The Reich Device (11 page)

‘Has anyone else been in the radio room?’

‘No, sir. Only me and I always lock the door when I leave, sir.’ The radio operator swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

‘Move aside!’

The young radio operator vacated the box room. Kessler took his place over the desk. He ran his hand around the edge of the desk, then checked down the back of the telegraph. Nothing – a telltale layer of dust suggested no sign of tampering. Kessler rubbed the dust on his fingertips. ‘Are you sure no one else has been in the room?’

‘Yes Commandant, I am certain, only me.’

‘And you have the only key?’

‘Yes sir.’ The radio operator stiffened.

Clandestine use of telegraph didn’t seem plausible. There was only room for one person at a time in the radio room, and there was no hiding place for a private conversation.

‘Tell me, how long have you been with us?’

‘Three years, sir. Directly from the Signals Corps, sir.’ The radio operator stood firmly to attention.

Kessler nodded, he remembered hand-picking the young signals officer direct from the academy. The teenager was keen, and fresh from the tree; not yet corrupted by the spoils of the Wehrmacht. No, there
had
to be another explanation.

‘Where does the telegraph cable go from here? How is it connected to Berlin?’

‘Well, sir. The cable runs in the wall cavity to the ground floor, and joins the main bundle of cables under the building, and then into the street.’

‘Could anyone tamper with the cable from outside?’

‘Not likely, sir. The telegraph wire is bundled with a mixture of anonymous cables in the basement, and on leaving the building is further convoluted with more cables from all the other offices in the main street. Only a trained engineer could find the right wire, and even then, it would take some considerable time.’

Kessler nodded his appreciation. Nonetheless, he
would
have the entire length of the cables checked as a precaution. There was only one logical conclusion: the security leak must be in Berlin. If there
was
a leak? It could still be a coincidence. Was there some other chain of events that had brought the intruder to the Professor’s office on the same day as the telegram from Berlin? He would find out, and hang the culprit for treason.

C
ommandant Kessler checked his watch. It was still early, but already the train station was busy with the first flush of commuters arriving off the tram lines that criss-crossed the main entrance. It was hardly a surprise; after all, Leipzig was an important rail head in the German railway network, with dozens of platforms for domestic travellers, and a large goods yard for freight. Closing the station had been out of the question. Instead he had to make do with a side entrance. Still, the men were busy unloading the three-ton truck that had been used to carry the Professor’s papers to the station.

‘How many crates left?’

The sergeant flipped the pages on his clipboard. ‘Ten, we have already loaded fifteen crates onto the train, sir.’

‘And the train is secure?’

‘Yes sir, and arranged exactly as you ordered.’

Kessler was pleased with his shrewd plan – concealment in plain sight. Rather than commandeering an entire train he had opted for a couple of secure carriages on the early morning train to Berlin. The first train always carried a fair few soldiers heading home to their regiments. Nothing much would be out of the ordinary. With luck, most passengers wouldn’t even notice his men on the train; as long as he could get his cargo of crates loaded before the public arrived for boarding.

Kessler checked his watch again. ‘Let me see the secure cargo carriage, bring this crate.’ Kessler patted the nearest crate with his leather glove. The sergeant gave more orders. Men moved efficiently to their allocated task.

The burly sergeant heaved the crate up the wooden ramp into the goods car. Kessler followed at a serene pace, checking the security measures. Everything was in place. Two men stood on guard duty, one at each door. They would remain at their posts inside the car for the entire journey; there would be no opportunity to interfere with the cargo. Kessler checked the manifest as several more crates arrived. ‘Very good Sergeant, bring me the keys when everything is locked down.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And the Professor?’

‘As you ordered sir.’

Kessler smiled at his little ruse and headed for the first-class compartment in the adjacent passenger car. Once everything was secure, the public could board the rest of the train.

Nash took a welcome sip of hot coffee and observed the scene. To the average passer-by he was just another worker taking breakfast at one of the many cafes outside the station. So far the count was fifteen crates, and some thirty men; but no sign of Professor Mayer. The weapons they were carrying amounted to a fair arsenal: the latest automatic pistols, machine guns, grenades. These men were ready for a war, not a train journey. They were also professionals. The commander did not need to bark orders. Small gestures were enough to get the men moving quickly and efficiently.

One last crate appeared from the back of the truck. Still no Mayer. Had he missed something?

He would have to be careful.

After casually finishing up his coffee, he headed across the street towards the main entrance to the station. He shuffled the train tickets he had purchased earlier, while pretending to check platform numbers on the board. It was easy to blend in with the morning crowd.

The main concourse gave a clear view down the length of the train; exactly twenty passenger cars, with the goods carriage sandwiched between first and second class. Good news – nothing appeared to have been altered since last night. Two guards followed the last crate on to the train and the cargo doors were locked behind them. Another six heavily armed soldiers boarded the adjacent carriage.

Christ! Half the bloody German Army is on the train
.

It didn’t matter. Whether Mayer was on the train or not, his orders were to get the missing pages back at
any
cost. It seemed unlikely that such valuable pages would be locked away as cargo. If the papers were here at all, they would be on the person of the commanding officer.

A sharp blow of the station master’s whistle announced boarding. Passengers filtered through the makeshift barrier onto the platform. Making like a commuter, Nash blended in with the bustling masses and soon found his seat; in the same carriage as the target. A bristling line of soldiers in the gangway gave the position of the German commander, hidden away some four compartments along the corridor. Nash estimated the distance: thirty feet or so away, a lot could happen over such a distance. It was a big risk, even for a trained assassin.

Nash sat quietly, ignoring the other passengers, taking comfort from the feel of the Colt Forty-Five pistol under his coat and the collection of stiletto throwing knives secreted about his person. All he could do now was wait. Everything depended on the small explosive charges he had placed under the first carriage last night, just enough to create a loud bang and damage some of the gearing, and hopefully noisy enough to draw the soldiers away to investigate. The window of opportunity would be narrow, very narrow indeed. Nash sat back, and to avoid striking up conversation with the locals, buried his head in a newspaper. It would be ‘show time’ soon enough.

The screech of brakes threw passengers forward, as the remnants of the explosion filled the air with smoke and the smell of cordite. Nash pushed past screaming passengers and burst into the gangway, catching a glimpse of the guards heading away up the corridor towards the explosion. Head down, breathing hard, pumping up the adrenalin, he charged, pushing civilians aside as they emerged from their compartments.

One… two… three compartments… he slipped a stiletto throwing knife into his hand and, at full tilt, piled through the door into the fourth.

Speed worked to his advantage as the knife instinctively found its target. A trooper dropped to the deck gasping for air as the blade penetrated his windpipe and spinal cord – that left only the Commandant. Allowing momentum to carry him over the body of the trooper, Nash landed hard, pulverising the Commandant’s rib cage with his shoulder. Both men flew backwards onto the window seat.

Kessler drove his elbow into the side of Nash’s neck, trying to catch the nerve endings that crossed the shoulder blade. It had the desired effect: Nash erupted in pain as the power to his right arm evaporated. Kessler was well rehearsed at close-quarter hand-to-hand combat, and knew how to damage his opponent.

‘You cannot escape!’ Kessler drove his elbow down again onto Nash’s neck and shoulder.

Jarred by the impact, with nausea rising, and dizzy, Nash twisted abruptly.

‘Guards! Guards!’ Kessler bellowed, still raining down controlled blows on his adversary’s head and neck.

Snorting blood, ignoring the pain, Nash arched his back, pulling out a second throwing knife. The blade danced around in his hand. He stretched his back some more to create a working space, then adjusting his grip, he drove the knife upwards, hoping to find the soft tissue of the lower jaw and then push the steel on into the brain stem.

‘Arrggghhhhh!’ Kessler sensed the danger, and using both hands halted the advancing blade, but too late – blood gushed from under his chin as the blade penetrated beneath his jaw.

‘Arrrrgggghhhh!’ Hammering hard, as if against an anvil, Kessler thumped both hands down on the hilt of the blade; a second gush of blood issued forth as the blade swept free.

Nash swung again.

Kessler blocked, but not fast enough. The knife opened a long gash up on his left cheek. Missing the eye socket, the tip of the blade glanced off his eyebrow. He screwed his face up against the pain, and raised his arm to protect the injury – it was a bad move.

Nash drove the blade hard towards his exposed jugular.

Instantaneously, Kessler responded, catching Nash in the stomach with his knee and sending the knife off target. The blade sunk harmlessly into the seat, a fraction of an inch from Kessler’s head.

‘Guards! Guards!’ Kessler lashed out with his legs and, managing to get one foot squarely on Nash’s stomach, he kicked hard. The blow forced Nash backwards onto the opposite seat. Kessler launched himself forward in attack but, as he did so, Nash dived sideways and grabbed the Commandant from behind into a headlock.

The men rolled frantically around the carriage, but with each jolt the headlock got tighter.

Rasping for breath, clawing at the vice-like grip across his windpipe, Kessler’s vision began to blur. He tried to focus. Tunnel vision started to set in as the room slipped from reality. Kessler blacked out.

The sound of boots thumping down the corridor, and the barking of orders, marked the return of the soldiers. Nash flipped the Commandant over to expose the pockets on his tunic, and searched frantically. His instinct had been right. He grabbed the papers from the Commandant’s inside breast pocket, then folding the sheets quickly buried them deep inside his own pocket. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice; this time the pages would be secure.

Nash glanced into the gangway. Bemused civilians milled about in total chaos amongst the soldiers, lots of soldiers! It would have to be the window; this was becoming a habit. He smashed the butt of the Colt against the glass. It did the trick, shattering the window in an instant.

The train stopped dead as Nash jumped.

Luck was on his side for once. A steep grassy embankment offered a soft landing. A dense pine forest at the bottom of the bank beckoned. Nash rolled more or less uncontrollably down the slope, only just managing to gain his feet as he bounced into the first pine tree.

Shots rang out. Wood splintered next to his head. He dove into the dense tree line, and was suddenly swallowed by the damp and darkness of the tangled pines. He rolled into a semi-crouching posture, and plunged headlong into the woodland with his clothes ripping and branches slashing at his face – determined to put some distance between himself and the train. After about sixty feet, fatigue set in. The branches were just getting too dense for a belt and braces charge. Changing tack, he went down to an almost crawling position and, tucking his head in for protection, he drove on. It seemed to work, providing a bit more headway.

Instinct told him to change direction.

Always make the pursuit difficult
.

He veered to the right, and ploughed onwards, desperately trying to keep tabs on time and distance. It would be all too easy to get disorientated, and with no view of the edge of the tree line, the last thing he wanted to do was to wander round in circles and end up back at the train.

He stopped to take stock in the darkness. Gulping deep breaths, Nash tried to calm his breathing; the noise rattled around inside his head. In the darkness, one needed to be able to
hear
or
smell
the enemy. Willing himself quiet, he tilted his head and opened his mouth wide; it all helped to focus on hearing. A few minutes of silence passed – nothing, no soldiers – he was in the clear, for now.

The corporal considered climbing out of the window after the assailant, but decided against it. The man was already in the tree line, and his orders were to stay on the train and protect the cargo. Besides, he had two casualties to deal with, and a crowd of panicked civilians. He resigned himself to the task as he put away his revolver.

Kessler groaned as he came to. He gradually focused his one good eye, and concentrated on breathing, then pulled himself onto a seat with some help from the corporal. He tried to shake his head clear. He needed to take command and assess the situation. Had he been out for just a few seconds, or was it longer? He looked down at the dead soldier on the floor. Huge quantities of blood had soaked into the cheap carpet from the knife wound on the soldier’s neck. The corporal checked for a pulse, but both men knew their comrade was dead.