Hands of the Traitor (6 page)

He stared through the glass screen at
young Frank sitting in the outer office, looking blankly at the
accounts ledgers. Fussed over by his mother at home and useless at
work, he might be tall but he was unable to grow the family beard.
The pointed beard had been the hallmark of true Heinmans for
generations. Even before the family emigrated to the States,
great-grandfather Heinman had sported a pointed beard. It was in
the portraits that lined the staircase of the family brownstone,
and Albert knew that his own beard looked striking, as befitted the
head of an industry that had ridden the slump.

And Frank couldn't even manage a
moustache.

He continued to look at the boy. DCI
belonged to the Heinmans, and since this was the only son he had,
Frank had to make the grade.

Berlitzan oil. He treated this product
as his own child. Babies like this were all he'd ever wanted
anyway. Frank had been what people politely called a mistake.
Perhaps DCI should be going into reliable rubber goods. It was
certainly an idea.

The Berlitzan Project had come about
by accident on that unhappy birthday of Irena's seven years ago.
Chance was a strange thing, but if you were determined enough the
dice rolled in your favor. The name had come easily too.

Berlitzan oil. Berl for Berlin, in
cryptic recognition of the country that had financed it. "Whatever
happens, we must have Berl for Berlin," he remembered saying in the
oak benched laboratory one day in 1940.

"Berl for Berlin. But we need a second
part. Berl ... and something. What is it?"

Jacco Morell had looked up from the
chemical glassware where he'd only been paying partial attention.
The product was dangerous stuff to handle.

"It's an oil, Mr. Heinman."

"Damn me, he's got it! I like it!
'It's an oil, Mr. Heinman!' You're damn right it's an oil!
Berlitzan oil. Get it?"

Albert Heinman smiled now as he
recalled how the Germans had got it three weeks later in July 1940
when war had been raging in Europe for nearly twelve months. A
volatile oil, but only a minute quantity. Two gold cylinders, each
the size and shape of a cigar tube, containing a few drops of the
highly corrosive substance. After testing it on convicted Gypsies,
the Nazi High Command made it clear the oil needed improvement.
Quickly, if it was to be of any use to them. Very
quickly.

But the development of the Berlitzan
Project had been slow. The oil's main failing was its lack of
effectiveness out of doors. Released in a crowded theatre or cinema
it would be reasonably effective, but the Germans had large
military targets in mind. They complained it was never powerful
enough, and never available in sufficient volume for use on the
Allies.

Every month Domestic Chemicals had got a
little closer to making a practical weapon. Only gold could contain
the highly corrosive Berlitzan oil, so corrosive that it would
quickly burn through all other metals within seconds. And it should
all have been Nazi gold. Gold for the containers and gold for
imbursement. Recently the German authorities had started to lose
interest and were reluctant to pay their agreed quota.

The Nazis gave Albert Heinman an
ultimatum almost identical to the one in 1937. He must produce the
goods at once or they would sever all ties with DCI. He knew that
the latest version of Berlitzan oil had been too late to prevent
last week's Allied Invasion of France at Normandy.

He had recently persuaded Hitler's heir
apparent Hermann Göring to test a small batch of Berlitzan oil
using V1 flying bombs. If this was successful, Göring was prepared
to field-test the new batch. Heinman felt a great sense of relief.
The Germans were talking his product seriously at last.

Berlitzan oil could be delivered onto any
civilian population within reach of the V1, in England or on the
Continent. Göring was right: the reaction of a civilian population,
rather than that of highly trained troops, would demonstrate the
effectiveness of Berlitzan oil particularly well. England was the
obvious target.

There was only one problem. This new batch
of Berlitzan oil would be easier for the Nazi scientists to copy
than the original formula, so no way was he leaving it with them
for analysis. He would have to go to France to supervise the V1
tests. Maybe he could take young Frank. The experience would be
good for the boy. Help him grow up a little. One day Frank might
make vice-president. Maybe even president.

*

England
-- July 25 1944

"GERMANY CALLING; Germany calling." The
nasal voice of the Anglo-American traitor filled the filthy
farmhouse in Marsh Acre.

"For God's sake turn it off!" Alice
Penbridge had little patience. Just like the rest of her
family.

"Shut up, Ma. We want to
hear."

"You watch out, Jeffrey my lad. You
just wait until your father gets to you. Don't think you're too old
to be getting a taste of that strap of his."

"Hush up, Ma," added Archie, her
second son. Archie was now as tall as his older brother. "This is
the only reliable news we get."

"Reliable is it!" The assortment of
dishes regularly replaced at the local market was banged down on
the table. "They'll be hanging that man at the end of the war,
you'll see. Now, where's that father of yours? He's going to miss
his supper."

Lord Haw-Haw continued his speech,
oblivious to the interruptions at Marsh Acre Farm. "For the last
few weeks the German weapons of terror have pounded your cities.
Your casualties run into millions."

"There you are, Ma," shouted Jeffrey
in triumph as he jumped from his chair. "There's nothing about that
on the BBC!"

"That's because it's all lies," yelled
Mrs. Penbridge, a heavy pan of boiling water in her
hand.

Out of respect for his mother's
sometimes erratic behavior Jeffrey Penbridge sat down and let the
matter rest.

"Soon a new weapon of terror will be
on its way across the Channel," the nasal voice on the radio
intoned tediously. "People of England, my friends, plead with your
leaders to make peace with your well-wishers in Germany. They do
not want this war with you."

Alice Penbridge poured the water into
the sink and a cloud of steam enveloped her angry figure. "Bloody
nonsense," she snapped. "If that's the best program you can find,
it's time it went off to save electricity."

"It's a battery!" said
Archie.

"It's still electricity." Jeffrey
jumped to his feet again.

"Are you turning that damn thing off
or do I have to hit it one?" Alice Penbridge held the large iron
pan above the old wireless set.

At that moment the door swung open and
George Penbridge charged into the low-ceilinged kitchen, his old
blue jacket open and his face even redder than usual. "There's one
of them doodlebug things come down in the corner of the copse," he
gasped. "Bloody thing's not gone off. There's a stick of something
in the snout what looks like gold. Come on, don't all sit there
gawping. Get the toolbox, Jeffrey lad. Let's have it out afore the
army gets here."

Chapter
6

Berkshire Observer, July 28
1944

LUCKY ESCAPE FOR LOCAL
VILLAGE

The surprised inhabitants
of the village of Lower Marshford were on the receiving end of a
German doodlebug last Tuesday evening. This one, which fell in a
small wood at Marsh Acre Farm, was without the normal warhead. A
Military expert told our reporter that ballast was fitted instead
of explosive.

The bomb squad believes
the flying bomb could have been an experimental model, possibly
fired for range finding. Without the full weight of explosives, the
V1 traveled several miles further than normal, passing directly
over London to reach the county of Berkshire. The military quickly
recovered the bomb, and the remains will now undergo a full
examination. Thanks to our courageous pilots, and the dedicated gun
crews on the ground, the V1s are now posing less of a threat than
they did in the first weeks of attack in June.

A spokesman from the Air
Ministry in London is keen to reassure the people of Berkshire that
they have little to fear from the flying bombs, which are intended
for densely packed areas of civilian population. The Royal Air
Force, the spokesman informs us, has dealt many deadly blows to the
weapons factories in the Baltic, which the Germans once thought to
be beyond the range of our bombers. There have also been exhaustive
bombing raids by the Allies on the launch sites on the French coast
near Calais. The threat of further attacks has been almost
eliminated.

The reporter from the
Berkshire
Observer
seemed unaware of the true details from the crash site,
such as the discovery by the army of a small gold cylinder; empty,
with the lid unscrewed, found close to the wreckage. The reporter
made no mention of the threat from the V2, a rocket of enormous
size that could fly so high and so fast it would be beyond the
reach of gunfire. He knew nothing about it because the Air Ministry
spokesman had remained silent on the subject during the
interview.

Top secret sources in Poland
warned that the new rockets were all set for a terrifying rain of
mass destruction. Launched from mobile sites in the Netherlands,
with a range well in excess of two hundred miles, these
Vergeltungswaffen
were expected to pound the British Isles some time
in the autumn. The ministry had every reason to be alarmed.
Civilians could never be prepared for a thirteen ton monster of
death. If the boffins were correct it would drop from the sky at
3500 miles an hour, without warning, unseen and unheard. There was
little point in warning, and thereby alarming, the residents of
London -- or Lower Marshford. Where could they shelter?

One item of local news was tucked away
on an inside page. It came as no surprise to anyone who knew the
family.

DOMESTIC TRAGEDY

It is with great sadness that
investigators at the crash site of the flying bomb report the death
of Mr. George Penbridge and his family at their isolated farm at
Marsh Acre. Members of the Penbridge family have been farming at
Marsh Acre for over two hundred years. Police believe that George
Penbridge had been emotionally disturbed by the crash of the German
V1 on his farm, and shot his family during an argument before
taking his own life. Forensic scientists from Reading recovered a
shotgun and several spent cartridges from the scene. The coroner
has been informed.

France
-- August 1944

SOPHIE BERNAY made an attractive girl by
any standards. Just why she'd stayed on at her dead parents' house
in the Pas-de-Calais was a puzzle to the remaining inhabitants in
the village. Her older sister Martha had left as soon as the
English bombs fell. A few gossips concluded, not unreasonably, that
such a pretty blonde, with curly hair down to her shoulders, and
hips that swayed provocatively -- and a smile that could not
possibly be as virtuous as it seemed -- that Sophie must have
stayed for the money.

Certainly the Germans who moved in with
their strange aircraft, and their skinny metal launching ramp, had
been quick to notice her. The ordinary soldiers could only stare.
It was the officers who entertained her in private -- or so they
whispered in the village. Sophie laughed to herself and shook her
head, scattering fair hair across her shoulders. The locals were
jealous. There was only one naturally blonde girl in the
Pas-de-Calais -- Sophie Bernay -- and the Germans looked after her
very well indeed.

The Colonel had come up with some
interesting news for once. Sophie usually found what he said
boring, for Colonel Röhm babbled endlessly about the glorious
future of the Third Reich. But today he let it slip that two
important Americans were on their way, bringing something that
could prove vital to the German war effort.

She'd never been given an
opportunity to flirt with an American before. If she could believe
what her neighbors said, the American soldiers -- and the British
-- would shortly overwhelm all Northern France. Perhaps when it
happened they would overwhelm
her
. Meeting Allied soldiers wasn't something she looked
forward to with any enthusiasm. These German officers were refined.
Real gentlemen her mother would have said if she was still alive.
But an RAF bomber had killed her parents exactly two years ago. It
was difficult to know whose side to be on.

"
Fraulein
."

It was Colonel Röhm. The Colonel never
took advantage of her body. He seemed more interested in the war
than in girls, an observation that made her feel cheated. Not that
she wanted anyone as old as the Colonel, but it upset her to think
that he never expressed any interest.

"Fraulein, the two Americans arrived
in Switzerland yesterday. They are being flown here shortly. I want
you to look after the younger one. His name is Frank. His father is
Albert Heinman, an important industrial man in America, so make a
good impression. Do you understand?"