Vengeance 10 (42 page)

‘Yes, yes.’ Muller waved a hand. ‘I know all about you, Herr Doktor. In fact, I am surprised that you were not arrested with von Braun. Our file on you is even thicker than his, or General Domberger’s,’ he finished with a smirk.

‘If you are attempting to intimidate either of us, let me remind you that as military personnel we are - ‘

‘Not subject to the authority of the SS. Yes, I know.’ Muller waved a weary hand. ‘And I would remind you of the position in which Doktor von Braun now finds himself, for the second time. I would have thought one warning sufficient.’

Bethwig could endure the man’s arrogance no longer. He sprang to his feet, slammed a fist down on Muller’s desk, and had the satisfaction of seeing the SS officer jump.

‘Not those ridiculous sabotage charges again! You fool!’ he shouted. ‘Do you work for the Allies or for Germany?’ Bethwig leaned forward until his face was inches from Muller’s. ‘Well, two can play this game,’ he snarled. ‘Perhaps an investigation into your own activities would show who the traitors are. What do you suppose a thorough investigation of all those fine houses, expensive automobiles, and greedy women you surround yourself with would disclose? The Führer himself might even take a personal interest, especially when he contrasts his own way of life with the hedonism so beloved by the SS.’ The accusation was simply a shot in the dark, but the odds were on his side; and when he saw Muller’s expression transformed for an instant he knew that he had struck home.

Dornberger stared at Muller, making no attempt to calm Bethwig who was close to raving. The SS general had leaned back in his chair under Bethwig’s assault, and Bethwig leaned closer still and jabbed a finger directly into his face.

‘You issue orders for the release of those three or I will go directly to the Führer. It will give me a great deal of pleasure to see you squirm as you try and explain why you are delaying the development of a weapon which the Führer himself has proclaimed will win the war for Germany. I am certain he will also be interested in an examination of your personal finances and those of other officers in the SS!’

As he subsided into his chair, exhausted by his outburst, Bethwig could see indecision grinding its way through Muller’s brain, and he thought with contempt that in the Machiavellian world of the SS one could never be certain where one’s support lay.

The SD commander stared at the angry Bethwig, wondering just how much fact there was in his accusation and how much guesswork. He knew that Bethwig’s father had high connections in the party, and it was rumoured that the younger Bethwig worked directly for the Reichsführer on a secret project; something also to do with rockets. There were too many loose ends, Muller decided. Since he had no direct orders from Himmler on how to proceed - there had been only a telephone call from an aide instructing him to see Dornberger - he decided to stall until he could clarify the situation.

‘Gentlemen’ - he tried a winning smile - ‘I apologise for my abruptness. It is a bad habit caused by overwork. If I seemed insensitive, it was because I have had little sleep in the past two weeks. As to this matter of your scientists, let me say that I will look into it immediately. As you may know, they were arrested by the Gestapo and are currently in custody in Stettin. The SD had nothing to do with their arrest. It is my understanding, though, that they were arrested because they spoke publicly of the fact that it had never been their intention to build war rockets, that everything they had done was directed towards their personal goal of travel in space.’

Muller was beginning to regain some of his confidence as he talked; and studying both men, he decided that a touch of the lash was in order to remind them who he was.

‘They have, in effect, admitted to swindling the Reich out of millions of marks to further their own ends. I might add that the first notation in the file was entered personally by Reinhard Heydrich, in August of 1941. If convicted of those charges, I need hardly tell you gentlemen of their fate. The wire noose is reserved for traitors.’

Bethwig stared at him in astonishment as he recalled that dinner discussion with Heydrich in Swinemunde three-no, by God, only a little over two years before. As long ago as that, the SD had been preparing ….

This time it was Dornberger’s turn to explode, repeating his demand that they be released immediately or, at least, turned over to civil authorities for investigation of the charges. The argument grew vicious with Muller threatening to bring charges against both men based on their own extensive files, which he kept tapping with a large, meaty forefinger, until Dornberger challenged him to do so. At that point Muller, recalling his previous decision not to be pushed into mistakes, backed off and once more became conciliatory, promising to do what he could to have the three men released.

They drove from SS headquarters in Prinz Albrechtstrasse to Tempelhof where Bethwig boarded a transport for Peenemunde, while Dornberger returned to the city for a hurried meeting with Major Klammroth of the OKW Counter-intelligence Department. As the aircraft made its way north at low level to avoid marauding fighters Bethwig stared out at the blank greyness, wondering if Himmler had somehow learned that their carefully guarded lunar project was still very much alive. If so, there was more than a grain of truth in the Gestapo charges, and God help them all.

A car was waiting for him at the airfield. Franz was tired beyond belief and went directly to his new house overlooking the storm-lashed beach north of Trassenheide, the only positive result of his association with the SS. The house was cold, and he lit the fire laid by the Polish housekeeper. Warming himself before the fireplace, he watched the waves tumbling on to the beach, depressed by all that had happened.

The A-10’s fourth launch, his first as project director, had been a near disaster. The new directional gyroscope had worked perfectly both in static tests and on the A-4 vehicle that had been made available to them. It had failed, however, in the A-10, causing it to veer off course in the first seconds of flight and head inland over Germany. The controller had no choice but to destroy the rocket. The power plant had performed flawlessly, and that in itself was some consolation. His engineers had subsequently discovered that the gyroscope mounting had given way under the unexpectedly high vibration from the new turbo-pumps used to pressurise the fuel tank. Steps had been taken both to reduce the vibration and to increase the strength of the mounting. In a marginal notation on his last report Himmler had professed himself satisfied with his explanation, yet now there was this business with von Braun less than a week later.

An open Mercedes touring car of the type the Gestapo was so fond of drew up outside the house at three-thirty that afternoon, just as dusk was closing in. The rear door was opened by the driver, and a figure emerged clutching a small bag. The driver pointed at the house and, without waiting, got back into the car and drove away. The failing light was uncertain, and the gathering fog obscured detail. Puzzled, Bethwig waited on the porch as the bent figure limped up the path. It was a woman, he saw, and as she looked at him through her heavy black veil Bethwig realised it was Inge. For an instant he could not believe it; he stood as if frozen while the woman stared at him with no sign of recognition. She lifted the veil, and a stray lock of hair escaped from beneath her hat; it was no longer the lovely amber he remembered so well but a coarse grey. The dull light served to emphasise her lined, wasted skin, and when she gave him a tentative smile, he saw that her teeth were badly discoloured and broken. As if in a dream, Bethwig helped her into the house and sat her down before the fireplace. The cruel drive in the open car had left her cold and shivering, and he poured tea from the kettle resting on the hob. Inge held the cup in both hands and, staring about her at the comfortable furniture, the clean rugs, the firewood neatly stacked on the stoop, began to weep. When Bethwig helped her remove her coat, he saw that she was wearing only a short-sleeved dress of coarse sacking. Inge coughed, a deep racking cough that doubled her frail body, and when he helped her into a chair, he saw the eight-digit number tattooed on her left arm.

Himmler’s mocking assurances flooded back: ‘Nothing has been spared in her continuing treatment . . . does not lack for attention ... recreational activities supervised day and night...’ In his fury he could think of no curse, no defilement sufficient for the Reichsführer. All the time that he was being reassured, she must have been in a concentration camp, a plaything for the guards.

He looked at the wasted, dying woman, and a mixture of sadness and anger surged through him at the knowledge that he lacked the power to sentence Himmler to eternal damnation.

When Brigadier Oliver Simon-Benet found Major Jan Memling at the small training camp deep in the hills above the Firth of Forth, he was seated on an upturned jerry can studying a map. The brigadier noted as he slithered down the slope that exercise and sun had agreed with Memling. He was tanned and had filled out his uniform again. The brigadier recalled what Memling had looked like four months before when released from hospital: all skin and bones, and with a pallor that would have shocked an undertaker.

An enlisted man called Memling’s attention to the brigadier’s approach, and Jan stood slowly. Simon-Benet tapped his cap with his swagger stick. ‘Morning, Major. You’re looking quite fit.’

‘Good morning, sir.’ Memling’s manner was polite and icily formal, and he expressed no surprise at seeing him here in the north of Scotland. Obviously, the brigadier thought, he still blames me for that nonsense with the Crossbow committee last winter.

He looked around. Two non-commissioned officers were seated nearby. Both men had noted the red shoulder tabs denoting staff assignment and lost interest. The other man, a lance corporal, was busy repairing some type of electrical gear. The midsummer sun burned in an absolutely cloudless sky, and the temperature was in the mid-eighties. There was no breeze at all. Brownish heather covered hills that rolled away in every direction. Dark-green stands of trees filled the valley below. Simon-Benet wiped the sweatband of his service cap with a handkerchief, then his perspiring face.

‘Can you be spared for a few moments, Major? I must speak with you.’

Memling gave him a resentful stare, then nodded and called to one of the sergeants to take over. They went on down the slope to the valley floor where a small stream trickled and chuckled over mossy stones, and Simon-Benet lowered himself to the ground in the shade of a twisted oak.

‘I should get away from London more often,’ he commented in an attempt to break through Memling’s reserve. ‘Too many fine restaurants. ‘I’m getting fat and sadly out of shape.’

Memling, who had squatted down nearby, now and again glanced up the slope. ‘What can I do for you, Brigadier?’ he asked finally.

‘Stop acting like a silly schoolgirl, for one thing,’ Simon-Benet snorted.

Memling glared but said nothing.

‘I was not responsible for your removal from the Crossbow committee, nor was I to blame for their discrediting your reports. You know as well as I that Viscount Cherwell is convinced Germany cannot support the effort to construct war rockets, and nothing is going to change his mind until after the first of them falls on London. The other faction on the committee feel that you had originally underestimated the size and capacity of the German rockets. They point to their own reports showing the A-4 to have a carrying capacity of ten tons or more of high explosive as determined by photographic measurements. Until we actually capture one, there will be no convincing them. Your removal was effected because you were in hospital while I was in Washington trying to convince the Americans of the dangers of the new rocket you uncovered. Those people, I might say, are even more pigheaded than our own. Even with General Eisenhower’s endorsement, I couldn’t make them understand.’

The brigadier paused a moment. At least the man is listening, he thought, even though he refuses to look in my direction. ‘Look here, Jan, I know that you were under an intense strain, but the doctor gave you a clean bill of health. On that basis Combined Operations agreed to put you back on active duty. So I think it time you stopped acting like a wounded prima donna. You know as well as I that London committees are intensely political animals. It was a clear-cut trade where you were concerned. Certain people on the Crossbow committee felt that you were not technically competent, and you must face the fact that without a union card, in other words, a diploma, they will always think that. No one spends years taking specialised training, only to admit that a non-trained person might be as competent as he. Therefore, in order to gain support for the London anti-aircraft defence and the tactical fighter sweeps, I had to go along. You were the trade goods, Jan, and as much as your feelings were hurt, I do not regret my decision for one moment. The defence of London and its ten million people is of far more significance than your wounded feelings.’

Memling nodded as he finished speaking, but said nothing. Simon-Benet looked away. ‘I suppose I do sound like a headmaster, my boy, but damn it, it’s true.’

Memling stood up, a trace of a smile struggling through. ‘I must admit I have spent the last few months feeling sorry for myself. The spumed hero relegated to Coventry, I suppose.’ He stared off towards the slope where his CP had been set up. ‘I suppose Sergeant McElroy has the situation well in hand. Let’s walk a bit, loosen you up.’

They hiked along the stream in silence until the slope turned sharply upwards.

‘Are you going to tell me what brought you up here, or do I have to play guessing games?’ He simply could not stay mad at Simon-Benet. There was just something irresistibly likeable about the man.

The brigadier chuckled. On the flight up from London he had rehearsed all manner of appeals ranging from patriotism to self- interest. Now, on the spur of the moment, he decided to be straightforward: