The Reich Device (24 page)

‘Now… ’ He turned to the nurse for confirmation. ‘The Professor is injured on his left side, but his right arm is working?’

The nurse nodded in agreement.

‘Good, good; this means the Professor can write down the answers to my questions.’ Kessler was warming up.

‘Now… ready Professor… my first question… ’ Kessler spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Write down your name.’

Mayer complied.

‘Write down the main ingredients of rocket fuel.’

Mayer paused, looking at the nurse for moral support.

‘Please don’t try my patience – write it down!’

Mayer scrawled down the names of a few chemicals.

‘Good, good, now write the equation for kinetic energy.’

He scrawled out the well-known equation from Newton’s laws of thermodynamics
. E = ½ mv
²
. Kinetic energy is equal to half the mass multiplied by the square of the velocity. Kessler recognised it as one of the equations he had prepared a question on for the interrogation.

Kessler paused to assimilate the responses.

So, no foolish questions, and the prisoner is able to document technical information. Clearly, he can hear and understand questions, and recall some basic scientific facts. He can write down mathematical symbols and recall details of equations. The prisoner is therefore able to answer more technical questions – questions of a more urgent nature that require answering.

‘Professor, now I have a task for you. Before your little accident you were working here on the calculations for the precise mixing of oxygen, hydrogen peroxide, and sodium permanganate to make a steady burn of fuel.’

Mayer titled his head slowly. It was still the best he could do for a nod.

‘Don’t be surprised Professor. I have done my homework too.’ Kessler gave a half smile. He continued. ‘You will write out these calculations. The nurse will help you. I will return in two hours.’ Kessler leant forward so his face was close to the Professor’s. Kessler hissed, ‘If the task is not finished, there will be severe consequences.’

Mayer sank back into the pillows, rasping and sweating.

‘Commandant please, the patient is very distressed, he will need more time.’ The nurse searched Kessler’s expression for the smallest sign of compassion – and found none.

‘Two hours! No more!’

Kessler stood up and turned briskly towards the door. The fuel calculations were essential. The photographs from the Middle East had shown the same injectors they were building at Kummersdorf. There was no more time. Dornberger needed to know exactly what rate of fuel injection was needed to get the fuel system to work. Mayer had spent much of his scientific career on such calculations, and could do it quickly, injuries or not.

Kessler strutted into the infirmary, checking his watch – exactly six p.m. The nurse quickly intercepted, waving with several sheets of paper, evidently trying to protect her patient. Kessler noted Mayer’s slumped exhaustion on the bed.

Good the prisoner has been working hard.
Kessler smiled.

‘Commandant, I have spent the entire afternoon with the Professor. He is now very tired, but I am pleased to report that the task is completed. Here, take a look.’

She thrust the notes at Kessler again. He took the sheets of paper and carefully examined each page. There were detailed descriptions and calculations. The handwriting changed halfway down the page. Evidently the Professor had tired, and the nurse had written some of the notes for him. Kessler was pleased with the progress. Still, he was no expert and would need to get one of the other rocket scientists to check the calculations. But as far as he could tell, the Professor had at least done what he had been asked, and had made the required notes.

‘This is a good start, Fräuline. However, I have another task. Wake the Professor.’

‘But Commandant, he is exhausted. It is too much for him. Please, can this wait a little while longer? The patient will be stronger after a few hours of rest.’

Kessler wasn’t in the mood. ‘Wake the Professor! Now!’

The nurse went through the routine of waking Mayer again, propping him up on the bed with pillows. Kessler took his position at the Professor’s side.

‘Professor, a good start, I must admit. However, time is not on our side. We have to make some urgent progress. So, I am afraid, I have some more questions for you.’ Kessler moved further up the bed to get closer.

‘Now, I will take the calculations you have provided, and ask one of the engineers to check your calculations. We can discuss any amendments later. However, I have a few other questions now, different questions. Tell me about
der Leibhaftige maschine
. What did you mean by that? Are you working on something else?’

Mayer stiffened; suddenly breathing rapidly, pain flashed through his chest. He coughed involuntarily, wincing at new discomfort in his ribs.

Kessler smiled.

At last! A line of questioning worth pursuing.

He leant forward again so Mayer could hear between coughs.

‘What kind of machine? Tell me Professor, what else have you been working on?’

Mayer stared back, taking deep breaths and snorting through his damaged nasal passage. Kessler sensed the challenge to his authority.

‘Fräuline, a pencil and paper for the Professor, please.’

She gently passed the notepaper and pencil to the Professor, arranging his hands so he could grip the pencil against the paper. A tear rolled down her cheek.

‘Professor, you will draw your machine. You will finish it today, and I will come back tomorrow morning to collect the drawing!’

Mayer grunted and, with a huge effort, threw the pencil on the floor. Kessler looked at the nurse. ‘See that he does it. This is vital work for Germany.’

The nurse nodded in agreement as she brushed the silent tears from her eyes.

Kessler stood and, straightening his tunic, he stared hard at Mayer for a few seconds; then he turned smartly towards the door.

On his way back to the office, Kessler analysed the interview.

There was definitely an expression of defiance on the prisoner’s face, but why the drama with the pencil? A small measure of protest is to be expected, but not this much. The interrogation has stumbled on something very important, something I’ve not considered before.

Kessler decided to check the case files on the Professor.

Perhaps some detail has been overlooked and there’s some connection between this machine, if it is a machine, and the events in Leipzig?

A manuscript had been stolen from the Professor’s office, but the thief had dropped a couple of pages. Then someone had gone to great lengths to get those pages back. Kessler recalled the fight on the train to Berlin – a professional soldier, an assassin no less. So, clearly the pages were of huge importance. Was there some connection between the manuscript and the Professor’s machine? Was this the big secret that the Professor was hiding?

Kessler would find out soon enough.

A
dewy mist hovered a few feet above the ground. Nash busied himself with an equipment check, trying not to think too much about the grim task ahead. The risks were substantial. He would have to get in close to kill the Professor, and that meant by default a real chance of being captured. At least the German uniform looked the part. A regular foot soldier, the lowest of the low. The kind of rank that didn’t look out of place on guard duty.

Nash secured his weapons and jumped up and down to check for noise: no clinking of metal on metal.

All good.

He leaned to the left and then to the right. The kit seemed reasonably balanced, given that his pockets were bulging with enough ammunition to start a small war. The bags of explosives and detonators inside his jacket dug into his ribs. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but he needed to look reasonably like the average infantryman; and they didn’t usually carry around big bags of explosives.

He poked around inside his jacket to make sure the detonators were kept clear of the main charges. It was a token gesture. One stray tracer round and he would be blown to smithereens. He jumped up and down again – still nothing jangling in his pockets. A last few delicate touches of black camouflage cream took the shine off his face; just enough to look like the great unwashed. The boots were suitably dull. What more could he do?

Patience was the name of the game now.

Nash moved forward, poking his head through the undergrowth. The coast was clear, and only a few yards through the long grass to the perimeter fence. He crawled forward, bolt cutters in hand. Resting the heavy pincers on the first chain link in the fence, he took up the strain –
snap
. No alarm – exhaling to relive the tension, he worked on the next link –
snap
. Then the next –
snap, snap
.

Suddenly, the dull sound of boots penetrated the mist. A patrol! He closed up the chain links as tidily as possible, and edged back a few yards into the mist. Mouth open, ears sharp, and utterly motionless – he waited.

The patrol passed.

He crawled back to the fence to resume work –
snap, snap
. He looked into the mist, checking left, then right – nothing.
Snap, snap, snap
.

He pulled back the mesh. Keeping flat, he edged under the fence. Methodically digging in his toes, and at the same time lifting his body a few centimetres off the ground, Nash gradually moved through the gap, cradling a rifle in his arms. Something tugged on his back.

Damn it! A snag!

He groped around, finding the errant loop in his belt kit. The loop suddenly released, sending a shimmer down the chain mail fence. He scampered through the hole, then paused to lay the fence flat again.

Sod it. It’ll have to do.

The sound of soft footfalls and the panting of a dog drifted in his direction.

He dashed over the open ground in a monkey run, keeping low with his weapon against his chest, and threw himself against the edge of the nearest pile of earth. The sentries came into view. Chest heaving, willing his breathing to slow, Nash struggled to keep still. The guards chatted to each other. The dog barked, straining at the leash. The handler tugged back on the leash, cursing, as he directed the animal to heel. They moved off along the fence line.

Motionless, with his mouth open and breathing gently, he listened for signs of life on the other side of the earthworks: nothing. Perhaps the earth was just muffling the sound of dozens of soldiers on the other side?

What the hell, time to move off.

Nash started to climb. Loose dirt on the earthen bank dragged at his feet. Edging upwards, his feet suddenly slid. Clods of earth and stone rolled down the bank. He fell. Grinding to a halt, he repositioned his grip and started climbing again. With a snake-like rhythm he made it to the top of the mound.

Good, no reception committee.

He rolled carefully over the top of the bank and down the other side, coming to rest on the grass in a squatting position. He strained to take in the view as his night vision adjusted.

It was at least another two hundred yards around the base of the earthworks to the infirmary. He squinted into the distance: diesel storage tanks, but some way off along the edge of the earthworks.

After checking for noise, he moved along the mound in a monkey run; keeping low, but with one hand ready on his weapon. The diesel tanks loomed out of the darkness. He moved behind the first tank and, crouching low, he rested his back against the cool cast iron.

He quickly checked his map.

About half way to the infirmary, so far so good.

He stared at the corrugated base of the fuel tank, and smiled as a deviation from the plan formed in his mind.

He pulled two explosive charges from under his tunic, and wedged them at the base of the diesel tanks, setting the timers for a fifteen-minute delay.

He took out his pistols, then checked the silencers, before clicking a round into each chamber.

He moved off at a steady walk, casually shouldering the rifle, making like a bored trooper on guard duty. His boots soaked up the dew as he covered the last hundred yards around the curvature of the earthworks.

The side of the infirmary building came into view. Two sentries manned a fire door at the far corner. Dusting himself off, and straightening his tunic, Nash cut across onto the path at the side of the building.

All quiet, too damned quiet!

The soldiers stood outside the fire door, some forty yards or so along the building. The sentries seemed reasonably alert, but were shuffling their feet. It was a good sign; they had been on duty for a while. Nash placed his hands casually behind his back, and strolled along the footpath. Thirty yards… his hands gripped the pistols… twenty yards… safety off… ten yards… the sentries turned to greet their new comrade. Five yards… ‘It’s a cold night, eh? Soon be out of here and in a warm billet.’ Nash spoke in fluent German, grinning like a fresh recruit.

Two yards…
close enough
… he pulled up both pistols simultaneously in a well-rehearsed, fluid movement, and fired.

Thud, thud
.

Brains splattered up the wall. He lunged forwards to catch the corpses, slumping to the ground with a sentry in each arm in a tangle of kit and body parts.

He glanced around.

There was no follow up but, equally, nowhere to conceal the bodies. He rolled them out flat on the earth adjacent to the footpath. It would have to do. Hopefully, anyone glancing from the top of path would pick out the natural line of the building and not the corpses lying next to it in the darkness.

He dipped into the shadow of the doorway, and listened at the fire door – silence. He checked the pistols again, and tried the door handle. It opened up to reveal a crack of light – but still no sound, and no guard behind the door. He opened the door a fraction more, and peered into the dimly lit ward.

The warmth and smell of the oil lamps filled his nostrils. The ward was open plan, with the beds in neatly regimented rows along each wall. The gentle sound of snoring drifted across the room. Somewhere at the far end at least one patient was sleeping. All the beds in immediate view were empty. Nash inched in a little more; it was a big ward with not much cover. He caught sight of a desk at the far end of the ward. A nurse sat dutifully doing some paperwork, or so it seemed. Several of the beds about half way down the ward were occupied. With luck, one of these would be Professor Mayer.