way to kill the long-nosed beetles was never an issue. It was finding a substance that killed them without rendering the crops inedible that was the challenge. What good would our farmlands be if they were freed of pests, but the food that grew could not be used?”
“So, you found a solution?”
“Oh, no.” Becker shook his head and sat back. “The weevils continue to confound our people.”
The skin around Vogt’s eyes began to twitch. “Then what, Herr Becker, have you found that is worth my time?”
“This is worth all our time, Sturmbannführer.” Becker said. “If we cannot feed our people and our troops, the liberation of Europe will fail. Is that important enough to you, Sturmbannführer?”
Becker adjusted his spectacles and drew a deep breath before continuing. “My scientists have tried many combinations, aiming for a mixture to eradicate the beetles without damaging the crops. This is quite complicated. Most ingredients we employ remain on the leaf of a plant for a very long time, or seep into the soil where the roots become tainted or poisoned. Some only dissipate when washed away. A few, we have found, do terrible things to one’s lungs when water is added, so the washing away becomes … how shall I say it? Problematic.”
Vogt scowled. “Is there a point to all this or do you just enjoy talking about poisons? Have you found a solution?”
Becker tossed his spectacles onto his desk with a clatter, his lips pursed. “We have not solved the riddle for the weevil problem, but I believe we have found a solution to one of our Führer’s much larger issues.”
Vogt tensed at the invocation of Hitler.
“By combining phosphorus with cyanide, we have created a new substance that is quite effective at exterminating, shall I say, much larger pests, and quite quickly. It is, perhaps, the most efficacious substance I have ever seen for such tasks. Perhaps more impressive, however, is how quickly it then degrades. In only weeks, perhaps months, no trace remains.”
Becker paused, then lifted his spectacles and began cleaning them with a cloth. “Would this not help our Führer in freeing England of those pesky British?”
Vogt sat back.
Neither man spoke as Becker continued diligently scrubbing and avoiding the SS officer’s stare.
“Have you tested this new substance outside of a laboratory?” Vogt finally asked.
Becker spread the cloth onto his desk, smoothing its edges, then folded his glasses and set them in the exact center, adjusting them a few times to ensure they were precisely positioned.
The tapping of Vogt’s boot against the hardwood floor and the whirring of the ceiling fan were the only sounds in the office.
“Of course, Sturmbannführer Vogt. We are scientists. We test everything many times before bringing it to anyone’s attention. There is a farm not too many kilometers away where we perform most of our experiments. It is positively riddled with weevils. Or, it was. We will need a new location for future tests.”
“Who knows of this?”
Becker thought a moment. “The scientists, perhaps one or two of our staff … oh, there is one person still living on the farm. She knows of this experiment, but not the details of the substance.”
Vogt eyed the man, then nodded once and stood. “You will take me there.”
“Now?” Becker stared up, his eyes widened. “I have many—”
“Yes, now, and tell no one our destination. If this is as you say, the Führer will want to know of it immediately.”
“The Führer? He would personally—” Becker rose, suddenly unsteady, then grabbed his spectacles, his palm smearing new oil across the lenses. “Well, yes, alright. Of course, we will do all we can for the Führer. Of course.”
***
Vogt ordered König to drive Becker’s Mercedes-Benz. Becker protested, but Vogt ignored him and climbed into the back seat. A little over an hour later, the car coated in dust from the rough rural road, they stopped before a mid-sized home with white-painted wooden sides and a brown shingled rooftop. A wide porch encircled the house, and intricately decorative carvings adorned the deck’s railing and eaves. Several chimneys rose above, but only one billowed a thin gray plume that smeared across the crystal sky.
Vogt exited the car and strode around the house, with Becker shuffling to keep up.
A wide field spread beyond the horizon. The nearest section, which stretched many hectares, consisted of perfectly ordered rows. Barrels where potatoes had been harvested stood every fifty yards or so. Beyond the rows of dirt, tall stalks of golden wheat shimmered with the ever-present breeze.
Several areas within the potato field had been sectioned off with orange tape. Scattered between the cordoned sections were bodies. Dozens of them.
Vogt halted; Becker almost collided with his shoulder. The men could not see the faces of the dead from where they stood, but the body language was plain: some with frozen hands held to their throats, others with arms outstretched, reaching for help that never came.
From the bodies’ haphazard positioning, it was clear the poison had stilled them before they could flee more than a few steps.
Vogt stared a moment. “You had best explain this, Herr Becker. Start from the beginning.”
Becker’s eyes remained fixed on the distant field of wheat as he spoke. “As I told you before, we were testing combinations of chemicals to alleviate the weevil infestation. We found substances that killed the vermin above ground, but could not penetrate their tunnels, so most escaped. We tried tainting foods they enjoy, but they smelled the chemicals and avoided the poisoned bait. We needed something stronger, something that could kill them before they could escape below ground, perhaps something that could travel down into their holes.”
Becker turned to meet Vogt’s gaze.
“The poison we discovered works when breathed into the lungs. We … we did not know this until … we spread the poison in a wide pattern across the potato field marked by the orange tape.” He pointed to several of the marked sections. “Workers continued harvesting in between, but …”
“But what, Herr Becker?”
“It did not take long, perhaps thirty minutes, maybe an hour for the last. The breeze, you see … it carries … Sturmbannführer, it was terrible. There were so many bodies.” Becker pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply several times. “I have seen death. We try to exterminate animals, for God’s sake, but this … there must have been fifty or more workers. And the family, the farmer and his wife … two of their children …”
Vogt waited as Becker steadied himself, the wheat once again capturing the man’s attention.
“One daughter survived. She was in the house when all this happened. Her name is Marta. She is seventeen, and is now alone on this farm.”
The whistle of wind tickling stalks sounded in the distance.
“When was this? I do not understand why we were not notified. Why are the bodies still strewn about?” Vogt asked, his tone clipped.
“Only yesterday. I sent word as soon as I returned to my office. The bodies …” Becker’s voice caught as he gestured across the field. “We are still unsure how long it takes for the gas to dissipate. I could not risk—”
“Was this your first test with this new compound?”
“Yes.”
“So, you have not perfected a delivery mechanism?”
“We would need tests with the compound before advancing to delivery. There is much we still do not understand; long-term effects on crops, for example. We believe this will dissipate within weeks, but as you said, this is our first experiment outside of the lab.”
Vogt stared across at the bodies, his face an emotionless mask of calculation. He spoke, more to himself than to Becker, “I will send for SS men with protective gear to clear this field today. Word of this cannot spread.”
Becker’s quiet voice asked, “Sturmbannführer, do you not wish to speak with the daughter? Surely, the Führer would wish to compensate her … and the workers’ families … at least recognize—”
“What did the workers know of this test?” Vogt’s voice sliced through Becker’s compassion.
“Why … nothing, Sturmbannführer, beyond a poison for vermin. We have tested many compounds on this farm over the past year. They did not appear to give this much notice until—”
“The daughter?”
Becker cocked his head. “I believe she knows nothing, but her father—”
“Take me to her.”
All resistance in Becker’s voice withered under the iron fist of Vogt’s gaze. “Yes, Sturmbannführer.”
As they approached the front door of the house, a blonde girl with lightly freckled cheeks stepped onto the porch. Her light blue dress hung loosely on her waifish frame. Strands of disheveled hair blew across her red-ringed eyes.
“You are Marta?” Vogt asked.
The girl nodded.
Vogt reached to his holster, removed his pistol, and shot Marta in the forehead.
“Sturmbannführer! Why did you—?” Becker raced to kneel by the dead girl’s side. “She is a child!”
“The state comes before any of us, Herr Becker. She died a hero of the Reich.” Vogt re-holstered his weapon and strode back in the direction of the car. He barked over his shoulder, “Come, now, Herr Becker. We must return to your office immediately.”
“Yes, Sturmbannführer,” Becker said, struggling to his feet.
***
The silence in the car was broken only by the growling of the Mercedes engine and occasional thud of stones kicked up by their passage. Becker stared out the window. Vogt made notes in a small pad he kept in his breast pocket.
“When we arrive at your office, you will gather your scientists and anyone else who knows of this substance, along with all of the notes and research. This program is now under the guidance of the SS.”
“Yes, Sturmbannführer,” Becker muttered at the window.
“Everything will be moved to a classified facility.” He tapped his pen against his pad a few times. “I will require one of your offices where I may not be overheard for the rest of the day. Is that a problem?”
“No, Sturmbannführer.”
Vogt scribbled again, then paused. “What is this called?”
“I’m sorry. What?” Becker asked, finally turning to look at him.
“What is this substance called? Have you given it a name?”
“At first, the scientists called it tabun. That was before we added the last of the ingredients, making it even more potent. Yesterday, as we started the first experiment, they decided to name the new compound after themselves: Herrs Gerhard Schrader, Otto Ambros, Gerhard Ritter, and Hans-Jürgen von der Linde.”
Vogt scrunched his brows.
“We call it sarin.”