The Reich Device (22 page)

But why was Heinkel putting everything on show now?

Heinkel suddenly stopped, and skipped up the gangplank of a rusting German freighter, disappearing from view.

Heinkel stepped over the metal threshold into the Captain’s cabin – if you could call it that.

The room was barely ten feet square. A beam of light fell through the one small porthole in the bulkhead, revealing a faded red carpet stained with a lifetime’s worth of greasy boot marks. A small table sat in the corner, heaped with charts, worn notebooks, and navigation instruments. An impossibly small, narrow bench, partly obscured by a moth-eaten curtain marked the position of the officer’s bed. The ever-present odour of diesel oil filled Heinkel’s lungs.

‘Captain, if I may, I have a small task that you can help me with.’

The Captain stood in a threadbare woollen jumper, unshaven, with his grubby calloused hands shoved deep inside his oily trouser pockets.

He shrugged. ‘Maybe, it depends what it is and how much it’s worth.’

‘You will be rewarded handsomely for your services.’

‘So, what’s the job?’

‘A package that needs to find its way to Berlin. Something of a delicate nature, one might say. A private matter for us Germans.’

‘We’re used to dealing with
private matters
. How big’s the package?’

Heinkel opened the satchel, pulling out a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

‘It contains some documents, and other matters of importance to the Reich.’

‘Yes, well, that’s not a problem. I can keep it in my safe.’ The Captain nodded towards a metal box welded into the wall above his desk.

Heinkel stepped forward, examining the expression on the Captain’s face. ‘The parcel
will
remain secure?’

The Captain stood firm, his gaze fixed on Heinkel. ‘We’ve done this many times before. Your package will be safe.’

Heinkel etched a small, sarcastic smile. ‘Good. So, I can rely on you?
The Reich
can rely on you?’

‘There’s no love lost between my crew and the locals.’ The Captain removed his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. He maintained a calm but hard expression. ‘Yes, you can rely on me to get the job done. My men will need paying though.’

‘Of course, on delivery. Five thousand reichsmarks.’

The Captain gulped, unable to conceal his surprise at the fee. ‘On delivery is fine. The journey will take four days, maybe five, depending on the weather. The package will be in Berlin within a week.’

Heinkel kept an even, firm voice. ‘See that it is.’ His gaze moved towards the strong box. ‘Open the safe.’

The Captain produced a heavy key from a lanyard around his neck, and calmly stepped up to the lock.

Heinkel eased forward with the parcel.

The Captain turned the heavy key in the lock and pulled open the door. ‘Will you be travelling with us?’

Heinkel paused, checking the man’s face for deception. ‘No, just the package.’ He placed it in the safe.

The Captain clanked the door shut, and turned the key.

‘I have another small task for you… I have been followed by some customs officials. See that you depart in full view, and be sure to leave a passage plan with the harbour master.’

‘You want them to know when and where we’re going?’ The Captain gave a puzzled look.

‘Something like that.’

‘Whatever you say mister.’

‘Good, you will be met in Hamburg harbour – don’t be late.’ Heinkel took a white envelope from his satchel; a thick wad of reichsmarks protruded from the paper. ‘For your expenses… ’ He held out the envelope. ‘The rest you can collect in Hamburg.’

The Captain nodded. ‘Consider it done.’

T
he British Ambassador’s residence in Kensington was luxurious with a thick red carpet and antique mahogany furniture. The trappings of empire were everywhere. A huge oil painting of the Battle of Waterloo hung above the fireplace, and on the adjacent walls hung portraits of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. In between the paintings were trophies from various hunting expeditions: stags, wild boar and even a tiger’s head. The piéce de resistance was a huge stuffed bear standing about eight feet tall in the corner of the room – reared up on its hind legs, huge claws and teeth at the ready. Doubtless, the bear had been shot on one of the Ambassador’s many hunting trips.

Nash looked around the room, perplexed; didn’t the aristocracy know this was the twentieth century? Maybe it was just a show to remind the minions of the British Empire? He smiled to himself as he waited for the Ambassador.

Lord Elgin-Smyth entered the lounge, and headed for the fireplace. He waved for Nash to remain seated, as he tapped a Mayfair cigarette from its silver case. He lit up and, after a couple of drags to get the embers glowing, he checked the gold pocket watch in the waistcoat of his three-piece suit, then turned to his visitor.

‘Good day Mr Nash. Before we speak, I will mention a few rules of engagement.’ Elgin-Smyth absently brushed some ash from his label and ran one hand through his neatly cut, but now greying, hair.

Nash nodded.

‘As the British Ambassador, I cannot be seen to be supporting any kind of espionage from this residence, and especially not the kind that might compromise diplomatic relations between South Africa and Germany, which are rather delicate at the moment.’ The Ambassador paused for thought. ‘So we must tread carefully. Despite our little meeting in Whitehall, this time I think it’s better that I don’t know what you’re up to. Do we have an understanding?’

‘Agreed,’ replied Nash.

‘This arrived last night in the diplomatic bag from Germany.’ He passed a large brown envelope to Nash. ‘… I almost forgot. Your orders from Sinclair; he’s overseas wooing the Americans apparently.’ The Ambassador dug into his breast pocket and handed over a telegram. ‘My instructions are to let you open the package, read it, and then burn it.’

Elgin-Smyth politely turned to gaze at the flickering flames in the fireplace to give Nash some privacy. The Ambassador gently puffed on his cigarette and waited.

Nash opened the package. It contained a situation report on Kummersdorf, and some fresh aerial photographs. There were no surprises in the situation report, and it didn’t really say anything beyond what he already knew. The Germans had recovered the wreckage of the plane, and had taken at least one survivor back to the base – probably Mayer.

He jolted in his chair as he opened the telegram with his orders. He re-read the telegram:

Most urgent. Terminate target. STOP. No rescue. Confirmed. Terminate target. STOP.

He slowly folded the telegram. This was an unusual request; killing other soldiers was one thing, but murdering civilians?

Nash studied the photographs for a few minutes to take his mind off the new orders. The Germans had already repaired the perimeter fence and the main entrance, but there was also some new construction. Evidently, earthworks were going up around the main buildings, and on the airfield some large containers had appeared. They looked like fuel tanks.

He stuffed the photographs in his breast pocket.

The Ambassador gave a disapproving look.

Nash stood from his chair and moved around to the fireplace. He dropped the remainder of the documents into the fire and waited for them to burn to ash. Everything else, he had already memorised. Nash turned to the Ambassador.

‘We live in interesting times. This will be our little secret.’ Nash tapped his breast pocket.

‘If you insist,’ grumbled the Ambassador.

Nash headed for the door.

The Ambassador called after him. ‘Good luck old chap.’

Nash smiled back, and was gone.

Emily Sinclair worked cautiously down the new concrete steps, trying not to allow her footsteps to echo off the bare whitewashed walls; but it was no good, the high heels were hopeless. Coming straight from work in a tight pencil skirt had been a bad idea.

The stairs gradually gave way to bright lights, and more fresh white paint. The basement corridor of the SIS headquarters extended for some fifty yards under the building. It was a miracle to get this far without being stopped by a policeman, but then, having a father who was the head of the intelligence services came with its privileges.

Doors marked the length of the hallway at regimented intervals, unanimous, gleaming with camouflage green paint – all standard issue from the army stores. The smell of lacquer irritated her nostrils as she counted down the doors. ‘One… two… three… ’

She scraped a heel on the floor and, suddenly startled by the loss of balance, leant against the wall. She glanced up and down the gangway whilst rubbing her ankle. The muffled sound of voices issued forth from some of the rooms.

She moved to the next door and listened. Nothing. Holding her breath, she tried the handle.

It opened.

She slid through a crack in the half-opened door, being careful to close it quietly with one hand on the door frame, the other tensing on the doorknob. The lock gave the faintest of clicks. Perspiration marked her palms. She instinctively wiped them on her skirt as she turned round.

Evidently a small barrack room with four bunks – all unoccupied with just bare mattresses, except for one bed covered in kit. A man wearing a long grey field coat worked at a bench at the far end of the room.

She smiled and moved quietly between the bunks, sneaking up on the grey-coated figure. The back of his head moved slightly to the sound of metal clicking against metal.

She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

Suddenly the room whirled in mass bright lights and grey movement. A vice-like grip twisted her arm, pulsing discomfort bolted from her shoulder. The touch of cold steel pressed under her chin.

‘Ouch! Danny, it’s me! Stop, you’re hurting me!’

The click of the safety catch going on echoed in her ears.

‘Christ! Emily, I could have injured you.’ Nash released his grip, hastily shoving the weapon in the back of his belt. ‘How did you get in here anyway?’

She rubbed her shoulder, giving Nash a prudish look. ‘I thought I would surprise you… ’

Nash shrugged and smiled. ‘Well, yes, you did!’

‘I can see that. Danny, you’re wound like a spring.’

‘Sorry, I am just doing my kit prep for the next job.’

‘So where is Daddy sending you this time?’

Nash grinned. ‘Europe.’

She smiled. ‘That sounds rather non-specific Major Nash.’

‘You know how it is… ’

‘Yes, I do.’ She edged up to him. Putting her arms around his waist, she removed the revolver. ‘You won’t be needing this for a few minutes, Major Nash.’

He gently took the weapon from her hand, his eyes fixed on her blue-green orbs as he eased his arm backwards to slide the Browning onto the bench.

He whispered as he backed up against the bench. ‘Why’s that Emily?’

She kissed him.

Nash welcomed the warmth of her body and the taste of her sweet breath; savouring the smell of her hair, he eventually broke the embrace. Breathing heavily, he leant his forehead against hers. He spoke softly. ‘Emily… you shouldn’t be here… I have work… ’

She whispered. ‘Danny Nash, you never did know when to shut up.’ She smiled and kissed him more deeply than before.

Nash put all thoughts of packing his kit aside as he lifted her into his arms.

King and country could wait a few more hours.

C
olonel Dornberger sat in his office at Kummersdorf. He had spent the morning going over some lift calculations for liquid rocket fuels. The team had done well to identify the right mixture of liquid oxygen, hydrogen peroxide, and the other ingredients to get a controlled burn of the rocket motors. It was a real step forward, and would enable a steady lift on a rocket; and, more importantly, predictable control over the flight speed.

Dornberger revelled in the mathematics, lost in a world of numbers, probability theory, and calculus. The last remaining problem was to predict when the rocket would suddenly run out of fuel; and therefore where it would land. At such high speeds, a calculation error of only a minute would put the rocket miles off target.

He was suddenly roused by a loud, urgent knock on the door and, to his surprise, the adjutant did not wait to be invited in, but hastened across the room to his desk and snapped to attention.

‘My Colonel, please forgive the intrusion! Admiral Dönitz has just come through the main gate! He will be here any second!’

In many ways Dornberger and Dönitz were kindred spirits; both cared greatly for the men under their commands. Dönitz had pioneered submarine warfare in the Great War, and was now busy rebuilding the U-boat fleet. It was a great opportunity to embrace new technology, and in the course of his work Dönitz had met Dornberger on several occasions in Berlin.

Colonel Dornberger stood up and checked the buttons on his tunic. He snapped to attention as Dönitz entered the room.

‘Welcome to Kummersdorf, Admiral,’ Dornberger saluted.

‘Thank you, but please let us dispense with formality. I bring urgent news from Berlin.’

The adjutant took the Admiral’s coat and closed the door on his way out, leaving the men alone.

Dornberger offered the Admiral a seat, and was so intrigued by the unexpected visit that he forgot to offer the Admiral some coffee or brandy. Dönitz went straight to business.

‘What do you make of these, Colonel?’ Dönitz dropped some photographs on the desk.

Dornberger was dumbstruck.

‘Why Admiral, where did you get these pictures?’

‘One of Wehrmacht’s most trusted SS men obtained these photographs in Africa. They arrived by boat last night and were brought to SS headquarters. Herr Hitler is personally interested in this matter, and has asked me to report back.’ Dönitz was matter of fact as usual.

‘So, you want my opinion on the authenticity of these photographs?’

‘Photographic experts at the Technical University have already confirmed that the pictures are genuine, and have not been tampered with. My question is, what do the photographs show?’