NordPharma
“The Director will see you now….”
The receptionist was impeccably groomed and statuesque. Swede kicked Heinlein in his leg as he stared a bit too long in her direction. Her stage-volume whisper cut deep.
“Watch your eyes, Asshole…”
Alright, Heinlein thought. “I’ll give her that one”. Boopsie at the reception desk was eye-candy on steroids. That Suicide Blonde, Captain-of-the-Volleyball-Squad wet dream that guys drooled over in R rated Netflix movies.
Heinlein and Ilse got up and headed down a richly appointed top-floor hallway that was access to the Holy of Holies – the “Corner Office” of one of the largest and powerful international pharmaceutical corporations in the world: NordPharma. These were the company’s North American offices at 1000 Princeton Pike in Princeton, New Jersey. Heinlein and Ilse Sommerlund were here to see someone real special. Someone who had just this morning landed at Princeton Airport in a corporate Gulfstream jet.
Ilse took Heinlein’s hand; she knew the turf – so she led the way.
She opened a heavy door and stared straight ahead at a trim, athletic gentleman in a Saville Row suit – smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. He’d obviously just gotten up from behind a mahogany desk that could’ve doubled as an aircraft carrier flight deck. He walked towards Ilse with his arms open.
“Hello, Sweetheart” he said.
“Hi Daddy…” Ilse hugged her father with her eyes closed, like she was in Heaven. On his enormous desk was a tasteful brass name plate:
Andrei I. Sonnerlund, MD. CEO and Chairman of the Board, NordPharma.
His girlfriend’s father was a frequent topic of conversation between Heinlein and Swede. Ofttimes in bed. They discussed how he wanted his medical doctor daughter at his side in the corporate world. How he disapproved of her treating trauma patients in Flemington, New Jersey. How he disapproved of her dating a “Traffic Cop”. How he disapproved of Heinlein calling her Swede – when she wasn’t Swedish by any stretch of ancestral legerdemain. In fact, there seemed to be precious little Doctor Andrei Ivanovich Sommerlund, Nobel Award-winning Virologist, approved about his daughter – but looking at his face, Heinlein could see that the man would jump in front of a bus to protect her. It was that obvious.
“What’s the emergency, Darling?” her father asked with wry grin and jocular faux concern. “Are you pregnant?”
“Dear God, No, Papa!” She exclaimed with a laugh.
“Detective Heinlein and I need to speak to you privately. We’ve got a serious problem, Papa.”
Ilse nodded towards a door that was at the rear of the large office. The SCIF – a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. It had no doorknob – only a small numerical code pad where the knob should’ve been. Her father nodded back. Heinlein and Swede followed the Chief Executive to the door, where he quickly entered a series of codes. The door opened to a well-it but sparsely furnished conference room devoid of windows. They stepped inside and her father entered more numbers on an internal code pad. A small screen at the right of the device flashed red three times – then glowed a steady deep green.
“Have a seat, Detective” Andrei Sonnerland said. Heinlein could see that Daddy was already starting to surmise that something significant was going on.
“OK. Why don’t one of you tell this old man what is so sensitive that we need a SCIF with Faraday Shielding to discuss it in… why you need an eavesdropping-impervious environment?”
Heinlein spoke first.
“Is this place secure from National Security Agency tentacles? FBI? CIA? OTRAG?”
Upon hearing the word OTRAG, the executive was visibly startled. He sat down and fixed Heinlein with a concerned stare. He crossed his right hand over his left on the table – but not before Heinlein caught a glimpse of a mark – no, it was a tattoo – on the top of his left hand. It looked like an “F” with its eastward facing arms drooping downwards, like a capital F that had melted.
Swede had a mark, too, on her left hand – a little “B” with tiny triangles protruding off its right side instead of rounded off half-circles. Was this some weird family tradition? When he’d asked her about it in bed once she just smiled and said, “Don’t even think about it” like the topic was verboten.
“Why do you mention OTRAG, Detective Heinlein?”
Heinlein let it all out. The murders and mutilations. The missing children. The Dinner at the Pluckemin Inn. Dr. Professor August Beirling of OTRAG. “Jack” Tenerife of the National Security Agency – all of it.
Heinlein also made clear his concern that the carcass of the Yakwahe – or Lizard thing – was lusted after so it could be weaponized. He asked the one question that had been plaguing him for weeks:
“Could cells from something so unfathomable – a Cryptoid spoken about only in legends – be genetically engineered to produce toxins and diseases that could wipe out mankind?”
Doctor Andrei Sonnerland listened with rapt attention. His face betrayed no signs of alarm. After a lengthy pause, he finally spoke.
“Detective Heinlein….I am a Virologist by training. I have won awards, enjoyed the respect of my peers and have been consulted by many in high authority about confidential scientific matters that would cause World Leaders and Military Generals to soil themselves.
OTRAG is the brainchild of Nazis. It is run by a Breakaway Society – a neo-Nazi Broderbund or Tribe that exists to parasite itself off the suffering and political upheaval in our world. They have assets, connections and influence. This Tribe considers itself to be the rightful heirs of the Third Reich. They’re strongest in South America – under the guiding hand and protection of the United States Central Intelligence Agency. The United States Government is in league with them – has been since the end of the Second World War. Operation Paperclip was just the beginning. They are a dangerous, USA-Sanctioned worldwide Mafia. And now, you are squarely in their sights as a person of interest. Because you are in their sights, my daughter may be caught in a crossfire. This doesn’t please me.
But I will address your situation.
When I was a boy in Finland, I heard legends of lizard people who came out of caves during the summer season to sun themselves on the rocks by the fjords. They had claws and slithered on their bellies to move, sometimes even rearing up on their hind legs. These things always disappeared into caves and crevasses – but when they were observed outside animals disappeared. People, too. It is said they preferred the taste of human flesh. The Viking Eddas contain stories about brave warriors engaging these things in battle and slaying them to protect their villages.
Assuming for the purposes of our discussion here today that these things actually exist – then obvious concerns are triggered. These Yakwahe would be the product of subterranean environments, including – probably – radiation exposure from a variety of deep Earth sources and isotopes. That sort of constant radiation bombardment would cause genetic and behavioral aberrations that we could hardly imagine. The animal would most likely be a killer…an eater of meat…. a hunter…. have night-vision abilities and strength that could easily overwhelm human beings and infect human metabolisms. In every classical sense, this thing would be a Demon.
Physiologically, its cellular structure is probably unrelated to humans – the product of a unique evolutionary process that we see in ancient reptiles. Its blood is likely toxic to humans – full of poisons and strange mitochondrial and recombinant DNA configurations. The diseases it could ostensibly germinate would be untreatable without substantial research and serum experimentation. Its genome would be a treasure-trove of unrecognizable protein sequences… a veritable candy-land for the military industrial complex. Speaking as a Virologist – a dead Yakwahe would be the Holy Grail of modern science.
Allow me to make a few calls and see if I can quietly figure something out. You’re going to need help. I’m not without resources.”
Heinlein was grateful for his offer of help. It’s just what he was hoping for. “Thank you, Doctor Sommerlund. Here’s my card and private cell. Please call me as soon as you come up with something.”
The gentleman got up from his chair and extended his hand to Heinlein, signaling that their meeting was over.
“Detective…may I have a private word with my daughter?”
Heinlein looked at Swede. She winked at him.
“I’ll be right out…after some Daddy-Daughter time”.
After Heinlein left the SCIF, the reserved and very proper CEO and Chairman of NordPharma glared at his daughter and dropped his staid composure. Andrei Ivanovich Sommerlund – the father – rarely raised his voice. Today was an exception.
“Ilse….you have reached the end of this Trauma Doctor career diversion of yours. I have been more than patient. I am re-assigning you. I can’t protect you under these circumstances. Turn in your resignation today at that Flemington Clinic and report for work here in Princeton by the end of the month. In the meantime, I’ll be assigning you a security detail.”
Ilse lowered her head. “Please… Papa, Please…”
“Look at that Rune on your left hand, Ilse! We are NordTurFelag! We are BratvaRus! Since you were a child, you have been taught this! For centuries, our Bratva has forged us into who we are. Our personal preferences are irrelevant. We are not Free Agents…we are part something greater.
Are you out of your mind? Don’t you see the high stakes this game is being played for? OTRAG? The NSA? This carcass – this Yakwahe – could be the single greatest discovery in the history of Virology and Cellular DNA Research! Its value is incalculable! You’re a Medical Doctor for Christ Sakes! The state-of-the-art laboratories of NordPharma are where you belong! Especially now. You know this! I’m reaching out to the BratvaRus Council in St. Petersburg for their consensus. This could be the greatest scientific opportunity of the century. We must not let it slip through our grasp. Planning is needed. Expertise is called for. Not some bumbling local Traffic Cop and his love-smitten bed companion!
Does Heinlein know about the BratvaRus?”
Ilsa felt ridiculous – like a little girl being upbraided by her father. But he was right. Heinlein was biting off more than he could chew…swimming in deep, dark waters. And if somebody was dogging him – they were going to keep tabs on her, too. She could be used as leverage. It was perfect. She was bait.
“No, Papa. Heinlein doesn’t know about the BratvaRus – or any of our secrets.” she said, resigned to where this was all going. She could feel tears creeping down her cheeks.
“Please, Papa” she pleaded with her father. “Get Heinlein protection – contact the BratvaVarang… Get him Varangians! The same fighters who protect us. I don’t care about some Lizard circus freak that everybody wants to cut open…or myself. Just please just keep William safe….”
It wasn’t until she and Heinlein were in his car driving back to Flemington Trauma Center that she realized it was the first time she’d ever referred to her boyfriend as William. Ilse didn’t respond to Heinlein’s joking around on the way home. One question only occupied her mind: Would the Council in St. Petersburg continue her residence in America? Would BratvaRus let her stay on?
It was possible that she’d soon disappear from Heinlein’s life altogether. But it was a slam dunk that she’d be wearing her Makarov pistol in the small of her back under a jacket from now on. Going forward, Ilse’s new fashion statement was going to be pants suits only no matter where she reported for work.
Copyright, 2025 Jon Croft and his Assignees
www.bogironpatriot.com
vlchek1@gmail.com
