The Reich Device (16 page)

Suddenly, the sound of an officer barking orders broke the silence behind them. Multiple pairs of boots trampled through the woodland. Noise bounced around the forest as the soldiers fanned out along the hillside. Nash calculated the odds –
not good
– they would be on the ridge in no time. Even if it was only the two trucks from the convoy, it would be at least thirty or forty men.

He grabbed the Professor and started off down the fire break. Pushing hard, tripping over sticks and half-sawn timbers in the darkness, the loud crack of braking branches gave their position away.

‘This way! This way! Cut them off!’ The bright white of a phosphorus flare lit up the shadows. A German officer stood silhouetted on the ridge. ‘There! There! After them!’

Soldiers poured over the ridge and into the fire break as the flare petered out.

Nash tightened his grip on Mayer, almost lifting him off the ground, and increased the pace. Blundering down the fire break, with shouts going up behind, speed was now everything. Nash jolted his way down the hill, focusing hard on covering the rough ground, with his legs burning and shoulder aching under the Professor’s weight.

The rough grass and timber finally gave way to sand as they stumbled on to the shoreline at the south end of the lake. Dumping the Professor to the ground, Nash stood over him, pistol drawn, firing controlled rounds up the fire break – it would slow them down – nothing more.

‘Keep your head down!’ Nash dropped into a crouching position to load a fresh magazine. The telltale noise of an engine rumbled in the distance.

‘The plane!’

With renewed vigour Nash fired the next clip into the hillside. The tone of the engine changed as the seaplane touched down on the water.

‘Let’s go!’ Pulling up the Professor, Nash sprinted for the water’s edge. He squinted into the darkness; some white fuselage appeared about fifty yards away.

More shouts went up on the hillside; the breaking of branches signalled the rush of men down the fire break.

The first silhouettes came into view. Conserving ammunition, Nash gave a gentle double tap on the trigger. A silhouette crumpled to the ground. Another double tap, another soldier, then another.

‘Can you swim?!’ Nash fired again – another corpse.

‘What?!’ Mayer looked at Nash, then at the water.

‘I said, can you swim?!’ Another double tap; spent shell casings rattled onto the Professor cowering at his feet.

‘Yes, but… ’

The plane slowed to a taxi at the end of the lake, and went into a search pattern.

‘Good. The plane will find us! Into the water – swim!’ Nash didn’t wait for a reply; firing one last burst, he pulled the Professor into the lake.

Suddenly stunned by the ice-cold water, Nash gasped an involuntary deep breath. With his heart skipping erratically, his limbs turned to jelly – cold shock immersion – he wasn’t sure if the Professor could handle it.

Mayer flailed hopelessly.

‘Breathe! Breathe! Fight it! Kick with your legs! Swim!’ He gripped the Professor by the shirt collar, and kicked hard as the first few rounds zipped into the water.

The noise and white foam on the dark lake made an easy target; more bullets slashed into the water, much closer than the first volley.

‘Swim! Swim!’ Heaving with numb fingers and with the Professor struggling aimlessly, Nash lost his grip.

Mayer disappeared under the water, bullets danced around their position.

Ducking under, grabbing hair, Nash pulled Mayer to the surface. Rounds landed ever closer. Locking his arm around the Professor’s chest, kicking with his legs and using his spare arm to get some kind of rhythm going, Nash headed into deeper water.

Suddenly, the plane loomed out of the darkness, only twenty feet away.

More rounds splashed into the water as the plane attracted gunfire. Not fancying an icy death, Nash kicked for the fuselage door.

The deafening noise of a heavy-calibre machine gun, the rattle of hot shell casings, and the smell of cordite greeted him as he touched the aluminium skid of the fuselage.

About bloody time! Some return fire from the plane.

There was no cover on the gravel beach. Screams went up in the darkness as the gunner found his mark.

A hand grabbed the Professor by the collar and unceremoniously hauled him onto the skid. ‘Heave! For God’s sake! Heave!’ The crew man shouted over the din of the engines, rearranging his grip. The sodden Professor weighed a ton but, with purchase under the Professor’s arms, and with Nash pushing from underneath, they bundled him through the small door into the plane. Nash hauled himself up onto the skid.

The crew man reappeared in the doorway, putting out a hand to assist. A thud of bullets sprayed blood from the crew man’s chest, and punched holes in the surrounding airframe. He fell forwards, over Nash, and into the water.

Half hauling himself into the doorway, half lying on the skid, Nash poked his head through the door.

‘Go, go, fucking go!’

The pilot didn’t need a second invitation, and pushed the throttle forward. The plane accelerated, engines roaring.

Nash dug his hands into the lip of the doorway, desperately struggling to hold on as his feet dragged in the freezing water.

The soldiers on the shoreline sensed the departure and renewed their efforts. They were in luck. The cabin rattled to the popping sound of rounds hitting home; a real choice collection of small arms fire. A staccato of machine gunfire hit the cab. The pilot pushed the controls forward, flat out. Rounds clattered into the control panel; the pilot ducked instinctively as bullets peppered into the fuselage around his head.

The plane picked up more speed. The skids started to lift off the water.

Then it happened – a volley punctured the pilot’s rib cage. His body danced like a rag doll as the shots rang home. Slumping forward onto the controls, the pilot was dead.

The plane responded by veering swiftly to the right, and then to the left. The passengers inside were thrown around the cabin. Nash lost his grip; flipping into the air like a wet fish, he bounced along on the water before coming to a hard stop in the middle of the lake. At that speed it was like hitting concrete. He lay semi-comatose on the water. Miraculously pockets of buoyancy in the ill-fitting German uniform kept him afloat.

The plane careered on across the lake, totally out of control, and swinging violently. Suddenly, the portside wing tip touched the water. It was enough to send the plane cart wheeling. The plane skimmed towards the shallows, spinning several times, scattering bits of fuselage along the way, before the mangled remains came crashing to a halt a few feet from the shore. The engine finally stalled. Then silence. No one stirred from inside the wreckage.

In the aftermath the troops focused on searching the plane and the immediate shore. It only took a few minutes before they were wading out to the wreck. The pilot and crew man were dead. The Professor, on the other hand, had been strapped into a seat. It had probably saved his life. He was badly injured, but nonetheless still alive.

In the gloom of the night, the semi-conscious body of Nash drifted away on the surface of the lake.

H
einkel stood on the concrete pier, and took a deep breath. It was great to be on solid ground; the boat from New York to Cape Town had been a long haul. He flexed his toes, feeling the grip of the fine black soles against the firm substrate. A sudden breeze swirled a coating of fine dust onto his gleaming shoes and into his eyes. Blinking, he kept a firm hold on the leather satchel, and brushed down the lapel of his pinstriped suit with his free hand.

The weight of the bag tugged on his shoulder muscles. He curled his fingers more tightly around the handle and, tensing his frame, he attempted to walk evenly towards the customs house. His eyes flicked down at the satchel. It bulged a little more than one would like for a border crossing, but it was too late to change the plan now; besides the contents were important to the Reich.

He scanned ahead.

A wooden balustrade, some twenty feet tall, topped with rusting barbed wire demarcated the end of the pier. Strands of wire mingled into the chain mail fence on the edges of the pier, preventing any escape onto the adjacent rocks. The only way out was through the small timber construction that was the customs house.

Heinkel strained against the bright sunlight to see into the relative gloom of the customs shed. Thankfully, the shutters were wide open, letting air circulate into the space. Another dust devil spat grit into his eyes. Ignoring it, he assessed the threat.

A spartan office was occupied by one table, two chairs, and mostly empty shelving. A coffee pot sat on the stove at the far end of the room. One man stood in the corner, stirring something into a cup. Another leaned against the shutters; a worn green hat – the type an experienced hunter would wear – concealed his features. Thick cigar smoke curled from a cheroot in his hand. A third man occupied the passport booth at the end of the building.

Heinkel examined the booth. A fat American waiting in the queue bobbed to and fro, blocking his vision.

The passport controller sat on a stool. The open face of the booth gave easy access for travellers to hand over their documents. A pistol protruded from under his khaki uniform, but that was to be expected; such officials were always armed in South Africa. A door came into view behind the booth: the entrance to an office? Or a guard room full of soldiers?

The sweaty mass of the American tourist shuffled forward as Heinkel joined the back of the line.

The official read the American’s passport, pausing to scrutinise the facial features of the holder. After some ten or fifteen seconds the American got his passport back – so far no bags or pockets had been checked.

Heinkel stepped forward, with his documents open at the correct page. He nodded a silent hello to the official.

The customs officer scrutinised his passport, flicking the pages. ‘What brings you to Cape Town, sir?’

‘I am here on business,’ came a neutral reply.

‘How long are you planning to stay, sir?’

‘Ten days.’

The official looked up, checking Heinkel’s face against the photograph in his passport. ‘And where are you staying, sir?’

‘The Table Mountain Hotel.’ A precise and truthful answer.

The side door suddenly opened, the bushman’s hat stuck out – an office door after all. A tall but stocky muscular frame filled the doorway. Smoke from the cheroot partly obscured the man’s face. Dust and grime marked his green shirt; a packet of cigarettes protruded from his breast pocket. His bush fatigues sported a worn-looking Gurkha Kukri knife.

Heinkel stood fast, moving his eyes slowly between the two men. The official, he could drop in no time; but the big Africaan was a different proposition.

Rudy Temple stepped forward blocking any chance of escape.

‘Would you mind stepping into the office, sir? A random bag check if you please,’ Temple lied.

Heinkel stood firm. Gazing into the booth, he held out his hand. ‘My passport?’

Temple spoke calmly to the official. ‘I’ll take that for now.’

The customs officer duly opened the rear of the booth and handed over the documents.

Temple escorted Heinkel into the back office.

‘Take a seat Mr… ’ Temple examined the passport; the pages were watermarked. It seemed genuine. ‘… Mr Heinkel… from Hamburg.’

Heinkel moved slowly and purposefully, gently lowering himself into one of the wooden chairs, his eyes fixed on Temple. He placed his satchel on the floor, against the table leg, the handle accessible for a quick getaway.

Temple puffed on his cheroot for a second, tapping the passport absently in his palm. ‘Well, Mr Heinkel. What brings you so far away from home?’

‘I am here on business.’ Heinkel sat upright and firm.

‘Yep, for sure Mr Heinkel, but what do you do for a living? Why are you here in Cape Town?’ Temple stood towering over the desk, drawing on his cheroot.

Heinkel recognised the posturing, and smiled inwardly. ‘I am in the manufacturing business. I am here to trade for raw materials.’

Temple nodded his appreciation, waving the cheroot. ‘What’s in the bag?’

Heinkel shrugged. ‘Documents and valuables belonging to my employer.’

Temple stooped, picking up the bag. He dropped it on the table with a clank. ‘Feels kind of heavy for a bunch of documents.’ He eased off the leather straps and pulled out a manila file; he opened it onto the desk. ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a list of supplies.’

‘Go on… ’

‘Materials needed for my work.’

‘What business?’

‘Industrial components and engineering.’

Temple leafed a few of the pages. Mostly chemicals, machine parts, tools, and general supplies. The list seemed to tally with the man’s story, but Temple wasn’t buying it. He dug deeper into the bag, pulling out a heavy machine part.

‘What do you call this?’ Temple held the metal object up to the light. It was a heavy casing with a system of grills and flanges; a bit like the carburettor from an automobile. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Maybe this was just a straightforward business deal after all.

Heinkel sat calmly. ‘Just a component from a machine in one of my factories.’

Temple studied the German’s face. If he was lying, he was doing it well.

‘Who are you visiting in Cape Town?’

‘The Cape Mineral Company, and a couple of other metal smelters.’

‘What for?’

‘To place orders for the Weimar Republic. Germany is an industrialised nation, and I understand South Africa is open for business – I am here to buy metals.’

‘I see Mr Heinkel, so your employer is the German government?’

Heinkel smiled. ‘Something like that… ’

‘You’ve come in on a boat from America. What were you doing in the USA?’

‘We have clients in America as well as South Africa. Germany has interests in many places.’ Heinkel gave a majestic wave of his hand.

‘I am sure you do.’ Temple bounced the heavy flanged component in his hand. ‘Did you get this in America?’