Vengeance 10

England – Germany July 1942 – March 1943

Jan Memling turned the jeep into the narrow street and slowed to examine the buildings on either side, particularly the upper-storey windows. His sergeant was doing likewise from behind a fifty-calibre machine-gun mount. Narrow two-and three-storey buildings with decaying fronts lined each side of the road before debouching several hundred feet further on into a sort of village square. He could even see the remains of a fountain that probably had not worked even before the war.

The jeep idled along, its engine rough. It was badly in need of an overhaul, but he knew there was little likelihood of its getting one any time soon. Memling nursed the pedal to keep the revs up. The silence was unnerving. Both men knew the enemy was there.

‘There,’ he muttered, not moving his lips. ‘Third-storey window, on the right, grey-brick building, two ahead.’ The familiar excitement began to build, and he found himself smiling.

‘Right, sir.’ The sergeant shifted his stance. Memling knew they would wait until the jeep was directly beneath, then lob grenades, supplemented by MG fire from one of the other buildings. It was a classic street ambush and a difficult one to survive. The hard choice was which to hit first – providing you spotted them: the bomb throwers or the machine-gunner?

Memling eased the clutch out until the jeep bucked and threatened to stall. He bent forward as if adjusting the throttle and made a quick survey of the buildings on the left. Just along the road and two opposite he had caught a glimpse of movement in an upper-storey window. He described it to the sergeant and pushed the clutch in.

‘Hang on tight. I’ll dash for the left side of the street. Put a burst through that window. I’ll take the bombers. When I shout, you duck. Understood?’

‘Right you are, sir.’ The sergeant was a combat veteran with two years in the desert, and he did not like street fighting one bit. He wanted to be able to see his enemy, and Memling was well aware of the man’s shortcomings in that regard.

‘Just do as I tell you sergeant and you’ll be all right.’ Memling dared not risk a glance behind. ‘Get ready. On three. One… two… three!’

He yanked the wheel hard left, jammed the accelerator down, and the jeep stalled. The MG exploded into action and Memling was out in an instant, crouching beside the jeep, Sten gun poking over the bonnet; but a figure was already in the window, and the stick grenade flew at them before he could open fire.

‘Duck!’ The sergeant landed on the cobbles beside him as the grenade hit the gun mount and bounced to the road. It rolled under the jeep and went off in a plume of choking red smoke.

A whistle blew, and Memling got up, swearing, as the referee strolled from the doorway behind. ‘Afraid you chaps have bought it. Grenade exploded right under your petrol tank.’ He waved his stick at the window where a grinning commando was leaning out. ‘Good pitch, lad. Good pitch.’

‘South Maling will be wanting him after the war.’ The instructor, a reed-thin colonel with an artificial leg, offered Memling and the sergeant a cigarette. ‘American, ‘I’m afraid. All I could get at the NAAFI.’ The sergeant accepted the light, then saluted and went off” to return the jeep. Memling and the colonel walked along the street which was now full of enlisted men in fatigues setting up for the next practice.

‘Weren’t quite quick enough, were you? Next time, Jerry will be using live bombs,’ the colonel observed. ‘Not like you to mess up that way.’

Memling gave him a quirky smile and thought about the jeep’s stalling. Excuses were never acceptable. He should have foreseen that possibility. ‘If we were perfect every time, there wouldn’t be any sense to having a war. No one would get killed. Then where would we be?’

‘Sounds a bit Bolshie to me,’ the colonel chuckled. ‘I understand you go off on leave today.’

Memling nodded. ‘That probably accounts for my lack of quickness back there. Hard to keep your mind on playing soldier when that nonsense is coming up afterwards.’

The colonel lurched to a stop, then with a mutter lifted his left leg and shook the knee joint back into position. ‘Yes, there is that. Still I suppose it can’t be avoided.’

Memling gave him an anxious glance. ‘What do you think, sir? Have we much of a chance?’

The colonel flicked his cigarette away. ‘Why do you ask me questions like that? You know how I must answer.’

Memling shook his head. ‘Not with me, sir.’

The wind off the loch caught at his thick, fair hair, and whipped it about his head as he sighed. ‘You stand damned little chance, Memling. Damned little. Your Canadians are keen enough and, I don’t doubt, will give a good account of themselves. But they haven’t got the training, and we haven’t the equipment to support them properly. I dare say the objective is important; but in all fairness, you should remember that the real objective is a practice for the big one. London is expecting mistakes, quite a few in fact.’ The older man tapped his cane against his tin leg and studied the surrounding hills, it’s going to be hard, boy. Damned hard. In spite of our precautions, Jerry will be waiting, and that’s only one aspect. The other is lack of training. London thinks that troops can be trained in less than a month for this sort of invasion. Well they’re wrong, but they won’t believe it until they have their faces rubbed in the casualty lists. The problem is training a vast number of men, possibly upwards of a million or more, to invade a continent that has had four years to prepare. This dress rehearsal is designed to find out. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

Memling nodded. ‘I could be shot for hiding in a hole, sir.’

The colonel gave him a sad smile, then clapped him on the arm. ‘That you could, lad. That you could. A sacrificial lamb in either case. Just like we were in the last war at Ypres.’ Somewhat absently he tapped his leg. ‘Didn’t get this there. Happened in a car smash near Brighton twelve years ago. Had absolutely nothing to do with any war.’

‘It doesn’t seem to make any difference, then, does it, sir?’

The colonel gave his leg a last swat and limped on. ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t. Just remember,’ he continued, almost as an afterthought, ‘what you’re about over there. No sense inviting trouble. Think about that.’

Memling did think about it as the train lumbered south from Scotland. The raid against the still-unnamed French coastal town had other objectives which they were not being told about yet. They had given him less than a month to bring his Canadians up to shape. The problem was that with very few exceptions they were fresh from training camps in Ontario. They simply were not ready – by his standards. They needed blooding, a few easy raids into Norway, nothing more than a lightning-fast hit-and-run operation to get them used to the confusion, the mistakes, and the fact that nothing ever went as planned; in short, to teach them what individual initiative really meant. But there was damned all he could do about it now.

Janet was waiting for his train even though it was six hours overdue into Euston. He saw her at the barrier, and she waved and pushed across the crowded concourse until they met under the great clock. Taking his hand, she gave him a soft kiss on the cheek and, as they drew back in mutual embarrassment, leaned forward again and kissed him soundly on the lips.

There were no taxis to be had, naturally, and they walked slowly along Woburn Place, which was thick with pedestrians. As overcast as it was, there was little chance of the Luftwaffe appearing tonight. The Bofors anti-aircraft battery they passed in Tavistock Square was manned, but the crew were relaxing on the park benches with cups of tea and laughing with the NAAFI girls.

Janet had written to thank him for his note a week after he had left in February, and he had replied, thus beginning a correspondence that had become a regular part of their lives.

He had almost ignored her first letter, as he was still haunted by Margot’s death. But Memling was an intensely lonely man, had been most of his life, and the few months he and Margot had had together had worked a permanent change in him. In addition, he was intelligent enough to realise that the more time passed, the more pristine his memories of those brief months became until they had taken on an air of unreality.

Memling was surprised at the rush of excitement he had felt when spotting Janet at the barrier, a slim, pretty, dark-haired girl in a slightly shabby coat and a short victory skirt. He glanced at her now in the glow of a blackout lantern, but the blue light gave her complexion a sickly cast. She felt him looking at her and glanced up and smiled, and his heart turned over.

He struggled for something to say, but the best he could come up with was ‘Did you have much trouble finding me a place in an officers’ club?’

‘Yes. Quite a bit of trouble, in fact.’ She gave him an impish grin. ‘I could not find a room in all of London.’

‘Really?’ was all he could think of to say.

Janet squeezed his hand. ‘Really. You might think me a bit forward, but I am going to have to put you up at my flat again.’

Memling’s breath caught in his throat, and Janet took the moment’s silence for disapproval. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking… I mean, perhaps it is too soon…’ She stopped, and as she was still holding his hand, her weight had swung him about to face her. Her expression was somewhere between apprehension and defiance, and Memling stopped fumbling for words.

Janet had arranged to have the following day off, but Memling came wide awake at 4.30 a.m., a hopeless victim of years of discipline. He was standing beside the bed before he was fully awake, reaching for his trousers, at the same time blinking at the darkened room, trying to remember where he was and wondering why his Fairbairn knife was not strapped to his leg – his usual storage place when asleep. Janet turned on the bed lamp, gave him an exasperated look, and ordered him back to bed.

‘Whatever in the world possessed you?’ she demanded sleepily. ‘Why, it’s not even five o’clock and I can sleep as late as I want this morning.’

Memling stretched under the warm blankets, feeling the softness of her back and thighs, and gathered her into his arms. ‘I just wanted to have your full attention,’ he muttered, and began stroking the soft smooth skin that was a wonder to him. She half turned so that her nipples caressed his chest, and his breathing nearly doubled.

‘Now that you have me awake, I suppose we may as well make the best of it.’ She pressed her half-opened lips against his, and her tongue darted into his mouth. After a moment she whispered, ‘You must think me shameless,’ and buried her face against his shoulder until he lifted her head with both hands.

‘No, never. I think of you as the woman with whom I am falling in love.’ He nuzzled her cheek, inhaling the soft, sleepy odour of her skin.

Carefully she spread her thighs and wriggled downwards, and they lay like that for a few moments, holding each other tightly, locking out the world of violence and pain that had surrounded them a little more with each year. Then Janet moved, gently at first, and he followed, each successive thrust coming deeper and faster until she took his face in her hands and crushed her mouth to his, their tongues locked together. It seemed that they held to each other for ever, until their shudders were simultaneous. They continued to cling to one another afterwards.

When Memling awoke the second time, it was after nine and rain pattered on the roof. Janet was asleep, one leg and arm across his body, and he eased from beneath and touched his lips to the gentle hollow in her back. He lay quietly, content with himself and the world for the first time in years. No longer obsessed with the idea that he was betraying Margot, he wondered if his wife, cool, slender and quiet, would have approved of this ebullient and daring young woman. But it no longer mattered so much.

He found his robe in the closet, slipped it on, and went out into the living-room. The flat was tastefully furnished with rather fine antiques from the Regency period, and the blue Oriental carpet was soft beneath his feet. He found the tea in the kitchen and put the water on to boil, then stood at the window for a few moments watching the summer rain fall on the city. The streets glistened as if they had been newly scrubbed. A figure hurried past, umbrella slanted against the rain. The kettle whistled softly just as a blue navy staff car stopped below. Memling scowled at this intrusion of the real world. Not today, he thought, and closed the curtains. He turned back to the stove, shut off the gas, and fixed the tea. He found some breakfast biscuits and carried everything through into the bedroom, whistling reveille.

Just as he was settling back into bed, Janet in his arms and tea finished, the doorbell rang. They looked at each other, Memling shaking his head, ‘Ignore it. It could only be an encyclopaedia salesman.’

Janet giggled as he ran his tongue along her throat. ‘Don’t be silly. They are all in service…’

‘That’s certainly where they belong, then,’ he growled, and grabbed for her, but Janet slipped laughing to the other side of the bed. The doorbell rang again, this time accompanied by heavy pounding.

‘Christ, he’s going to knock the door down.’ Memling leapt up and, drawing on his robe, headed for the entrance hall.

Throwing open the door, he roared, ‘Look here, whoever you are…’ and stiffened to attention. Out of uniform, he was not required to salute, and he stopped himself just in time, then whipped the robe more tightly about himself.

‘Sorry to intrude at a time like this.’ Colonel Oliver Simon-Benet chuckled, and stepped inside. ‘But there is a war on, you know, and none of us are exempt.’ He took off his raincoat, surprising Memling with brigadier’s shoulder boards.

‘Colonel… I mean, ah, Brigadier… what…?’

But Simon-Benet, looking past him, tipped his hat as Janet appeared in the doorway, not at all embarrassed that both were in their robes.

‘Good morning, Brigadier,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you had your breakfast yet?’

Simon-Benet laughed. ‘Ah, yes, some time ago, I am afraid. I do apologise for interrupting like this, but it is important. I must borrow Lieutenant Memling for an hour or so. Do you mind terribly?’

Janet gave him a sweet smile. ‘Yes, I do mind. And the next time I think you might just telephone to say you are coming, Brigadier.’

Simon-Benet actually coloured at that. ‘I do apologise, but there just was no time. It’s a stroke of luck the lieutenant is in London at all.’

Memling rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Damn it all, Brigadier…’

Simon-Benet scowled, and he gave up. ‘All right, sir. I’ll need a moment to wash and shave.’

Thirty minutes later they were sitting in a cafe a block away, waiting for the waitress to finish distributing eggs and tea. Memling gave the brigadier a sharp glance when she left. ‘This had better be damned good, Brigadier. I am on a week’s leave, you know.’

‘And making the best of it too.’ Simon-Benet grinned, then seriously: ‘Janet’s a damned fine girl, Memling. See you take good care of her.’ He hesitated then and contrived to look around the room without appearing to do so. ‘I wanted to talk with you a bit, in private. It concerns some work you once did for your previous employers.’

Memling picked at the egg. ‘Most of that work was classified secret.’

Simon-Benet hesitated. ‘So it was. But we need only to speak in generalities. Look here, you never did see eye to eye with old Englesby, did you?’

Surprised, Memling shook his head. ‘What has that got to do with…?’

‘Forget it. Not a question I should have asked. Except that it does explain a good bit. Look here, Memling. You were trained as an engineer. There is a notation in your MI-Six file that you were selected personally by the admiral for that reason. In spite of that fact, you were put on reserve status nearly two years ago and joined the Royal Marines. I’d like to know why?’

Memling looked stubborn. Simon-Benet watched him a moment, then said, ‘It could be quite important.’

‘I left,’ Memling replied in a reluctant voice, ‘because I felt there was little I could do to help the war effort sitting behind a desk reading German technical manuals already ten years out of date. No one paid any attention to my reports anyway. My wife had been killed in a bombing raid, and I felt I needed a bit of a change. I enlisted in the Royal Marines. Simple as that.’

The brigadier played with his glass a moment, then stared through the taped-up plate-glass window at the rain, which continued to slant down even though the cloud had broken to the west and blue sky was becoming visible.

‘I believe there was more to it than that, wasn’t there?’

Memling shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I…’

‘But you do. You returned from Belgium with what you saw as vital information which was totally ignored. You knew that the people who helped you get out were killed, and then you discovered that your wife had died in the blitz. On top of that, a departmental enquiry into your activities in Belgium did not give you a clean bill. It was at that point you joined the Royal Marines where, in view of your reserve status with the Firm, you were commissioned and sent to Home Army Intelligence. You wangled your way into the commandos and have since taken part in several raiding expeditions.’ Simon-Benet gave him a quick grin. ‘Would you say that forms an accurate summary of your career to date?’

Memling had listened with a growing dislike for the brigadier. ‘Yes, sir, that is correct.’

‘In that case’ – Simon-Benet gave him an appraising look – ‘a bit more detail is in order, I think.

‘In 1938 you were sent to Germany. You met a man named Wernher von Braun. How well did you know him?’

‘Wernher?’ Memling looked at Simon-Benet in surprise. ‘You have been doing some digging, haven’t you!’ When the brigadier did not react, he went on. ‘I met Wernher von Braun in Paris in 1934. I was still at school then and interested in rocketry. I had saved all that year to attend a congress on rocket development. Von Braun was a member of the German Society for Space Travel and about my age. I suppose we became friendly because most of the others attending were dabblers and fantasists.’

‘And you two were not?’

Memling frowned. ‘Yes, we were. But we were also realists in the sense that we knew it would not happen unless we were willing to acquire the proper training. I dare say Wernher had learned that lesson sooner than I. In any event, we struck up a friendship that continued by correspondence.

‘Our letters were infrequent and after 1936 stopped altogether. The following year I joined MI-Six and soon had to give up my position in the British Interplanetary Society for, well… other reasons.’

‘You did not correspond with, or see, von Braun from 1936 to 1938?’

‘No. And then strictly by accident. We just happened to be staying at the same hotel. We had dinner that night, and he introduced me to a colleague, a… Franz something or other.’

‘Bethwig,’ Simon-Benet supplied.

‘Yes, that’s the name. I next saw von Braun in 1940 at the arms factory in Liege.’

Simon-Benet sipped his tea. ‘Both times you made reports concerning Germany’s research on long-range rockets?’

‘Yes. I assume they are in the files somewhere.’

‘The first was, yes. The second seemed to have been misplaced. Carelessness, I was told when it was finally found.’

Memling grinned. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. The start of the war caught the old bureaucracy at Northumberland Avenue by surprise. I doubt they have adapted to it yet.’

‘They haven’t,’ the brigadier replied wryly. He paused, as if arranging his thoughts. ‘At the moment I am assigned a special task, that of co-ordinating information concerning Germany’s scientific and technical progress in one particular field, that of rocket research.’ ‘I’ll be damned.’

The brigadier ignored him. ‘I put my staff to searching for further information among various Allied intelligence agencies, and bits and pieces began to crop up, especially from Polish intelligence.’

‘Polish intelligence?’ Memling murmured in surprise. ‘Why ever in the world would they be interested in rockets?’

‘Seems that parts of Poland are being surveyed for testing sites. In any event, there were quite a few reports stuck here and there that, when assembled, suggest that more is going on than meets the eye. And none of them were duplicated in MI-Six files. I had a talk with Englesby, and he tended to dismiss their importance. When I mentioned your reports he shrugged and made remarks that gave me the impression there was a personality conflict between the two of you.’

The brigadier waited and, when no comment was forthcoming, called to the waitress for more tea. When she had gone, he fixed Memling with a steady look. ‘I am convinced there is something to this business of German rockets. What about you?’

Memling shook his head. ‘I thought so at one time, before the war. But since then, no. The rocket motors I saw in Liege were part of a put-up job to trick me into leading the Gestapo to the resistance group operating in the city.’ And with that admission came the familiar sickening despair that had always accompanied any memory of those terror-filled last days in Belgium.

‘Nonsense! There is something to all this, and your estimates of the size and range of the German rocket are not so different from those made by my own staff from information obtained through other sources. A remarkable job considering the circumstances. That is why I want you to come to work for me.’

Memling shook his head again. ‘I know damned well that whatever information you have must have been planted by the Nazis. Damn it, they tricked me, and God knows how many people died because of my stupidity.’

The brigadier regarded him for a moment. ‘There does seem to be a certain arrogance in that statement. It suggests that since you were, or thought you were, fooled, everyone else will be as well.’

‘Wait a moment…’

Simon-Benet held up a hand. ‘I know what you meant. I am afraid, however, that you must resign yourself to the fact that you are wrong. The rockets do exist and you are going to work for me.’

‘I can’t… sir. At least not until after the next mission. My section is raw and needs…’

‘One junior officer more or less is not going to affect the war effort all that much. This might. I’ll allow you the rest of the day. Report to number Eighteen Red Lion Square tomorrow morning at 0700 sharp.’

Memling toyed with his cup a moment. ‘You don’t seem to leave me any option.’

‘I can’t afford to. This isn’t a game.’

There was an uncomfortable silence, which the brigadier finally broke. ‘I suppose you will stay on with Janet? Housing is very difficult in London now.’

‘Good Lord, no!’ Memling started. ‘I can’t just move in there… I don’t even know if she’d have me.’

‘If you want my opinion, she needs you about as badly as you need her.’

‘But good God, man, I can’t just…’

The brigadier stood up grinning. ‘A damned puritan, hey? Let me tell you, boy, none of us may survive this war. If a bullet doesn’t find us at the front, a bomb might get us here in London. So if you can provide comfort to another, do so. Personally, I think prostitution and the theatre are the two noblest professions in which mankind can engage. Both offer entertainment and, best of all, relief from the outrages of the world.’

He touched his swagger stick to his cap and ducked out into the rain. The patch of blue sky, Memling noted, had disappeared, and it was coming down harder than ever.

‘October has been a busy month for us at Peenemunde,’ Franz Bethwig told his gathered staff. ‘The first wholly successful launch of the A-Four was made on the third of this month. I am proud of you all and the work you performed under arduous and adverse conditions.’

The staff applauded, and he smiled in acknowledgement. ‘I’m learning how to handle them, he thought. Perhaps Heydrich was right after all. ‘Today,’ he went on, ‘we have a much tougher job to do. With the A-Four we had behind us the assembled resources of a powerful nation – even though we lacked a meaningful top priority.’ He waited for, and received, the expected laughter. ‘But we are operating under even tougher conditions with the A-Ten. We all know how demanding the SS has become, and with good reason. We must push development as quickly as possible to spare the Reich the damage of a long-term, if ultimate, victory. For that reason Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler will arrive secretly at Peenemunde this morning to witness the first test flight.’

As he expected, a low murmur filled the room. The SS was never welcome; Himmler doubly so. ‘I expect you all to conduct yourselves with the utmost courtesy and respect for his rank and that of his aides.’ Bethwig paused a moment, then grinned wickedly. ‘I myself will do my best to keep those desk commandos out of your way.’

The room remained silent, except for the muffled exclamation of a horrified secretary. No one joked about Himmler.

Scowling, Bethwig continued: ‘I am pleased to announce that the countdown is proceeding well. We are holding at the moment, waiting for the Reichsführer’s aircraft to arrive. We have also received word from our two picket submarines in mid-Atlantic. Both are on station. The count will resume in one hour. We expect to launch this evening at 1900 hours.’

Franz and his new secretary, a pretty young land service girl named Katherine, went out into the watery autumn sunshine; a driver was waiting to take them to Launch Stand XII located near the centre of the island. The car drove off, keeping to the middle lane to avoid the pedestrians and bicyclists streaming towards the canteens for the lunch break. Few of them, Bethwig knew, were yet aware of the A-10; by this evening all would know about it. The massive test stand could be isolated and guarded in its remote, marshy section of the island, and the massive first stage could be shrouded during assembly and its move to the stand. But once the engines reached full thrust and the gargantuan vehicle rose above the trees and, one hoped, streaked down range, there would be no more secrecy. Bethwig’s staff had estimated that the noise would be heard in Stettin, some ninety kilometres distant.

As the car approached the test complex they had an occasional glimpse of the massive structure rearing above the pines, and even after a year and a half Bethwig still could not shake the feeling of awe it inspired in him.

The main control centre was housed in a half-buried bunker located a kilometre from the launch stand. He made a quick series of inspections among the consoles, then went up to the bunker’s roof where the cameramen were running checks on their equipment. One or two nodded, but no one spoke. Ordinarily the crews would have been excited and expectant; but the spectre of Himmler and his SS minions had dampened their enthusiasm. The A-4, a much smaller and less-complicated vehicle, had required three attempts before a successful flight was achieved. And numbers four and five, fired since, had failed. The crews realised that this was to be expected, but no one knew how the Reichsführer, the second most powerful man in the country and reputedly not the most stable individual, would view a failure on their part. The A-4 was an army project, and they were no strangers to failure. The A-10 was an SS project, and the SS did not admit to failure. Himmler’s reputation was on the line, and all recalled how the once mighty Goering had fallen when his vaunted Luftwaffe had failed to polish off the RAF in the summer of 1940; and how the army had sunk in esteem when the Russians shoved them back from the very gates of Moscow the previous autumn.

Bethwig tried to shake off these gloomy thoughts. The test firing sequence from static mountings had been pushed hard during the previous six months and had produced fairly consistent results. Lack of time had prevented them from incorporating the newest versions of his film cooling and fuel injection systems into the A-4 engines, but starting from scratch with the A-10, they had been able to do so. Combustion chamber overheating was a thing of the past. And only rarely did lethal amounts of fuel flood the chamber prior to ignition and cause an explosion. The construction and testing of the engines had proven easier than expected; relatively easier, he amended. The new fuel injection system made it possible to cluster the powerful engines to produce the massive thrust needed to break up and out of Earth’s gravitational well and reach the moon. He shook his head unconsciously. It never ceased to amaze him when he thought how great were the technical strides they had managed in the last three years.

‘Ah, here you are. Daydreaming, heh?’ Himmler had come on to the roof accompanied by two aides.

Startled, Bethwig turned quickly. ‘My apologies for not meeting you. I was not told you had arrived.’ His staff’s method of making certain that Himmler understood that he was not welcome? he wondered.

‘No matter.’ Himmler turned to stare out over the immense circular reach of concrete separating the bunker area from the launch table nearly a kilometre away. He stood with his hands on his hips, bouncing on his toes and smiling. ‘So this is what my late friend Heydrich began, hey? Look, Hans,’ he joked to an aide as he pointed at the concrete apron. ‘How many West Wall bunkers could be built with all that?’

Bethwig missed the answer as the loudspeaker announced the resumption of the countdown sequence. Three hours to go, he thought to himself. Three hellish hours of waiting made worse by Himmler’s presence.

The afternoon wore on at a snail’s pace. Early dusk came swiftly out of the west, and with it a damp cold that drove them inside. Floodlights went on as they re-entered the bunker; and in the distance Bethwig heard the drone of fighters patrolling against Allied reconnaissance aircraft.

Inside, the atmosphere was sticky with waste heat from the electrical motors and instruments. Bethwig escorted Himmler and his staff to the glassed-in VIP gallery, but the Reichsführer refused to stay there, preferring instead to roam about the vast room interrupting the technicians and scientists at their work. At less than an hour to launch, Domberger came in, his expression disapproving yet excited. Although he had no responsibility for the A-10 project, he received a round of applause from the men at their desks and consoles. Domberger was a popular administrator, as dedicated as any of them to rocketry in spite of his official disapproval of the A-10 project. It was understood that he was a soldier first and a scientist second.

Dornberger even smiled and had a good word for Bethwig, the first in months. He was polite to Himmler and his staff, although it was obvious that this took considerable effort.

During the long afternoon the volume of sound inside the bunker had risen gradually until now it was a continuous roar and one had to speak loudly to be heard. The launch crew consisted of fifty-three people sitting at consoles in the concrete vault of a room that had all the earmarks of the Todt Organisation’s hasty wartime construction. The current joke was that in spite of reinforced concrete walls several metres thick, a nearsighted fly ran into and knocked down the bunker’s west wall – an obvious allusion to the vast fortifications under construction along the Atlantic coast of France, which even the Reichsführer had joked about and which was the usual excuse for the lack of building materials at Peenemunde.

An armoured glass viewing window was set into the front wall of the bunker. In spite of mild distortion, the squat, can-shaped rocket with its truncated nose was clearly visible. The concrete apron glistened with evening mist, and the rocket’s fuselage glowed under the batteries of searchlights. Bethwig would much rather have launched during daylight when the cinecameras could have done a better job recording the rocket’s flight. But the submarines would need the daylight to spot the rocket when – not if, he thought – it flashed into the Atlantic two thousand kilometres south-east.

The clock over the viewing window read exactly 1855 hours when the countdown reached minus one minute thirty seconds. The final LOX tank topping had gone off without the expected hitches, and Bethwig called a three-minute hold. The crew relaxed visibly, and the air was suddenly blue with cigarette smoke.

Himmler had begun pacing as the tension increased. Now he approached Bethwig and demanded to know why everything had stopped. Franz’s explanation – time was needed to bring various schedules into line and also to allow the submarine tracking vessel to regain station – barely pacified him.

The controller’s voice was droning the count at ten-second intervals now. At minus forty seconds the wisp of steam that Bethwig had been waiting for appeared near the nose as the hydrogen peroxide generators pressurised the fuel tanks.

As chief development engineer and project manager, Bethwig had little to do during the launch sequence but supervise. No longer did the project manager design the rocket, then weld, rivet, and install electrical gear, run the cinecameras, and do a hundred other tasks because no one else could be spared. Bethwig had no more idea how to operate a six-channel telemetry bank or the new recording machines that used a plastic magnetised tape to store data, than the operators knew how to design a rocket engine capable of producing three and a half million kilograms of thrust.

‘Well,’ Himmler said, turning to him. ‘What is your estimate of the chance of success, Herr Doktor Bethwig?’ He smirked at Dornberger. ‘After all, if the engineer who designed this monster does not know, who does?’

Dornberger frowned at Bethwig, a warning to guard his words. But Franz ignored him.

‘This is a first trial, Herr Reichsführer,’ he snapped. ‘A rocket is a very complex machine. I will be most surprised if the engines merely fire all together this first time. If it rises away from its table, it will be a miracle. The chance that it will fall to Earth within five hundred kilometres of its intended target is almost non-existent.’

Before the surprised and angered Himmler could reply, the firing control officer’s voice rumbled over the loudspeaker announcing the beginning of the ignition sequence.

Bethwig jumped eagerly to the window. The first tendrils of vapour were already curling about the massive base of the rocket.

‘Minus thirty seconds.’

The half-minute dragged; tension mounted in the bunker until Bethwig thought he must scream to release it. On the launch table the vapour suddenly became a steady mist; cables fell away and gantries swung back, leaving the rocket standing clear against the floodlights. The mist became a hissing pillar of flame shot through with reddish shades at the moment the FCO announced actual ignition. The cloud of burned gases swirled outwards, roiling with streaks of flame and debris. The bunker began to vibrate to the low-frequency rumble of the twenty-one M103.5 rocket engines firing in unison. Even at a kilometre’s distance the rocket could be seen to shudder. The FCO’s voice reading various instrument results was lost in the painful crescendo of sound that struck and hammered at their ears through the metres-thick wall.

The rocket was rising now, lifting out of the inferno of flaming gas and steam. A shaft of flame erupted half a kilometre further on where the exhaust tunnel ended, and the sky caught fire. Bethwig realised he was holding his breath, then forgot as the ungainly rocket cleared the top of the gantries. It was rotating slightly now as the internal guidance system began to prepare for a thunderous flight towards the distant Atlantic. The rocket climbed steadily, passing two hundred metres, and Bethwig had to duck to see upwards through the slit window. The television monitors were useless once the rocket left the floodlit stage; they could show only an intense pinpoint of flame without reference. He became aware that he was gripping his clipboard so hard he had torn half the sheets. My God, he thought, it really is going to make it!

Cursing, he ducked out of the gallery and, defying all regulations, raced down the corridor, shoved the startled guard aside, and dived into the night. Above, the entire sky was lit as if by an artillery barrage. A slender pillar of flame was growing longer and wider as he watched. It moved with all the inexorability of a meteor in slow motion. The magnesium-bright exhaust was visible even through the light cloud that had filtered in from the direction of Rugen. Damn, he thought, it’s going to make it. It’s… The rocket blew up with a flare so brilliant that he was blinded. The sound bellowed about his ears, and he ducked towards the doorway, blinking and cursing the retinal after-image that obscured everything.

‘You have failed me. I do not like my subordinates to fail.’ Himmler’s voice was mild enough, but there was no doubting the threat behind his words. Bethwig, however, was not in the mood for the Reichsführer’s tantrums. It was nearly three in the morning, and they had just come from a post-mortem examination of telemetry data, dragged away at Himmler’s express command. Von Braun had been acting as Himmler’s escort since the launch and now lounged in a corner, smoking a cigarette. Several ranking engineers and department heads were watching the Reichsführer with apprehension. Bethwig turned furiously on Himmler, dashing his clipboard to the floor.

‘We have not failed you, Reichsführer,’ he roared in uncontrollable anger. ‘I expressly recall warning you that it would be a miracle if the rocket even raised off the stand. It did that and more. There are some four hundred thousand parts that must work correctly if the rocket is to complete its flight. Four hundred thousand,’ he repeated. ‘We are battering against the frontiers of science, Herr Reichsführer. Only three weeks ago we launched a rocket that was less than three per cent as powerful, a major accomplishment in itself. Now, we are taking what can only be described as a quantum jump in technology. When you accuse us of failure, Herr Reichsführer, you let us down!’

He distinctly heard several gasps, and Himmler flinched as if he had been struck. In an instant Bethwig realised he had made a mortal enemy but was too tired to care. Himmler signalled his aide and swept out of the lounge. Dornberger hustled the rest of the staff out, and von Braun closed the door and leaned against it.

‘Not wise, Franz. Not wise at all,’ he admonished in a weak voice.

Bethwig shrugged and threw himself on to the sofa. ‘I really don’t give a damn any longer.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the light and the world.

Von Braun took a cigarette from his gold case and offered one to Franz, only to discover that he had fallen asleep. He finished the cigarette in silence, then, with a glance at his sleeping friend, closed the door carefully behind him.

Memling found his new working arrangements very curious. In 1939 Dr R. V. Jones had been co-opted from Clarendon Laboratory on the recommendation of Sir Henry Tizard who then headed the Committee for the Scientific Survey of Air Defence (Great Britain). He had been assigned to keep track of German weapons research but had been granted neither staff nor secretary. Until Simon-Benet ferreted him out in the mysterious and trackless wastes of Whitehall, Jones had plugged along from year to year doing an amazing amount of work to which no one paid the slightest attention. The two men had come to an arrangement: Jones would supply the scientific expertise to evaluate new discoveries, and Simon-Benet would provide the data and, whenever possible, on-site investigation through his extensive connections with the miscellany of intelligence services that infested London.

Several times Dr Jones had tried to move them out of the decrepit building in Red Lion Square, but each time the ministry had turned him down. The walls were bowed with age, the gaps between the floorboards were large enough to hide cockroaches – and did – and the windows opened grudgingly, if at all. The building’s only advantage lay in the fact that it was no more than a brisk walk from Janet’s flat in Montague Street.

Memling also discovered that Simon-Benet had a powerful enemy in Professor Frederick A. Lindemann, Viscount Cherwell, the Prime Minister’s scientific adviser. Viscount Cherwell maintained that Germany lacked the resources to undertake such a massive rocket project as well as to develop and supply the vast volumes of fuel that would be needed. In the first two meetings he attended at which Viscount Cherwell was present, Memling had argued that if Germany was capable of producing synthetic petrol she could certainly produce one of three possible rocket fuels – ethyl alcohol, petrol, or hydrazine – in sufficient quantity. Cherwell disagreed.

Simon-Benet then arranged for Memling to present a paper describing the selection of ethyl alcohol as the likeliest fuel. Memling prepared his notes carefully, fully conscious of the fact that Viscount Cherwell was supremely confident of his own abilities and opinions and would likely dismiss him as an uneducated upstart. It was work he had never liked, and a long succession of beautiful summer afternoons slipped past while he struggled to assemble the required facts in the reading room of the British Museum or in his dingy office. But in the long twilight evenings there was Janet to make it all worthwhile.

The designated day arrived, and Memling, conscious that he was an interloper, presented his data to a silent and, as he expected, resentful committee. Anxious to be finished, he summarised the paper quickly: ‘The characteristics desired in a rocket fuel are: one, availability of raw materials; two, high combustion heat for the greatest combustion chamber pressure; three, low molecular weight of the resulting gas; four, low freezing point for the greatest temperature range of operation; five, high specific gravity; six, low toxicity and corrosiveness to avoid the need for equipment and clothing; and seven, low vapour pressures for long storage life.

‘Given this set of conditions, gentlemen, ethyl alcohol appears the logical answer. The farmlands of East Prussia and Poland are particularly well suited for the cultivation of potatoes, which are easily converted to ethyl alcohol, making an easily renewable resource. Calculations based upon thrust-to-fuel consumption curves, coupled with an analysis of the number of rockets required to make a significant impact upon the course of the war – some twelve hundred per month – require fifty-seven hundred and sixty to sixty-six hundred tons of ethyl alcohol monthly. Ethyl alcohol is also easier and cheaper to produce than petrol or hydrazine, and it possesses the requisite low toxicity and high stability to make it a natural choice. It does have one undesirable characteristic,’ he added, trying desperately to inject some humour into the inquisition; ‘it is drinkable.’ It did not work.

Viscount Cherwell, acting as chairman, thanked him for his presentation, remarked upon its preciseness, disparaged his conclusions with personal opinion, and dismissed him. Simon-Benet nodded as he stood, and as Memling shut the door he heard the brigadier’s voice rising to levels it had probably never reached before.

Memling, who had been up against just such entrenched opinion since the beginning, doubted it would do much good. But the brigadier, returning from the meeting several hours later, was in an excellent mood. He clapped Memling on the shoulder, sank down in the old armchair used for infrequent visitors, and propped his feet on the desk that had been well scarred before the Boer War.

‘Think we made some progress today, damned if I don’t!’

Memling, still sulking, grunted.

‘Cheer up, old man. Things like this take time. Your presentation was masterful. Impressed them all no end.’ He lit a cigarette and inhaled with satisfaction. That’s the trouble with scientists. They are paid to be brilliant. Because of that, they can never admit to mistakes. Who will pay them for wrong answers? So, when you do spot a mistake, don’t back them into a corner. Scientists have flashing teeth, my boy. Make the Hun look like Sunday-school masters. Just let them go on hoping that no one notices their mistakes while you proceed to do what needs doing.

They know you’re right, but scientists are worse than priests. They stick together right to the bitter end – or until their own reputations are put in jeopardy.’

During that endless summer one major setback seemed to spawn another. Mandalay fell to the Japanese in May. Rommel advanced to Sidi Barrani and sent the Eighth Army on the long road through Mersa Matruh into Egypt. Sebastopol collapsed in the face of the seemingly invincible German offensive, and a huge Murmansk-bound convoy, PQ-17, was decimated in the Arctic Ocean. Only the Americans had a stroke of luck at Midway Island, and Britons rushed to their atlases to see where it was.

Memling tried several times to make contact with members of his old command, but they all seemed to have been swallowed up by the war. He was short-tempered with everyone, including the brigadier, as the date for the raid approached.

He heard the name for the first time from a newsboy hawking papers outside the Russell Square tube station. Over his head the hoardings repeated the name Dieppe in huge black letters. He snatched a paper from the pile, dropped tuppence on the counter, and sidestepped through the crowd to a quiet backwater in the constant flow where he could lean against a lamp post and devour the stories. There were photographs that made a mockery of the government’s attempt to put the best possible face on what could only be regarded as the disaster the old colonel had predicted.

Ragged, exhausted men shuffled down gangways, carrying bits and pieces of equipment. Here and there a Canadian unit badge was visible, but he did not see any marking the presence of his old unit. And defeat was there in the stunned, silent faces. For a moment he experienced a curious sense of relief that he had not been on the docks and quays of that insignificant French port town to see his people being decimated. Then the relief was replaced by anger, an intense black anger that he had not been allowed to participate. It was foolish, he knew, even as the disgust and revulsion coursed through him, but if he had been there, perhaps it might have made a difference to his undertrained green troops. And then he asked himself, sneeringly, what one more junior officer could have done.

But from that moment on, his frustration began to grow with each day that he continued to sit, occupying a desk, engaging in gathering useless facts that no one believed.

If it had not been for Janet, he might not have made it. Suspecting the turmoil he was enduring, she put up with nearly all of his moodiness; but when he overstepped, she let him know about it in no uncertain terms.

After one particularly explosive incident during the first week in August, they lay quietly on the bed, not touching but enduring the heat and resenting each other’s presence. He shifted restlessly on the bed, wishing the sun would go down, but it was only a quarter to nine.

‘Look, darling, something has got to change,’ Janet said when he had shifted position for the fourth time in as many minutes. ‘You’re driving yourself into a nervous breakdown and me around the bend. Some people have to fight the war, some have to stay behind and support them. You know how important your job is. And besides, you’ve already done more than your share of fighting.’

Memling grunted, and she went on, ‘Of course you’re worried about your unit, but with the extra time they had to train…’

She broke off and propped herself up. ‘Look here. ‘I’m damned sick of your bad temper and ill humour. Think of me for a change. I need someone to love me, not yell and shout all the time. If I wanted that, I would have joined the army too.’

Memling blinked, not quite certain whether she was serious, and suddenly the realisation broke upon him that he had done nothing for the past few months but abuse her hospitality.

‘Marry me?’ The question popped out, and he wondered later how long it had been rattling around in his subconscious.

Janet smiled. ‘Will it improve your humour?’

‘It certainly won’t worsen it.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

Memling pretended to think about it. What Janet had said was completely true. He was feeling sorry for himself. Why? To hide something? Distant thunder rumbled, and the air was suddenly dead. A middle-aged veteran of the trenches had once told him, ‘It’s like that just before the barrage, mate. All still and quiet, like the world ‘as gone and died.’

As if echoing his thoughts, she kissed his forehead. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re not trying to hide the real reason for your ill humour behind this need to get back into action.’ When he looked at her in surprise, she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean it’s deliberate. It might be entirely unconscious.’

Memling chuckled. ‘Been talking to the new psychologist Englesby took on? Has he had a look at Englesby’s drives and motivations yet?’

Janet giggled. ‘As a matter of fact, we had tea the other day. He claims Englesby has an enormous inferiority complex and covers up with that damnable smug superiority. He also says that most of the upper class are that way. They know the rest of the world resents their money and privilege, and they’re stuffy as a defence. Sort of like whistling in the dark to keep up your courage.’

The wind struck then, whipping the curtains into the room and banishing the heat instantly. Janet sprang to the window, spreading her arms wide to the breeze. Memling followed and pulled her aside before the neighbours could see her naked earth goddess display. The rain came swiftly behind the wind, thunder crashing and banging about the city in an almost continual symphony.

Janet tugged his head down and whispered into his ear, ‘I accept your proposal, darling, whether it improves your humour or not.’

Memling laughed and pointed at the rain. ‘No German bombers tonight.’ Janet nodded seriously and led him back to the bed.

They had been in Berlin for three days, trapped in a seemingly endless round of technical conferences and symposia, before being summoned by Himmler. A chauffeured Mercedes limousine took them to his headquarters. As they drove through the streets they could see that in spite of regulations the festive coloured lights had not been turned off to comply with the blackout. Shop windows were crammed to overflowing with goods, and well-dressed shoppers struggled with packages on the icy sidewalks. Traffic, both military and civilian, was heavy, and there seemed to be more uniforms in evidence now than the previous summer.

Von Braun sat quietly staring out the window, until the limousine stalled in heavy traffic at a busy intersection. Then he turned to his friend.

‘I saw a picture of London in that American magazine Life. Leiderle brought it back from Switzerland. The city is in ruins, and the people look half-starved. Yet here you would never know there was a war. Look at them.’ He motioned towards a couple running hand in hand across the street, both clutching bundles and laughing happily, it’s as if they were on holiday, a permanent holiday, and no one will ever have to pay the reckoning.’

Bethwig remained silent. Germany triumphant! A nation surfeited with self-confidence after so many years of insecurity. How much longer could it last? The British had even begun to bomb Berlin’s industrial suburbs. How much longer would the British and their American allies show such restraint, he wondered, with British cities being subjected to terror bombing?

The limousine inched forward until it was stopped opposite a news-stand. The banner leader indicated fresh news from Stalingrad, and Bethwig wound down the window and motioned for a paper.

Von Braun glanced at the headline and snorted. ‘Herr Goebbels is still trying to convince us that the mighty army is winning the battle of Stalingrad, I see. What foolishness. I spoke to a pilot who had flown some wounded out a few days ago. He said the situation grows more hopeless by the day.’

Bethwig shook the paper loudly and jerked his head at the driver beyond the glass window. Von Braun nodded wearily and fell silent. The car broke free of traffic then, and a few minutes later they were walking up the broad steps into SS headquarters. An officer was waiting to conduct them directly to the Reichsführer who stood to receive them, smiling broadly. He indicated two chairs, then occupied a few moments with pleasantries and comments on how well the battle at Stalingrad was shaping, while the aide brought coffee – not ersatz, Bethwig noted, but the real thing.

‘Well, now, gentlemen, I see by the reports that in spite of difficulties, you have made remarkable progress in the past few months. I understand that you are readying another A-Ten for testing. Fine, fine. We must keep things moving along now that the Americans are beginning to make themselves felt in the war.’ Himmler hunched forward and stared at each man in turn.

‘Gentlemen, I must be frank with you.’ He turned first to Bethwig. ‘It concerns the matter of priorities. I am finding it most difficult to supply your needs in the face of the Führer’s repeated refusals to allot top priority to rocket development. I have discussed the matter with Minister Speer’ – he turned to von Braun – ‘and he also has had little success in obtaining materials and priorities for Peenemunde. It seems that our Führer has dreamed that rockets will not be successful weapons. Whether or not this colours his thinking I do not know, but he continues to state that he is not yet convinced that the rocket will be an effective weapon. Now, gentlemen, I understand something of the needs of research and the amount of time required to ready new weapons for use. I believe that I have hit upon a scheme to ease the matter of priorities.’

Himmler smiled his most disarming smile, and Bethwig thought he looked more than ever like an ineffectual country farmer.

‘And what is this plan, Herr Reichsführer?’ von Braun enquired politely.

‘A very simple one, to be sure, and to your benefit. As you know, the Schutzstaffel is a separate legal entity of government within the Reich. We are essentially a state-within-a-state and therefore are exempt from the unnecessary and time-consuming foolishness foisted on the Wehrmacht by bureaucrats.’ He leaned back and regarded them both with a benign expression.

‘My position as Reichsführer allows me a great deal of freedom. We of the SS have our own army, courts, market system, housing, transportation, and scientific sections, as you know. And I am solely responsible for the establishment of priorities within that framework.’ He shot forward in his chair and peered at von Braun over his pince-nez.

‘I propose that you both leave the employ of the army. You, Doktor von Braun, would become director of my rocket research programme with the rank of gruppenführer and you, Doktor Bethwig, his second in command as brigadeführer. I can assure you that everything necessary will be granted without delay. You have no idea how efficient my SS can be.’

The suggestion did not impress Bethwig. Heydrich had tried to force acceptance of a similar offer before his death, and it had been only a matter of time before Himmler did likewise. Only the high ranks were surprising. The Reichsführer was not known for his generosity, and ranks equivalent to major general and brigadier general only hinted at his determination. In spite of his antipathy to Himmler, Bethwig could see the benefits of such a move. But von Braun would have none of it. He cited his contract with the Army Research Centre, as well as his personal loyalty to Dornberger. Himmler, surprisingly reasonable in the face of such stubborn opposition, turned the talk to other matters.

At eight o’clock an aide entered to remind the Reichsführer of another engagement, and he apologised for keeping them so long. As they walked towards the door Himmler smiled and reached up to clap a hand on von Braun’s shoulder. ‘Please reconsider my offer, Herr Doktor von Braun. I am sure you will not let last spring’s unpleasantness obscure your judgement.’

Von Braun snorted. ‘And what of the investigation, Herr Reichsführer? Have I been cleared yet?’

‘Ah, yes, the investigation,’ Himmler replied, half turning to glance back at his desk as if the answer lay there. ‘I read a preliminary review of the evidence only last week. Most favourable. Most favourable. Otherwise, I would not be able to offer you such a fine position, would I?’

‘And when will the charges be dropped?’

‘Soon, my boy. Soon. Don’t give it another thought. There are more important things with which to occupy your mind.’ Himmler gave them an enigmatic smile and closed the door.

As they were getting into the car an officer hurried out with a sealed envelope.

The Reichsführer asked me to give this to you personally,’ he said to Bethwig, ‘and to assure you that if further information is required, he will endeavour to assist you in any way he can.’

Bethwig stuffed the envelope into his pocket and got in. The return trip to Tempelhof was made under escort with sirens blaring. A Ju.88 was standing on the apron, engines turning, and a pretty hostess in Lufthansa uniform welcomed them aboard. After the plane was airborne, they were served wine and a gourmet supper, followed by cognac and real coffee.

All through the meal von Braun ranted angrily at Himmler, and Bethwig listened silently until he ran down and fell asleep. He remembered the envelope then, found it in his overcoat, and struggled to read the spidery handwriting. When he had finished, he refolded the letter and sat motionless.

Franz remained silent during the drive from the airfield to their quarters, barely acknowledging von Braun’s comments. He pleaded exhaustion and went immediately to his apartment.

In his room, he lit the fire, poured a stiff whisky, then spread Himmler’s note on his desk and stared at the words. Now he knew why Himmler had summoned them both to Berlin. The last two paragraphs made it perfectly clear:

The implication was plain enough. Himmler had anticipated von Braun’s angry refusal. So, if he delivered von Braun, Inge would be his reward. Bethwig slammed his fist on to the note and flung himself about the room. How in the name of God did Himmler find time to concern himself with something as petty as this? Was the A-10 all that important to him? It must be. Look at the lengths to which he had gone: locating and then keeping the girl locked away and somehow disposing of her parents so the question of guardianship could be raised. German law was quite strict in that regard, and while Himmler might profess to be above the civil law, he was not averse to its use when it suited his purposes.

After a while he took his raincoat and went out to the officers’ club to look for von Braun. He had no other choice; and as Himmler had suggested, there were certain benefits to be derived from enlistment in the SS.

Spring had come early to London. The walk to Red Lion Square had turned pleasant in the past week, and only that morning Memling had thought seriously of requesting a few days’ leave to take Janet to Devon for a belated honeymoon. But all such plans had evaporated instantly in the last five minutes. He looked up from the photograph to the RAF squadron leader who sat across from him smoking an especially foul-smelling pipe.

‘Interesting, heh?’

Memling reached for his telephone and rang through to Simon-Benet. The phone clicked several times as the monitoring devices were activated, and then the brigadier was on the line.

‘Hello, sir. The Central Interpretation Unit people have come up with something quite interesting. Can we come across?’

A few minutes later he was introducing the squadron leader to Simon-Benet and handing him the magnifying glass at the same time. ‘Look just here, sir.’

The grainy black-and-white photograph showed an oval structure, oriented north-west to south-east, that looked vaguely like a sports stadium. The open centre was surrounded by high banks of what appeared to be packed earth. A large two- or three-storey structure was located at the eastern edge, and several smaller buildings were scattered about the area. A network of roads, appearing as white tracks in the photograph, circled the oval structure. Inside, near the south-east perimeter, was a snubnosed greyish object resembling a torpedo with large fins; it was lying on a transport vehicle of some kind. Several dots resolved into people under the glass, and one appeared to be walking towards a rectangular building.

‘I’m damned,’ the brigadier said after a while. He looked up at Memling who nodded in agreement. The brigadier glanced at the photograph’s scale, then took a metal ruler from his desk and measured the length of the torpedo shape. ‘Agrees with your estimates, at least as far as length is concerned.’ He tapped the photo with a finger.

‘Any more like this, Squadron Leader?’

The man shook his head. ‘Not yet, sir. But we have another high altitude flight scheduled as soon as the weather clears. The Yanks will be doing this one. We have to be careful, though. If Jerry gets the idea that we’re interested in the area, he’ll start taking precautions.’

‘Where was this taken?’

‘Place called Peenemunde. An island off the Baltic coast, near Stettin. Used to be a seaside resort before the war.’

Simon-Benet nodded as if the information were not unexpected. ‘Thank you, Squadron Leader. I assume that you have given this area the highest priority?’

‘Yes, sir. And we have initiated a review of past observations of the area.’

‘Very good. Keep me informed. That will be all.’

The brigadier motioned Memling into a chair as the squadron leader left.

‘You recognised the name of that island, sir?’

Simon-Benet nodded absently. ‘First heard of the place in 1939. A report appeared at our Oslo embassy just after the Nazis attacked Poland. Everyone thought it a plant.’ He sat down, still staring at the photograph. ‘How do you feel, Jan, now that you have been vindicated?’

Memling cocked his head at the unusual question. ‘It hadn’t yet occurred to me that I had,’ he answered stiffly.

The brigadier held up a hand. ‘Just pulling your leg, my boy. Didn’t expect it to come off in my hand. Look here, the name Peenemunde is familiar. For several months now, we’ve been getting reports through from various sources that something is going on up there. Civilians barred from the area, huge shipments of supplies and materials going in, a search through forced labour camps for scientific and technically trained types who are all then sent north. Tell you anything?’

Memling frowned. ‘Depends on how many of those people they are after, sir. If it’s only a few, it might not mean anything. But if it’s several hundred…’

‘Several thousand. And my sources believe it’s only the beginning. I might add that these sources are Polish. Their Armia Krajowa has been quite active in this area, as a good many of their POWs from 1939 have been sent to the labour camp at Peenemunde. Strange reports of flying torpedoes and such like have been coming through from the Baltic coastline for months. Seems they have been confirmed now.’

‘What’s the next step then, sir?’

The brigadier shrugged. ‘That may not be up to us. I’ve just had a meeting with our new boss. The Prime Minister is becoming concerned and has decided to formalise our little group. We are all now under the command of a gentleman named Duncan Sandys. Is the name familiar?’

Memling frowned. ‘Seems to be… but I can’t place it exactly.’

‘Well, Mr Sandys is, or was, joint parliamentary secretary for the Ministry of Supply. He does have two other qualifications that provide me with a degree of hope. He commanded an experimental rocket battery at Aberporth and he is Mr Churchill’s son-in-law. Perhaps we now have someone of sufficient stature to stand up to Lord Cherwell.’

Memling gave a low whistle. ‘And when did this all take place?’

‘Just the past few days. As I said, the government is beginning to take quite seriously the possibility that the Germans may indeed be developing long-range rockets. But until things clarify themselves, we must sit tight and see.’

Franz Bethwig studied the three faces and was struck by the way in which they delivered or received the news: the triumphant sallow face of Minister Gerhard Degenkolb, the apoplectic face of General Dornberger, and the thunderstruck countenance of Wernher von Braun.

Professor Hettlage cleared his throat timidly as if wanting to say something more, but Degenkolb signalled him to be quiet.

‘May I ask who suggested this insanity?’ Bethwig enquired politely.

Minister Degenkolb glared at him. ‘The suggestion came directly from Minister Speer. And I suggest that you modify your language appropriately or you may find yourself in very hot water, sir.’

Bethwig gave him a lazy smile. ‘You think so, do you?’

Dornberger intervened: ‘And why,’ he asked, voice barely under control, ‘did the minister suggest this course of action?’

Degenkolb glared once more at Bethwig before answering. ‘Minister Speer is most concerned with Reichsführer Himmler’s offer to employ Herr Doktors von Braun and Bethwig. Minister Speer is certain this is a first step towards assuming control of the Peenemunde facility, in spite of the good doctors’ persistent refusals. He felt that converting the entire Army Research Centre, Peenemunde, to a private stock company would circumvent the Reichsführer’s plans. I advise you to go along with him. Otherwise, you gentlemen’ – he glared at the two scientists – ‘will find yourselves in the employ of the SS, and you, sir’ – he addressed Dornberger – ‘will be seeking a new post!’

Dornberger waved a hand as if dismissing that possibility. ‘May I enquire how the change is intended to be made?’ Dornberger’s famed control seemed to be deserting him. Bethwig had never before heard such anger in his voice.

‘Of course. Peenemunde would be transformed into a private company with limited liability. The entire capital would remain for now with the state, while the firm would be managed by a large concern acting as trustee – General Electric, Siemens, Rhinemetall, or Krupp, whichever is found most suitable. After amortisation of capital invested, the plant would be transferred to possession of the firm.’

‘Are you aware,’ Dornberger asked, ‘that the value of Peenemunde and its equipment is several hundred million marks? The interest payments and amortisation quotas could hardly be of interest to industry.’

Degenkolb smiled at that, and Professor Hettlage intervened, anxious that his contribution not be overlooked. ‘We already have acceptable tenders in that regard. We would make a cut in capital and declare assets of between one and two million, letting the rest go.’

Bethwig burst into laughter. ‘Amazing,’ he finally managed. ‘You will take an investment worth several hundred million marks and turn it, by a “cut in capital”, into a bargain. Of course, once the shares are resold by the state to a few select individuals – including, I have no doubt, you, Herr Degenkolb, and Minister Speer – the assets would then be re-evaluated and inventoried at their real worth. How very clever.’ Bethwig sat forward abruptly and snarled. ‘In the meantime the hell with the war effort, heh? We must not let that interfere with the lining of your pockets, must we?’

Degenkolb’s mouth worked in astonishment at being accused of outright thievery.

‘Do not look so surprised, Minister. I am, after all, a banker’s son.’

With an angry hiss Hettlage motioned to Dornberger to control his subordinate, but the general only stared at him. ‘I assume,’ he said finally, ‘that this suggestion has been cleared with General Fromm. If not, then we have nothing further to discuss.’

Dornberger got to his feet and stamped out, followed by von Braun and Bethwig. Franz turned at the door. ‘Minister Degenkolb, you are an excellent administrator, if somewhat of a bastard. I suggest you stick to that and leave the thieving to others.’ He smiled wickedly and closed the door.

As they walked across the park to the administration building von Braun waved an arm about. ‘Look at this. Laboratories, wind tunnels, construction and production facilities, housing, shops, amusement centres, and test stands, all employing and housing over four thousand people. How in the name of God can that man think this could all be turned into a moneymaking concern? Why, our budget is one hundred and fifty million marks per year. What do we sell? How can they possibly expect to make money?’

Bethwig explained patiently that the investors would make their money simply by buying the facility for a fraction of its worth, then at some later date selling it for its true worth either back to the government or to a holding company that they would invent; that company would, of course, be funded by the government.

Von Braun listened patiently; when Bethwig finished, he gave him a dubious glance but did not argue. Dornberger left to begin a series of phone calls, the first to Colonel General Fromm, chief of armaments and his direct superior.

Von Braun’s secretary, Hannelore Bannasch, met them at the elevator and gave her boss an envelope bearing Himmler’s personal seal. Von Braun glanced at Bethwig, then opened and read the message. He tossed it to his friend with a pleased expression.

‘That seems to be that. Perhaps Speer’s little game has frightened him away for now.’

The letter said only that because of changing circumstances the Reichsführer’s offer of direct employment had been withdrawn. The Reichsführer sent his best regards and wished them every success for the sake of the Reich. Bethwig felt a chill spread slowly through him, then mumbled an excuse and rushed to his own office. The envelope waiting for him contained two notes: one, impeccably typed, was an exact copy of von Braun’s. The second, in Himmler’s own spidery handwriting, reported that Inge had taken a turn for the worse and the doctors had not thought it wise to release her just yet – perhaps in a few months when the situation clarified itself.

He was being punished for his failure to persuade von Braun to join the SS. The fact that he had had little chance of ever doing so would make no impression at all on the Reichsführer.

A member of his staff telephoned to request an appointment to review the new procedures for the fast-approaching launch of the second A-10 rocket. Bethwig put the man off for the moment, pleading other commitments. No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang again. This time it was Dornberger, telling him to prepare for a visit to Hitler’s eastern headquarters to report on their progress to date. A few moments later von Braun burst in, grinning broadly, convinced that Speer had won, had beaten Himmler at his own game, and that they would now have a chance to change the Führer’s mind about the worth of rockets.

The meeting had been as stormy as the day outside, and Brigadier Oliver Simon-Benet fumed as he and Captain Jan Memling hurried along the road to their car. Jan opened the door and stepped back, but the brigadier, who held the umbrella, motioned him in impatiently. As the staff car, an American Buick – Memling still did not understand how Simon-Benet had acquired it – edged into traffic the brigadier swore and shoved the folded umbrella into its holder as if bayoneting his worst enemy.

‘Damn, I suppose they’re right. One more overflight at low level and the Germans are certain to know we’re on to them. But we do need those data! Isn’t there anything more CIU can do?’ he demanded plaintively.

Memling shook his head, ‘I’ve been over it a dozen times with them. Perhaps if the weather had been better…’ He shook his head, recalling the grainy, underexposed pictures that were all the photorecon aircraft, at the very limits of their fuel supply, had been able to obtain. ‘Unless your people on the ground can obtain the information, I am afraid we will have to go on what we now have.’

The brigadier muttered to himself, then said, ‘Nothing there, I am afraid. The AK people say their only contacts inside Peenemunde are with low-level labourers.’ He fell silent, staring out at the rain-sodden streets. May has been nothing more than a month of rain, he thought, all across Europe. But they had to have that data. Without specific and precise co-ordinates for the important test sites and facilities, Bomber Command could never hope to destroy the Peenemunde research centre. It was just too huge. He glanced at Memling sitting beside him, likewise staring out at the rain. He had been considering this solution for some time now but had not wanted to broach it until every conceivable avenue had been explored.

‘Jan,’ he began abruptly. ‘We need to send someone in. Someone who has the training to understand what he’s seeing. Will you go?’

For just an instant Memling thought he might vomit. He breathed slowly through his nose at the same time tightening his diaphragm to control the gag reflex. Ah, Christ, he thought, to go back again? He couldn’t do it, but even as the thought was formulated he knew he had no other choice. Janet was right, he had done more than his share. But that was an excuse no one would ever accept, particularly the brigadier.

Simon-Benet grunted in satisfaction at his nod of acceptance.