The Reich Device (29 page)

‘Where are we going?’

‘No more questions, silence.’ Heinkel poked the gun into Einstein’s back. ‘Head for the wooded path, we’re going down to the river.’

‘Why are we going there?’

‘No questions, just move.’ He prodded Einstein with the gun.

Nash checked the number plate on the Jaguar. Not surprisingly, it was stolen. Missing from the driver’s pool at the Bank of England. The team had been following him ever since Cape Town. Heinkel had taken a plane from Cape Town via Nairobi to Alexandria in Egypt. It was a relatively new commercial route for Imperial Airways. A short hop on a flying boat to Southampton completed the journey. They could have picked him up as soon as he set foot on British soil, but Sinclair had decided to run with it.

Heinkel had visited several diamond traders and bankers in London. What the hell was he doing talking to bankers? Was this something to do with his connections to Rockefeller in America, or his activities in Cape Town? It was certainly looking like Mr Heinkel was on a grand tour to fill the German coffers alright, but what for? Then there was a sudden departure from his routine, with several visits to Oxford in the last few days. What was he doing in Oxford? It didn’t make any sense – there weren’t any big banks in the sleepy little town.

It would have to wait; there were more pressing matters. The parked vehicle was empty. Heinkel was on foot; but where?

Nash spoke into his radio. ‘The target is foxtrot. Does anyone have eyes on?’

‘That’s a negative, sir,’ a voice crackled back.

‘Run another check, how many VIPs within a mile radius of our position?’

‘Will do, sir.’ The earpiece turned to static.

Nash moved to the rear of the car, searching around the door seals with his torch, then around the boot. He took a knife from his belt, and wedged it into the lock, forcing the trunk open. He shone the torch inside. Nothing much, just a small holdall. He unzipped the bag: a used shirt, a tie, and some polished shoes.

Nash spoke into his radio. ‘Be advised, the target has changed clothing, stand by.’

He shone the torch around the edge of the trunk, out of habit, rather than searching for anything in particular. Then he noticed it – a thin slither of gun paper sticking out from the internal upholstery. He tapped the side panels inside the trunk –
chink, chink
– the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. He stabbed his knife into the lining, and tore open a hole in the upholstery. Instantly, the material collapsed as a huge cache of weapons tumbled into view.

‘Be advised, we have weapons, lots of weapons in the boot of his car,’ the radio crackled. Nash shone the torch over the pile, and picked up a rifle that caught his attention. An Arisaka type 99 sniper rifle. He let out an involuntary whistle. All the way from Japan, one of the finest weapons money could buy. He scanned the torch over the rest of the hoard: a Browning automatic rifle, a bunch of top-of-the-range pistols, and specialist boxes of ammunition. These were weapons of some considerable finesse; it could only mean one thing. Heinkel
was
trained by the military, and an assassin. What was more, he was on foot and looking for a target!

The radio crackled into life. ‘We have that VIP check, sir.’

‘Go ahead, any names connected with science and technology, or big banking?’

‘There is one sir.’ The radio went to static for a few seconds. ‘Sir, the next street over, number 52, Professor Albert Einstein.’

Nash drew his service revolver, and started running.

The direct route across the back gardens of the adjacent houses would be quicker.

He leapt over the first garden fence at a full sprint, then the second. Abandoning any notion of a tactical advance, Nash ploughed across garden lawns to emerge on the next street. Weapon up, breathing heavily, he scanned the street – no contact – just the leafy suburban vista. He sprinted the last few yards down the street. The screech of tyres sounded in the distance – back up from Scotland Yard. There was no time to wait; fully expecting a burst of automatic fire, Nash flew up the garden path to the front porch.

He panted, utterly breathless, struggling to concentrate and level his aim. He swung into a crouching position, doing a three-sixty turn; weapon at the ready, he scanned the immediate area – no target. The house was all quiet, no lights were on. He tried the door handle.

Locked. Maybe no one’s home?

He smashed one of the small glass panels in the front door, and found the door latch. Then with the mini flashlight from his pocket, weapon up in a secure hold, he dove through the door. His blood pumped as the torch beam bounced off the walls. The slightest lapse in concentration at close quarters, and he could easily shoot the wrong target. Nash worked down the hall, with sweat dripping from his brow.

The sudden noise of boots sent Nash pivoting in an instant, training his weapon back towards the front door. Flashlights dazzled his eyes.

‘Hold! Hold!’ he shouted as he raised his weapon in clear view. The crash of glass and more boots sounded from the kitchen. Armed police filled the hallway. Boots thudded up the stairs in short order.

‘Sir, we’ve done a sweep of the house, ain’t no one here.’ The officer holstered his weapon.

‘Any sign of a struggle?’

‘No sir, nothing sir. The broken glass is all ours.’

Nash barked orders. ‘Fan out! Search the grounds at the back of the house! Alpha team; secure the perimeter! Bravo team; on me, towards the river! Move!’

Armed officers scattered purposefully in all directions.

The darkness and undergrowth hampered the search. Nash moved at a steady pace into the surrounding woodland, heading down the small footpath towards the river. Weapon up, scanning the tree line, he listened. What else could he do? An assassin in tree cover could take him out anytime.

Suddenly, the faint noise of an engine filtered through the woodland. The noise grew steadily.

An outboard engine – a boat!

Nash sprinted towards the river.

He burst through the tree line on to a green; the grass sloped gently, giving way to a patch of gravel that marked a small landing area cut into the riverbank. It was just possible to make out two shadowy figures splashing around at the water’s edge. A small motorboat approached the shore. Nash raised his weapon at the shore party and took aim. The silhouetted figures shimmered in the moonlight – which one was Einstein?

It was too risky.

Adjusting his aim, Nash fired six rounds at the boat instead. The telltale thuds of bullets driving home into the woodwork indicated that the shots were on target. A lucky shot might even take out the helmsman.

He dropped to his knees to reload. He flipped open the weapon, tapping out the empty shells onto the ground. He pushed fresh rounds into each slot, ignoring the return fire now thundering over his head. The rhythmic shower of bark and splinters was informative – automatic weapons. He clicked the revolver shut, and rolled to his left, recovering into a knee-firing position.

Nash focused on the boat and opened with rapid fire. A scream went up – his lucky shot. The engine revved momentarily and, with a burst of speed, the boat skewed the final few feet towards the gravel.

The two figures on the shore moved haphazardly towards the craft. One of the participants seemed to be dragging his feet, slowing down the proceedings. Einstein!

Bellowing, Nash charged down the grassy slope. With no time to avoid incoming fire, he lunged forward in a short zigzag, praying he would make the distance.

Heinkel raised his pistol, while holding onto Einstein with his free hand. He squinted into the blackness of the tree line and fired two shots. The bullets went wide as a sudden tug from Einstein sent his aim adrift. He tugged back, and adjusted his grip on Einstein’s collar, then fired off a couple more rounds. The sound of the boat revving its engine blasted into his ear. More shouts came up from the tree line: reinforcements. It was time to run.

Heinkel waded into the freezing water, dragging Einstein with him, as the boat slid nose first onto the gravel. Ignoring the cold and gunfire, he grabbed Einstein around the waist and shouldered him roughly over the side onto the available deck space. He then heaved himself aboard. The small boat pitched up. Heinkel landed in a tangle of limbs with Einstein on the tiny wooden floor. There was barely room for two people on board, but at least the outboard was still idling.

Heinkel leapt to his feet and revved the throttle. It gave a satisfying throaty sound as fresh fuel flowed into the engine. He threw the gear lever into reverse. The propeller dug into the riverbank instantly, and a cloud of foam formed in the shallow water. He tugged on the throttle a second time. Another shower of sand and foam went up in the air, but the boat didn’t move. He powered up the engine again; the foaming suddenly subsided as the propeller bit into slightly deeper water. The boat lurched slowly backwards.

Nash hit home and, diving forward with a precarious grip, he landed flat across the bow. His extra weight pitched the bow downwards. Heinkel lost his footing. Nash clambered forward, his feet slipping continuously on the wet woodwork of the bow. The boat rolled, pitching Nash onto the short windscreen, but sending his gun sliding from his grip. With one hand on top of the windshield, Nash stretched out for his weapon – too late – it slid over the side.

Heinkel braced himself on the slippery deck, trying to level his revolver. Water splashed across his face as his firing arm wandered with the roll of the boat. He fired regardless. His target disappeared in a sudden gust of spray.

‘No, stop it!’ Einstein pushed Heinkel’s arm away, sending the next round harmlessly into the water.

Bellowing with rage, Nash leapt forward, bundling himself and Einstein over the side. The two men hit the water in a melee of arms and legs and disappeared below the surface. Heinkel slid across the deck, catching the gear lever on his clothing and sending the boat screaming in reverse. He clambered to his knees and, using the starboard rail to steady himself, he scanned the water for his next shot. The water foamed in the darkness – too late – the backwards momentum from the engine had pushed the boat a good ten metres away down the river.

Frantic splashing and shouting announced the arrival of Nash and Einstein back at the surface. Nash gasped a lung full of air, then another, and feeling a tug on his arm realised in the confusion that he was still holding onto Einstein. The Professor coughed and grunted, evidently still alive.

Nash span round, looking for his adversary, but there was no need. Rounds zipped over head from the shore party. The cavalry had arrived. The silhouette of the motorboat, with water bouncing over the transom and the engine whining, made a good target. Covering fire from the shore party snaked along the foamy trail, peppering towards the boat.

Heinkel ducked as rounds pounded into the woodwork around him. Lying flat on the floor with one hand on the wheel, he expertly allowed the engine to blast the boat in reverse, and downriver. An eruption of splinters penetrated his leg; ignoring the pain, he concentrated on keeping the stern downstream. More water billowed over the transom, but it was better than being dead.

Nash switched to lifesaver mode as the boat disappeared into the darkness. He grabbed Einstein around the shoulder, and ploughed the few yards to the riverbank. Police officers piled knee-deep into the water, lifting Einstein from his grasp, and laying covering fire into the dark water.

Nash sat at the water’s edge panting. He automatically felt his holster, looking for his pistol, then remembered: he’d dropped it. He coughed some putrid water, cursing under his breath.

Heinkel resigned himself to the situation. The flooded boat and freezing cold were the least of his problems. He peered over the bow towards the shore. It wasn’t worth it. Going back against overwhelming fire power would be suicide. There was nothing more he could do. Incoming rounds were at least dropping short into the water. He was out of range. Survival mode kicked in. A quick inspection picked up a few wounds, nothing major.

Expertly, he dropped the engine revs and manoeuvred the boat around. He headed downriver. He could ditch the motorboat and rendezvous with the German freighter back in Southampton as planned. But the mission had failed: the prime target was lost, and his cover story was blown. The assailant on the bow of the boat was also strangely familiar. Had their paths crossed before in another war? Perhaps? No matter, he would use failure to strengthen his resolve. He would be back to even the score.

D
octor Steinhoff sat at his bench in the laboratory at Peenemünde, surrounded by a clutter of half-machined engine components, tools, and rolls of numerous technical drawings. He flicked through the pages of his notebook. It just didn’t make any sense. Maybe he had missed some small but crucial detail? Or perhaps things were on the wrong track completely and the device would never work? More likely, Mayer’s delirium had just created a fanciful suggestion that was nothing more than the mixed up ramblings of a dying man – a complete fiction. The whole thing seemed a waste of time.

On the other hand, his superiors had given considerable store to the work of Professor Mayer. Commandant Kessler had gone to great lengths to extract information and keep the Professor alive. So maybe there was some scientific credibility in the Professor’s garbled comments after all: but it
just
didn’t make
any
sense at all.

Steinhoff reviewed the logic steps.

Professor Mayer had mentioned a machine; something different, but it didn’t seem to be a rocket. But then Mayer had also mentioned the stars,
travelling to the stars
– his exact words. So, this machine was some kind of rocket or propulsion device powerful enough to leave Earth’s atmosphere and go into space. But to what end? How could it be made? Mayer
had
said, and this point was clear; that wave energy was converted to, or somehow created, particle energy. Impossible!