Vengeance 10 (38 page)

‘Perhaps you do not recall that in 1938 I had occasion to warn you about an English agent and loose talk?’

‘Yes, quite clearly. Your manners were insufferable then, and ...’

Dornberger cut him off sharply and Walsch smiled. ‘Also, last year in Berlin you, Herr Doktor Bethwig, and I had a conversation in a cafe about a similar subject. I recall that you called me an incompetent ass. Well, Herr Doktor, it would seem that this same espionage agent has been here, at Peenemunde, working for Doktor Mundt. He is the man who murdered the SS officer and the three enlisted men who attempted to arrest him.’ The greyish light served only to heighten Walsch’s extreme gauntness by carving great hollows beneath his eyes and in his cheeks so that, for a brief moment, his face became a leering skull.

Bethwig recalled the weedy young man he had met in Arnsberg before the war. He would never have credited him with the ability or the courage, yet three times now this Memling, by his activities, had managed to involve them with the Gestapo. How much time have we lost because of him? Bethwig asked himself angrily.

‘He was employed,’ Walsch continued, ‘in the pre-production shops. He worked there for nine days, and during that time was promoted twice to positions of greater responsibility by that fool Mundt. We also know that he was employed for nine months in 1940 as a quality control technician at the Manufacture d’Armes in Liege. Couple that with your own indiscretions in 1938 and you can be certain that the English are very much aware of what is going on at Peenemunde.’

Walsch paused long enough for them to absorb the impact of his statement, then said in a thoughtful voice, as if it had just occurred to him, ‘It would seem that someone at Peenemunde may be assisting an agent of an enemy nation to obtain information about the rocket development programme.’

It was Major Jacob Walsch’s turn to stand at the rain-streaked window. Tapping his teeth with a finger - an old habit he had given up trying to break - he watched the automobile plough through the flooded streets towards the northern end of the island, and wondered if perhaps they were not chasing the wrong phantom after all. Politically von Braun was too stupid to be attracted by British promises. After all, what could they offer? But Bethwig? Perhaps. He certainly had sufficient cover: important family connections, a long and honourable party record, and friendships in high places. He would bear closer watch. He must be on the lookout, Walsch decided, for a way to control him: perhaps a thorough search of his records? Records - he tapped his front tooth with a pencil. Of course, his records. Now that he thought about it, there had been more than the usual number of requests from Berlin, in fact from SS headquarters, to review Bethwig’s file. Why? Did they already suspect him of something, something they were not yet ready to divulge? How ironic - Walsch chuckled at the thought - if one responsible for the blot on his record should be the one to erase that with a blot of his own and perhaps, just perhaps, an execution?

Having made up his mind, the major picked up the telephone and ordered his aide to release Mundt. Perhaps a small trap could be set. If it failed, no harm done, as no one would know. If it succeeded, well and good. This man Mundt was, after all, Bethwig’s employee; in fact, he had noted in the man’s records that it was Bethwig who had insisted that he be hired, even though the man was considered politically unreliable. One never knew these days.

Two weeks had passed with no further word concerning the supposed English spy or the alleged murders of the four SD agents, and after trying several times to obtain additional information from Walsch, Bethwig forgot the matter.

On this cloudless Tuesday afternoon in the third week of August, he strolled slowly towards Building 40, the bachelor quarters where he still resided. It had been a frustrating day, beginning with the report of another failure in the A-10’s valving system, which would delay the launch three weeks. Then had come lunch with a very disheartened Wernher von Braun. Apparently there had been an early meeting with Degenkolb and his staff at which the minister had set forth impossible demands for A-4 production, refusing to recognise that the rocket was still in the advanced stages of design testing and nowhere near ready for production.

‘ “Gentlemen, don’t tell me such stories,” ‘ von Braun had mimicked. ‘ “I am not interested in them. I produced a thousand locomotives a month in the interest of the Reich, after being told it was impossible.” ‘

‘I pointed out to the fool that the principles of locomotive Construction have been known for a hundred years. If one encounters a problem, one has only to consult a book for the answer. He refuses to recognise that we are still writing our book!’

Von Braun’s evident frustration brought a rare smile to Bethwig’s face. ‘Go on and laugh,’ von Braun muttered. ‘You’ll be getting the same pressures soon enough. And to make matters worse, Doktor Theil tried to resign. Walter refused to accept the resignation, but I am afraid the old man is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. If that happens, your project will be in jeopardy also.’

Both had declined Dornberger’s invitation to go shooting, although Bethwig had been sorely tempted. The general was spending so much time in Berlin these days that when in residence, he grabbed every opportunity to tramp the island’s thick pinewoods in search of deer or grouse. Then that afternoon a cable arrived that closed off the final avenue in Bethwig’s search for Inge. The Prague hospital reported that she had been moved to an unknown treatment centre in May of that year. Himmler had lied to him again; he spent the afternoon trying to decide what to do next.

A note had been slipped under his door inviting him to dine with Hanna Reitsch that evening. Surprised, he checked the date; he hadn’t known she was at Peenemunde. Normally he looked forward to dinners with his old friend, an attractive and sophisticated woman who was considered one of Germany’s top test pilots, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood. He telephoned the visitors’ quarters to leave a message declining, but found one waiting for him which stated that Hanna would be very much put out if he did not attend.

Strangely enough, he felt a great deal better then, and whistling he went to bathe.

Bethwig enjoyed himself more than he would have expected. The dinner at the officers’ club was superb, and the head waiter presented several bottles of Chateau Latour 1924, remarking that they had just arrived, having been ‘purchased’ recently from the chateau itself. As always, Hanna’s presence put everyone on his best behaviour, and Dornberger’s dinner was pronounced a success.

Towards midnight Hanna drew Bethwig aside, and they went on to the terrace. The evening was soft and quite warm; a full moon glowed above the island and coated the buildings with silver. Dance music filtered softly through the half-open french doors, and the only reminder that they were at a military research and development centre was the muted roar of an engine being tested somewhere to the north. Bethwig lit a cigarette and leaned against the balcony.

‘Hanna, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you brought me out here for immoral purposes.’

She laughed and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps another time, Franz, I might. But - ‘ she grew serious - ‘I need to talk to you.’

Below, there was a flurry of laughter and goodbyes as Dornberger, leaving early, walked across the square towards the guest quarters. Bethwig drew on the cigarette and let the smoke escape slowly.

‘What about, Hanna?’

‘You. And your attitude.’

Franz pushed himself upright. ‘Oh?’

‘Now look here, Franz. None of that “You are meddling in my business again, Hanna,” silliness. We’ve known each other too long for that. The stories about you circulating in Berlin are verging on the ridiculous. When that happens these days, it’s time for a friend to take a hand. The rumours are that you’ve been quarrelling with Himmler. Is it true?’

When he didn’t answer, she shook her head impatiently. ‘Franz, stop acting like a little boy. If it is, you are a fool. You cannot possibly win. ‘I’m told you refused to allow the SS to arrest a scientist. That you actually threatened to strike an officer. Is that true?’

Bethwig stared at her a moment, then flicked his cigarette away and watched it spiral down to the lawn where it disappeared in a miniature explosion of sparks. ‘Certainly it’s true. The SS had no jurisdiction and no reason to arrest him.’

‘Now wait a moment, Franz.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Are you the best judge ....’

‘I tell you, Hanna,’ Bethwig interrupted, knowing what she was going to say, ‘we must stand up to these thugs before they take over all of Germany.’

‘Franz, you are a fool!’ Hanna blazed. ‘You don’t realise it, but if your father had not heard in time, you would have been arrested and shot. Himmler ordered your arrest within hours, but your father went directly to the Führer who was not only furious over your actions but even more furious with your father for forcing him to oppose Himmler. You may not know it, Franz, but the Führer detests Himmler and tries to have as little to do with him as possible. Now he is indebted to the Reichsführer. I do not believe your father can ever call upon the Führer for assistance again.’ Franz listened to her with mounting shock. It could not be; how else could Himmler’s pet project move forward . . . The man would not dare ... His thoughts were a jumble.

‘Do not make the mistake of thinking you are indispensable to Himmler, Franz. No one is.’ She lowered her voice and leaned towards him. ‘There is strong evidence that Himmler may have conspired with British intelligence in the murder of Reinhard Heydrich. At the very least, it is almost certain that he knew of the attempt and did nothing to stop it. If he could throw Heydrich away, he would not think twice about disposing of you.’

Bethwig realised then that she was speaking the truth; it was something he had suspected for a long time. Even Ullman had hinted that Himmler was responsible for Heydrich’s murder. And he was dead now himself. He decided then to tell Hanna about Inge; at least Hanna, as a personal friend of Hitler’s and Goering’s as well as a public hero, would be immune to Himmler’s manipulations. And if he were murdered by Himmler, there would be someone else who knew about her. Hanna might even be able to help him find her ....

He plucked the packet from his pocket and took another cigarette. Hanna noticed that his hands were shaking as he fumbled with his lighter. ‘There is a girl,’ he began abruptly. ‘I have never told anyone about her before. I met her in Prague. She ... she was an SS hostess.’ He darted a quick glance at Hanna, but her expression did not change even though he realised she knew what the term implied. Everyone did. ‘Heydrich found out and used her to keep me in line.’

He went on to tell her about the girl, how Heydrich had ordered her beaten to show him that he could not disobey an order, how an SS officer on Heydrich’s staff had managed to get her out of the castle in the confusion surrounding Heydrich’s assassination, and finally how she had been incarcerated in a mental hospital. ‘Himmler probably found out about her shortly after Wernher and I offered to continue the A-Ten project under his direction. When I refused to support his idiotic charges against von Braun, he had her taken away. Since then, I know only what Himmler allows me to know about her. Even Ullman is dead now, killed on the eastern front. Himmler is using Inge to force me to accept the position of A-Ten project director so that he can fire Wernher. I suppose he thinks I will be more amenable to his stupid whims.’

Hanna took a deep breath. As far-fetched as Franz’s story sounded, it was not beyond the realm of possibility; anything was possible today. The question was, would it do any good to tell General Dornberger?

Bethwig was staring at the silvered beaches half a kilometre away. The Baltic was calm, and he could see a patrol boat idling along the coast. He thought of his sailboat, unused since the previous summer.

Air-raid sirens sprang to life, destroying the stillness. In the distance, between wavering notes, they could hear the dull, nearly inaudible drone of heavy bombers.

‘The RAF again,’ Hanna murmured. ‘Forming up south of Rugen for another run on Berlin. God help them there,’ she added.

Lights were going off all across the island. The drone of approaching aircraft was louder now. Flashes appeared to the north where the Luftwaffe anti-aircraft defences had opened up on the approaching bomber stream; something they were forbidden to do... unless the Centre were under attack. The crash of the exploding bombs rumbled towards them, and the sky above the trees began to glow red.

‘My God,’ Bethwig exclaimed in amazement, ‘they’re after the Centre.’

Peenemunde had never been bombed before, and it took him a few moments to absorb the idea; then he grabbed Hanna’s arm and ran back into the dining-room and across the floor to join the last of the crowd jostling through the doors. They raced down the stairs and out across the square to where air-raid wardens were waving blue lights and urging people into shelters. The explosions were continuous now, and pillars of flame and debris could be seen as the aeroplanes laid a carpet of bombs across the island.

Inside the shelter Bethwig found a spot against the wall and dragged Hanna down beside him, but she pulled him away. ‘Not against the wall. The concussion of a near miss will kill ...’

Her voice disappeared in the devastating roar of bursting bombs. People screamed and struggled, and a blast of furnace-hot air whipped inside as the door splintered. Dust exploded, choking them into fits of lung-tearing coughing and the temperature shot to unbearable levels. The floor shuddered and more dust was shaken loose as the walls vibrated. The red emergency lamp burst, and Bethwig’s head felt as if it might implode as the concussion squeezed. His lips were covered with something hot and sticky, and he experienced the nightmare sensation of quaking earth and vibrating air.

The bombing stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Bethwig lifted his head, trying to penetrate the absolute darkness. A flashlight went on, and its beam swung around the interior to reveal a fog-thick haze of dust and plaster. Figures appeared in the beam as it swept past - ghostly, staring beings, many with mouths open in soundless screams. He had a glimpse of Hanna wiping a dark stain from her lips and realised that the hot gush he had felt when the bomb exploded was blood from his nose. The concussion had ruptured blood vessels.