The Reich Device (21 page)

A forest emerged into view.

The smell of bluebells, the gentle warmth of the sun, an inner peace as he rested the hunting rifle on the log. He looked through the cross hairs.

The wolf stood firm, almost majestic, snarling gently as the faint scent of human sweat caught its nostrils.

A steady voice of experience whispered into his ear. ‘Feel the shot son, become one with the rifle. Take your time… ’

Heinkel rested his chin against the stock of the rifle. The smell of linseed oil made him feel at home with the weapon. He worked his finger gently onto the trigger.

The beast snarled through the telescopic sight.

‘That’s it my boy… slowly… relax… a clean kill… ’

Heinkel fired.

The wolf dropped to the ground.

‘An excellent shot my boy! You’ve the makings of a fine gamekeeper. Your mother would have been proud.’

Heinkel surged with pride. At three hundred metres, not many sixteen-year-old boys could have made the shot. He looked at the rifle, admiring the elegant woodwork and craftsmanship of the weapon. Finally, he’d found his purpose in life.

It was early evening by the time Heinkel got to the brown envelope. After checking the blinds, he locked the door to his room. Carefully, expertly, he felt the edges of the brown envelope. There was no sign or smell of explosives. He gingerly worked open the sealed end, and laid the envelope flat on the desk.

He peered inside, trying not to disturb the contents.

The papers were as Lutz, whoever he was, had suggested; a brochure from the Cape Mineral Company, with some stapled inserts giving some recent geological data. Nothing looked suspicious.

He decided it really was just an envelope, and carefully emptied the contents onto his desk. The documents appeared to be genuine. He scanned one of the geology reports, the language looked technical enough. There were a few loose pages, and what looked like the edge of a couple of photographs protruding from the papers. The loose pages were letters of correspondence. A random collection of letters: one from a bank offering financial services in Cape Town, another concerning a hotel booking, and another relating to vehicle hire.

Heinkel pulled out the photographs.

He took in the details of the first photograph: liquid oxygen cylinders and men at work in Arabic dress.

A factory or installation of some kind?

He flipped to the second photograph: engine components, and what looked like a very large shell casing in the background. Maybe not a shell, it was too large, perhaps something else?

He wasn’t sure. He picked up each photograph by the edges, and carefully turned them over. On the back, the photographic paper had an Egyptian watermark.

So, the pictures were either taken in Egypt, or at least, they were printed there. But what did the photographs represent?

Instinct started to churn in his gut. It was obviously a place where some very technical work was being done, involving some sophisticated engineering. The liquid oxygen was an interesting factor. Getting hold of liquid oxygen was not cheap, especially in Egypt. This was at least a well-funded engineering project, and certainly of military interest. But who would fund such an operation? It could be any number of governments with interests in the Middle East.

It was also possible that the photographs were deliberately planted amongst the papers – no not a possibility – definitely so. The question was really
who
put them there? And
why
?

Plant, or no plant, Berlin would want to see the photographs; but who should he use as the courier? He could do it himself, but that would blow his cover. He’d worked too hard over the last three years to infiltrate the Rockefeller Empire and its oil companies around the globe. No, he would get some local partisan to do it. There were plenty of African Germans looking for a better life back in the Fatherland. There were several captains in the merchant fleet who were loyal to the Wehrmacht, and any one of them could be the fall guy if things went wrong.

Heinkel smiled to himself as a plan formed in his mind’s eye. Heinkel was a spy – no ordinary spy – but the best Germany had to offer.

T
he doctor reviewed his notes. It was no use, he couldn’t put Kessler off any longer. Professor Mayer had been at death’s door and was simply unable to answer questions; but that was some weeks ago. The patient was still very fragile, and it was annoying that an SS thug could overrule the Army Medical Corp, but what could he do? He had already done everything that was possible.

The doctor stood at the end of the ward, notes in hand, trying to speak quietly so as not to disturb his patient.

‘Commandant Kessler, I must protest. As you know the skull injury has been infected and I have had to open the wound several times to drain the pus. I have only just finished re-stitching his skull back together again. I think it will heal this time, but the patient is too unwell to be interviewed.’

‘It matters not. Time is now of the essence and the prisoner will answer my questions.’ Kessler stood straight, towering over the doctor.

‘I agree his fever is subsiding, but the repeated operations have resulted in some neurological damage. The patient has partial paralysis on the left side of his body – his left arm and left leg are very weak, and he may never walk again. His facial muscles are also partially paralysed. The patient can only mumble.’

‘Paralysis or not, the prisoner is alive and I will interview him. What of the Professor’s mental faculties?’

‘He speaks with a terrible lisp, almost inaudible; I just don’t know… please Commandant, let the patient rest for a few more days.’

‘Impossible! We will proceed.’ Kessler stormed off in the direction of the patient’s bed. The doctor skipped along behind, still protesting.

Kessler sat on the end of the Professor’s bed next to a nurse who was working intently on massaging the Professor’s arm.

‘Good morning Fräulein. How is the patient today?’ Kessler smiled at the nurse.

‘Improving Herr Commandant,’ she dutifully replied. ‘I have been giving daily physiotherapy, each day his arm is regaining some mobility.’

‘Good and what of his speech?’ Kessler watched as the patient drooled.

‘This is not so good, Herr Commandant. His words are very slurred and broken, but I think I can now understand when he speaks.’

‘Good, that is good,’ Kessler smiled, patting the nurse on the knee. ‘You will act as my interpreter.’

The nurse smiled back politely. Kessler turned his attention to Mayer.

‘Good morning Professor, it is time for our weekly little talk. How have you been this week?’ Kessler wasn’t used to the softly, softly, approach; but he had no choice.

‘Goooood… ’ the Professor rasped in reply.

‘I see you are being looked after well, and the food is good?’ Kessler gave a sickly smile.

Mayer tilted his head forward slightly, not exactly a nod, but clear enough.

‘Well I have some questions for you. I want you to think hard. I want you to think hard about the accident. Can you do that for me?’

No response. Kessler continued regardless.

‘You remember the accident?’

Mayer tilted his head.

‘Do you remember working in the laboratory before the accident?’

He tilted his head again.

So, the Professor does remember things before the accident.

‘Good, good,’ Kessler soothed. ‘Think now about the day of the accident. You were in your sleeping quarters with all your colleagues. Do you remember?’

‘Yeeeees… ’

‘There was some noise outside, and you were awoken in the middle of the night. Do you remember that Professor?’

Mayer gave a weak nod.

‘A man came into your quarters looking for you; a German Officer who specifically asked for you by name. Picture this man in your mind, Professor.’ Kessler paused to allow the patient to collect his thoughts. ‘Think hard about this man. What do you see? Think carefully… picture this man in your mind. Is the man a foreigner?’ Kessler tried to be soothing as he continued. ‘… Picture the man in your mind, think… and remember. He is dressed in a German uniform. Is this man a German… or a foreigner?’ He waited a few more seconds for Mayer to focus his thoughts, then spoke clearly and calmly. ‘Professor, is this man a foreigner?’

‘Yeeeees.’

‘Good, good… ’ Kessler paused, ‘… now, what kind of foreigner? Is this man a Norwegian perhaps?’

Kessler remembered the instrument panel on the Catalina seaplane was partly in Norwegian.

‘Nooooo.’

‘Never mind, think hard Professor… ’ Kessler paused, allowing Mayer to keep up, ‘… is this man American?’

‘Maaaay beeeee.’ Mayer gave a spasm and began to cough. The nurse attended to him, giving the Commandant a disapproving glance.

Kessler waited for the moment to pass, and then continued.

‘Professor, do you know why this man, the foreigner, wanted to speak with you?’

Mayer gently shook his head.

‘Was it about rockets?’

No response. Mayer went into another spasm and coughed again. Kessler pressed on.

‘Was it about rockets? Did the foreigner want to know about rockets?’

‘Maaaay beeeee… ’

The reply was less audible. The interview was taking its toll.

‘Did the man ask about rocket fuel?’

‘Ca… can’t… reee… member… ’ Mayer muttered, less audible than before.

Kessler decided on a different line of questioning.

‘Did this man carry a gun? An American pistol, perhaps?’

No response.

‘Did he speak to you in English?’

No response.

The nurse interrupted. ‘I am sorry Commandant, he is very weak. Perhaps we can try again in a few hours?’

Kessler gave a smile. ‘You are right, Fräulein. We will try again this afternoon.’

Kessler hid his irritation. Every time he got to a critical step in the questioning the Professor would collapse. Was he really exhausted or was he just avoiding the questions? The game would continue later. Kessler rallied at the thought. He stood up and gave a polite nod to the Professor and the nurse, and headed back to his office.

Kessler gathered his thoughts as he walked towards the hospital for the afternoon session. The investigation at the crash site had eventually identified the origin of the plane thanks to the unique identifying chassis number and a manufacturer’s mark stamped on the aluminium frame of the aircraft. It was a Catalina PBY mark 5 seaplane. This model was produced by an American company, but sold widely to the Australian Air Force, to forces in New Zealand, Canada, and England. The dual language on the dials suggested that the plane operated in Norway, perhaps between Britain and Norway. The small arms fired from the flying boat were American, but they had also found shell casings under the flooring grills from an older model Vickers machine gun. The Vickers was a giveaway – standard issue of the British Army. So this was clearly an American operation with a British connection.

Kessler burst through the doors onto the ward, walking briskly with a smile towards Mayer’s bed. ‘Good afternoon Fräulein. I trust the Professor has rested?’

She nodded and smiled.

‘Good.’ Kessler positioned himself on the bed, close to the patient. ‘Professor, let us continue our conversation… ’ he paused, ‘… we were talking about rockets. Did the foreigner ask you anything about rockets?’

Skipping the small talk, Kessler was determined to make progress this time.

‘Nooooo… ’ Mayer gargled.

‘Did you tell him anything about rockets?’

‘Nooooo… timeeeee… ’

‘So you would have talked if there had been time?’ Kessler was curious.

The Professor shook his head and went into a coughing fit. Kessler ignored it.

‘Did you know the man, had you seen him before?’

‘Nooooo… ’ Mayer coughed.

Kessler’s senses worked overtime, something wasn’t quite right.

‘You
did
know the man! You
have
seen him before. Where?!’ demanded Kessler.

‘Nooooo… Nooooo… ’ Mayer erupted into a violent coughing fit.

Kessler switched to a more soothing tone. ‘Think Professor, where might you have seen this man before?’

No response. Mayer slumped.

‘Think Professor, where… where have you seen this man before? Picture the man in your mind… where?’

‘Deeee… ath… Der… Leib… haf… tigeeeee… ma… schine… ’ The words struggled to come out. Kessler looked at the nurse for interpretation.

‘Der Leibhaftige… maschine… ’ The nurse looked puzzled ‘He said something about death and the
devil machine
– does he mean the rocket?’ She looked at Kessler for confirmation.

‘Perhaps.’ He turned to the Professor. ‘What about the rocket Professor Mayer?’ Kessler pressed for a reply.

‘Deeeath!… Deeeath!… Der Leibhaftige… maschine!’ Mayer forced the words out and collapsed back on the bed.

‘What about the rocket Professor? Tell me? Tell me!’ Kessler moved closer, desperate to hear the reply.

‘Deee… ath… ’ Mayer passed out.

‘He must be delirious.’ Kessler shook his head in disgust. ‘We will try again tomorrow.’

With that the interrogation was concluded.

R
udy Temple kept in the shadow of the fisherman’s hut, and peered through a gap in the wooden slats to observe the quayside. The hustle and bustle of workers carrying boxes of fish, crates of coffee and other dry goods partially obscured his view. Heinkel was easy to pick out in his crisply pressed light tan trousers and clean white shirt. Temple flicked a glance along the concrete pier.

Good
.

His men were in position, and would hopefully go unnoticed amongst the workers. He returned his attention to the target.

Heinkel walked at a steady pace, clutching a leather satchel.

Temple squinted at the bag.

Yep, the same one from the interview at the customs office, and looking just as heavy.
He had to admit, Heinkel was clearly a professional who paid attention to detail. The team had followed him for several days. He never used the same route twice, he doubled back to add detours, suddenly changed modes of transport, and was always alert. In fact, Heinkel had almost given him the slip on more than one occasion. Doubling the surveillance teams had kept the tail going, but that had its own dangers; it could make the target more aware. It was a risk worth taking to ensure the false intelligence was on its way to Germany.