Vengeance 10 (3 page)

Even before he finished, however, he realised he was wasting his time. Englesby sat staring at him over the pencil with which he had been playing.

‘And you say the German government has given these two scientists all the money they need to develop rockets for use in war? Preposterous! I would certainly expect that you would realise when someone was exaggerating his own importance. Even Hitler and that crew would not waste time and money on such foolishness. Of what use would a giant rocket be? I dare say they do not even celebrate Guy Fawkes Day.’ Englesby permitted himself the trace of a smile.

Memling ploughed on doggedly. ‘To replace artillery and even bomber planes for long-range attacks. The importance of Bethwig’s design is beyond belief. His development will lead to massive rockets that could bombard cities from long distances. Paris and perhaps even London itself.’

‘London!’

‘Yes, sir. The importance of this discovery must not be underrated.’ He knew that he was repeating himself but could not help it; he had to make Englesby understand. ‘In a few years’ - Memling had leaned forward to speak earnestly - ‘using Bethwig’s discovery, it will even be possible to build a rocket powerful enough to travel to the moon. You see ...’

This was too much for the civil servant in Englesby, and he threw down the pencil. ‘Enough of this nonsense. Next you’ll be asking me to believe in fairy castles and death rays. I don’t know whether or not you made up this ridiculous tale to cover your mistakes, but I intend to find out. You have, in any event, disgraced the service and yourself by botching your first assignment, which, I may say here and now, I had great misgivings in allowing you to attempt. I do not believe you are suited for this type of work, and you have proven me correct. The minister is displeased, and I dare say the Prime Minister will be livid.

‘Appropriate disciplinary action will have to be taken, but until then you are on ten days’ leave of absence. Before you go, write out a complete report of your activities from the moment you left Dover. Do you understand?’

When Memling nodded, he pushed a button under his desk and the door opened silently. ‘Please show Memling here to the writing-room, Peters,’ Englesby snapped, not bothering to look up.

It was a long drive from Arnsberg to Berlin, and it was quite late when Bethwig wheeled his Lancia into the deserted car park. The thin drizzle that had accompanied them since midmorning had increased as they neared the city until it was a steady downpour slashing at the buildings of the Heersversuchsstelle Kummersdorf (the Army Research Centre at Kummersdorf) in the southern suburbs of Berlin. Wind rushed through the pines surrounding the Centre and sprayed sheets of water from the immense puddles that had gathered on the metalled surface. They snatched their bags from the boot and ran for the administration building where, in spite of the late hour, a lamp was burning in the office of the superior, Colonel Walter Dornberger. The door was open, and Dornberger entertaining a guest, but he waved them in.

‘Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you might not arrive tonight in this rain. Come in, come in!’

Dornberger’s expression seemed to harden a bit as he turned to his guest. ‘Allow me to introduce Herr Doktors Wernher von Braun and Franz Bethwig. Their work has been invaluable to the programme. Gentlemen, may I present Captain Jacob Walsch.’ Walsch unfolded his gaunt body just far enough to extend a hand, which Bethwig clasped with reluctance.

‘Pleased, gentlemen.’ His voice was quite resonant, in contrast to his appearance. The ceiling lamps served to deepen the hollows beneath his cheeks and eyes.

‘Well, and what have you to tell me?’ Dornberger’s voice was eager. He motioned them to chairs and produced glasses and a bottle of cognac from his desk. He held the bottle up to the light with satisfaction. ‘A gift from Colonel General Brautisch.’ He accented the name and title just the slightest bit and glanced covertly at Walsch, Bethwig noticed, before he poured.

‘Your wire arrived this morning and, of course, I have been waiting impatiently for details.’

Von Braun started to speak, then hesitated and glanced at Walsch. Dornberger nodded.

‘You may speak freely before Captain Walsch.’

Von Braun then began the recital of the events of the past two weeks, and Bethwig sank down in the comfortable chair to nurse his cognac. He eyed Walsch, wondering just who he was.
Hauptmann
, Dornberger had called him. The title captain implied a military connection, but the man was not wearing a uniform and did not look like military material. As von Braun talked on, Bethwig gradually became aware that although Walsch was listening politely, there was no comprehension in the man’s expression. So then he was not an engineering or an artillery officer. One could also eliminate the Luftwaffe, as air force officers would certainly be familiar with enough technical terms at least to follow what von Braun was saying.

Wernher talked for nearly fifteen minutes, interrupted occasionally by his superior’s exclamations of delight. And each time this happened, the captain transferred his measuring stare to Dornberger for a moment, before returning to von Braun.

Von Braun suddenly leaned over and clapped his friend’s arm, startling him. Bethwig had been so engrossed in watching the strange captain that he had lost track of what was being said.

‘So I would say that Franz here was completely correct, as usual.’

Dornberger jumped up to shake his hand. ‘By God, Franz, I don’t know what I would do without the two of you!’ He slapped a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘This may well solve the last major technical problem. Now we can proceed with the A-Three design.’

‘A-Three?’ Walsch murmured. ‘I do not … ‘

‘Our first large rocket,’ von Braun explained, his voice eager. ‘You see, we have not been able to build a rocket motor that was powerful enough or would last long enough to raise a really big rocket vehicle. But with Franz’s development we could build one large enough to travel to the moon if we wanted to!’

‘Ah.’ Walsch nodded and turned back to Dornberger as if von Braun’s statement was of no consequence.

‘You see, Captain,’ Dornberger said, glancing uneasily at Bethwig, ‘I told you these two are the most valuable on my staff. I had word yesterday that General Werner Fritsch, the army commander, will attend a rocket firing demonstration when we are ready. That means that we will probably be allowed to proceed to full-scale development shortly.’

Bethwig exchanged a puzzled glance with von Braun. It was not like Domberger to gush so, and to a total stranger.

‘Perhaps the general will reconsider when he discovers that two of his most valuable scientists cannot be trusted to control their tongues.’

Bethwig looked around so sharply that cognac spilled from his glass. ‘Captain,’ he said slowly, frowning as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Captain of what, may I enquire?’

Walsch favoured him with the ghost of a smile. ‘Certainly. I am with the Secret State Police Office, Division Three.’

‘Gestapo,’ von Braun exploded. ‘What have we to do with such people?’ he appealed to Domberger.

The scientist had jumped to his feet and now advanced on Walsch who snapped, ‘Sit down, young man. You are in serious trouble.’

Von Braun stopped short, face flushed, breathing heavily. He towered over the Gestapo agent who stared grimly back. Trouble? How could I be in trouble with ... you?’

‘Division Three is, if I recall correctly, counterespionage, is it not?’

Walsch nodded in reply to Bethwig’s question.

‘And how should that concern Wernher and me? Surely you do not suspect us of being foreign spies?’

The Gestapo officer gave him a sour look and took a small notebook from his jacket. He thumbed through it deliberately until he found the proper page, then shifted to a more comfortable position and began to read aloud.

‘Your full name is Franz Hans Bethwig. You were born in Hamburg, 8 January 1909. Your father is a well-known banker and has been a party member since 1923. You yourself were enrolled in that same year. You were graduated from the Berlin Technical Institute in 1934 and have been employed since then by the Army Research Centre. So you are surely aware of the danger to the fatherland, surrounded as we are by enemies. Yet you deliberately chose to betray Germany.’ Walsch uttered the last sentence without inflection. Domberger, obviously unaware of the exact nature of the charges, goggled at the man. Bethwig laughed. He was thoroughly familiar with Walsch’s tactics.

The Gestapo agent was taken aback but only for a moment. He shot forward in his chair and pointed a finger. ‘You have betrayed Germany by speaking of classified military matters to an agent of a foreign power last evening in Arnsberg!’

At that, von Braun joined Bethwig in laughter. ‘Is that all, Captain? Then you are quite mistaken. The young man with whom we dined last night is an old friend and also a rocket enthusiast. He is a member of the British Inter - ‘

‘You fool!’ Walsch shouted. ‘We know exactly who this Jan Memling is. He is a member of the English secret intelligence service. He was sent to Germany to spy on our scientific progress. He is a scientist who was trained specifically for this task.’

Von Braun stared at Walsch in consternation. ‘No, you must be wrong. How ...’

‘I assure you, Herr Doktor, we are rarely wrong. I myself followed this man on to the train at Aachen. Just before the frontier he was warned by an accomplice and jumped from the carriage. He crossed the border illegally before we were able to apprehend him. Several arrests have been made among the passengers, and we will know more shortly.

There are two questions’ - Walsch scowled at them - ‘which you are required to answer. First, how much of what you told this man concerns classified military secrets? And was it done deliberately?’

This was too much for Dornberger. ‘Captain Walsch,’ he roared, ‘you forget yourself. I protest these unwarranted accusations. I have known these men - ‘

The Gestapo agent waved a weary hand. ‘Colonel, I am very tired. I was forced to fly through this miserable weather to Berlin to speak with these two ... gentlemen. I would rather do so here than at my headquarters. However, if you persist in interfering with my investigation, I shall have no choice but to summon assistance.’

‘I can assure you, Captain,’ Bethwig said evenly, ‘that not only did we not have the slightest inkling that this man was a spy, as you claim, but we did not pass on anything of military significance. I would, however, like to know why, if you were aware of his identity at the time, you did not intervene? It would seem that if there are questions to be answered, you have your share to contend with. For instance, the matter of the man escaping from the train? I would suggest not only that you make certain of your facts but that you be sure of the grounds on which you raise this ridiculous story to cover your own incompetence. Otherwise, you may find a lawsuit, or worse, lodged against you personally and your superiors as well.’

Walsch returned his confident smile. ‘Young man, by law the Gestapo is immune to civil proceedings. You would do well to curb your own tongue. I am aware of your father’s position in the party, and it does not deter me in the least. Do I make myself understood?’

Bethwig stood and bowed stiffly. ‘Completely, sir. We shall, however, have to wait for another time to see how this all turns out.’ He turned to a worried Domberger. ‘Good night, Colonel.’

Memling fumbled his key into the lock and entered. Although the walk from the bus was less than two blocks, he was chilled through. The parlour was cold, but coal was piled on the grate, and the house was spotless. The newspaper and magazines he had left beside the chair were now in the rack, and his sweater, he saw when he opened the cupboard to hang up his overcoat, had been washed. So, Margot had looked in while he was gone. Smiling, he slipped it on and stooped to touch a match to the shredded newspaper under the kindling. The fire caught immediately, and he adjusted the draught. While he waited for the fire to warm the room, he lit the kitchen gas ring and put a kettle on.

The clock showed five-thirty. He had spent most of the day in the writing-room completing his report, and he was too tired to be hungry. The small piece of ham and the cheese, which he found in the pantry, dry as they were, were sufficient. The kettle began to whistle, and he fixed a cup of tea and took the ham and cheese back to the parlour.

As he stood before the fire he glanced at the gleaming walnut and shining blue metal of the over-and-under-twelve-bore shotgun which his father had made. The old man had been well known for his fine shotguns, much good that it had done him. The old, dingy house was his only legacy, that and the gun and his own skills at making firearms.

The room was warming quickly, and Memling pulled the chair up to the fire and sank down, weary beyond belief. A black mood that he could not shake had settled over him. ‘What the hell have I done?’ he muttered aloud. His main assignment had been carried out satisfactorily. In addition, he had brought back information about a possible new military weapon, and he had escaped from the Gestapo, using all the skills that he had been taught. Another agent would have been welcomed home with the certainty of a CBE in the not too distant future. Instead, he had been accused of damaging relations with Germany. Nonsense, he snorted. But even so, his actions were to be submitted to the scrutiny of an enquiry board, which would surely support Englesby.

And Memling knew why it had turned out the way it had. He was not a gentleman, moneyed or well connected, all of which were prime requisites for a successful Foreign Office career. What’s more, he had a foreign sounding name and lacked the educational essentials provided by a good school and university. In fact, he lacked a degree of any kind. A month after his father’s business had failed, the old man had shot himself with one of his own shotguns. Memling had often wondered since then if he and his mother could have managed on the small pension. Had he again given in too easily, frightened by future unknowns?