The Reich Device (7 page)

Kessler raised his voice for a controlled effect. ‘Again! Who do you know in Berlin?!’

‘Only my colleagues at the University, they are just academics like me. Please, I really don’t know what this is about!’

‘I want names! Who do you know? How long have you known them?’

Mayer tried to comply, giving the names of one or two old colleagues in Berlin who could vouch for him: the Head of Physics, and a couple of engineers. The Commandant would find them anyway, so he risked nothing by giving some names.

Kessler lowered his voice, but kept the tone firm. ‘What did you last speak of with your colleagues?’

‘Only engineering matters, our last meeting was to discuss some mathematics of projectiles, and the energy content of different fuels. We just discussed the things we would normally talk about… ’ Mayer was telling the truth.

‘So, why do I get such requests from Berlin?!’ shouted Kessler.

‘Please, I am just an academic… I do not know.’

‘Professor… ’ Kessler paused for effect. ‘I am trying to help you, but I cannot help if you do not answer my questions. What have you been doing in Berlin?!’

‘I have only visited the University to discuss physics. That is all. Our meetings take place every two years. The University of Berlin is one of the venues we use for our scientific meetings as part of the physics community. This is well known, it takes place in Berlin every other year. You can check with the University… ’ Mayer babbled.

‘We will Professor… we will… ’ Kessler played the menace. Satisfied that his prisoner was suitably softened up, it was time to try a different tack to extract information. Kessler adopted a calm and caring tone. Always test the prisoner; then be their friend.

‘Professor, tell me, what you are working on now?’

‘Um… err… just the usual things. Some work on fuel combustion… and… and on the aerodynamics of projectiles.’

Kessler smiled. The Professor was lying, but why would he lie? Kessler pondered the situation for a few seconds before asking the next question.

‘Tell me about fuels, Professor… do you like to see things burn?’ Kessler lit a match and held it close to the Professor’s face; close enough so that he would feel the heat, but without burning his skin. There would be plenty of time for that later. He blew out the match, smoke went into Mayer’s eyes.

‘Fuels! Professor, what can you tell me about fuels?!’ The nasty tone was back with a vengeance.

‘We are researching high energy fuels, the idea that a fuel can have a high burn rate but still remain stable when it’s stored. We are just working on the safety of new aviation fuels. It is just a practical problem for engineers.’ Mayer knew he was replying to save his life.

Kessler expertly read the situation. This time Mayer was telling the truth, but why the initial hesitation? No matter, they could play this game for hours, question after question until the Professor was tired. Men make mistakes when they are fatigued. He would find out what was really going on.

‘Aviation fuel? I don’t think so! I have done my homework too Professor.’

‘Yes, well… I mean… the fuel is high octane… volatile… it can be used for many types of high-speed propulsion.’

‘Propulsion? Sounds interesting, what kind of propulsion?!’ Kessler suddenly lashed out, thumping the table.

Mayer flinched. ‘Rockets! The funding is for rocket fuels… ’ Gasping a breath, Mayer stared down at the table, shoulders slouching.

‘So Professor, we know about fuels, and we know about projectiles… what did you call them? Rockets? But I sense there is something else?’

‘I have told you again and again, I am just a humble physicist working on an engineering problem and when I am not doing that I am teaching the students at the University. Please, I am just an academic… please… I have told you everything I know.’ Mayer sunk back into the chair even further.

‘Tell me about your colleagues.’ Kessler gave a theatrical pause. ‘I understand you know Professor Einstein?’ He searched Mayer’s face for the telltale signs of deception.

‘Yes, I know him. He is a visitor in our Physics Department.’ Mayer used all his resolve to give a bland but accurate answer.

‘So, you work together?’

‘We discuss physics together, as I do with many other colleagues in my department.’ Another factually correct answer.

‘Very good Professor, that will do for now.’ Kessler smiled, and with a snap of his fingers, the orderly opened the door. Kessler marched out the door as briskly as he came. Mayer slumped forward in the chair, with his forehead almost on the table, and tried to breathe.

The orderly snapped to attention, after locking the door.

‘No food for the prisoner, no water, no toilet – are we clear?’

‘Yes sir.’ A crisp salute followed.

Kessler went back to his office, and sat at his desk. There was plenty of time. The Professor would be uncomfortable soon enough. He was telling the truth about his job and his visits to Berlin. But he was also holding something back, and the occasional lie during the interview confirmed this. Perhaps headquarters would reveal some more background in due course? In the meantime, it was worth having the Professor’s office searched. Despite the late hour, Kessler dispatched a squad to the University.

The grey man knelt outside the office door and gave a quick glance at the wooden plaque: ‘Professor G. Mayer’. At least it was the right place. He tensed on the doorknob, it turned partially and then stopped – locked.

A subtle change in air pressure brushed the hairs on the back of his neck. He froze, and stared down the long first-floor corridor of the Physics Department, but saw nothing moving. He scanned the doorways for activity. They looked all the bloody same, but still no movement. He closed his eyes to listen.

It’s just an old building, things creak.

He turned his attention back to the lock, and carefully inserted the skeleton key into the mechanism. Feeling the flex of the key, he inserted a thin strip of copper wire; then tried the key again. It still wasn’t right. He eased a second strip of wire gently into the lock; then applied pressure on the key, flexing his wrist trying to feel the mechanism.

Why the hell won’t the door open?

The door gave a sudden loud click. The grey man froze.

Nothing.

He applied gentle pressure to the doorknob, and slowly eased the door ajar. Moonlight flooded the door frame, revealing the shape of the room. Holding his breath, he quietly slipped into the room, closing the door behind him.

Crouching behind the door, breathing gently, he listened.

His vision gradually adjusted to the moonlight. Scanning the room, details of the layout started to come into grainy focus. It was a fairly typical academic office; an untidy desk in front of the fireplace, the shelves covering the walls were heaped with books, and piles of papers sat everywhere. This was going to take a while.

Moving off cautiously, instinctively rolling his feet to gently apply his weight on the old floorboards, he scanned the room for anything obvious. A first pass revealed nothing. He picked up a paper from the desk and squinted at the text. The words just danced in the haze. He produced a small torch from his pocket and, using his fingers to partly cover the bulb, he switched it on. A small glowing beam revealed the contents of the page. A student’s essay – great – how was he meant to find the all-important documents amongst this crap? He grabbed the next piece of paper; the torch reported nothing interesting.

This could take forever and the place is crawling with sentries!

A systematic three-dimensional search was the only way to be sure; efficient and methodical. He treated the room like a big box, mentally dividing it up into one-metre cubes. The deal was straightforward; you searched the room a cube at a time taking in everything from floor to ceiling. He started on the first mentally constructed cube. The orders from London were clear: find the manuscript that the Professor was working on and make sure you find it first! No pressure then. The bureaucrats in Whitehall really didn’t have a clue. The first few cubes revealed nothing. He shrugged it off and moved on, but the clock was ticking with only two hours to sunrise.

He focused on the next mental cube: an ornate bookcase. His eyes, starting on the bottom shelf, flicked from left to right. More bloody books! Suddenly, the lip of the bottom shelf caught his eye.
What’s this?

He rubbed his fingers along the rim, revealing a clump of dust. Then, down on all fours, he carefully shone the light under the bookcase – and stopped dead.

A solitary crisp brown envelope, and stuffed with something?

He moved the torchlight around the envelope and tracked the skirting board at the back of the bookcase. Nothing, at least no wires he could see. The envelope looked smooth and flat, with no telltale protrusion of a timing device or detonator; but there was only one way to find out.

He carefully lifted the envelope, shining the torch underneath it. He held his breath – no explosion. Pocketing the torch, he carefully slid the envelope out from under the bookcase. He pressed gently with his fingertips around the edges of the envelope.

Nothing suspicious so far, perhaps it’s just paper?

He flicked open his pen knife, and opened the envelope; not at the seal, but by rolling back the front cover, just like opening a can of sardines. The first rule of counterespionage: never use the main entrance. He smiled to himself – a manuscript. A quick scan of the pages didn’t help much, just meaningless numbers and equations, but it had to be the right document. Why else hide it under a bookcase?

He carefully placed the envelope into the inside pocket of his grey coat.

There was one last task.

It took a few seconds to find an identical blank envelope. He stuffed it with paper, taking care to achieve the same thickness and weight, then placed it in exactly the same position under the bookcase. To the untrained eye at least, the room would appear exactly as he had found it.

He moved back to the desk, making a final sweep across the room. Everything seemed in order. Then, something on the desk caught his attention. Fishing for the torch, he switched on the beam.

This cannot be?! A document with the same title page?

He flicked through the first few pages. It looked the same; only there were lots of pencil marks on the margins.

Suddenly the distant clank of keys, and locks turning, echoed down the corridor. Visitors!

Multiple footfalls, coming up the stairs from the lobby – and fast! At least four, maybe five men, definitely in boots.

The grey man did a double take at the papers in his hand.

Definitely the same as the manuscript in the envelope!

Boots approached the office door.

He grabbed the papers from the desk, stuffing them into his outside coat pocket, and headed for the window.

The latch gave after a heavy thump on the wooden frame, but the window opened under protest. Heaving himself onto the window sill, he glanced down at the silhouette of the bushes far below – not good – but then, not much choice.

The door burst open.

With the familiar sight of German uniforms out the corner of his eye, the grey man jumped to the deafening noise of automatic fire. Flecks of broken glass and masonry splintered across the window, as a searing pain erupted in his back.

Instinct took over as the ground rushed up to meet him; feet together, ready to take the impact, and roll. The bushes also did their job, and after bouncing off them, he hit the ground hard.

Breathing in deeply, his head jarred from the impact, he tried to move his legs – success – nothing seemed to be broken. He staggered to his feet, with pain lancing through his back.

The sound of distant shouting penetrated his skull.

Stooped in pain, he stumbled across the lawn, and glanced back down the footpath; shadows moved quickly in his direction. A dap of warm liquid soaked into his shirt. Escape and evasion were the priorities now. Holding onto the wound as best he could, he ploughed forward into the undergrowth. Twigs snapped under foot and, with branches tearing at his face, the grey man pushed for the perimeter.

The squad leader looked up at the broken window, sweating and panting. Broken glass crunched under his feet as he cocked his weapon. ‘Find him! Two-man teams! Move it!’

With renewed vigour, men moved haphazardly around the lawn. ‘You and you! Search over there!’ Two teams scurried off towards the tree line. ‘… And you! Along the edge of the building: move!’

There was a slim chance their man was lying injured in the bushes.

The squad leader allowed his men to disperse. He bent down, breathing heavily, trying to recover from the chase. A flap of paper came into view, and then another. He stooped into the bushes, recovering the two sheets. Typewritten text, equations and numbers stared back at him. He squinted at the paper in the poor light. It was hard to tell, but maybe there were pencil marks in the margins? Whatever it was seemed important.

The soldier folded the pages and placed them carefully in his tunic. At least his superiors would get the consolation prize of knowing what the intruder was trying to steal.

O
liver Heinkel paced up the gangplank, coming to a stop expectantly on the grubby deck of the tramp steamer. His tall, lean, muscular physique, elegant good looks and neatly combed blond hair, were at odds with the surroundings. He surveyed the scene with contempt. Of course, security dictated that travelling at night would be best. At least the dilapidated wharf in the sidings of the busy industrial port of Hamburg would go unnoticed. He handed his bag over to the awaiting deckhand, but couldn’t help curling up his nostrils at the stench of diesel oil and barrels of salted mackerel.

‘If you would follow me please, sir.’

Heinkel dusted down the lapels of his jacket and checked the position of his silk tie as they walked. The deckhand moved busily along the starboard gangway and flung open a steel door leading to one of the berths. ‘Thank you sir, this way.’ He beckoned Heinkel inside and closed the door so his superior had some privacy.