The Reich Device (18 page)

A loud bang, the hiss of a piston. A thrashing pink corpse falls to the ground.

The pig is heavy. Numb hands work a chain around its ankle. A tug on a pulley, a taut rope, the beast lifts off the ground. ‘Put your back into it boy!’ The words echo… Father’s knife slashes open the bulging belly. The stench of gastric acid and faeces fill the air. I reach up, pull on the belly skin, but too late. An avalanche of warm, pulsating entrails fill my throat… blackness… echoing… blackness. ‘Father!’

Nash coughed and spluttered the lake water from his lungs. Deathly cold penetrated his limbs. Faint voices slowly penetrated his skull. He lurched forward, thrashing, he opened his eyes and gasped in deep breaths.

He instinctively turned around in the water, looking for the shoreline. Suddenly he got his bearing; he’d been lucky and drifted towards the far shore away from the German troops. How long had he been out? A few minutes, an hour, maybe longer? In between coughs and bouts of shivering he tried to get a rhythm going; treading water would warm himself up.

With tremendous effort he rolled over onto his front and started a slow swim towards the shore, but his limbs wouldn’t work; it was more of a pathetic doggy paddle. He was only fifty yards or so off the beach, but his legs were frozen lumps of meat.

Damn it! Swim!

Slowly, shivering, he managed to move, building up a bizarre rhythm.

Willing himself ashore, he stumbled onto the beach. Still shivering with cold, hallucinating, he somehow managed to get to his feet. He tried walking a few paces and collapsed. He looked down at his feet and instructed his toes to move – nothing. He prodded his thighs – no sensation. His legs just didn’t feel like part of his body. They belonged to someone else; and they would not work.

‘Fuck!’ Gritting his teeth with frustration, he allowed his training to kick in. ‘Okay, think! Escape and evasion: make a plan, always make a plan. Number one – fit to travel? No, not yet… ’ he muttered to himself; but suddenly he knew what to do.

Reduce heat loss – yes, that’s it! – get out of my wet clothes.

He staggered a few yards into the tree line to find some cover, and stripped off his soaking clothes. He brushed the water off his body as best he could with his bare hands to dry himself. Then wrung and twisted each item of clothing to remove as much water as possible. Then he got dressed. The clothes were still damp and cold, but at least he was losing less body heat than before.

Time to get going
!

It would soon be sunrise, and the place would be crawling with troops by then. He wasn’t about to let a little spell of hypothermia prevent his escape. The best option was to head east towards the Polish border. He took a compass bearing, not trusting his senses.

East – away from the lake – yes that was the right direction.

Drawing comfort from organising himself, Nash headed off.

The seaplane was obviously lost and the rendezvous with the ship in the Baltic Sea was now a pipe dream. The ship’s commander would soon figure out that something had gone wrong, and would head back out into the more neutral waters of the North Sea. He would have to find his own way home. Fortunately, escape and evasion drills were second nature. The border was only one-hundred-and-fifty kilometres away, and even on foot in his current condition, he could cover that distance in three or four days. Once across the border into Poland, he could arrange a pick up.

The Professor’s eyes went in and out of focus. His head throbbed intensely, with the most severe headache. A pain in his chest registered; it hurt to breathe. There were shadows moving around him, and voices, lots of voices. The smell of hospital disinfectant filled his nostrils.

Suddenly, the bright lights in the room came into focus. Mayer tried to shield his eyes from the light. He was unable to move his left arm. He tried the other arm; it worked but hurt like hell. He groaned on the edge of consciousness.

The doctor spoke with a sympathetic tone. ‘Herr Professor, can you hear me? Can you hear me?’

The operation had been a relative success, but the head injury had caused some paralysis on the left side of the patient’s body.

‘You are in the hospital at Kummersdorf. You are safe. Just rest, please keep still.’

Mayer groaned a reply in acknowledgement.

The doctor was unable to conceal his relief. The patient had responded! The doctor looked at Kessler. ‘He is coming round, but don’t expect too much at first. It will be some days, a week or maybe longer, before he is well enough to be interviewed. I will keep you informed… ’

Kessler nodded. There was nothing much he could do. He would have to wait until the Professor was well enough to give coherent answers to his questions. If he pressed him for answers now, it would kill him.

S
inclair stared out of the office window, absently ignoring the hustle and bustle of the daily commute along the embankment of the River Thames. The mission in Germany had evidently gone wrong. Sinclair looked intensely at Nash. Both men wore grave faces.

‘Danny, what the hell happened out there? I received a garbled message from HMS Belfast five days ago, indicating that the plane didn’t make the rendezvous in the Baltic as planned.’ Sinclair started pacing. ‘I am going to have to tell Mr Churchill something, is there any shred of good news?’ He turned to face Nash.

Nash sat hunched at the end of Sinclair’s desk in a woollen sweater and an old pair of worn corduroy trousers. He gently probed the stitches in his brow, hoping that the bruising on his right eye would go down so that he could see out of it. A fresh dressing covered a wound on the back of his other hand. ‘We were taking heavy fire at the pickup point; some fifty or sixty German troops; regulars not conscripts. I don’t know… ’ He rubbed his wound. ‘… I managed to bundle the Professor into the plane, and half got in myself. Then it all went bad.’

Sinclair nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Munitions were incoming, bouncing all over the place. I am guessing the pilot took some rounds. Anyway, the plane flipped and the last thing I remember was waking up on the far side of the lake.’ Nash closed his good eye, his head throbbed.

‘Danny, what about the Professor?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The plane crashed on the lakeside. Mayer is either dead or captured.’

‘We must assume the worst; that the Professor has been captured alive. Where would they take him?’ queried Sinclair.

‘Almost certainly back to Kummersdorf. It’s the nearest location with high security. Besides, he knows too much about their facility. It would be a security risk to move him elsewhere.’ Nash was sure.

‘So, if we assume our man is still at Kummersdorf. What will happen next – interrogation?’ suggested Sinclair.

‘Yes, almost certainly, the Germans will obviously want to know why he was targeted,’ agreed Nash.

‘Then he will talk. Every man has his breaking point and the Germans will push him for answers.’

‘I agree, that’s the likely outcome.’ Nash shook his head, and screwed up his brow against the next pulse of agony inside his skull.

‘Militarily, I would say our options are limited. The Germans will not be fooled twice.’ Sinclair opened his palms in a gesture of submission. ‘They will strengthen their security quickly. The chances of another clandestine recovery will be much reduced.’

Nash sat up, stretching his back. ‘A major ground assault is out of the question, and I agree; we can’t make a second attempt to sneak into the base and grab the Professor. Besides, we’re not even sure he’s there. Even if he is, he may not be fit to travel. This leaves two other options: blow the place sky high, or do nothing – for now at least – and hope the old goat doesn’t talk.’

‘Not much of a choice.’ Sinclair slumped into his office chair opposite Nash and continued. ‘How about some carefully directed mortar fire from the ground onto the base?’

‘Yes, that would be possible, especially if we use the communists or local partisans as cover. We would be unlikely to impact the main facility though. The buildings are mostly reinforced concrete secured behind steep earthworks. It would be a waste of time.’

‘Yes, but the living quarters are not so well protected, and there must be plenty of fuel on site. A few well-placed rounds could be enough?’ Sinclair leant forward on the desk, raising an eyebrow.

Nash looked up. ‘It might work, but the odds are stacked against it – even for me – and I know the terrain. What if we do nothing? What can the Professor tell them?’

Sinclair shook his head. ‘Let’s face it. A man under interrogation will
eventually
answer
all
the questions he is asked.’

He was right, they both knew the score. It was a matter of fact that the interrogator
always
won in the end.

‘So… ’ Sinclair exhaled to clear his mind. ‘What if we introduce some misdirection? We leak the idea that the Professor was targeted for some other reason… ’

‘Misdirection, so they don’t ask the right questions?’ Nash perked up.

Sinclair could see a way forward at last. ‘Yes, precisely! It needs to be something that will infuriate the Germans to such an extent that it blinds them to other possibilities.’

Nash interjected. ‘The Nazis despise the Jews and the Poles. Something with a race angle that will send them off the deep end. We could suggest the Poles were recruiting for their own weapons programme, or helping their Russian neighbours?’

‘The Jewish idea is more believable.’ Sinclair rubbed his chin and opened the draw on his desk, removing a file.

He threw the file open on the table. ‘This came in yesterday from Rudy. The Germans are clearly up to something. I am not sure yet, but it looks like coercion: extorting funds from rich bankers in America. A German spy is shopping for precious metals in South Africa, and the Germans are stealing machine parts from the USA. But for what reason?’

Nash picked up the file, and scanned the first page. ‘So… we let them.’ He grinned for the first time. He paused as a plan began to formulate in his mind. ‘We let them – and send them back to Germany with a believable story about a top secret rocket programme in the Middle East.’

‘That will infuriate Herr Hitler for sure; the very idea that the Jews and the Arabs might be beating them at their own game!’ Sinclair warmed to the suggestion.

Nash picked up a piece of paper from the file. ‘What’s this supposed to be?’ He held the drawing up for Sinclair.

‘We’re not sure yet. Our technical team are working on it now, but we believe it’s some kind of carburettor or mixing device from a new kind of rocket engine.’

‘This could be useful intelligence for concocting a story.’

‘Good idea, study the file. Misdirection is our best chance at the moment. Interrogation will be inevitable for Professor Mayer, but we should at least stack the odds in our favour. I am depending on you to create an elaborate hoax,’ Sinclair ordered.

‘Yes, sir. Do we still have an office in the Middle East?’

‘Your best bet is our man in Cairo. It looks like you could do with a bit of sun.’ Sinclair gave a wry smile.

‘Yes, sir. You’re not wrong on that score.’

Nash folded the file, and shoved it under his arm as he stood up.

‘Danny… ’

Nash paused.

‘Will you see Emily while you’re in London? She… well… she’s not herself.’

‘I don’t know. I thought it best to leave it, for a while anyway.’

Sinclair nodded slowly.

Nash headed for the door. What the hell was he going to say to Emily anyway? Maybe it really was better to leave it.

Nash hobbled up the last flight of stairs, with a half-empty duffle bag on his shoulder. The musty, mildew odour of stale air on the top landing filled his nostrils. The bare floorboards creaked under his weight as he probed around the top of the door frame looking for his key. Eventually finding it amongst the accumulated dust, he wrestled with the deadlock. The mechanism finally gave a sudden click. He leant on the faded red paintwork, and shoved in the usual spot. The door sprang open. Nash stepped inside, dropping his bag on the moth-eaten rug, and closed the door behind himself.

He stared around the room, engulfed by loneliness.

This was the sum total of his personal life: a rented attic room with a rusty old bed, a wardrobe that had seen better days, and a battered old stove. In fact, not even that; the furniture belonged to his landlord, and he’d taken the stove out of a skip at the back of the NAAFI. Strictly speaking, the stove still belonged to the army. The only thing he could call his own were the clothes he stood up in and the contents of the duffle bag.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, and dragged over the canvas sack, placing it on the floor between his legs. He opened the drawstring, revealing the contents.

He pulled out one change of underwear, a clean but crumpled shirt, a pair of trousers – well, actually blue number eights, courtesy of the Royal Navy surplus store – and a set of stiletto throwing knives with an oil stone.

In the bottom of the bag he found the picture frame.

He lifted the small wooden frame gently in his palm. The light from the attic window above the bed seemed to bring out the colours of her face. Emily stared back at him from the photograph, standing all ladylike in her long dress and fine shoes. Her hair was tied back formally into a bonnet. It must have been taken on a Sunday morning before church.

Church – what the hell had he been thinking?

There was more chance of meeting the Pope than getting Emily, or any woman, to the altar.

He looked slowly around the room.

Desolation and death. What else did he have to offer her?

Nothing.

A sudden gentle
tap-tap
on the door roused Nash from his thoughts. Who was it? Nobody knew he was here; except Sinclair of course. Maybe the landlady had heard him come in?

Nash exhaled as he struggled to his feet and shuffled two steps over the small rug to the door. He opened it.

Emily stood in the entrance, tears rolling silently down her perfect face. She tried to smile. Her cheeks dimpled as she curved her ruby-red lips.