Agent of Death (2 page)

‘He says that?’ said Pritchett. ‘A fifteen-year old says that to
you
?

‘Yes,’ said Einstein, ‘he says that I know some physics, because physics is a Jew science.’ Pritchett sat gasping for words, as Einstein continued. ‘He says I show some promise, but that he is tiring of me such that if I do not reply to his latest letter, he will leave physics to the Jews and look elsewhere for stimulation, but meanwhile he offers certain hints.’

‘Hints?’

‘Hints.’ said Einstein and sank forward until his head was in his hands, ‘He tempts me as Faustus was tempted. He offers me sublime beauty in exchange for my soul.’

‘What do you mean? What hints?’

‘It is my belief,’ said Einstein, his voice muffled by his posture, ‘that if I were to take the totality of what he says in his letters, then, with hard work and some time, it would open the way to the Great Theory – the unified theory – that I have sought without success for twenty years. It would offer the most perfect and wonderful understanding of the universe.’ Einstein looked up and stared at Pritchett. ‘But to do this, I would have to take the hand of this wicked child. I would have to accept him as my mentor and my guide. And what good could come from that? How could truth and beauty come from such terrible ugliness?’

Pritchett blinked. He sighed. He thought how closely his reputation was linked to Einstein’s. He thought how closely his excellent job was linked to Einstein. He pondered deeply on these selfish considerations, and what he did next depended very much upon self. But it also depended on something else, since Pritchett had once been a poet, a scholar, and a moral philosopher. Dilemmas had been the blood and bones of his working life and even now he slipped into Einstein’s shoes with consummate ease. And, having done so, while Pritchett was pompous and vain, he was not entirely without virtue, and he was certainly not without courage.

‘May I see the letters, Dr Einstein? All of them, please?’ said Pritchett. Einstein handed them over. Pritchett took them, got up, and found a metal wastepaper bin. He shook out the contents on to the floor, and came back and sat before Einstein with the empty bin between them. He held the letters over it and took out his gold cigarette lighter. He looked at Einstein. Einstein looked back at him. There was a very long silence indeed.

Then Einstein nodded.

So Pritchett flicked the lighter and applied the tiny flame.

‘What was his name?’ said Pritchett. ‘Just for curiosity.’ Einstein hesitated, unwilling even to utter the name. But finally, and with effort, he did.

‘His name is Abimilech Svart.’

1939

Hermann Goering

CHAPTER 2

The
Berghof
,
Obersaltzburg
,

Near
the
German
/
Austrian
Border

Sunday
16 April
,
11
.
15
a
.
m
.

Herman Wilhelm Goering was at the height of his career. His airmen and machines had proved themselves invincible in the Spanish Civil War and, only three days earlier, as
Generalfeldmarschal
of the Luftwaffe, he had handed out the Spanish Cross in Gold to returning veterans at a massive rally in Berlin, in token of the eternal gratitude of Generalissimo Franco and on behalf an adoring German nation.

Thus he was master of the most glamorous force in the Reich, he was rich and powerful, he lived in a palace like a Bavarian nobleman, and soon he would no longer be a mere field marshal, but the sole, supreme
Reischsmarshal
, a rank invented specifically for him, to demonstrate his supremacy over all things military.

Meanwhile, even so early in the year, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the view from the stone-flagged terrace was the spectacular beauty of snow-peaked mountains standing needle-sharp in the pure, Alpine air. It was a view to strike joy from a block of stone, let alone a glutton like Goering who devoured the red meat of life with greedy relish. But Goering wasn’t happy because a greater man than he was making a fool of himself only ten metres away. So Goering stared fixedly at the mountains and tried to be deaf and blind to all else.

Almost everyone did the same: small clumps of uniformed officers and suited politicians who’d seen the like before and knew how to behave. But half a dozen young riflemen of the
Liebstandarte
SS
stood openly gaping until their
Unterscharführer
, their sergeant, marched them off past the white-coated waiters frozen with their trays in their hands, and past Fraulein Eva Braun and her sister Gretl, in their peasant bodices and aprons, who knelt to comfort the Führer’s German shepherd, Blonda, as the animal moaned at the poisonous emotions seething around her.

For the Führer was in full rant, screaming and beating his breast with his fists, such that his two Kaiser’s war medals quivered on his brown uniform coat: the Iron Cross First Class, and the Bronze Wound Medal. He paused, he drew breath, then stamped a foot, raged again, and made a great show of tearing into shreds a letter that had been passed into his hands and then scattering the shreds with contempt.

‘An exception?’ he screamed, ‘An exception? Do you not realize what you ask? Would you have me fight the disease without killing the carrier? Fight racial tuberculosis without ridding the nation of the bacillus itself?’ He threw out an arm to full length, stabbing his index finger, and shaking the hand at the wrist in a passion of emphasis, ‘No, no, no!’ he cried. ‘Do not come to me in my historic mission – my
sacred
mission – and talk to me of exception!’

Goering winced as the man in front of the Führer: the man who had given him the letter, stood shrivelled and terrified before him. The trouble was – the
embarrassment
was – that the man receiving the lash of the Führer’s anger was such a man as Goering was bred in the bones to respect: elderly, upright, in formal clothes, with a wing-collar, neat tie, gold-framed spectacles, a dignified moustache, and the balding head of a scholar. He was the embodiment of the venerable, learned, Herr Doctor-Professor, to whom all good men give honour.

And this was not surprising, because the elderly man was Max Planck: Nobel Prize winner, inventor of quantum physics, and Emeritus Professor of Physics at Berlin University. Therefore, as the Führer screamed again, Goering comforted himself with the fact that great men have great faults, and since the Führer was the greatest man in history, then the Führer’s faults were likewise great, and must be excused. But if so, thought Herman Goering, and if necessary, then other steps might be needed for the greater good.

So Goering looked sideways at the man standing next to himself, in the khaki- brown uniform of the OT, or
Organization Todt
, the biggest civil engineering enterprise in history: builder of autobahns, bunkers, submarine pens, and everything else the Reich needed. The man was Fritz Todt himself: tall, balding, and forty-eight years old. He was founder and head of the OT, which he ran on military lines. In addition, and adding to his powers, he was
Reichsminister
for Armaments and Munitions. So if something had to be made, then Todt was the man to make it.

The Führer was finished. He breathed deeply, and wiped the palms of his hands across the top of his head to smooth down his hair on either side of the parting. Then he turned sharply on his heel, ignored Planck, looked around, and fastened on Fraulein Braun, who pointed accusingly at the big dog that lay cowering on the stone flags.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘you’ve frightened her.’

‘Ah,’ said the Führer, with his famous love for animals, ‘my little Blonda.’ And he walked to the dog, and caressed her, and the animal got up, licked his hand, and wagged its tail, such that all present smiled and sighed in approval, and the waiters came back to life.

Goering blinked. The Führer’s mood had changed in an instant. He was totally absorbed with the dog. It was like that with him, and wise men took advantage of it.

Goering looked at Todt, and nodded towards a door leading into the house. Todt nodded in return. Then Goering took a risk: serious but necessary. He looked at Planck, now stamped with the mark of the pariah, standing trembling and alone. But Goering beckoned and the professor nodded, because he too had been briefed: insofar as was sufficient. Finally, Goering caught the eye of a Luftwaffe
Hauptman
, a flight lieutenant, and nodded at him too. The officer followed Goering, Todt, and Planck as they entered the house.

The three men went into the projection room at the back of the Berghof’s Great Hall. They went there because it was quiet and private, even though crammed with equipment and stacks of film cans. Goering looked at the cans and shook his head. Right beside the projector there was an advance print of the new American colour film
Gone
with
the
Wind
. The Führer loved films. He liked evening film shows in the Great Hall, and he didn’t care where the films came from. Goering shrugged. Great man: great faults.

It was cramped in the small room and the three men stood close. Planck produced a handkerchief, wiped his brow, blew his nose noisily, then apologized, and put away the handkerchief. He was shaking heavily and Goering put on a concerned face.

‘Herr Professor,’ he said, ‘are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Planck, though indeed he was not.

‘I am sorry,’ said Goering. ‘I did what I could. I got you to see him.’

‘Thank you,’ said Planck. ‘It had to be tried. We had to warn him of our mistake.’

‘At least you gave him the letter,’ said Goering, ‘even if he wouldn’t read it.’ Goering paused. ‘The letter from your young protégée,’ he said, and Planck frowned. He was far too clever to miss so obvious a political move.

‘
Your
protégée, Herr
Generalfeldmarschall
,’ he said, ‘not mine.’ Goering smiled.

‘My dear professor, it is true that the young man came to me, but you are the physicist. You brought the letter to the Führer.’ Planck trembled, seeing how Goering would shift blame. He drew breath to speak, but Goering was quicker. ‘Herr Professor,’ he said, ‘we had to try. We did try. And we have failed.’ He paused while Planck took comfort from the repeated use of the collective pronoun. Goering smiled. ‘And now, Herr Professor, I think it best to get you away from here, and I have a man outside the door waiting for you.’ Planck gasped, fearing arrest. Goering smiled again. ‘Don’t worry, Herr Professor, if you were in trouble you would already be in manacles.’

‘Would I?’ said Planck.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Goering, ‘so we can get you away safely. But just one thing, Herr Professor, before you go.’

‘Yes?’

‘The young man. The protégée.’

‘Yes?’

‘You did not mention him by name, of course. To the Führer?’

‘No!’ said Planck emphatically. ‘The boy must be protected at all costs.’ Goering nodded. He was inclined to agree. But he had to be sure.

‘Is he really that gifted?’ he asked. ‘That clever?’

Planck sniffed. ‘Have you any mathematics?’ he said, and Goering laughed.

‘I am a simple soldier,’ he said.

‘So,’ said Planck.
Then how can I explain
? he thought, then spoke. ‘He has a better mind than Einstein,’ he said. ‘His ideas are more creative.’

Goering frowned. He hated Jews as much as anyone. They were a threat to the blood of the German folk. That much was obvious. And yet … all the world celebrated Einstein. Goering wondered. These were difficult matters.

‘Herr Professor,’ said Goering, ‘we need detain you no longer. There is a car waiting, and the driver will take you wherever you want to go.’ Planck was still afraid and he protested, but he was hustled outside into the arms of the Luftwaffe
Hautpman
, who dragged him off, still asking questions, while Goering shut the door and looked at Todt in the small, cramped projection room.

‘So,’ said Goering, ‘we have failed in the first objective.’

Todt nodded. ‘I assume the Herr Professor did not mention the second letter?’

‘No,’ said Goering. ‘The Führer knows only that our protégée believes that we were wrong to drive out the Jew scientists, because they – led by Einstein – will make the uranium bomb for the Americans, unless we somehow call them back to the Reich.’

‘Which the Führer cannot accept,’ said Todt. ‘Not even from Planck.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said Goering, ‘the Führer knows nothing of the second letter, and our protégée’s idea. And with the idea not specifically forbidden, you and I, Herr Minister, can find the money and the resources to develop it, in safe secrecy.’ Todt nodded, then both men fell silent, struggling with concepts that were hard to grasp. Finally, Todt, the practical engineer, asked a practical question.

‘Before we entirely abandon the uranium bomb,’ he said, ‘do you think it would even work?’

‘Planck says yes,’ said Goering, ‘and he says that Einstein agrees.’

‘Then won’t our own German research give us this bomb?’

‘No. Planck says that all our best people have fled – being Jews – and the remainder work in small groups, with no money, and are unable to acknowledge Einstein’s ideas.’

‘Can’t we bring them together?’ said Todt. ‘As one team? With proper funding?’

‘Too dangerous,’ said Goering. ‘We would be disobeying the Führer’s implicit will, even if not his direct orders.’

‘But what about this other idea? The idea that
isn’t
Jew science. Can’t we bring the young man himself to the Führer to argue for that?’

‘No!’ said Goering emphatically, ‘You haven’t met him. He laughs too much. He has no sensibility and no respect.’ Goering shook his head, ‘He’s convinced that the Jews will make the uranium bomb and he’d say so, even to the Führer, even to his face!’ Goering frowned. ‘And more than that, he is a most … how can I say ... a most
dominant
person.’ Goering paused, worrying over memories of his meetings with the protégée. Then he threw out his chest in manly dignity. ‘You or I could master this youngster, Herr
Reichminister
,’ he said, and Todt blinked as he saw that Goering was not quite telling the truth, ‘but poor Planck is actually afraid of him.’

‘Is he, though?’ said Todt, profoundly uneasy with these slippery matters of high science and low personalities. So he asked another practical question.

‘Does this mean Einstein will give his bomb to the Americans?’

‘Yes,’ said Goering, ‘but it doesn’t matter. The protégée is a better man than Einstein.’

‘What is his name? You still haven’t told me.’

‘It’s secret. Deeply secret.’

‘Secret from me? With all the risks I must take on his behalf? Come now Herr
Generalfeldmarschal
. Who is he?’

‘Herr Minister, he is the man who will give us a better bomb than Einstein’s, at which time we shall present him to the Führer, who will adore him. His name is Abimilech Svart.’