Brain Storm

10

He called himself Heinrich Kolb.

He wasn't certain why. His real name wasn't a secret. At least, not here. But Kolb was the name he had chosen for himself more than fifty years ago, and he had been forced to hold on to it longer than he had wished. He was Kolb through the dark days in Europe and into North Africa. Still Kolb when he finally reached South America. He had spent the better part of his waning years as Heinrich Kolb.

And so when he at last settled here after more than thirty years of running from place to place, he came to a startling realization. He had been called Heinrich Kolb longer than he had been called his real name.

He kept the newer name.

It was silly, really. There wasn't much point to subterfuge here, of all places. But by the time he was repatriated, he was an old man and it was hard for an old man to change.

He was a doctor of sorts, though he had not practiced seriously in nearly a decade. He was venerated by the others in the IV village. He liked the organization's name, too—a name that stood for an aspi-ration and a way of life, and nicely expressed in writing by the classic looking Roman numeral, and in ordinary speech as an ordinary number four.

This suited him. He felt it was his due. Especially since there were so few of the old ones left around these days. If the hunters didn't find them—unguarded, away from IV—old age inevitably took its toll. Heinrich Kolb had tried for a long time to remedy mankind's ultimate malady—death—but after many years of trying, he had to at last admit defeat. Everything died. But that didn't mean a phoenix could not rise from the ashes.

It was an odd thought. Strangely eloquent. But it was the thought to which Heinrich Kolb awoke this morning.

He saw the bird. The phoenix. It perched atop a red disk, its wings spread majestically against the forces of man and nature. At the center of the red disk, a twisted black shape. Familiar to all.

Kolb knew that the image was recognized around the world. To most it was terrifying and hated. To Kolb it represented a freedom of expression he hadn't enjoyed in years.

He found his slippers at the foot of his bed. Putting on his heavy woolen dressing gown, he made his way to the bathroom.

There was still a web of early-morning frost clinging to the edges of the heavy window panes, but the warming yellow rays of the sun would soon send it scuttling for the shadows.

He ran a hot, hot bath and prepared himself for another day.

An hour later, he was out in the village.

It was an amazing place.

It was as if some Titan had carved a piece from the rugged terrain of Bavaria and resettled it here into the cleft between three Argentinian mountain peaks.

The homes were adorable little chalets. Gaily painted shutters and flowering window boxes com-plemented the cobblestone drives. There were little shops from which the delectable smells of pastries and bread tempted passersby.

The roads were narrow and well traveled. The curbs were painted all around in a deep red. It was all very clean, very orderly.

There were many people out in the village. Some drove their tiny foreign cars, but these were either the young or those higher up in the movement. Most, like Kolb, preferred to walk.

The rarefied mountain air sometimes caused his breathing some difficulty, but today was such a beautiful day he refused to allow his aging lungs to hinder him. As he walked, he pulled a curved plastic device from his jacket pocket. At one end was a tube. Kolb placed this between his pale lips and inhaled deeply.

He felt the prescribed medicine fill his tired lungs.

He breathed a few times, deeply and, thus invigorated, forged ahead, basking in the warmth of the bright morning sun.

He was at the door to a quaint little cafe where he often enjoyed breakfast when he was intercepted by an urgent young man who came running at him from the direction of the governing buildings.

The man had milky blue eyes and a crop of short blond hair. For a moment, Kolb thought that he was one of his own, but he realized that the age wasn't right. This boy couldn't be more than twenty.

"Herr Kolb, you are wanted at the main house."

Kolb made an unhappy face. "You have the wrong man." He attempted to slip through the doorway.

The boy was persistent. He shook his head. "It is you," he said. "Herr Kluge has requested your presence immediately. He insists it is quite urgent."

Kluge. The boy wasn't mistaken.

With all hope of a peaceful breakfast dashed, Kolb sighed. Nodding wearily, he followed the young boy to the main house.

It was less a house than a fortress. It was an ancient temple that had been fortified in recent years to withstand a major ground assault. The walls were high stone, dark even in the bright sunlight.

Two armed soldiers snapped to attention as Kolb was ushered through the main entrance by his young escort. The man led him into a spacious office off the main corridor. A man he recognized as Adolf Kluge rose as Kolb entered. Kluge walked around the desk to shake the old man's hand as the young escort exited the office, tugging the heavy door closed quietly behind him.

"So, Doctor, are you up to a new mission?"

Kluge asked, grinning.

"A mission?" Kolb made an unhappy face. "You were at my birthday celebration last month, Adolf.

The number of candles nearly set the entire house ablaze."

Kluge chuckled. "You are in better shape than I am," he said in a self-deprecating tone.

"Then you are late to see your own physician.

Very, very late," Kolb replied.

Kluge laughed once more, heartily. He crossed around behind his desk. "You are probably right about that," he said. "My doctor has to drag me into his office against my best protestations."

He reclaimed his seat.

"In that we are similar," Kolb admitted. He still stood by the door, suspicious of the motives of the man behind the desk.

"Come, come. Sit down." Kluge gestured to a large, comfortable chair beside the desk. "It will be your last rest for a while, I fear."

Kolb followed Kluge's extended hand, dropping silently into the overstuffed chair. "You are mistaken if you think I will leave the village," Kolb said, shaking his head. "I retired from my practice years ago. If you didn't know from the evidence around you, I failed in my experiments."

Kluge nodded, seriously. "There were limita-tions," he agreed. "Eugenics is not an exact science."

"Nor this laboratory genetics your predecessor forced me to dabble in," Kolb complained.

"Ancient history." Kluge waved dismissively.

"You may live to see the fruit of your dreams after all, Doctor."

In spite of himself, Kolb was becoming interested.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Kluge leaned back in his seat. "Four has various stock holdings around the world. PlattDeutsche, as you know, is a company in which we are heavily involved."

"Yes," Kolb said impatiently. He was aware of all of this. Though only a doctor, he was allowed to attend the many meetings held during the formative years of the organization. He was one of the last founding members left alive.

"PlattDeutsche America is a very successful off-shoot of the original company. At least, until the Americans decided to disband their military." Kluge leaned forward. "Our highest placement at the company is a man by the name of Lothar Holz. Do you know of him?"

Kolb shook his head.

"I am not surprised," Kluge said. "He was educated in foreign universities. Of course, his primaiy education was here. The boy had a rather—" Kluge searched for the correct word "—circuitous path to us. But he is with us now and he has contacted us today with some remarkable news."

"What is it?"

Kluge placed his palms flat on his desk. "Prepare yourself, Doctor," he said, his voice serious.

When Kluge finished speaking ten minutes later, Heinrich Kolb was already mentally packing for his journey.

It was getter warmer in northeastern America now, but the nights would be cold. At his age, he was always cold. He would pack warmly and buy cooler clothes as necessity dictated.

Kluge rose to shake his hand, and Kolb left the large office, hurrying back down into the main village with its tiny little gingerbread houses and gleaming, spotless windowpanes. His missed breakfast was long forgotten.

An hour later, he was packed. The same young man who had led him to the main house was outside his cottage with a small Fiat, its engine running. He loaded the doctor's luggage into the trunk and helped the old man into the front seat.

A plane ticket to New York's JFK Airport was tucked into the sun visor above the passenger's seat.

The young man got in his own side and, revving the engine, made his way quickly and carefully through the clean cobblestone streets past the whitewashed buildings. They headed out to the mountain road.

And so it was that at eighty-nine years of age, Heinrich Kolb, best known as Dr. Erich von Breslau, history's notorious "Butcher of Treblinka," set forth from the tiny Argentine village to fulfill a dream he had thought was long dead.