Vengeance 10

Germany August 1943

The blackness was absolute until he tugged back his sleeve and the radium dial of his watch glowed like a hundred-watt bulb. Three and a half hours since take-off. Jan Memling groaned and shifted position in the cramped confines of the Mosquito’s bomb bay. His legs were numb, and his back ached. The space, according to his sadistic instructor, was no larger than the famous medieval torture chamber in which you could neither sit up nor lie down at full length.

Memling shifted again and tugged on the parachute harness until the offending buckle came away from his spine. He started to curse, but gave it up, having already run through his entire vocabulary several times, and looked at the watch again. Twenty-five minutes. Of a sudden, that damnable surge of fear slashed through his chest. After two years’ active service in the Royal Marine Commandos he thought he was finished with that pervasive terror. My God, he wondered, why did I never experience it in combat? Why now? Why always in situations where I must operate on my own? Memling found that he was starting to hyperventilate, and he struggled to hold his breath; then as he began to think coherently he pinched the oxygen tube shut and squeezed the rubber bulb to force carbon dioxide back into the mask. After a few moments his heart stopped fluttering and his breathing evened. This was always the worst part, the anticipation. Yet Memling also knew from experience that the fear would continue, growing more intense, until he was safely out – or dead. It did no good telling himself he hadn’t wanted this mission; no one ever did.

‘Are you comfortable, old man?’ The pilot’s voice rattled in his earphones, startling him. Memling swore and the pilot laughed. ‘Ten minutes will see us passing south of Greifswald. Five minutes more will put us north of Wolgast and into your drop area.’

Memling acknowledged. At least the painful – physically and mentally – three months of training were behind. Coupled with an almost overpowering fear of going back into German territory was his growing estrangement from Janet, so that he had boarded the aircraft at Church-Fenton almost with a sense of relief.

Their difficulties had begun the evening Simon-Benet asked him to undertake the operation. He had told Janet only that he was being sent on detached duty, but she had either guessed from his attitude, or picked up rumours in Northumberland Avenue, that he was being sent into Germany, and it had occasioned an argument that had nearly ended in a complete break. Janet maintained he had done more than could be expected of anyone, that it was plain his nerves were not up to such a mission, and, finally, that she could not go through the agony of waiting and wondering if he would come back.

During the final weeks before he left for training, the argument had recurred several times until they became afraid to speak to each other. Memling had taken to sleeping in the spare bedroom, and their parting at Victoria Station had been strained. Since then, Janet’s weekly letters had become shorter and shorter until they were little more than notes concerning the weather, the same war news he heard on the BBC, and occasional comments about the increasing influx of Americans.

The ready light went on, filling the tiny space with its reddish glow. He fumbled to make certain that everything was in order. Parachute – he checked each fastening and made certain that the rip-cord ran free; chest pack containing the heavy radio transmitter, rations for three days, and his pistol, a Walther PP nine-millimetre automatic which he had obtained from a captured German officer in France. He himself had made the silencer for it from a length of conduit tubing packed with metal washers and steel wool. He buckled his leather and steel crash helmet securely and did up the laces on his boots, then made certain that the Fairbairn knife was strapped to his left boot – and waited, trying to hold the fear in check.

The pilot apologised for disturbing his rest and announced they were now passing Greifswald. ‘No anti-aircraft fire and no sign of night fighters. Maybe we got through without Jerry spotting us this time.’

Memling muttered something in reply, and when the co-pilot broke in to tell him to stand by, he removed his earphones and clipped them into their rack.

The minutes dragged before the yellow light went on. Memling released the four catches holding the plywood cover over the circular hole cut through the doors of the bomb bay, and slid it aside. He struggled into a sitting position, head bent, legs straddling the hole, and squinted at the frigid windblast. The yellow light began to blink the fifteen-second warning, and Memling slid his feet into the hole. Immediately the wind sucked them back against the fuselage, and he had to brace himself to keep from sliding through. For a moment the urge to pull his feet back, re-cover the hole, and go home to Janet was overpowering. The green light came on, and without thinking, Memling straightened his back as he had been taught, and dropped.

Even with the Mosquito bomber throttled right back to stalling speed, the one-hundred-and-forty-mile-an-hour wind of their passage flung him astern, tumbling him while he sought to spread arms and legs to maintain stability. He had an impression of the dark fuselage slipping past, black paint glinting with tiny highlights; and the earsplitting thunder of two Rolls Merlin 23 engines enclosed him in fury.

Then it was over, and he was wrapped in silence. The cold air brushed his face. The ground below was barely discernible. To his right lay a body of water interrupted by a dark landmass. The River Peene, he thought, the island of Usedom, and the Baltic beyond.

He glanced at the altimeter strapped to the top of his chest pack, twisting to catch the moonlight on its dial. The needle pointed steadily at zero. Damn, he muttered, and was surprised at the sound. Warrant Officer O’Reilly’s voice had dinned into his brain: ‘Wait until the needle points at eight hundred, boyo, or the bloody Hun will be waiting for you.’

There was nothing for it but to pull the rip-cord. Without the altimeter there was no way to judge a low-altitude drop at night. Memling made certain he was in position, took a quick look at the river to establish his orientation, and then pulled. He felt the canvas flaps slap against his helmet, had the impression of the pilot chute snaking behind, and then there was the sudden jolt that always came as a surprise when the chute blossomed and the sense of falling became apparent.

Memling craned his neck upward to make certain the black canopy had spread properly; then searched below for the pinpoint of light that would mark his reception team. There was a small pond or lake near the landing zone, and he fastened on its moonlight surface as a visual reference. The plan had been for the Mosquito to drop him at three thousand feet. He judged that he had fallen free for no more than eight or nine seconds, which meant that he had opened the canopy at about – he calculated the sum in his head – eighteen hundred feet. Maybe.

The ground came up fast. The lake had been misleading; it was further away from his point of impact than he had thought. Memling had just enough time to spot the pine tops, yank his shrouds to the left, and force relaxation into his knees before he smacked hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

He lay for some minutes, face pressed against damp moss, while he sought to regain his breath. When he could struggle painfully to his feet, the full realisation that he was in Germany broke on him and he had to sit down until the nausea passed. With few exceptions, every man, woman and child he encountered from now on would be his enemy.

At the same time, he experienced the heightening of senses that fear induced. The night was suddenly alive with a myriad of sounds, and even the darkness seemed to recede. His chute had caught on a pine branch, and that had upset his landing. Working quickly, he manoeuvred the canopy loose, tearing a long gash in the silk, and stuffed the endless yards of material back into the pack. He tied the flaps together and hunched down beneath the tree, listening.

He hadn’t seen the signal. And now there were only the normal night sounds to be heard: the scurrying of a small animal, the droning of insects, the bark of a distant fox, and once the flutter of wings as a night predator cruised past. He had been told as little as possible about his contact on the principle that the less he knew about the fledgling German resistance movement, the less he could betray during interrogation.

The hours inched by, and still he huddled beneath the tree, unmoving except for his eyes. Towards dawn he heard a cough some distance away and slid the Walther from his pocket, checked that the silencer was screwed on tight, and pushed the safety catch up with his thumb. A few moments later he heard a thin whistling. The sky had begun to lighten, so that he could make out large objects, but with the light had come a ground mist that softened and obscured outlines.

The whistling was closer now, and he stepped back into the trees.

It could be a woodcutter getting an early start or a routine patrol – although he could not imagine wasting manpower to patrol such an isolated section of the country. And it was not likely that a patrol sent out to find him would make so much noise.

Memling found himself staring at an apparition. The man, or woman, he could not be certain which, was dressed in a ragged jacket and pants; broken-down boots were tied on to its feet, a shapeless hat sat atop long greasy hair, and an axe was slung over one shoulder.

The apparition stopped, leaned on the axe, stared around, then asked in heavily accented English, ‘Where you are, Tommy?’

The man’s voice was deep, well modulated, and totally inappropriate to his appearance.

‘The password be’s Birmingham.’

Memling worked his way back into the trees as the man shrugged and sank down on to his haunches to wait. Memling moved silently back along his path, pausing often to listen and search the fog-shrouded trees for signs of a German patrol. The correct password was reassuring but not in itself sufficient. There had been plenty of time for the real resistance contact to be captured and the password extracted.

Memling went half a mile to the west, then described a wide circle south so that he approached his former location from the opposite direction. There had been no sign of any German activity; no sign, in fact, that anyone had been in the area in a long while. Jan came in through the trees, using the sparse underbrush as a screen, and the ragged woodcutter was still waiting. As Memling settled down to watch, the man yawned, shrugged, and stood up.

‘Tommy, I have not yet my breakfasts. When you satisfy yourself, you follow my tracks. I will have breakfasts waiting you. Okay?’

The man chuckled, and Memling gave it up. He stepped into the clearing, pistol in his right hand, eyes searching in every direction.

‘Oho! You are good, Tommy. Trusting nobodies. Good. Live to an old age, maybe. My name being Wolcowitz. Of Polish citizenships.’

Memling regarded him dubiously. ‘Polish? In Germany?’

‘Of course, and why not forever sakes? No Jew or officer. Just Wolcowitz the woodcutter.’

‘Woodcutters don’t normally speak English.’

The Pole bellowed with laughter, and Memling flinched. ‘For the love of God,’ he hissed, ‘keep quiet!’

The Pole shouldered his axe and motioned around at the trees. ‘Whyever do you say? Is no German nearby. None in woods. Only me, Wolcowitz. All Germans in Russia, fighting. Good place for them. Germans and Russians all kill each other, world be better place. Finn tell me once only Russian he like to see is over iron sights. For me, same with German. Come now. I quite hungries.’ Whistling, the Pole led off through the woods.

Wolcowitz served Memling a breakfast of rabbit stew, although Memling suspected the ingredients included other animals as well, to judge by the variety of gamey flavours. But he was hungry enough to eat anything that did not move, and Wolcowitz urged more food on him. Afterwards, to satisfy Memling’s edginess, the Pole took him on a sweep of the area.

A dirt track led into the forest from the general direction of Greifswald, an ancient town of forty thousand near the mouth of the River Ryck in the Greifswalder Boden, some twenty kilometres to the west and south. Memling studied the road carefully until he was certain it had seen no recent traffic. By noon he was satisfied that the area was as isolated as Wolcowitz claimed.

The two men stood in a sun-filled clearing. The heat-laden silence was broken only by the insistent drumming of cicadas. A bird flashed through the trees, and a squirrel chattered briefly. For the moment the constant fear was gone, and Memling turned his face to the sun and breathed deeply. It was almost possible to forget the war, but then the drone of an aircraft passing high above on its way east into Russia destroyed the mood, and the ever-present fear crept back.

Memling learned little from the Pole who, while talkative enough about non-essentials, was close-mouthed about the resistance and plans for Memling’s future. After a few hours’ acquaintance with the man he was convinced that Wolcowitz had once been an officer and was probably of good family as well. Even after years in the German forest as a woodcutter, he bathed and exercised regularly and his table manners were impeccable. His personal habits were in such contrast with his appearance that Memling remarked on them the first evening as Wolcowitz stood drying himself on the bank of the small stream that ran past his cabin.

‘Hah! Is what you call protective colours. Fool Huns if they come about. How it look to see woodcutter with neat clothes and shaved? But I do not like dirt on me.’

Memling spent a week with Wolcowitz. On the fourth day it rained, but they went out to cut trees anyway, the Pole explaining that he must deliver so many cords by the end of the summer if he wished to be allowed to return the following year. With Memling’s far from expert help, they made a large dent in the section of the forest in which Wolcowitz was expertly selecting and cutting trees. Memling began to suspect the Pole was in no hurry to pass him on.

On the sixth night a thin whistle sounded from the trees, and Wolcowitz motioned Memling to the front wall of the cabin. He went quickly, Fairbairn knife and pistol ready, noting with some surprise that the fear had receded abruptly. Wolcowitz took an automatic pistol from its hiding place and stepped outside. Memling heard quiet voices speaking in what he assumed was Polish, and then Wolcowitz called to him.

The moon was almost full, and the man standing beside ‘Wolcowitz was in German uniform. Memling froze, eyes searching wildly about the clearing for the shadowy figures of troops hidden in the trees. Wolcowitz laughed and urged the soldier towards the cabin.

‘So you would not kill my friend, Rodalski, you must see him with me. Good friend Rodalski is in guard unit in Anklam. Is Polish. Born in Danzig. Stupid Germans join him to army. They take anyones now, send them to Russia. Rodalski not his name, so don’t worry that account.’

Rodalski had come to guide Memling on the next stage of his journey. He had brought the proper clothes, and while Memling changed into the none too clean pants, shirt, and oversized shoes, the two men spoke together in Polish. As Memling was strapping the knife and sheath to his back, just below the collar of his ragged shirt, Wolcowitz broke off and came over to him.

‘Is better you not take weapons. Hun will know you are British and shoot you after while. But first will try and make you tell all you know. You not be able to hurt Wolcowitz if you speak, so do not worry then. Rodalski tells me must be gone from here tomorrow. Other job to do somewhere.’

Memling shook his head. ‘If the Gestapo arrests me, it won’t take them long to discover that ‘I’m not a Belgian foreign worker. My fingerprints are on file. I got away from them once, and they won’t let that happen again.’

Wolcowitz grasped his shoulder and squeezed. ‘You are brave man. Gestapo will kill you very slow. Better you not let them take you then.’

With bravado he did not feel, Memling grinned. ‘Not brave, my friend. Just frightened to death.’

Wolcowitz’s expression was serious. ‘Good. You will live long, then.’

Shortly after midnight the three men left the cabin. Wolcowitz accompanied them for a few kilometres before disappearing into the darkness. Memling was not aware that he had gone until he turned to say something.

Rodalski’s German was worse than his English. ‘Woodcutter is’ – he fumbled for the words he wanted – ‘knowing wise of woods. You never see him again until war is over. I go to Russia soon. I never see him again, ever.’

As they walked on through the still night Memling thought about Rodalski’s seeming equanimity in the face of certain death on the Russian front. Wolcowitz had described in some detail the extraordinary reverses both sides had taken in recent months. There had been a huge tank battle near the Russian city of Kursk a few weeks before, perhaps the largest the world had ever seen, and as a result Wolcowitz claimed there would never be another German victory in Russia. With Allied aid and their own factories relocated in the Urals, the Russians could absorb their massive losses, but the Germans could not. In response to Jan’s contention that the Germans could, by virtue of their industrial base, absorb far more than a tank defeat, Wolcowitz had dismissed Stalingrad as merely an example of German stupidity matching Russian stupidity.

And here was his guide going to Russia as part of an army that endured casualties at the rate of seven in ten – ten in ten in certain foreign conscript and punishment regiments. But like Wolcowitz, Rodalski did not seem to care so long as he could first kill as many of one side or the other as possible.

It was dawn before they reached their destination, a farm near the edge of the forest. Rodalski led Memling to a small outbuilding and cautioned him to stay well hidden, as the owner was a loyal German. He left Memling two packages of field rations and a bottle of water, enough to last until someone came for him. With a cheery ‘Good luck’, he was gone, the rising sun outlining his sturdy figure as he strode back into the forest – that was the last sight Memling had of him.

The following days merged to form one of the strangest interludes in Memling’s life. Not even his experiences in Belgium could compare. He was shuttled back and forth across this obscure corner of Germany by a succession of people who were either natives or foreign prisoner-workers released to do ‘land service’. Most such moves involved hiking for miles along dusty country roads. He saw only two soldiers during this time, both on leave, friendly and willing to talk and share cigarettes, which his guides seemed to have in greater quantity than the soldiers. After a few such days Memling’s constant fear eased to the point where he was able to keep his voice under control and his hands no longer shook in unguarded moments.

The sojourn began to take on the aspects of a summer holiday. The weather remained beautiful – clear and warm with mild evenings and short nights. By stages, although the route was never divulged, Memling concluded they were heading in the general direction of Wolgast on the River Peene. On the twelfth day his guide was a friendly and buxom German girl who introduced herself gigglingly as Francine. Her father, it appeared, had brought a French bride home from the Great War. She set a smart pace that rarely varied during the long morning. Memling guessed they were approaching the coast, as the air had lost its stifling summer heat and there were more people about.

Towards noon an army lorry carrying a squad of field-equipped troops went by, dipping precariously as the soldiers lined the side, whistling and shouting invitations to Francine. The girl waved and blew kisses until the lorry was safely past, then swore in German. ‘Reservists,’ she spat. ‘All rich enough to avoid the front service. I would not mind if they were regular troops, front-line or not.’

Memling was puzzled. The girl’s comment seemed inconsistent with her present occupation, but when he remarked on it, she only shrugged.

‘Our soldiers are fighting to destroy the communists. If they do not, the communists will destroy Germany. It is as simple as that.’ She turned to him, pert face screwed up with suspicion.

‘Are you one of those English communists?’ she demanded, and Memling laughed to conceal his sudden uneasiness. He realised from remarks made by previous guides that should the girl suspect he was, he might not live out the night.

‘Of course not. There are a few communists in England, but not many and certainly not in the employ of the government.’

Francine snorted. ‘So you think. They are there. Believe me. You should find and shoot them all. Every one of them.’

As they resumed their march his curiosity was aroused by this seeming contradiction, isn’t that a bit drastic?’ he asked. ‘After all, they are our allies.’

Francine spat again, and it began to dawn on Memling how deep was the hatred many Germans held for the communists.

‘Why? They would shoot you if they had the chance. You English, you are so naive. You have not lived so close to the Russian as we have, nor have you experienced his full treachery. They even feed upon themselves. All that shooting and killing during the past few years. And before, preying on our German citizens or those of German ancestry, like wolves, for centuries, denying us the right to eastern lands, lands needed to make Germany a great nation. Is it any wonder that Hitler and his like decided to make war on Russia? The Slav is inferior and he must give way to the German folk. But by fighting England and America as well, Hitler destroys the fatherland.’

Memling left it at that, sensing that to argue would only persuade her that he was at least a closet communist.

Late that afternoon they came in sight of a distant church steeple, and Francine led him off into a patch of woods. From her rucksack she extracted a loaf of brown bread and a large piece of cheese. Memling filled his water bottle from a nearby stream, and they ate, after which the girl scraped a mossy patch clear of twigs and stretched out, relaxing with a sigh. After a moment she opened her eyes and, seeing that Memling was watching her, smiled.

‘No one will come for us until after midnight.’ She patted the moss beside her.

Memling cleared his throat and glanced around at the trees, silent and filled with muted colour in the long summer dusk. ‘Where do we go then?’ His voice was hoarse and a bit unsteady.

Francise turned on to her back, stretching arms above her head so that her breasts rose and fell languorously beneath her thin cotton blouse. ‘To Peenemunde, by boat. You will be a foreign worker employed at the works. I am to be your wife. Everything has been arranged. We will stay with another married couple, friends of our movement.’

‘My wife?’ Memling repeated stupidly.

‘Of course. A married man is always suspected less. A foreign worker married to a German woman must be safe, the authorities will think. After all, to get married a foreign worker must be a party member, and so he must have been investigated fully. We will be given our documents tonight. The day after tomorrow you will report to work.’ Francine grinned and rose to her knees, unbuttoning her blouse at the same time. ‘You see, we are married. So I think there can be nothing wrong. And besides, if we are to carry out our role as a married couple, then I should not remain a virgin, should I? The Gestapo are quite thorough.’ Memling was having difficulty keeping up with this girl who had started out that morning as his guide and was now his wife. Sunlight filtering through the trees had taken on the radiance of early evening and coated her skin with gold. Francine had removed her blouse, and her large, well-shaped breasts swayed only inches from his hands as she wriggled out of her skirt. She smiled and took his hand, placing it flat against her stomach.

‘In Germany it is the duty of a married couple to have as many children as quickly as possible. You must make me pregnant or it will seem suspicious.’

‘Pregnant…?’

Francine tossed her skirt aside. ‘Oh, do stop repeating things. Yes, pregnant. It is no sin,’ she assured him. ‘The Nazis have become as godless as the communists. Our priest was taken away to the concentration camps two months ago.’

The girl’s voice was matter-of-fact as she talked, sitting back with her hands on her knees, unconscious of her striking beauty. Memling’s breath caught in his throat. Her figure was firm, well rounded, her large breasts were perfectly formed, and her flat stomach sloped to wide hips and sturdy thighs. Her skin was smooth, milky, and scattered with freckles. Curly blonde hair capped a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones. Sitting nude before him, she seemed as natural a part of the forest as the trees or the stream nearby, and Memling knew then why the Greeks had invented the nymph.

‘It only matters that the communists be stopped, not how. We work for an armistice with the English and Americans so the struggle can continue wholly against the godless communists. So, you see, this is a holy endeavour, as Father Dunn told us before they took him away.’

The girl leaned forward and began to unbutton his shirt. ‘You English. You must be as cold as they say. Perhaps the sun will warm you.’

The next few hours capped the holiday events of the past days with an idyll he would not have believed possible. Although a virgin, Francine later told him that she had spent much time discussing the techniques of lovemaking with her married friends, and despite a bit of clumsiness now and then, she threw herself enthusiastically into her work – as she made him understand she viewed it. And Memling had thought only the English capable of such self-deception. But he was grateful that she had no basis on which to judge his performance, out of practice as he was and worn down from days of hiking. Francine seemed pleased enough and asked him to stay behind while she went to the small stream to wash. After a while she called to Memling, and their cooling swim ended in a much more satisfactory bout of lovemaking. Dusk had deepened by the time they left the stream bank, found their clothes, and dressed. Francine was quiet, and whenever Memling glanced at her, she smiled with such vivacity that he knew she was quite happy at the way things had turned out.

The girl kissed him once, stretched out on the moss, and was asleep in moments. Memling sat nearby smoking and wondered what he had got himself into. There were a host of conflicting thoughts vying for attention, beginning with the fact that he was married and had just betrayed his wife. Second, there was the problem of what to do with Francine, tonight and tomorrow and the day after that. What if she did become pregnant? What the devil was going to happen to her?

They had walked openly through the streets of Wolgast to the riverside docks where the fishing boats waited for a pre-dawn start. Francine moved along proudly beside Memling, her arm linked with his and one soft breast pressing his side, and he realised that she viewed this all as a great adventure.

They had seen no policemen and very few soldiers, for so remote was this comer of Germany that – if one ignored its contributions of men, taxes, and levies of crops, as well as the presence of a good number of apparently ill-supervised foreign prisoner-workers – the war could have been taking place on another planet.

A single long-faded poster advised fishermen to be on the lookout for foreign submarines. The customs house, little more than a Victorian-style shed, was shuttered and closed. The quay stretching along the river was silent. Francine found the right nondescript Baltic trawler, and the captain of the boat and his crew – consisting of a beefy wife with the same reddened face and hands as her husband, and a son so shy that he could not even look at Francine – greeted and conducted them below to an evil-smelling hold. The captain apologised for the inconvenience but thought that as they were often stopped by coastal patrols, it would be better if they remained out of sight. A few minutes later Memling heard the engine rattle into life, and the boat moved slowly out into the river.

Francine clung to his hand, but apparently the smell of the place dampened her ardour and shortly she fell asleep against his shoulder.

The journey was over within an hour. The changed beat of the engine woke Memling just as he had begun to doze. He sat up, struggling with the familiar gagging sensation of fear, and disengaged Francine’s arm. He slid the pistol from his blanket roll as the hatch was thrown back and pale dawn flooded the interior. The captain beamed down on them.

‘We have arrived, sir.’

Memling scrambled to his feet, shushing Francine’s questions. ‘Arrived? Arrived where?’

‘Why at Wolgaster Fahre, sir. Just across the Peene from Wolgast. We would have come sooner, but I go down the river to make anyone watching think we are bound for the fishing grounds. You have only now to walk to Peenemunde town a few kilometres north.’ He handed down a heavy envelope. ‘Here are your papers, including orders to report to the research centre for assignment to duties there. You and your wife are to stay with a couple named Zinn, at number Seven Treptnow, in the town of Peenemunde.’ He spread his hands in apology as if it were his fault. ‘There are no accommodations for married couples at the foreign workers’ compound near Herringsdorf, sir.’

Memling and Francine walked along the dusty, little-used track that led to the fishing village of Peenemunde. The island was covered with thick pine forest, much as the mainland had been, and for a long while there was nothing but the silence of forest sounds about them. They had familiarised themselves thoroughly with their new identification documents, and when they had come to a spot out of view of the river, Memling turned inland until he found a place deep in the forest. There he burned and scattered the ashes of their old documents and hid the radio.

For the next half-hour they quizzed each other on their new identities. Memling’s new name was Walden Forst. Born twenty-eight years before in Herent, a small village near Louvain, he was an experienced quality control technician and had served in the Belgian army. His unit had surrendered at Namur in early May 1940. He had been released from a prison camp near Aachen a few months later, after having volunteered for labour service, and had been sent to work in a chemical factory near Bremen. A few weeks ago he had been selected for a highly technical position at Peenemunde and had accepted in return for a promise that his new wife could accompany him and a sizable increase in salary. He was now reporting for work after a two-week walking holiday-honeymoon.

Because of her distinct Pomeranian accent, Francine’s history had not been altered. She assured Memling that should anyone check, they would find that she had worked in the same chemical factory in Bremen and that they had married two weeks before in Wiescek, a fishing and farming village on the Greifswalder Boden. They were both Catholic, and the marriage had been performed in the parish church and duly recorded and witnessed. ‘You see,’ she said, laughing, ‘we really are married, even if you did not have a chance to say I do and promise to love, honour and obey me for ever.’

There was a shaded but concealed clearing in the fragrant trees, and it was mid-afternoon before the two of them reached Peenemunde village, hand in hand.

Jan Memling reported for work the following morning. They had registered the previous day with the elderly local constable at the Peenemunde village hall, and the man had assured him that, considering their long walk, tomorrow would be soon enough to visit the research centre’s security staff. He leered at Francine and plucked a pine needle from her hair. They had wandered through the small fishing village then, finding it much like other such villages along the Baltic coast – a single road fronting an old wooden quay, now quite dilapidated as the war made increasing demands on local labour.

The Zinns, a middle-aged couple of sour disposition, expected an outrageous rent, for which they would get an unfinished space in the attic, a rickety double bed, and two meagre meals per day. Memling wondered who had recruited these two grasping misers into the resistance.

It was obvious from the beginning that only greed had induced the Zinns to house them. The husband whined all the first evening about their losses, as they were now unable to rent the very desirable space in the attic to one of the wealthy scientists at the research centre. Finally, Francine could take no more and railed at the man and his wife in country German, threatening to report them both to the resistance. The two whispered together for the rest of the evening, clearly frightened.

Francine wakened Memling the following morning and went off to the kitchen to make certain that Frau Zinn had prepared a proper breakfast. As he sat on the edge of the lumpy bed, it occurred to him that his unexpected holiday was over and that it was time he returned to work. It took him a while to adjust to that fact.

Herr Zinn provided directions to the research centre, Frau Zinn handed him a tin pail containing lunch, and Francine kissed him goodbye. The good husband going off to work, Memling thought to himself.

As he trudged along the road in company with others converging on the installation he was surprised at the extent of the facility. Barbed wire seemed to run for ever, and through the pines he caught glimpses of the most modern buildings, lined up one after another. Security was thorough, if relaxed. His papers were examined at the main gate where the Luftwaffe guard gave him instructions and showed him on the map where to find the personnel offices.

By nine that morning he had been processed, fingerprinted, photographed, and assigned to a job as quality control technician in the Preproduction Works Building. The research centre, or what he could see of it, looked more like the American college campuses that he had seen in photographs. There were parklands and even a sports ground that would have done credit to any town in Europe. People – many in white laboratory coats and all, it seemed, with briefcases or clipboards – walked quickly, intently, from one building to another. Small special-purpose vehicles hauled canvas-shrouded equipment. There were bicycles everywhere but few guards.

As Memling made his way towards the designated building a distant roaring grew louder, and he looked towards the north to see a thunderhead of white smoke roiling upwards and, a moment later, a pointed cylindrical shape rising above the trees. Its fuselage was painted in alternating bands of red and yellow, and in the bright summer sunshine it flashed as brilliantly as the pure column of flame on which it was balanced. For an instant he was suffused with sheer joy as he watched a dream come to life. Even when the rocket had disappeared into the cobalt sky, Memling continued to stare after it, oblivious to anything else until a bicycle bell forced him to step hastily aside.

A smiling middle-aged man in a nicely tailored suit shook hands, offered him a seat and a cigarette, and welcomed him to the Peenemunde research facility.

‘We would like you to know that we are very grateful to you for accepting our position here at Peenemunde. We need all the technically minded people we can obtain, and I think you will find us willing to go out of our way to make you happy here.’

Memling assumed the proper dazed attitude; it was easy enough, as he recalled the conditions under which he had worked in Liege.

He was assigned to a quality control station monitoring the tolerances of valve assemblies which he quickly discovered were a part of the fuel control system for the rocket he had seen launched that morning. His foreman was a French national, extracted from a labour camp at Belsen and assigned to Peenemunde. Memling quickly gained overall impressions from the man which suggested that Allied intelligence regarding Peenemunde was sadly inadequate.

‘You will find the Hun a totally different type here,’ the foreman told him. ‘These are scientists, not soldiers or SS. They are just like any of us. Four thousand people work here. I tell you, it is enough to make your head spin when you realise all that is going on. We are not supposed to know, but everyone does. You are soon swept up in the scientific spirit, and then you are no longer working for the enemy but with fellow scientists. I ask you, did you ever think that some day man would fly to the moon? Well, they will, and perhaps sooner than any of us think. And if they do, it will be right from here, Peenemunde! Talk to any of the scientists. They will tell you the same, and what is more, if you have something constructive to offer, they will listen. I tell you, this place is what Plato’s republic might have been. Ah! If only there were not this damned war! But enough, your job will be to follow the specifications laid down on these sheets.’ He showed Memling a series of printed pages in protective celluloid covers, and a fine set of gauges.

‘The measurements must not vary by more than a tenth of a millimetre, otherwise the system must be rejected. Perform each measurement three times, recording the readings. Average the results, and if within limits, mark the card attached to each unit after reassembly and sign your initials and employee identification number. Understood?’

Memling assured him it was, and performed the first two measurements while the foreman watched, grunting with approval at the expert way he handled the gauges. Before he left, the foreman confided that this station was used to weed out the inept, and if Memling passed through successfully, he would undoubtedly be promoted to a more interesting task with an increase in salary as well.

That evening he discussed his day with Herr Zinn, who worked as a gang foreman supervising twenty Russian POWs. Grudgingly, and with much coaxing, he confirmed Memling’s observations. The rocket that had been launched that morning was called an A-4. Similar to the one photographed by CIU, he said to himself. This morning’s launch was apparently part of a series of tests, not all of which were successful. Some of the rockets disappeared into the sky, and some exploded either at the launching site or after they were in the air. In addition, there was a type of aeroplane that flew without a pilot; the Luftwaffe were conducting their own series of experiments on that one. Zinn knew little about them and cared less.

That evening Memling expressed his misgivings concerning the Zinns. Francine tended to dismiss his complaints, and Memling was uncomfortably aware that she was assuming a superior role. He was at a loss to know how to deal with it and cursed the unknown resistance leaders who had saddled him with this inexperienced little fool.

The Zinns, however, were a bigger problem. The man was clearly stupid and considered foreigners beneath contempt. The wife was little better, and shrewish and grasping into the bargain. It would be only a matter of time before it occurred to the Zinns to realise a profit by selling them to the authorities.

On the afternoon of his third day Memling was taken by one of the German engineers into the assembly area and shown the A-4 power plant.

The engineer, who introduced himself as Ernst Mundt, was a pleasant young man in his late twenties, blondish and pale-’ skinned with freckles that made him seem even younger. He showed Memling the carts of assembled rocket motors as proudly as any father showing off his children, and when Memling expressed astonishment that so much had been achieved, the man fairly glowed.

‘Before the war,’ Memling told him, ‘I was a member of the Belgian Experimental Rocket Society. I have always been interested in rockets and the possibility of spaceflight.’

‘Aha! Another man of intelligence.’ The German clapped him on the back. ‘You see, the war produces some good after all. It brings us rocket scientists together. We will achieve things here at Peenemunde that will be talked about for a thousand years, Third Reich or no Third Reich.’ Mundt, realising he had been indiscreet, grinned sheepishly at Memling but said nothing more.

He assigned Memling to perform final quality control checks on the completed rocket motors before they left the building for final acceptance testing. When Mundt had gone, Memling spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing the procedures manual and familiarising himself with the engine, struggling all the while to control his amazement and enthusiasm. The engines were rated to develop over twenty-five thousand kilograms of thrust – fifty-five thousand pounds – very near what he had originally estimated three years before. The general dimensions and carrying capacity – the Germans called it payload – were also quite close.

The massive hangar doors at the end of the building were opened to allow the Baltic breeze to sweep away the afternoon heat, and periodically a distant roaring sounded across the pine forest and scrub flats as engines were tested. Each time, the German engineer caught his eyes and winked, and each time, Memling responded. Enemy or not, there is something a great deal more important here, he thought, than politics and war.

That evening, much to Francine’s consternation, he sat up late, making crabbed sketches and notes concerning what he had learned. At first she sat on the bed trying to coax a response and, when he ignored her, angrily demanded his attention. Everything welled up so quickly that he had already slapped her before he realised what he had done.

‘You little fool,’ he hissed. ‘This is more important than sex.’

The girl tried to swing at him, and he slapped her again, hard. Francine shrank away, holding her face where the bright red finger marks were beginning to show, and nodded sullenly.

Memling went back to the table, and Francine continued to crouch on the bed in a sulk until she fell asleep. He worked a long time and then, feeling guilty, concealed the notes and drawing between a rafter and roof board, and got into bed beside her.

He stroked her back until she woke, and then tried to take her into his arms. Francine jerked away from him and curled into a ball. His anger at her childishness exploded, and he spun her around and forced her legs apart, seeking to relieve his own pain and fear. When he was finished, the girl was sobbing but refused to let him go. He lay awake for the rest of the night, staring at the moonlit ceiling.

The following morning Francine was subdued. Finger marks were still prominent on her cheek, and her eyes, red from crying, rarely left Memling as he ate. Frau Zinn glanced knowingly from one to the other, and she practically fawned over him until he was ready to leave.

The days then became routine for Memling. He would arrive at his station every morning at seven and leave at five-thirty when the shifts changed. In between, he spent hours painstakingly checking the tolerances of various engine parts, sometimes completing four assemblies in one day. By the time he was moved to the final check station at the end of the week, he was familiar enough with the engines to reproduce the blueprints from memory.

He had become quite friendly with the German engineer, Ernst Mundt, and on Friday afternoon was invited to Test Stand VIII to see the mounting and firing of an engine he had passed. Afterwards he was introduced to a tall, raw-boned man in army uniform with ordnance flashes and the insignia of a general-major. This was General Walter Dornberger, director of Heersversuchsstelle Peenemunde, the Army Research Centre. Mundt called him a member of the team, an appellation Memling found warming in spite of the fact that these men were enemies who intended to destroy his country with their rockets.

He took what advantage he could of the brief outing to identify the major structures he could see through the trees and along the beach. That evening he sketched a detailed map of the installation and added to it each night during the following week until it showed the centre divided into two distinct entities: one controlled by the army, Peenemunde East Development Centre; and the other under the auspices of the Luftwaffe and known as Peenemunde West. Together the installations covered ten square kilometres, as had been estimated by CIU in London. The problem for Bomber Command lay in the fact that installations were scattered generally along the eastern coast of the island from the northern tip to the town of Zinnowitz, fifteen kilometres south. Memling had gained a brief glimpse of the actual rocket launch stands, massive structures located close to the Baltic on the northern strand. Farther south were smaller stands for static testing, including Test Stand VIII, and beyond them began the engineering and research areas comprising both military and civilian headquarters, the administration buildings, canteens, officers’ quarters, and maintenance shops.

Two days before, he had been sent on an errand and having taken a wrong turn, found himself face to face with a barrier manned by soldiers in black uniforms bearing the jagged collar flashes of the SS. That night Memling added the roadblock to the map and sat puzzling over what it hid. The map showed nothing but marshy grasslands beyond the pine forest covering the centre portion of the island.

Eight kilometres south of the major test stands was the village of Karlshagen, a pre-war seaside resort of some renown where most of the scientists and their families were now housed in a special compound known as the Siedlung, or settlement. Many of the foreign workers were also quartered there in barracks near the square, across from which were barracks for the enlisted military personnel. A camp at Trassenheide some two kilometres west contained the Russian and Polish POWs who were used both at HVP and at the Luftwaffe installations. As diligently as he had searched and asked dangerous leading questions, he had been unable to locate the liquid oxygen plant, which, in his and Simon-Benet’s mind, was a primary target.

Memling contemplated his map late one evening as Francine came to stand beside him.

‘It does look rather sparse, doesn’t it?’

As on previous occasions, Memling was struck by her perception. It was hard to remember that she did have some training as a technician when she generally behaved as childishly as a twelve-year-old.

‘It does. There have to be major machine shops, chemical laboratories, a wind tunnel, and especially the liquid oxygen plant, but ‘I’m damned if I know where. Access is so limited that it would be suicide to try and search, even at night.’

‘But haven’t you learned a great deal anyway?’

Memling rubbed his aching eyes and glanced at the map. ‘I suppose so. But so much is missing and there’s so little time left to find it all.’

Francine’s fingers tightened where she had been massaging his neck. ‘So little time?’

‘Of course. We can’t stay here much longer. I want to be well out of Germany before the Gestapo turns us up.’

The girl sat down on the bed and stared at him. ‘Leave? Where? How do we…’

Memling had the damnedest feeling that she had never even considered the possibility that she would have to leave Germany. What in the name of God was going on here? Was the German resistance that inept?

‘Francine, what were you told about this assignment?’

The girl avoided his glance, and he grabbed her shoulder and shook her hard. ‘Answer me, damn it.’

‘They… they told me I was to go with you, as your wife, until you were finished with me. Then we would return to Wiescek until the war was over. I have an uncle who will hide us on his farm. I thought…’

‘God damn it to hell.’ Memling leapt off the bed. ‘What in the name of God are they thinking of? We can’t go to Wiescek. How long do you think it would take the Gestapo to find us?’ Francine stared at him, eyes brimming. ‘I can’t leave,’ she whispered. ‘My family, my friends, what would I do…? I…’ Memling shook her hard. ‘Listen to me, you silly little fool. This isn’t a game.’ He remembered Paul’s angry voice describing their methods that last night in Belgium. ‘Do you know what the Gestapo does to pretty little girls accused of treason? You like sex, don’t you? But how would you like to have twenty or thirty men rape you, one right after another? How would you like to be hung from wires? Or have electrical shocks to your nipples? Or be given enemas and douches with sulphuric acid? And they won’t stop after you’ve told them everything you know because those people like the job they do. Traitorous little girls are a treat for them, a reward, like candy. They can do what they want. Do you know the Gestapo uses women to torture other women because they know how to hurt you best? You’ll pray for death, scream for death,’ he hammered away at her, ‘do anything they want on their promise to kill you and end the pain.’

Memling found that he was shouting, and shoved her away, fighting for control. Everything he had said was true; it was also a reflection of his own fears and he knew it. He turned back to the girl who was crouched in the corner sobbing. He took her into his arms, murmuring to calm her.

After a while Memling lifted her on to the bed and turned out the single bulb over the table. He undressed her slowly, caressing her smooth skin until her sobs subsided. ‘Believe me, Francine,’ he whispered, ‘we have no other choice. Perhaps when the war is over we can return, but we cannot stay now. Do you understand?’ After a moment she nodded against his shoulder, then turned her back and lay quietly until her breathing evened and she was asleep.

Memling forced himself to lie quietly until dawn, struggling to find a way out of the situation, while at the same time avoiding any thought of what he would do with her if they ever reached Great Britain. He got up as the sky was beginning to pale, and went down to the quay to watch the fishing boats leave. He had a nasty premonition that the resistance had done little or nothing to get him out of Germany. Looking back on the days of hiking across the countryside, he realised now that it was because the resistance had not known what to do with him. It was only a matter of luck that they had not met a security patrol or been stopped by the police in all that time. And that in turn suggested that the identity furnished him was worthless.

All during the day, as he revised specifications for a change in the oxidiser valving system, Memling worried over the problem of leaving the island. Their best chance appeared to be in resuming their walking tour. If their luck held and they stayed to the back roads, they might elude the search certain to result when he disappeared. The question was, where in this rural corner of Germany could they go? Neutral Sweden was across the Baltic, and the only other possibility, Denmark, with its well-organised and active resistance organisation, meant a walk of three hundred miles. The weather was good and they were both healthy enough; food would be their biggest problem, but once they got into Denmark it would be easy enough to make contact with the underground who could then smuggle them to Sweden.

As a plan it was next to useless. But he had no faith left in the German resistance and he dared not stretch his luck beyond another week.

The day, a Friday, was hot, and even with the doors open the interior of the building was stifling. The dependable sea breeze had disappeared, and by noon a heat haze hung over the entire island. He had fallen into the habit of eating lunch with Ernst Mundt who was working on a temporary basis in pre-production to resolve the high failure rate during flight testing. A few days earlier, Memling had been unable to conceal his reaction when Mundt mentioned that he worked for Dr Wernher von Braun, the director of HVP. Mundt noticed his surprise, and Memling covered hastily by mentioning that he had met von Braun some years before.

Today Mundt waited for him in the shade of an immense fir that occupied a knoll facing the Baltic. The heat was oppressive, and both men had removed their shirts.

‘I’m for a swim after lunch,’ Mundt remarked. ‘How about you?’

‘No bathing suit,’ Memling shrugged.

Mundt laughed. ‘The hell with that. I know a small cove on the river side. When it’s hot like this the land service girls go there. No one worries about bathing suits.’

Memling grinned but shook his head. ‘I’m married, remember. And besides, those specifications have to be done today.’

‘I want to talk to you about that,’ Mundt said. ‘You’re a conscientious worker and a good engineer. Is there anything in your background that you would not want the SD to uncover?’

Memling choked on his bread ration, and Mundt thumped him on the back.

‘That’s always the reaction when you talk about the SD.’ He laughed. ‘Look here, I mentioned you to Doktor von Braun and described the work you had done. He was most impressed. We have another project going here,’ he went on, not noticing how Memling paled, ‘much more important than I can even begin to tell you. If we had our way, the A-Four would be scrapped. If we could begin again, with what we know now the missile would be entirely redesigned. Its reliability might reach as high as ninety-two per cent rather than seventy-two point four per cent. However, enough of that. This other project concerns space travel.’

He said this last without inflection and sat back to watch Memling’s reaction. He wasn’t disappointed.

‘Space travel! What the devil are you talking about? I thought this was a military installation?’

‘It is, but some of us are looking far beyond the war. We all agree the future of the human race lies in space travel. You said as much yourself, and we need good engineers for that project. Our staffing problem is horrible, especially for non-military projects. Whenever we find someone who shows promise, we try to recruit him. So, once those specifications are finished, you will be transferred to this other project, which is being directed by Herr Doktor Franz Bethwig. I don’t suppose you know him?’

My God, who next, Memling thought, just managing to shake his head.

‘Franz has been with us since the VfR days. He’s a damned good sort and you’ll like working for him. When I go back to my laboratory tomorrow, you are to go with me. Now, this project is secret, so keep your mouth shut about what I tell you. We are developing a rocket engine that will produce one hundred and fifty-nine thousand kilograms of thrust. That’s nearly six and a half times more powerful than the A-Four. The engine is simpler and a hell of a lot more reliable. The idea is to cluster enough into a single booster rocket’ – Mundt glanced around quickly – ‘to produce a total thrust of three and a half million kilos. Now where do you think we can go with that?’

Memling stared at him in disbelief. ‘Three and a half million…’ His voice trailed away in astonishment. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘But I am. We’ve already launched three test vehicles.’

‘Three…!’ The idea was almost more than Memling could grasp. The strides the Germans had made in the past decade were astounding. They had gone from firecrackers shot across a deserted World War I army camp near Berlin, to a rocket with six and a half million pounds of thrust.

‘What altitude have you reached?’ he asked, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of the technological advance, conceal his dismay, and sound vitally interested at the same time.

‘It is not altitude that counts these days but range, my friend. And that is secret, so let us just say that one of our U-boats photographed the third test vehicle as it fell into the South Atlantic.’ Mundt laughed with delight at his expression.

‘But that is incredible! With that much power you could reach the moon.’

Mundt winked. ‘I have told you enough to whet your appetite. Would you like to join us and accomplish something meaningful?’

‘What would I do?’ Memling stammered.

‘Work with me, of course. As my assistant. I need someone to oversee the preparation of the appropriate documentation for the engines. You would also assist in supervising the test crews. Now, yes or no?’

‘Yes! Of course, yes! How could I possibly say no?’

‘Good.’ Mundt beamed with satisfaction. ‘Report to Building Twenty-three at seven a.m. The guards will tell you where to go. You’ll have your own office and secretary. We even have air conditioning, and of course, as a member of the professional staff, you will have access to the officers’ club. For the first few days you will not be allowed to do much, as you won’t have the proper security clearances. I should warn you that this project has attracted the personal interest of someone very high in the SS. So, the SD is in charge of security, rather than the army. But don’t worry about that. I knew you were going to say yes, so I submitted your name to the SD two days ago. It normally takes only three or four days to complete a security check.’

Memling could only nod weakly.

Mundt grabbed up his shirt. ‘Well, now that’s settled and the girls are waiting. Sorry you can’t come along, but then that is what I liked about you from the start. No nonsense when it comes to work.’

Memling burst into the kitchen, grabbed Francine, and hurried her to the attic in spite of her protests.

‘We’re leaving tonight,’ he told her. ‘As soon as it’s dark.’

‘Leave tonight?’ Francine wailed, and Memling glared her into silence.

He told her what had happened during the lunch hour. ‘Mundt thought he was doing me a favour. Instead, he’s put our necks in a noose. And as if that isn’t bad enough, tomorrow ‘I’m to meet two people I knew before the war.’

Francine burst into tears, and as Memling turned away in disgust he heard voices below. He stepped to the door to see Frau Zinn pull her husband into the kitchen. The old bitch must have been listening, he thought. Leaving Francine to her self-pity, he took the Walther pistol from beneath the mattress and slipped down the stairs, keeping as close to the wall as possible to avoid loose boards. From the hall he could hear easily as the woman described his abrupt return and the visit of a curious village constable earlier that afternoon. Memling swore, having no way of knowing whether that meant they were already on to him. Zinn immediately shushed the woman and began to pace. After a few moments he stopped.

‘We have no choice, my dear. We must send to the authorities and tell them that we suspect our boarders are spies. If we hurry, it will look so much the better for us. If he points the finger, they will not believe him then but will think he is trying to get even. I’ll go this moment…’

Zinn broke off as Memling stepped through the doorway, silenced pistol in hand. The woman saw him first and jumped from her chair. Memling raised the Walther, and Frau Zinn took a hesitant step towards him. Memling motioned her back and shouted for Francine.

The girl clattered down the stairs. He told her what had happened. ‘Get some rope or cord. I don’t want these two loose.’ Francine nodded. As she slipped out of the kitchen she struck the woman a blow so stout that she sat down abruptly in her chair, gasping for breath. Francine was back in moments with a coil of heavy fishing line, and Memling herded the two frightened people into the bedroom and had them lie on the bed. He lashed their hands and feet securely with the line, drew the blanket over them, and lashed several coils around the bed, drawing the blanket tight so that they could not move. He then rummaged through a drawer, found a pillow slip, then tore it into strips and gagged them both. After he had tested the bonds, he dragged Francine out with him in spite of her protestations that he allow her to kill both of them.

‘You should have cut their throats, the swine!’ she hissed.

‘Stop it,’ Memling snapped. ‘There’s no need to kill anyone. Let them explain to the SD what the hell happened. Now shut up and let me think a minute.’

Francine glared, and he sent her to fix a quick meal while he tried to work out the next move. He stood by the window, staring at the narrow road fronting the end of the quay. Before Usedom Island had become a military research centre, Peenemunde had been a tiny fishing village of a few hundred inhabitants. The village of Peenemunde faced the River Peene, and except for a new wharf across the shallow indentation that served as the harbour, it had been little altered by the war or the presence of the Army Research Centre.

Watching the wharves now, Memling could see fishing boats at anchor and several coming up river. On the far side a petrol barge and tug were tying up to the government quay, and a lone sentry paced lazily in the evening heat. Abruptly he made his decision and went into the kitchen.

‘I’m going for the radio. I want you to keep an eye on those two. I’ll be back before midnight and we’ll leave then.’ Francine started to argue, but he cut her off. ‘Get this through your head,’ he snapped. ‘If we stay in Germany we haven’t a hope of surviving. If you like the idea of a Gestapo torture cell, I’ll point you in the direction of Wiescek when we reach the Danish border. Understand?’

As if out for a stroll, Memling walked along the road towards the south end of the village. He passed one or two locals who ignored his polite guten Abend with the usual sour charm of isolated country people, and was soon out of sight of the last house. He struck off into the pine forest then, moving swiftly through the trees parallel to the road. It took two hours to cover the seven kilometres to the sharp bend in the road and the lightning-blasted tree where he had hidden the radio.

Jan dug it up and ran the wire aerial up into the tree as high as it would stretch, then took a deep breath and flipped the power switch. He had little faith in the radio; during training he had tested it in the Orkneys and been unable to raise his contact near Glasgow, even when it was operating properly.

A green light glowed on the panel, and he adjusted the crystal until the cat’s-eye narrowed to the thinnest line he could obtain. He began to transmit his call letters, but to his dismay, the power light faded abruptly. Memling swore and sat back on his haunches, then retrieved the aerial and started back towards the village. With the Zinns safely out of the way, he could use the house current.

Dusk was coming earlier now, so that by ten o’clock it was pitch black. The full moon was just beginning to show through the trees. The air was more oppressive than ever, night having brought little relief from the heat. Memling’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. The village was silent, and few lights showed despite the fact that blackout regulations were in effect only in the event of an air raid. There were no lights in the Zinn house. Memling paused in the shadows and studied the surrounding area. The night was absolutely silent. No one was about, not even the usual sentry on the government wharf. He waited, sensing something wrong, the lessons drummed into him by years of commando training controlling his actions.

As he left the shadows for the back of the weather-beaten house he saw a staff car parked in the shadows. Memling froze in mid-step. After a moment he detected the reddish glow of a cigarette where a bored guard stood beside the vehicle.

For an instant panic threatened to send him into headlong flight, but fierce exhilaration quickly replaced it. They must be waiting for him inside the house, he decided. He watched for several minutes. Not even a window shade moved.

Memling circled through the trees until he could approach the driver from behind. The man carried a shoulder weapon and, as Memling drew the silenced pistol from his belt, knelt to light a second cigarette, unaware that he had signed his death warrant with the first. Memling shot him through the spine.

He hunched into the shadow of the car to wait for his eyes to readjust after the muzzle flash, then examined the area again. Once certain that no other soldiers were about, he dragged the body beneath the vehicle, then moved cautiously to the house to check each window. There were three soldiers inside: two in the front room and a third in the single bedroom. The Zinns were still a lump beneath the blanket. Obviously, the SD had not believed them.

The girl was his major concern, and Memling eased back to the dubious protection of the automobile. His fear had vanished, and he was now thinking coolly and logically. Whoever was in charge inside knew what he was doing; they were waiting for him to walk into the trap, and there was no way he could reach the girl without first killing all three. Spread out as they were, it would be impossible to take them all.

An idea came to him then. He dragged the dead soldier into the trees and searched his pockets until he found a box of matches and the man’s paybook. Using the body as a shield, Memling struck a match.

According to the paybook, the dead driver, one Erik Grubbe, was an unterscharführer, an SS rank equivalent to a sergeant. Good enough, he muttered, and stripped tunic and helmet from the body. The cloth was sticky with blood, and he rubbed a handful of dirt into it to hide the sheen. He slipped his Fairbairn knife from its sheath and a few minutes later was standing beside the bedroom window.

‘Hst! It’s me, Grubbe. Be quiet and come here. There’s someone moving through the trees.’

A shadow appeared beside the window. ‘Where?’

‘There, behind the greenhouse.’ Memling pointed towards a moonlit structure partly concealed by bushes. As the man leaned out for a better look Memling yanked his helmet forward and drove the knife into the base of his skull. He pushed the man’s head and shoulders down, lifting his boots clear of the floor so they would not drum on the wood, and eased the body through the window. A moment later he was standing inside. There had been some noise, though less than he had expected, drawing only a muted order for silence from the front room. He smiled to himself.

The moon rising above the trees was beginning to brighten the bedroom. He bent over the bed and Frau Zinn’s eyes bulged when she saw who it was. He rested the bloody knife against her throat. Her eyes rolled up as she fainted. Herr Zinn was sound asleep.

Memling moved to the doorway. One guard was standing in the centre of the floor, a machine pistol slung over his shoulder, waiting patiently. Judging by his posture, the man was an expert at this business. Good, Memling thought. His actions would be predictable. The second man was sitting at one end of the couch, which had been moved to provide a clear view of the road through the open window. He was relaxed, one arm over the back. As Memling’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw that Francine lay, unmoving, in the space next to him. Occasionally he stroked her thigh.

Memling eased back until he was deep in the shadows. The moonlight was now bright enough to cast a patch of silver light through the open window. Deliberately he kicked the washstand, waited a few moments, then did it again. This time the noise drew a sharp order for quiet. He remained motionless for nearly five minutes, then skittered a hairbrush across the floor. The order was louder this time, and to encourage the officer in the other room, he knocked against the porcelain washbasin. That seemed to do it; he heard the sound of boots hurrying across the floor.

As the officer came through the door he would have seen a shadow and felt stiffened fingers thrust into his mouth to prevent a cry, and the searing pain of a knife as it drove into the unprotected flesh below his breastbone and up into his heart. He might have glimpsed his killer in the instant before he died of massive haemorrhage.

Memling eased the man down, mumbling loudly enough for the remaining soldier to hear, then walked into the other room, shaking his head and muttering about incompetence. The soldier had turned as he came through the door, then swivelled back to the window as Memling knew he would. He veered without breaking stride and in a single paralysing stroke drove the knife down into the man’s neck. The soldier went rigid, his back arched. Memling released the knife and put his entire weight behind a chopping blow to the throat. The man was dead before his knees buckled.

Memling had to go back into the bedroom to search the officer’s body for the keys to Francine’s handcuffs. The girl fell against him, barely conscious, and Memling eased her around into the moonlight. They had beaten her badly. Her blouse had been slashed with a knife, and they had used burning cigarettes on her chest and stomach. Memling slipped the gag back on, lifted her on to one shoulder and slung the dead guard’s machine pistol across the other. Francine was like a deadweight as he crossed the yard to the staff car. He had no idea how long it would be until the four dead SD men were discovered, but he knew that both of them had better be damned far away by that time.

He laid the girl on the rear seat and hurried back to the trees for the radio. He started for the house, then hesitated. If the SD knew where to find him, they would certainly be listening for transmissions. If he tried now to get through to London, they would know something had gone wrong. He tossed the radio on to the floor beside the machine pistol – an MP40, he noticed, almost an old friend – and settled into the unaccustomed left-hand driving seat.

The road was deserted, and he drove on until the trees closed in on either side. It took only a few minutes to reach a point where the road ran above the river for a short distance. Opposite, a spit of land divided the river Peene. The channel was deep but rather narrow here, and he stopped the car and lifted out the girl and the machine pistol. Memling then reversed for some distance, put the engine into first gear, and shot towards the bluff. He rolled out at the last moment, and the heavy car leapt the bank, landing nose-first several metres into the river to settle beneath the surface with a sullen belch of air.

Memling covered the tyre marks as best he could, picked Francine up, and shouldered the machine pistol. The water was cold but the current less swift than he had expected. Francine gasped and struggled, but he forced her to swim the stretch of deep water to the island.

Memling allowed them only a few minutes’ rest in the shelter of a clump of willows. Francine was exhausted and wanted only to sleep, but Memling dragged her with him through the trees to the far side. The channel was not as wide here, and they crossed easily. The girl was confused and on the verge of hysteria, but Memling knew that the best antidote was to keep her moving. Relentlessly he drove her along the riverbank, north towards the village of Freest.

The stillness had grown palpable; nothing moved in the night. The moon had been hidden by a bank of cloud moving swiftly out of the north, and the darkness was intense. The storm was signalled only by a blinding flash of lightning and an earsplitting crack of thunder. Wind howled suddenly across the marsh, and the deluge was total; rain lashed by the wind blew at them from every direction. Francine’s fingers dug at his arm in terror, and he hunched down, trying to shield her with his body. The storm front seemed to take hours to pass, and even when it had done so, the rain continued to pour down unabated. The howling wind was unnerving, and without the river as a guide, Memling would have lost direction.

Francine had recovered enough to understand the urgency of the flight, but she was so weak that Memling was forced to half carry her. He knew she was in constant and severe pain from the burns, but there was nothing he could do.

Freest was only three kilometres from the point where they crossed the Peene, but they were forced to circle inland to avoid another village, Kroslin, where a small army garrison had been stationed. Freest was located on the Greifswalder Boden, the bay that emptied into the Baltic proper, above the boom that closed the river to traffic. He had no clear idea what they were going to do when they got there, other than try to steal a boat and move along the coast, away from the immediate vicinity. For the moment the necessity for getting as far away as possible before dawn overrode all other considerations.

It took them an hour to cover the last kilometre to the village. Memling allowed a few moments’ rest crouched in the shelter of a building. He was exhausted, soaked to the skin, and shivering violently. The girl seemed to have slipped back into a mild delirium, and he had difficulty rousing her. Memling was not familiar with the village, so he could only follow along the top of the low bluff edging the bay. The terrain rose slowly. The wind seemed to have steadied from the north. Suddenly a light flashed, and he heard shouts only a few metres ahead. The girl stumbled and slipped from his grasp as he stopped; her cry was lost in the wind, but the sound scared Memling badly.

He sank down on his haunches, covering the girl’s mouth with one hand and holding her down with the other. The light flickered in their direction and then swung to show a soldier helping several men tie up a fishing smack that had worked loose from her moorings. Memling had a brief glimpse of a stove-in hull and guessed that she would be on the bottom by morning. Beyond the damaged boat were several others barely visible in the thin beam. He lay down then, covering the girl’s body with his own, resisting her feeble struggles until she was quiet. There was nowhere else he dared go.

As the rain beat upon his back and mud seeped into his clothes, a plan was beginning to take shape. Sweden lay one hundred and fifty kilometres or less due north. He had not considered attempting escape in that direction because of aircraft and naval patrols. But this storm gave every appearance of working up to a near hurricane. If they could make four knots, they would be in Sweden in less than twenty-four hours. The storm would likely keep the Luftwaffe grounded at least that long. And any naval patrols would have their hands full just staying afloat.

Memling’s experience with small boats was limited to his commando training, but there was no other choice. The trek to Denmark across three hundred miles of enemy territory was not only unrealistic but suicidal. And with four dead SD agents to his credit, the Nazis would not rest until they captured them both.

The men on the pier checked the moorings on the other boats and then moved off. Memling picked up the unconscious girl, stumbled through the blackness to the pier, and crossed slimy wooden planks to the third boat in the line. He eased down on to the deck, hanging on for dear life as the waves, even in the sheltered inlet, tossed the boat about. Checking quickly to see that the craft was unoccupied, he laid the girl on the deck in the shelter of the wheelhouse and found the engine compartment. The cover slid back with a squeal, and he froze. But the storm was loud enough to cover the firing of an eighty-eight-millimetre cannon.

Fifteen minutes of feeling about the greasy, fume-ridden space and he had found and set the magneto and opened the fuel petcock, all the while blessing his trainers for their hysterical insistence on operating machinery under the most adverse conditions. It took several tries before the engine coughed into life, and he left it to warm up then while he carried Francine down into the cabin. Even here he dared not risk a light. The cabin smelled of long occupancy and little cleaning, but it was dry. He stripped off her sodden clothing and chafed her cold body, covered her with dirty blankets found by touch in one of the lockers and tied her into the bunk with torn strips of cloth. It would be some time before he dared leave the wheel.

He then dried the machine pistol and left it under the other bunk. The Walther must have slipped from his pocket some time after he had left the house, but it made little difference now.

Balancing on the heaving deck, he tried to recall details from the map he had studied so carefully over the past weeks. The Greifswalder Boden was free of most navigational hazards except for the scattered sandbanks that edged this tideless inland sea. They would be the greatest problem, as all channel markers would have been removed at the start of the war. There was, however, no other choice. Accordingly, he slipped the bow mooring, ran back and lifted the stern-line off the cleat, and, as the boat swung about under the battering of the waves, raced for the wheelhouse. There was a grinding crash as the boat collided with the one to starboard, then a second, and he had the engine full astern and the wheel spinning over.

The boat responded sluggishly to the helm at first, its bluff coaster hull wallowing heavily, and as they cleared the point the gale-force winds laid her right over. Memling fought the wheel, pulling the throttle further and further open until the engine screamed in protest. The boat came reluctantly under control, and he reduced the rpm. He had no idea how much diesel oil there was in the tanks, but knew it would be damned little. There was a sail furled professionally about the boom, and he suspected it saw a great deal of use given the shortage of fuel in Germany.

By accident Memling found the switch that started the circle of glass set in the windscreen spinning to provide a semblance of visibility. Huge seas, only half-hidden by the darkness, reared about the boat, and spume snatched from the wave crests was flung away by the violent wind like shotgun pellets. Summer gales in the Baltic were doubly dangerous because of its shallowness, and Memling wondered if they would survive.

The sky began to lighten near dawn, revealing heaving white-flecked mountains of water towering in all directions. Irrationally Memling had expected the storm to moderate, but instead it seemed to increase in fury. The compass showed a north-easterly course. The fuel indicator was broken so there was no way of judging the distance covered or the magnetic correction factor to be applied to the compass; yet he felt they must have come far enough to have cleared the island of Rugen, which formed the northern rim of the Greifswalder Boden, and to have left the dangerous sandbanks behind. Memling was forced to guess at the magnetic correction as he altered course due north, turning the wheel a bit at a time until the compass needle was oscillating north, north-west. He was hazy about the exact directions and distances involved but recalled that the island of Bornholm also lay to the north of Usedom and was less than sixty kilometres from the Swedish coast. But Bornholm was occupied Danish territory, and he had no idea how to distinguish between it and neutral Sweden without actually landing. With the fatalism that his present predicament encouraged, he decided to worry about that if and when the time came.

The gale slackened a bit towards noon, and he was able to lash the wheel and hurry below. Francine was still in the bunk, but the blankets had been churned into knots. He found and lit a lantern and swore the souls of the four SD men to damnation. Any regrets over their killing disappeared at the sight of her breasts – where they had concentrated the cigarette torture. Bruises on her thighs suggested she might have been raped. When he eased her over, he discovered large crisscross weals on her back where they had used their belts.

Memling rummaged through the lockers but found nothing with which he could treat her burns and the cuts from the belting. He made her as comfortable as possible in the narrow bunk and retied the restraints. Her pulse was slow and weak, and her breathing noisy.

The gale picked up in violence again during the afternoon and raged on into the night. He was on the verge of total exhaustion, and some time during the night he fell asleep. A violent twisting, corkscrewing motion shook him awake, and he stared out at the phantom shapes rearing above. The rain had stopped, but the wind had worked up to a screaming frenzy, piling up water in unstable masses that struck down on the boat, threatening to smash her under at any moment. Memling realised that unless he could turn and run before the sea, they would be swamped. He shoved at the wheelhouse door, but it refused to open, held shut by the wind. He wasted no more time then. The waves were silhouetted against the night sky, lighter now that the rain had stopped. He waited until the boat forced its way to a crest, then risked a quick look at the following wave and spun the wheel hard over hard to port, yanking open the throttle at the same time. They dropped below the crest, sheltered from the wind for a brief moment, and the boat fought around. There was a moment’s sickening vertigo as the deck fell away and then a jolt, and the bow buried itself to the hatch cover. For one agonising moment Memling was certain the boat would go right under, but like a terrier, she shook herself free and bounded upright. With wind and wave now dead astern, her motion became easier. Memling slumped on the wheel, gasping for breath, exhausted beyond endurance. For the remainder of the night he fought the seas that threatened to turn them broadside as they raced south-east towards Germany.

Dawn brought an easing of the violent gale, although the seas were as wild as ever. Again he struggled to bring the boat about towards Sweden. The boat responded well enough and settled down to doggedly bashing a way through the waves. Once more Memling found it possible to lash the wheel and go below for a few moments. Francine’s condition did not seem to have changed, except for her breathing, which had become noisier, making him fear pneumonia. There was not much he could do but try to feed her some of the small supply of food he had found in one of the lockers and make her as comfortable as possible.

The day wore on into afternoon, and still the boat chugged on into seas that never seemed to change. Memling napped whenever possible and between times stared, hypnotised, at the heaving water. When the engine died, he was surprised but not disconcerted. As the bow fell off he slipped the cord over the wheel and dashed on to the deck.

He had prepared by tracing the sail’s hauling mechanism and the sheets that controlled its movement. He slipped the lashings that held the canvas sail to the boom, inserted the handle into the winch, and cranked like a madman. The sail came up freely on to the mast, bellying out in the thirty-knot wind, and the boat heeled to windward. Immediately she became easier as the huge cat-rigged sail balanced her, allowing her to heel so that a minimum of hull was in the water.

Memling found the boat amazingly responsive to the helm. This was what she had been built for, to bend the elements to her will, not to potter along under the impetus of a smelly diesel. There was an impression of great speed as the little boat shot along, bow wave creaming and wake stretching behind, and Memling, exhausted as he was, began to enjoy himself. He checked the engine and found that a cooling line had snapped, allowing the engine to overheat and seize up. But as long as the wind held steady, they were probably making better time under sail, and so he did not mind the loss of the engine. For hours they raced northward close-reached, wind steady over the starboard quarter. At four the weather and the seas had moderated, so he felt it safe enough to go below.

Francine was in a deep but restless sleep. Her face was flushed, her hair damp with sweat, and her skin hot and swollen. She tossed against the restraints, fingers plucking weakly at the blankets. When he examined her burns again, he found that several of the deeper ones had turned a puffy grey. Her breathing, Memling was certain, indicated that she had pneumonia. He covered her as best he could and rummaged through the cabin stores, finding only a dried, stringy sausage and a piece of cheese. There was a bare spoonful of tea in a canister, and he heated water over the recalcitrant alcohol stove and tried, without much success, to get her to sip a little. Her murmuring had turned to country German in which only the name Karl – a brother, he supposed, or a friend – was understandable. He made certain the lashings were secure before going back on deck with the rest of the tea. He knew she was going to die, and found himself cursing the fools who had sent her to this fate; then he stopped, recognising the futility of it all. He finished the tea slowly, making it last, and chewed on the tasteless sausage and cheese.

In late afternoon the sun broke through to cast long pillars of light on to the sea. At seven o’clock he sighted a smudge of land. For a long moment the old fear rushed back. Neutral Sweden or Nazi-occupied Bornholm? There was nothing to do now but wait. He went below then to check on the girl and clean the machine pistol.

Francine was comatose; her skin was hot and dry to the touch, and her mouth worked with the effort to breathe. Fluid was filling her lungs with unbelievable rapidity. He sat helplessly on the bunk, holding one limp hand. There was nothing he could do other than to keep watch while she died.

When he went back on deck an hour later, the skies had cleared almost completely. The wind had dropped, and the sail slatted sullenly. The aircraft had apparently been circling for some time, engines throttled back. Memling grunted; its appearance had been inevitable. The plane had twin booms, three engines, and stabilising pontoons slung beneath the wings. He identified it as a Bv138 naval reconnaissance seaplane-an aircraft the Swedes did not use. Half-heartedly Memling waved, hoping they would think he was a Swedish fisherman. The plane made one more circuit and climbed for altitude until he lost it in the darkening sky. Radioing for instructions, he suspected.

The smudge of land had taken on definition in the time he had been below. A low range of hills were visible, as were one or two lights along the shore: Sweden, he realised, as Bornholm would have been blacked out. Not that it mattered much now. He judged that he was well within neutral Swedish territorial waters, but he also knew that such niceties would not deter the Nazis who could not allow him to escape with the information he had gathered at Peenemunde.

Memling began the preparations he had thought through earlier. He took the hatch cover off the engine compartment and punched a hole in the fuel tank, hoping that enough fuel remained to do the job. Earlier he had gone down and prised boards away to let the oil seep into the aft hold. He found two bulky cork life-belts and took them into the cabin. Francine was delirious and much weaker now. A matter of hours, he thought. He balanced the knife in his fingers and bent over her, easing her chin back. It would be so much kinder to slip the blade in quickly; death would be instantaneous. But he could not bring himself to do it. He did not even like her very much, and he doubted if she cared at all for him. They had been given a job to do. As she had seen it, sex was a part of that job, a part she enjoyed, but a job nevertheless. He, in turn, had used her, partly because she was willing, partly because he was reacting to his own problems with Janet, and partly because her magnificent body offered a relief from his own fear. Each had been a convenience to the other, nothing more.

He cursed himself as he slid her arms through the cork jacket and tied the thongs securely. He could kill when it was an enemy and there was no other choice, but not a helpless woman who had shared her body with him, for whatever reason. If there was any chance at all, he meant her to have it. Jan lifted her from the bunk, then, grunting in the confined space, carried her up and placed her on the deckhouse floor. He went below again for the alcohol stove and the dead SD man’s machine pistol. He poured a panful of diesel oil on the limp sail, lit the stove with difficulty, and sat down beside the feverish girl to wait.

The reconnaissance plane made its first attack from dead astern at sea level. Machine-gun fire chewed across the deck, and the aircraft swept past so close that Memling saw the pilot staring down at him. The gun turret forward of the cockpit swivelled as the pilot sideslipped to give the gunner clearance, but the burst went wide. The plane banked sharply, fell off one wing, and swept down on them, again at sea level. Memling knelt behind the engine compartment and held his fire until the last possible moment; a split second before the twin machine-guns opened up, he fired a long burst that exhausted the Schmiesser magazine. The turret shattered and the aircraft swept past without response. One dead gunner, he hoped.

Memling rammed home the other magazine and watched the aircraft sweep away low, then climb swiftly. The pilot would not make that mistake again. Regretfully he dropped the machine pistol and picked Francine up, easing her over one shoulder. She muttered something through cracked lips, and he held her tightly for a moment, then bent, picked up the stove, and opened the valve until the flame roared.

Far above he could see the Nazi turning towards them. Sun glinted for a moment, highlighting the aircraft, and he could even see the racks of bombs slung under each wing. As the pilot began his run Memling walked to the after hatch where he had put a cloth-wrapped stick that he had soaked in oil. He lit the torch from the burning stove.

The seaplane droned nearer, and he saw the first bombs drop. The pilot had chosen his altitude well. The bombs would strike before the boat could answer the helm. They landed so close that when they exploded, the boat shuddered. The stove was knocked into the hold, and at the same moment Memling threw the torch against the sail. The canvas flared and he slipped over the side. Francine struggled a moment as the shock of the cold water bit through her delirium, then she was still.

The boat was pulling away rapidly, sail flaming brightly, providing an unmistakable target for the seaplane and perhaps a beacon for the Swedish coastal patrols. Two more bombs plummeted, and Memling held his breath, waiting for the concussions. When they came, it was as if a huge fist had clamped, then flung him away. The oil in the hold ignited, and the flame ran back to the fuel tank. The boat leapt clear of the water with the force of the explosion and fell back, a seething mass of flame. Still moving forward under her own momentum even though the sail had disappeared, she plunged beneath the waves.

The aircraft made a final low-level pass across the burning boat, then, as Memling had hoped, sought altitude and turned south towards Germany before Swedish pursuit planes could come to investigate.

Two hours later a Swedish coastal patrol launch found them. Memling was barely conscious, and although the girl must have died within minutes of entering the water, he was still clinging to her.

Sweden September 1943

‘I say, are you Captain Jan Memling?’

Memling turned over on the bunk and regarded with suspicion the thin, pale young man in a well-tailored suit. He rubbed a hand over his face, grimaced at the three-day stubble, and nodded. ‘Yes.’

The man smiled with satisfaction and dropped down on the bunk opposite. ‘Had the devil of a time finding you. Must have been over this camp three times. None of these chaps want to help. Think ‘I’m a spy.’

‘Are you?’

‘Good heavens, no! ‘I’m the naval attaché at the Stockholm embassy. Name’s Ian Fleming.’ He handed Memling a leather case with his identification.

Memling decided that Fleming was who he claimed to be. A German impersonator would not have failed to mention his rank even though it was listed on the ID card as lieutenant commander, RN.

‘What can I do for you, Commander?’

‘I’d say it’s rather a matter of what I can do for you. But first, let’s establish your bona fides, shall we?’ He took a photograph from his case and held it beside Memling’s face. ‘Well, you look like Captain Jan Memling, late of the Number Two Commando. Perhaps you could tell me your mother’s maiden name?’ Memling grinned for the first time in three weeks. ‘Wells. Anything else?’

‘Oh, quite a bit.’ Fleming consulted a pocket notebook. ‘I believe your father was a Belgian gunsmith?’

‘My father was a British citizen, born in London,’ he corrected.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. My grandfather left Belgium in 1872.’

‘I see. Well then, in 1928 he made a certain type of gun for a rather famous personality. Perhaps you could describe it?’ Memling blinked. His father had made dozens of fine rifles and shotguns for his customers, many of them famous. He took a chance, knowing first-hand just how thorough MI6 could be.

‘He made a ten-bore double shotgun for Lord Esterbrook to use on his East African farm. Lord Esterbrook wanted a serviceable weapon with a steel skeleton stock. It had cast-steel barrels to make up the weight thus lost to reduce recoil.’

‘Very good.’

‘How did they find out about that gun? My father considered it an abomination and even refused to sign it. He made Lord Esterbrook promise never to reveal its maker.’

The naval officer only smiled at the question. ‘You know better than that.’ He slipped the notebook into his pocket, then took a small leather bag from the case and extracted an ink pad and a sheet of celluloid. He pressed Memling’s middle finger to the pad and then to the celluloid sheet and stepped to the window where he superimposed the celluloid over a transparent photocopy of Memling’s fingerprints and studied the results with a magnifying glass.

‘Well, that’s that. You do appear to be Captain Memling.’

‘So. Now what?’

Fleming packed up the kit. ‘Now we get out of here. I have a car outside.’

Memling shook his head. ‘Maybe you haven’t heard, but I’ve been interned for the duration.’

‘I did hear something to that effect.’ Fleming tossed him an envelope with the Royal Swedish cipher embossed discreetly in the upper left corner. ‘Royal pardon. Seems a mistake was made. You were thought to be an Allied combatant when your boat was sunk in Swedish territorial waters. The police should never have arrested a member of the embassy staff. Diplomatic immunity and all that. What’s the world coming to, I wonder? Ready?’

The day was exceptionally mild, and Fleming drove at breakneck speed through the rolling countryside. Somehow he had obtained an elderly Bentley that had obviously been restored in painstaking detail. With the top down it was difficult to talk, and Memling lay back against the leather seat and closed his eyes, revelling in the fresh air, warm sun, and semblance of freedom the car’s passage provided.

He could remember little of the first three days after the Swedish patrol boat fished him from the water, other than a successive flicker of static scenes; a jouncing ride in an ambulance, soft sounds and sterile walls, a woman in white uniform bending over him, and then nothing.

He awoke in the Allied detention camp at Korsnas, north of Vasteras, in central Sweden. A week later had come a hearing presided over by a civilian and attended by Swedish military officers and one representative each from the British embassy and the International Red Cross. The British diplomat impressed upon him the importance of keeping his mouth shut. At the end of the hearing, conducted entirely in Swedish, he was remanded to the detention camp for the duration of the war. Since then, all his attempts to contact the British embassy had been fruitless.

Routine, he was told in the officers’ billet to which he had been assigned. His fellow internees were mostly aircrew, pilots and one or two Norwegian MILORG Officers who had come overland from Norway after finishing a mission.

‘They’ll get us all back in time, never fear,’ one of the RAF types had told him. ‘Until then, just relax and enjoy life.’

But he could not. Memling was aware that time was running out. Bad weather would set in shortly over the Baltic, and when it did, the RAF would probably cancel all plans to bomb Peenemunde until spring. So he fretted and fumed and made a nuisance of himself at the administration centre trying to contact someone in the embassy.

The internees pretty much had the run of the camp, he discovered, but the perimeter was well guarded by armed sentries and dogs. The food was excellent, and the officers’ club functioned like its counterparts in Britain, even to mess bills. Nor was it difficult to obtain a pass into Korsnas, a village of a few hundred people, or even for a day trip around the countryside. But to obtain a pass, you had to give your parole and he had not been prepared to do that.

Fleming slowed the car and turned off on to a farm track that led back into a field. He kept on until the track bent double and disappeared into a grove of trees where he stopped the car. The naval attaché walked into the field towards the road to make certain they were concealed sufficiently, then strolled back.

‘How about a spot of lunch?’ Fleming opened the trunk, removed a wicker hamper, and spread a blanket beneath a massive beech. ‘Had the hotel put up a basket. Much more pleasant than a roadside cafe. And we can talk here.’

After years of wartime strictures, Memling was amazed at the variety of food that appeared from the hamper: sandwiches of all kinds, canapés, cheeses, sliced and potted meats, and sweets.

‘Had the devil of a time teaching the chef to make a proper sandwich,’ Fleming remarked, offering one. ‘Kept insisting it was sacrilege to put a slice of bread over the top.’ He produced a chilled bottle of wine and pulled the cork with a flourish. ‘A nice Chateau Margaux 1928. Bought several bottles from an old gentleman in Strangnas by the name of Iwan Morelius.’ He sniffed the cork and held the bottle up to the sun. ‘Not bad,’ he muttered, examining the colour with a critical eye, ‘for wartime.’

They ate in silence. The sun filled the glade with light, reminding Memling of his first week in the Mecklenburg forest with the strange Polish woodcutter. Insects droned lazily, and a light breeze rustled trees. A distant cicada thrummed; a small stream ran nearby, and the water chuckled over moss-covered stones. The sounds of summer, he thought.

Fleming glanced at his Rolex wristwatch and broke the silence. ‘I must apologise for taking so long to pull you out of there. The Hun is very well organised in Sweden, and he has a great deal of support from certain types. They know you are alive, and they seem to want you quite badly, which caused no end of furore at the Foreign Ministry. Seems Jerry claimed you were not a British citizen at all but a Belgian working on contract for them. Claimed you murdered some policemen, and wanted you returned to Germany for trial.’

Memling snorted, but Fleming held up a cautioning hand. ‘Wait. It was damned close. There is strong sentiment for Germany in certain quarters of the Foreign Ministry. The warrant had actually been issued, and several policemen and a German Gestapo official were already on their way when I found out about it. You may actually have seen him at the camp. He looks cadaverous.’

A sudden chill ruined the beauty of the day. Memling stared at the thin officer sprawled beside him. His coat had fallen open, and he saw that Fleming was wearing a chamois-skin shoulder holster and what looked to be a twenty-five-calibre Beretta. ‘Very thin? Gaunt actually. A face like a skull’s?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. There certainly can’t be two alike. Do you know him?’

‘Yes… I do.’

Fleming looked up sharply at the tone in his voice but asked no further questions.

‘Anyway, I got the ambassador to ring up the Justice Ministry and get you off the hook, but it was a near thing. If the camp commandant had not insisted on double-checking the warrant, you might be sitting in a Nazi concentration camp at this moment.’

Fleming sipped his wine and unwrapped another sandwich. ‘That’s why the government wants you out of Sweden today.’ He chewed with evident pleasure and swallowed. ‘My orders are to see you on to a plane for London as quickly as possible. An American transport leaves this evening for Iceland. You can transfer there for a flight to London. We don’t dare try and set it up from here because Jerry’s radio interception is excellent. But you should have no trouble finding a flight in Reykjavik. Dozens go out every day in both directions. Otherwise, there are plenty of British naval vessels in the harbour.’ He got up then and fetched a manila envelope from the Bentley.

‘Diplomatic passport and all that. You can read it on the way. Take good care of it as the FO gets quite upset if one is lost. They only agreed as you are an MI-Six reserve officer.’

Memling took the envelope and slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘Thanks very much for all you’ve done. I…’

Fleming waved a hand. ‘All in a day’s work. Think no more about it.’

Fleming fetched another bottle from the Bentley, this time a fifth of Haig and Haig. ‘Just the thing with which to celebrate.’ He produced two small cups, filled them, and offered Memling a silent toast. ‘Now, tell me who the young woman was?’

Memling hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No, Commander. I don’t think I had better say anything at all.’

Fleming nodded. ‘Probably the wisest course. However, we have little choice in the matter. She is the only gap in the story, and the Swedes are pressing for an answer.’

Memling finished the Scotch and stared at the silver-plated cup. ‘Look here, she was a member of the German resistance assigned to help me. SD thugs tortured her, and, well, she contracted pneumonia and died. That’s all there is to it.’

Fleming gave him a level stare. ‘I see. I suppose the “SD thugs”, as you call them, are the four dead policemen?’

When Memling stared off at the forest instead of answering, Fleming nodded, laced his fingers behind his head, and closed his eyes. After a long while he murmured sleepily, ‘I suppose I should tell you they did let me in on the purpose of your mission. You might be interested to know that in 1939, shortly after the war began, our embassy in Oslo received a package containing a report that described much of Germany’s secret war research, including radar and rockets. The report was carefully studied, but no one could decide if it was a plant or not. So nothing was done. Seems there was something to it after all.’ Fleming was silent for a while.

‘London had given you up for lost, and Bomber Command laid on the Peenemunde raid a week ago. The official word is, they did one hell of a lot of damage.’

Memling was stunned by the news. Christ in heaven, it had all been for nothing, then, he thought. Francine’s death, everything they had gone through, his estrangement from Janet, all of it wasted.

‘How in… they must have known I was in Sweden…’

Fleming gave him a sympathetic nod. ‘Yes. We notified London that you were here but it looked as if the Germans might get you and the weather was deteriorating and someone decided they couldn’t wait any longer. But’ – he brightened – ‘you should be of immense help in interpreting the after-action damage photos, as you were there, on the ground, so to speak.’

Memling could only nod in bitterness.

No one was at Croydon to meet him; but then, Memling hadn’t expected it. He found the military transport office and, after an argument over the priority accorded him by his diplomatic passport, gave up and bought a ticket on the London-Brighton Line for London Bridge. He still had to wait an hour on the dripping platform. At London Bridge Station the crowds streaming down the tube platform deterred him, and he walked north across the bridge and past Saint Paul’s towards Holborn.

The bomb damage was appalling. Whole blocks had been destroyed and cleared away to leave gaping holes in the line of buildings. For some reason he had not noticed before how ragged the city had become. Shops, however, were open, and the streets crowded, particularly with children, who seemed to have filtered back in spite of the government’s efforts to keep them in the countryside. It rained steadily, but the air was warm and he didn’t mind. No one paid attention to his shabby clothing and run-down shoes; he looked more or less like the majority of Londoners around him, except that most men his age were in uniform.

As he started up Gray’s Inn Road a teenage girl darted up, thrust a white feather at him, and disappeared, giggling, into the crowd. An elderly woman clucked and turned away as he stared after the girl, too outraged even to swear. Suddenly all the frustration, all the fear and misery he had endured for so long, crashed upon him. People stared with mixed expressions at the tall no-longer-young man dressed in shabby civilian clothing swaying on the kerb; most thought him drunk.

The block of flats on Montague Street seemed unchanged; the unpleasant image of an earlier homecoming had been in his mind the past few days. The flat was locked and, as he expected, Janet was out, probably still at work. Memling considered going across to Red Lion Square and reporting in, then decided against it. Tomorrow was soon enough, and he was exhausted. He sat down on the top step and leaned against the banister. It was four-thirty, and Janet wouldn’t be home until after six. He closed his eyes, seeing the foolish little girl with her bunch of white feathers and no idea in her silly head except to… to… To what? he wondered. They were about the same age, that silly girl and Francine. The futility angered him all over again before he realised that he was canonising her. Francine was no different from that girl with the feathers. She too had considered it all a great game, until it had killed her.

So much had happened since he left that it might have been someone else who lived here. The memory of his terror was rapidly being sublimated as events of the past month receded. He did not understand them and doubted he ever would. Nor did he understand himself or the fear which infected him, and of which he was ashamed. He knew he would never be able to discuss it with anyone, not even Janet.

He forced his mind away from that line of introspection as he had done so many times in the past, and thought about the strides the Germans were making in rocketry. My God, he breathed, as the wonder of it struck him again. A rocket powerful enough to reach the moon! It was incredible, but the thrill died abruptly when he remembered that a rocket that powerful could also deliver thirty metric tons of explosive on London in one blow.

Any sympathy, any understanding, any liking for the Peenemunde personnel, had evaporated with the girl’s murder. The scientists may have had nothing to do with her killing, but they had acquiesced in it by tolerating the sadists infesting the SS and the Gestapo. And he knew with fierce pleasure that even though there had already been one bombing raid, there would be many more when he made his report. The fact that massive enemy rockets existed could no longer be ignored.

Janet found him two hours later when she came up the steps searching her handbag for her keys. He was sound asleep against the banister. In the dark she took him for someone who had wandered in out of the rain in search of shelter. But after turning on the hall light, she sat down abruptly, confused and conflicting thoughts swirling through her mind. She studied his face, wondering at the deep lines carved in the forehead and cheeks and the streaks of grey above the temples. He is too young, she protested silently. Too young! She knew then that she would neither give him up nor let him go again.

Peenemunde August-October 1943

Franz Bethwig stared at the yellow telegram sheet.

He crumpled the flimsy sheet, dropped it in the wastebasket, and left the administration building. The day was exceptionally hot and still. A storm was brewing, but Bethwig was oblivious to his surroundings. He went along the paths leading to the beach, wanting only to be by himself. People scurried past, so many that their faces did not even register. Once he had known everyone on the island, including the military guards.

He found a deserted stretch of beach and threw himself down on the sand. The sun blazed down, and after a while he removed his shirt. With Ullman dead, his last link to Inge was broken. A great emptiness surged from his chest to encompass his entire body. He was aware of sullen wavelets lapping the shore, the iron sun burning his skin, the gritty sand, all at the same time that the knowledge he might never see Inge again struggled to blot everything from his mind. Why? he thought suddenly. She was a prostitute, and a half-wit into the bargain. But none of that mattered. Heydrich had understood, perhaps even arranged it; certainly he had tried to use it against him and had nearly succeeded.

And now Himmler. Did Ullman die in combat, as a matter of course, or was he the pawn in this perverted game? Himmler had twice now tried to force him to replace von Braun, and twice he had refused.

Yet Bethwig could not bring himself to believe that something as petty as this would be important enough to occupy the attention of a man in Himmler’s position. Could he not understand that Bethwig did not have to be blackmailed into doing his best to make the A-10 project a complete success? There was nothing more important in this world to him than landing a human on the moon. The thought struck chill as it came unbidden into his mind. Was Inge?

A messenger found him an hour later, and he trudged back to the administration building to settle a jurisdictional dispute over the use of four automated lathes in the experimental machine shop.

The staff meeting began at two o’clock even though Wernher von Braun had not yet arrived. The department heads, most of them members of the original Kummersdorf or Greifswalder Oie teams, sat in a semicircle, listening intently.

Since that strange meeting with Hitler at Rastenburg in July most of the bottlenecks had disappeared. They had shown the Führer movies of the A-4 in flight and had briefed him on the capabilities of other projects such as the Wasserfall anti-aircraft missile and the A-10 multi-stage rocket. Hitler’s sudden enthusiasm for the new weapons was in striking contrast with his previous lack of interest. He had declaimed for more than an hour on the effect such weapons would have on the course of the war, promised to make von Braun a full professor as a reward, and ordered Minister Speer to see that top priority was afforded the army’s rocket projects. In spite of Dornberger’s dire predictions that priority at this late date could not make up for the years of neglect, work had been pushed ahead at Peenemunde with renewed zest.

There had been no overt reaction from Himmler, but word had reached Bethwig through the grapevine that the Reichsführer was furious that von Braun had discussed the A-10’s capabilities with the Führer. A series of petty annoyances had begun, including the seemingly endless addition of SS security forces to the research centre. Apparently Hitler had queried Himmler about the extent of his interest and had issued a mild warning about overreaching one’s position. According to his father, the Führer was more than a little disturbed by the actions of his Reichsführer lately. Bethwig suspected, therefore, that von Braun’s demotion would come swiftly and that he would have no choice but to accept the position. Brooding, he listened with half an ear to the engineering department’s report on the new liquid oxygen valve servos.

The double doors slammed against the wall like gunshots. Everyone jumped, and a file of SS troopers double-timed into the room and spread along the walls, weapons at port arms. Shocked silence filled the canteen. Bethwig, as the senior official present, strode to the SD officer who stood with hands on hips surveying the startled scientists.

‘What is the meaning of this interruption?’ Bethwig’s voice whipped through the silent room, and the officer, a hauptsturmführer, surveyed him lazily. ‘I have orders to…’

‘Stand to attention when you address a superior,’ Bethwig snapped, and the captain stiffened in reflex. Technically Bethwig’s pay grade as an army employee made him equal to a full colonel, but the SS was subject neither to military nor civilian control.

‘The next time you disrupt a scheduled meeting with your childish tactics, you fool, I will make you regret it to your dying day. Now, state your business immediately!’

The SS officer’s face went red as he struggled to retain control of himself.

‘State your business, sir,’ Bethwig demanded again, staring directly into the man’s protruding eyes.

‘I am ordered to arrest engineer Ernst Mundt immediately.’ The captain choked.

A shocked murmur ran through the room, and Mundt stood in confusion. Immediately two SS men ran forward to grab him, but Bethwig’s angry shout brought them to a halt as they began to hustle Mundt from the canteen.

‘You, sir – ‘ he addressed the officer – ‘will state the reason for this arrest and the authority by which it was ordered.’

The hauptsturmführer was on firmer ground here and knew it. ‘Engineer Mundt has been accused of aiding an enemy of the Reich, complicity in the murder of four security personnel, and consorting with the enemy. My orders are to bring him to SD headquarters for interrogation.’

Bethwig exploded. ‘Your orders are shit, Captain!’ he roared. ‘You have no jurisdiction here. Mundt is not a party member; only the state security police may charge and arrest him. Leave this canteen at once or I’ll see you on the eastern front by tomorrow night!’

The SS captain hesitated. He knew who Bethwig was, and his connections were rumoured to be extremely powerful. But he had his orders and they allowed no equivocation.

‘Stand aside, sir,’ the captain snarled, one hand going to his holster. The movement only enraged Bethwig further, and he would have grabbed the officer by the throat had Dornberger not arrived at that moment. Accompanying him were the senior SS officer at the facility and another man in civilian clothing whom Bethwig immediately recognised as Major Jacob Walsch. Bethwig ignored Walsch and made his protest to the senior SS officer. Dornberger joined in vigorously, the officer mumbled an angry order, and the SS troops filed out. Walsch had watched with a cynical smile, and when the SS had gone, he arrested Mundt and took him away. The staff meeting was cancelled. Dornberger and Bethwig dashed through the rain to a waiting car and drove in silence to Gestapo headquarters down the coast at Zinnowitz.

A massive storm of near hurricane proportions had broken during the night, and as they drove along the flooded coastal road broken and uprooted trees were everywhere, as were ragged POWs working with saws and axes to clear the debris under the watchful eyes of SS guards in rain gear.

‘Bastards,’ Bethwig ground out, slamming a fist on the dashboard. ‘How dare they…’

Dornberger started to observe that he and von Braun had brought it on themselves with their insistence on obtaining high political backing for their pet project, but wisely kept silent rather than provoke a further outburst. Covertly he studied Franz; over the past months the scientist had become increasingly morose, to the point where his attitude verged on sullenness. He had tried more than once to discover the cause, but Bethwig refused to be drawn. Even his relationship with von Braun had been badly strained of late. His work had not suffered yet, but his standing with staff was deteriorating at an alarming rate. First that outburst at Himmler last spring, and now this. He had better learn, and soon, that the SS was untouchable. He could not continue to attack and obstruct unless he wished to end up in a concentration camp. Bethwig was correct in his judgement that the SD had no jurisdiction over Mundt, that this morning’s nonsense was no more than another ploy to increase their power at the expense of the army. But there were other, more effective means of handling that kind of situation. Domberger had no doubt that if Bethwig had continued to interfere, the captain would have shot him dead on the spot – and, under SS guidelines, would have been perfectly justified in doing so.

Rain lashed the windows of Gestapo headquarters, and by leaning against the glass Bethwig could watch the waves crashing against the breakwater below. He was only half listening as a very confused Ernst Mundt described his conversations with a Belgian contract worker who, it appeared, had murdered four SD security men and was now missing. When Mundt finished, the thin Gestapo officer gave him a ghastly smile, meant to be reassuring, and indicated the stenographer.

‘Your statement will be typed shortly, Herr Mundt. I would appreciate it if you would wait to read and sign it. I will then have one of my drivers return you to your office. I appreciate your candour, and you really have nothing to worry about. It would appear that your actions were correct and that nothing has been revealed that should not have been. In any event, we will soon have the man, and that will take care of that.’

Mundt, now greatly relieved, was ushered out, but the Gestapo officer signed to Dornberger and Bethwig to remain. When the door closed, Walsch regarded them both with a trace of contempt.

That man is a fool. He has no conception of the political realities of war. It seems I have made this point to both of you before,’ he finished, eyeing Bethwig.

‘That man is an engineer and a scientist,’ Dornberger snapped. ‘He is not concerned with politics. That is your department.’

‘No, Herr Generalmajor. It is our collective responsibility. You and your staff…’

‘Enough of this nonsense,’ Bethwig snapped. Tell us what harm if any has been done, so that we will know what actions to take.’

The Gestapo officer stared at him for a long minute, then indicated the chairs before his desk. ‘Sit down, please.’ A long rumble of thunder muttered in from the sea, and the rain beat down even more insistently.

‘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.

Twice more, bombs fell across the island, although none came as close as the first wave. The bombers seemed to be concentrating on the very northern tip and the south-eastern coast, midway along the island’s length, where staff housing was clustered. By design or luck? he wondered bitterly.

The shelter door was hammered open and lamps flashed into the interior. ‘All men outside now!’ The angry shout sounded far away. ‘Women and children to remain inside until the all clear.’ Bethwig had been holding Hanna’s hand, and she gave him a quick kiss as he stumbled to his feet. An SS squad was checking each man for injuries and forming them into work parties. Bethwig found himself in one composed entirely of Russian prisoners.

The SS officer flashed his light over Bethwig’s face and clothing. ‘You, are you German?’

Bethwig, still partly stunned by the violence and terror of the past few hours, could only stare at him. The officer shouted the question once more, and he nodded then, understanding.

‘You damned civilians,’ the officer stormed. ‘You should all serve on the Russian front for a month… Take this group to Building Fourteen. Put out any fires, rescue anyone caught inside, and save what you can. Go on now, damn you!’

He pushed Bethwig towards the building and raced off with his squad to the next shelter. Franz stumbled through the trees, the Russians following apathetically until they broke out on to a rubble-filled square in front of the two-storey building housing the measurement labs. The area was deserted, with not even a soldier in sight, and when Bethwig turned, struggling to shake off the effects of the bombing, he found that half or more of his prisoners had disappeared. It makes no real difference, he thought, and ran up to the front door to find it locked. A tall Russian in a filthy striped prisoner’s pullover and trousers shouldered him aside as he shook the door, and, with a delighted grin, smashed the glass with a stone. They pushed into the hall, coughing in the dense smoke. The fire seemed confined to the first floor, and they raced up the stairs to the corridor above just as the ceiling fell in. A jet of flame lashed the corridor, and the Russians ducked and beat a hasty retreat. They began to kick open doors and rush around gathering up armfuls of equipment. Bethwig, his wits returning with activity, pointed out the most important pieces to be saved. They had gone little more than half-way along the hall before the ceiling burst open with a crack like a cannon shot. As one man, they raced from the building only seconds before it collapsed.

The next building, housing the chemistry development laboratories, was also in flames. Bethwig led them across the lawn at a run to repeat the performance, and this time they managed to bring the fire under control with the building’s own fire-fighting system. While three men played hoses the length of the hall, some prisoners broke into the labs to salvage what they could while others covered equipment and files against water damage. Time after time Bethwig was astonished at the risks the prisoners took to fight the fire or to salvage equipment. He was also struck by their gaunt, wasted appearance and the rags they wore. Most were barefoot or had only the poorest cardboard sandals.

As dawn approached and the fire came under control, he had time to look around. With the exception of the Measurements Building, which had been destroyed, relatively little damage had been done to the area in which the laboratories were clustered. To the south-east the sky above the pine forest pulsated with the reddish hell of raging fires ignited by incendiary bombs, while to the north, in the direction of the test stands where the first strike had been centred, there were only a few isolated columns of smoke visible against the dawn sky. To the west, at mid-island, there was no smoke or flame visible at all, and Bethwig felt momentary relief. Apparently the immense test facilities for the A-10 were well enough camouflaged to have escaped detection.

With the fire out, Bethwig decided to send one of the prisoners to look for transport to take them south to join those fighting fires in the housing areas, but before he could do so, SS troops burst from the trees and with kicks and blows rounded up the Russians. Bethwig grabbed the non-commissioned officer who seemed to be in charge.

‘What the hell do you bastards think you’re doing?’ he demanded. ‘Order your men to stop beating those prisoners now!’ The hauptschauführer jerked his arm away and, ignoring Bethwig, started for the truck. Bethwig ran after him, screaming in anger, the terror and tension of the night released all at once in a blind rage. He yanked the man to a stop and swung him around. ‘You rotten son of a bitch, these men have risked their lives…’ Without a change of expression, the hauptschauführer struck him in the solar plexus with his Mauser pistol. Bethwig fell to his knees, paralysed, unable to speak or even to breathe. Two SS men picked him up and threw him into the back of the truck with the Russians.

Heinrich Himmler stared down at Franz Bethwig with ill-concealed satisfaction. Behind him, General Dornberger glared and two SS officers waited, their faces carefully non-committal.

‘My dear Franz, I seem to find you in the strangest places. Would you care to tell me how you got here?’

Bethwig glared at the Reichsführer – at his carefully tailored uniform, at the shining patent boots, at the carefully formed officer’s cap perched daintily on his head – and a series of answers, most of them blasphemous, occurred to him. Instead, he got wearily to his feet, trying not to allow the pain to show. He swayed a bit but pushed away the hand one of the SS officers extended. Dornberger’s angry glare switched to Himmler.

‘Herr Reichsführer, I demand an explanation for this… this… outrage. It has taken four days to locate this man. Every effort made on his behalf has been frustrated by your… your minions. Unless a satisfactory answer is forthcoming immediately, an apology made, and the guilty parties punished severely, I shall register charges against the SS with the OKW. The Army High Command, I can assure you, will be most concerned that such treatment has been accorded one of their employees.’

Himmler heard Dornberger out, nodding now and again as if in agreement. ‘Quite right,’ he murmured when Dornberger finished. ‘Quite right. In fact, I have already begun such an investigation.’

The two officers took Bethwig by the arms to help him from the cell. His legs were weak and threatening to give way, but he shook them off and forced himself to walk down the corridor. Waiting at the end was the hauptschauführer who had arrested him the night of the bombing and gleefully joined in the first beating. Without a change of expression, the man jumped to attention as the officers approached, then reached over and threw open the door. The daylight made Bethwig blink as he turned to the sergeant who stared past his shoulder as if he did not exist. The light brought tears to his eyes, and he saw the sergeant’s lip curled in contempt. It was all Bethwig could do to keep from ramming a fist into the man’s stomach, but he controlled himself, knowing that he was too weak to make much of an impression.

‘You and I have something to settle, don’t we?’

The sergeant continued to stare past him, pretending not to have heard. Bethwig lowered his voice and leaned closer:

‘Watch out for dark nights and make damned certain I never find you alone, you swine.’ Bethwig straightened and, as the sergeant’s eyes moved in his direction, said, ‘And that, Hauptschauführer Gassner, is a promise.’

Outside, Himmler’s limousine waited, but Bethwig passed it by and headed for the tram stop. An officer ran after him, but Bethwig swung around, fists clenched.

‘Touch me, you filthy SS swine, and I’ll break your back.’

The SS officer stopped abruptly, his astonishment plain, and Bethwig limped to the tram stop and sank down on the bench, refusing to look in the direction of the men clustered around the automobile. After a moment Dornberger detached himself and came over to the bench.

He lit a cigarette and offered it to Franz. ‘You know you are only making things worse,’ he said as he lit another.

Bethwig inhaled deeply, silently cursing his shaking hands. ‘I don’t give a damn. Just keep that filthy bastard and his bullies away from me.’

Behind them, the village lay in ruins. The English bombers had done a thorough job. Even in the prison it was possible to find out what had happened by listening to the guards. He knew that his old friend, Walter Thiel, was dead, killed because he had not the heart to continue working under SS pressure any longer. The old man had been too dispirited to attend the dinner for Hanna and so had died in his house with his family. His own test facilities had escaped with no damage at all, and the major test stands along the north coast had been only slightly damaged. The worst disaster had been visited on the Russian POW camp nearby. Eight hundred prisoners had been killed, and Bethwig wondered just how hard the men who saved the Chemistry Building would have worked if they had known that their reward was to be a beating at the hands of the SS or that eight hundred of their number were being killed by their own allies.

‘What do you intend to do now?’

Bethwig shrugged. ‘What in hell can I do but continue on as before? Himmler had never any intention of letting me come to trial. He would need a better charge than interference with an official in the performance of his duty. In theory, I outrank that bastard hauptschauführer and could charge him with disobedience to, and striking, a superior officer. He could be shot for that. You put Hanna up to trying to talk me into behaving, so you have an idea what this is all about. Himmler was only taking advantage of that fool’s mistake to provide me with a warning.’ Bethwig fell silent then, considering what would happen should he disobey Himmler once more. He had no doubt that Inge would be the one to suffer, and horribly.

He stood up; the damned trams were never on time and his protest was being spoiled. It was five kilometres or more to his quarters, but he was determined to walk the entire distance rather than ride with Himmler. He was damned if he would provide him another victory. Dornberger watched him shuffle towards the road, then angry as much at himself as at Bethwig, he hurried to catch up.

Himmler stared after them for a moment, considering, then signalled the driver to go on.

Three weeks later the Reichsführer appeared unannounced at Peenemunde. Bethwig swore as his secretary told him that there was to be a meeting that afternoon at two o’clock. But at one-thirty the door to his office was thrown open and Himmler strode in. He greeted Bethwig, motioned his aide out, and pulled a side chair around to face him, smiling pleasantly all the while.

‘My dear Franz, how good to see you again.’ He chuckled with ill-concealed irony and shifted in the chair until he was comfortable. ‘You will no doubt have heard that the investigation I instigated concerning your arrest has cleared you completely. Those responsible have been disciplined, so there’s an end to it. I know you will not hold it against me, or the SS; any organisation as large as mine has a few misfits who find it difficult to exercise good judgement.’

Himmler smiled again and removed his cap. His nearly bald head and rimless spectacles only served to increase his resemblance to a toad.

‘I have been quite pleased with your work over the past few weeks. I felt that given time you would work out your own problems.’ He glanced expectantly at Bethwig who continued to stare at him.

Himmler shrugged. ‘I see there is still some animosity on your part. Again, I can do nothing more than apologise for—’

‘What have you done with Inge?’

Himmler blinked at him. ‘Inge?’

‘There is no need to play games, Reichsführer. You know to whom I am referring.’

Himmler sat back and regarded Bethwig. ‘You are an outspoken young man. A dangerous tendency these days. Very dangerous.’

Bethwig remained silent, and Himmler nodded. ‘Also a courageous young man. I like that. The matter of your concern for the girl was brought to my attention by a mutual friend, and I must admit that with the press of work lately I had quite forgotten about her. Fortunately I have an excellent staff who more than make up for this tendency of mine to forget the human side in the greater concern for the war effort. You will be pleased to know that my staff has seen that nothing has been spared in her continuing treatment. When your concern was brought to my attention, I was informed that she had been removed from the Prague hospital to a more modern treatment facility in Germany. She is now in a country atmosphere with the most modern facilities to hand. She certainly does not lack for attention, and her activities are supervised day and night. I am told she is making excellent progress and has proved most popular with the staff. Recreational activities are considered most important, and there are frequent impromptu entertainments at which the young lady is considered a star performer. I assure you, you need have no worries concerning her well-being. When I enquired as to when she could be released, the director assured me it would be soon, perhaps within a few months. Her progress is that good.’

Himmler smiled and sat back, noting the evident relief that swept across Bethwig’s face. He nearly thanked the Reichsführer but caught himself in time. ‘However, I did not travel here today to discuss your personal life. You will be appointed director of the A-Ten project today. Herr Doktor von Braun has agreed to assume complete control of the A-Four project, and General Dornberger will assume overall administrative control of the entire research centre.’

Bethwig started to protest, then, realising how useless it would be, shut his mouth. Himmler nodded, pleased.

‘I fear that among these pleasant announcements there is one that will not be so well received. It is necessary that the A-Ten project be redirected. The moon will no longer be your target. That phase has been cancelled.’

Bethwig stared, as if not quite believing what he had heard. He shook his head. ‘Cancel the A-Ten…?’

Himmler nodded, his pince-nez flashing in the autumn sunshine pouring through the windows. ‘I am afraid so.’

‘But why, in the name of God? The project is Germany’s best hope for winning—’

Himmler cut him off. ‘Normally I do not condescend to explain my actions,’ he snapped. ‘But as you have worked so hard, you do perhaps deserve that much. You are aware, no doubt, that heavy water is a vital ingredient of our atomic research programme?’ Without waiting for an answer, Himmler went on:

‘We obtain our supplies from the Norsk Hydroelectric Plant in Norway, or did until recently. This past spring Allied and Norwegian saboteurs succeeded in destroying the Rjukan facility. As a consequence, the Führer has, and quite rightly, removed all priority from atomic research. Therefore, even if your moon rocket were ready in time, it would be weaponless. No need, therefore, to continue with the monstrous expense the project entails.’

Bethwig was speechless; the last thing in the world he had expected was cancellation of the Lunar phase of the project. Himmler spread his hands. ‘I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do. The Führer himself has given the order.’

‘But… but… the project, the lunar base does not need the atomic bomb to be successful.’ Bethwig tried to protest. ‘I explained that in the beginning. Any high explosive will have its destructive force magnified by the—’

‘Yes, yes.’ Himmler waved a hand. ‘A rock, a plain ordinary rock, would also have a great destructive force because of the speed with which it strikes the earth. I understand all that. However, my staff have conducted extensive economic studies and have concluded that the money would be better spent on a less cumbersome and cheaper system. Now, you recall I said only that the moon landing phase of the project has been curtailed. For one thing, your time estimates are far, far too optimistic. The war will have been won by the time your first rocket lands on the moon. However, if the project is returned to its original objective – that of launching massive quantities of high explosive against the eastern coast of the United States – the A-Ten rocket can, according to revised projections by my staff, be made ready by late 1944 or early 1945. The atomic bomb will not be needed, as thirty thousand kilograms of high explosive, which I am assured can be placed aboard these large rockets, will do the job, particularly when they strike in large numbers. American commitment to European wars has never been strong, and in any event, the moral fibre of the American nation is far too weak to withstand such a sustained bombing attack. In the meantime Professor von Braun’s A-Four rocket will be devastating England.’

‘But there is no sense, no reason, to cancel the lunar base phase. We are on schedule. In fact, we will test the fourth in the series, the final rocket, in two months. It will be launched into an orbit around the earth with…’

Himmler stood up, all traces of good humour now gone. ‘I have given you an order, Herr Doktor Bethwig. You will be good enough to carry it out.’ He picked up his cap and headed for the door.

‘We will talk further of the changes to be made in both the A-Ten and A-Four projects at this afternoon’s conference. I wanted you to be aware of the direction of my thinking so that you could prepare yourself accordingly.

‘I believe, sir, you owe me your utmost loyalty. I have quashed very serious charges against you, and against Doktor von Braun at your request. And at great personal expense I have taken it upon myself to see that this half-witted woman of whom you are so fond has been given the best possible care. Accordingly, I will tolerate no further outbursts or disagreements over my orders. Do I make myself entirely clear?’

Bethwig, still reeling from the casual announcement of the cancellation of the moon landing, could only nod. Himmler gave him a final stare and, without another word, left the office.

London October 1943

It has the feel of the last day of Indian summer, Jan Memling thought as he crossed Bayswater Road and sought, among the maze of streets north of Hyde Park, the address he had been given by Brigadier Simon-Benet the afternoon before. The sun burned down with unexpected heat, and a lazy stillness hung over the city. Traffic noises seemed distant, and here and there he could hear children laughing as they played. He was sweating in his wool uniform and feeling quite light-headed before he found the correct address in Norfolk Crescent.

From the outside it seemed like any other Victorian town house. The bombing had not devastated the West End as it had other parts of the city, and the area retained the feeling of ‘pre-war England’ which the papers were beginning to write about as if it had been a distant and shining time rather than the tail end of a worldwide depression.

He rang the bell, and the elderly porter who opened the door nodded him inside where a heavily armed Royal Marine sat in shadow. An officer stepped out of an anteroom to check his credentials and compare his name and photograph with those on his list. When the officer was satisfied, the porter conducted him along the hall and opened the door to the library.

Six men sat around a polished table spread with maps and photographs. Simon-Benet jumped up when he spotted Memling, and came forward with a smile. ‘Gentlemen, this is the young officer I was telling you about.’

He introduced Memling to the men sitting at the table. He recognised only two of them: Viscount Cherwell, the Prime Minister’s scientific adviser, and Duncan Sandys, Churchill’s son-in-law and head of the new committee charged with the investigation of German rocket development under the code name Operation Crossbow.

Sandys smiled and stood to shake his hand. ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Major. I am certain you earned it. Brigadier Simon-Benet has told me of your latest adventure. An amazing piece of work. Gentlemen’ – he turned to the others at the table – ‘in case you are not aware, Major Memling has just returned from a sojourn in Germany.’

One or two eyebrows went up at that, and Sandys added, ‘From Peenemunde, to be exact, where he actually worked for two weeks before escaping to Sweden.’

There were mild exclamations of surprise.

‘Since his return,’ Sandys continued, ‘unfortunately too late to advise Bomber Command on the selection of targets, Major Memling has been reviewing the after-raid photographs. I have asked him here today to comment on his conclusions in light of his recent visit, and to describe to us what he learned at Peenemunde.’

‘I am certain,’ Simon-Benet suggested in a dry voice that told Memling all he needed to know about the tensions around the table, ‘that when the major has finished, we will have a few surprises to deal with.’

‘I dare say,’ Cherwell murmured, and nodded towards Memling. ‘Perhaps the major would begin?’

Memling spoke for an hour, describing in detail the design and number of rocket engines produced on a monthly basis, noting that the figures were still on a pre-production basis; the type of testing to which they were subjected; and their specifications, including materials. He also described the launching he had observed and the engine test firing.

Memling hesitated before continuing. He and Simon-Benet had discussed the advisability of mentioning the new rocket project he had uncovered. The brigadier was insistent that he do so; but Memling was reluctant, recalling the reaction given his earlier reports. With a glance at the brigadier, who encouraged him with a smile, he related his conversations with Ernst Mundt and presented his estimate of the size and capabilities of the new rocket. Memling could see by the pained expression that passed across Viscount Cherwell’s face that his report was being received much as he had expected. When he suggested that such a rocket might have a transatlantic range, it was only Simon-Benet’s stern glance that prevented an interruption.

When he finished, Simon-Benet did not allow the briefest lapse and immediately launched into a description of Memling’s escape. The brigadier had somehow got hold of his after-action report to 2 Commando, to which he was still officially attached, and narrated in detail all the events, including his killing of the four SD men. There was polite applause and smiles from the military men present, while the civilians looked a bit uncomfortable.

A slim, quiet man in elegantly tailored clothes asked to direct a question to Memling, and Sandys nodded agreement.

‘This new rocket you speak of sounds quite an advance over the smaller one the Germans refer to as A-Four. I would assume it would require a great deal more in the way of support services, such as increased launching areas. Those used for the A-Four are readily detectable, now that we know what to look for. Why is it, then, that we have not spotted such an area for – I believe you called it the A-Ten?’

Memling took a deep breath. He had expected this question. ‘Such a launching site does exist. I found indications of it in earlier photographs. The site is in the central southern portion of Usedom, well away from the Luftwaffe or A-Four launch sites. It occupies an area normally referred to on our maps as marshland. Few photos have been taken of this area, as overflight time is necessarily limited, and the concentration has been on known launching sites and test facilities on the northern and Baltic coastal sections of the island. The Germans are, as we all know, masters of camouflage, and the wide marshy area is easy to disguise. We have asked that the next recon flight include this area.’

The man studied him for a moment, then nodded, clearly unconvinced, and Memling felt a flash of anger at the man’s dismissal of the information simply because it did not fit his pre-conceived theories. Sandys started to ask his assessment of the bomb damage, but Viscount Cherwell interrupted with a question.

‘Major, correct me if I am in error, but are you not the one who first reported the work in Germany on large rocket engines, in, I believe, 1938?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And again in 1940, as the result of another daring mission behind enemy lines, this time in Belgium, I believe. At that time you supplied an estimate of the capability of rocket engines seen in, I seem to recall, Liege, was it not?’

Memling nodded, glancing quickly to Simon-Benet who was scowling down the table at Viscount Cherwell.

‘Major, you and I have debated the status of the Nazi rocket programme before, and you are well acquainted with my opinion that Germany cannot spare the economic resources for a research and development programme of such magnitude. Now I freely admit’ – he smiled in condescension – ‘that my opinion may be coloured by my own prejudices in this matter, and I would ask you to stop and consider whether, in view of the amazing series of coincidences by which you have ferreted out what you believe to be the secret of enemy rocket research, your own opinion and conclusions are not coloured by your personal prejudices as well?’

‘I say!’ the brigadier exploded, but Memling’s calm answer stopped his further objections.

‘You may be right, Viscount Cherwell. And in your position I would be inclined to ask the same question. Since you first raised your objections nearly a year ago I have given it a great deal of thought. As you may recall, I described in a formal paper how sufficient alcohol could be produced for fuel, and I believe my estimates have since been verified by independent intelligence means.’

‘Not to my satisfaction, ‘I’m afraid,’ Viscount Cherwell interrupted.

Memling ignored the comment and continued: ‘What you say about limited resources and their distribution among various war-effort goals is quite correct. My only objection to your conclusions is that they presuppose a logical and efficient effort directed towards planning. If that were the case, I am certain the rocket, at least at this stage of development, would not be seen as economically feasible.’

He could see that Cherwell was taken aback by his answer, and pressed on: ‘I have spent nearly a year’s time in German-controlled territory, and during that time I never once saw a single bit of evidence to suggest that efficient and effective planning had taken, or was taking, place. Rather I saw the exact opposite. Foreign workers in most industries are treated little better than slaves. The Peenemunde organisation is the single exception, and I would suggest even that will change as the SS becomes more deeply involved. I could begin to detect the same fear there that I found in Belgium… and believe me,’ Memling blurted in a rare moment of candour, ‘I am an expert on fear. Ernst Mundt was an exception, and I hate to think what has happened to him because of me. As additional support for my theory that planning is neither logical nor efficient in the Third Reich, consider the fact that Jews are persecuted in Germany despite the fact that the Jewish population formed the single largest pool of industrial and scientific talent Germany possessed. Instead of being allowed to play a part in the war effort, they have become ruthlessly exploited slave labourers confined to concentration camps. That suggests a system groping through a tangle of political and ideological nonsense.’

‘The rocket project and its extent are consistent, in my view, with the Nazi predilection for grandiose schemes. It is being called a terror weapon, but I have serious doubts, from what Mundt told me, that the Army High Command views it as such, or even as the secret weapon that will win the war. Instead, they seem to think it a useful, if expensive, adjunct. But it will see service, and win the war or not, it will cause great damage to our cities and populations. I have seen it rising above the trees with its engine flaming, and it frightened me to death. If Mundt is correct and the even more powerful rocket is successful, then all major cities within its five- or six-thousand-mile range are doomed to complete destruction.’

Viscount Cherwell stared at him for a moment, but before he could ask a further question one of the other men at the table, a civilian official from the Home Office, asked for Memling’s assessment of the bombing raid on Peenemunde and how it might have affected operational use of the weapon. The air vice-marshal representing Bomber Command stared long and hard as he began.

‘You must realise that what I say comes only from studying photographs and relating it to what I learned while on the ground. Briefly, the raid, while it appears to have been pressed home with great skill, missed damaging the vital installations on the island only because they were skilfully camouflaged, a fact I did not realise until I saw the aerial photographs. My assessment, then, after two weeks of study, is that development has probably been slowed only three to four months at best.’

Memling gave Viscount Cherwell a long steady look. ‘I recommend, therefore, that three projects be put in motion as soon as possible. First, organise an effective tactical fighter bomber force to seek out and destroy the rockets before they can be launched. Second, warn the Americans and Canadians about the A-Ten. And third, bomb Peenemunde again and again until it is utterly destroyed. To fail in any of these three will subject—’

‘Preposterous!’ The air vice-marshal snorted. ‘CIU assures us that incalculable damage was done and that the work will have been thrown back by at least a year if not more. Our own Air Intelligence assessment concurs.’

‘Were any of your people on the ground at Peenemunde, Air Vice-Marshal?’ Simon-Benet murmured.

‘You know damned well they were not, sir. However, they are trained in the assessment of bomb damage from photographs and have had a great deal of experience at the job. With all due respect to Major Memling, even though he has been there he does not have the skills required to interpret after-raid photographs. My people do.’

‘Is that why Bomber Command’s raids on aircraft plants have resulted in increased production of German fighter aircraft?’ As he made the remark the brigadier got to his feet, expression angry. ‘I would suggest, gentlemen, that we stop trying to protect our own backsides in this matter. Time is running out. Soon those damnable rockets will be raining down on Britain and God knows where else. How are we to explain to the British people that we were not prepared? Since 1938 we have had warning after warning, and all have been ignored. MI-Six, of which you speak so highly, Air Vice-Marshal, buried Major Memling’s reports because they sounded too far-fetched to be believed by his superior – who, I might add, read classics at Exeter College. This in spite of the fact that MI-Six received copies of a document delivered to our embassy in Oslo in September 1939 which outlined the entire Nazi military research programme. In addition, both Polish and Czech resistance groups have sent reams of wireless data bearing out what Major Memling has learned. And just this past spring MI-Six distributed the transcript of a conversation between Generals Thoma and Cruewell in the London Cage in which Thoma expressed surprise that London was not yet in ruins from rocket bombardment. He even described to General Cruewell the rocket launchings he had witnessed at a firing range in Germany!’

Simon-Benet glared around the table. ‘This man has risked his life twice now – no, three times – to bring us information concerning Germany’s rocket work, and so far his only thanks have been a questioning of his motives.’

Afterwards it seemed to Memling that no one’s mind had been changed even the slightest. All three proposals had been rejected completely, and he felt the meeting, like his mission in Germany, had been a waste of time and effort.

Sandys asked both him and Simon-Benet to remain after the others left, then disappeared with the brigadier, leaving Jan in the library. He was exhausted, but the tension engendered by the meeting would not leave him and he paced the room as the shadows deepened.

Part of him yearned for refuge in the flat in Montague Street, yet, at the same time, he was not all that anxious to go back to the strained atmosphere present since his return. Janet had tried hard to recreate their first days of marriage; that much he recognised. The truth of the matter, if he would only have allowed himself to admit it, was that he was suffering from shock. He had had far more contact with the enemy than most other soldiers and for far longer, and the nature and cruelty of those incidents had all worked on his subconscious, twisting his perceptions and straining his capacity to remain a thinking, rational being. Memling, like other soldiers constantly exposed to killing, was discovering that it had become too easy, that one had to struggle against the temptation to kill for the sake of killing or simply sparing oneself the trouble of dealing with prisoners. The deliberate torture and murder of Francine, coupled with his own execution of the four SD men, had driven him to the verge of nervous exhaustion in the Swedish detention camp. He had not recognised the symptoms for what they were, but had ascribed them to nervousness and apprehension as a result of his narrow escape and the pressure of the information he carried. Once Commander Fleming had told him that the bombing raid had been carried out, a great weight had been lifted from him, and a deep lethargy had set in on his return to London.

Janet was the first to notice. He had slept for twenty-six hours after she had found him in the hall, and when he had awakened late the next night, she had brought him tea and scrambled eggs. Afterwards he had bathed and shaved and, returning to the bedroom, found the window thrown wide and the room filled with the soft summer air. Janet had wanted to recreate the night he had proposed to her, and grinned impishly as he got into bed beside her, only to find himself impotent. The shock to his self-esteem was crippling. Since that night, he had avoided her, finding excuses to be absent or taking refuge in anger to hide his fear. He did not know what to do to break the impasse, short of admitting to her that he was frightened to death, and that he would never do. Not to anyone.

Sandys returned an hour later to find Memling asleep. He woke him reluctantly, and after a quick bite, the three of them sat long in the drawing-room discussing the implications of the German rocket programme and their inability to make the committee realise the great danger it posed to the entire Allied war effort. Both Sandys and the brigadier were pessimistic, and the discussion turned to ways they might circumvent Viscount Cherwell’s influence on the Prime Minister.

‘I don’t understand it.’ Sandys smacked the table in exasperation. ‘He is a brilliant scientist. Brilliant! But for some reason he is totally blind regarding the German rockets. Even after seeing the photographs. It is beyond belief.’

Simon-Benet gave Memling a smile to remind him of their discussion.

It was after midnight when they emerged, and Memling was drained. Sandys and the brigadier stood talking beside the car, and Memling leaned against the railing drawing deep lungsful of cold night air. The wind had stiffened and was now whirling dead leaves across the square. The stuffy library had left him with a raging headache, and in spite of the liberal infusions of whisky and water that Sandys had poured, his throat ached. A chill shook him, and he pushed himself up and took a few steps along the gravelled walk, wishing the two would finish their conversation. He was dead tired and wanted nothing so much as his own bed and sleep.

Sandys said good night to them a few moments later and returned to the building. Simon-Benet motioned Memling into the car and gave the driver the address.

Memling lay back against the upholstery, eyes closed as the brigadier droned on about the impression he had made on Sandys; his head was spinning and he was half-asleep when the car drew up in front of his door. He mumbled a good night to Simon-Benet and shuffled towards the steps. Jan found his key and got the door open with difficulty. The flight of stairs seemed endless, and he could not make his key fit in the door to the flat. Janet heard his fumbling and came to open it. She took one look at his perspiring face and helped him directly to bed, undressing him and then covering him with a quilt. By this time he was shivering and his teeth were chattering. Janet got into bed beside him and took his shivering body in her arms. The room seemed to spin and bob, and for a moment Memling was frightened that he was still aboard the fishing boat caught up in the storm. Then Janet’s face swam into view and he relaxed, knowing everything had come out right.

The next morning Janet phoned the hospital, and Memling was removed from the flat for treatment of exhaustion and incipient pneumonia.

Berlin March 1944

Military police were everywhere, waving batons and shouting at drivers, urging them through the tangle of debris, and cursing civilians and soldiers alike. Peering through the mud-spattered window, Bethwig caught sight of an army officer arguing heatedly with an SS obersturmführer at a roadblock. The army officer was pointing to three of his men being held at gunpoint. The obersturmführer waved him away and, when the army officer continued to argue, turned abruptly to his squad and snapped an order. Before the astonished officer could react, the SS had surrounded his company. As his car finally broke out of the crush, Bethwig had a last glimpse of the soldiers being disarmed.

‘The breakdown is beginning,’ General Dornberger grunted, peering over Bethwig’s shoulder. ‘The SS is overstepping itself, and the army is powerless to stop it – lacks the courage to do so.’

They had been driving since eight that morning, moving through heavy snow and rain, dodging military traffic, and enduring frequent stops at Gestapo checkpoints where their papers were examined and re-examined until they had become dog-eared. It was a revelation to Franz how far out of esteem military personnel had fallen of late. The Gestapo and SS were contemptuous of their documents and frequently made them wait while telephone calls were placed to obtain approval to allow them to pass.

Munich had suffered heavily from a British bombing raid the night before, and fires still raged inside the city. Only bad weather prevented the American follow-up raid, Franz thought. They spent two hours inching through traffic before the driver was able to turn off on the road to Berchtesgaden, which they reached just before 6 p.m. As soon as they were in their hotel room Domberger rang up General Buhle, chief of the Army Staff at Hitler’s headquarters, to announce their arrival. He was told to remain where he was.

Dornberger gave Bethwig a puzzled glance as he replaced the receiver. ‘I would certainly like to know what this is all about, Franz.’

Franz had been in Dornberger’s office in Schwedt-on-Oder that morning, ready to begin a long-delayed discussion about priorities and personnel which promised to last most of the day, when the summons to Berchtesgaden came. Rather than waste the opportunity, Dornberger asked Franz to come along, and they had conducted their discussion in the back seat of Dornberger’s Opel Admiral. It was the first time in months that Bethwig had been further away from Peenemunde than Schwedt, and he was shocked at what he had seen. Their route had taken them through Berlin to Hof and on to Munich, and he was startled to see that vast sections of the capital were in ruins. The newspapers and radio had reported the bombing of the cities but always the raids were said to be failures and the toll of enemy bombers exceptionally high. Yet the industrial suburbs were bombed-out ruins, and the city centre devastated. Bethwig could not get over the sight of shrapnel holes in familiar city buildings and bomb craters in the Park am Zoo. The autobahns seemed to have been targeted as well, and on the drive south they had passed a military convoy stopped by the side of the road. Several vehicles were burning, and a line of snow-dusted bodies could be seen beside an ambulance, proof that in spite of the Luftwaffe, Allied fighter bombers were managing to penetrate this far into the country.

Fifteen minutes later General Buhle entered their hotel room. His heavy face was grim, and he wasted no time on preliminaries, barely acknowledging the introduction to Bethwig.

‘This morning at eight o’clock,’ he told them abruptly, ‘Professor von Braun, Ernst Mundt, and another engineer, Helmuth Gottrup, were arrested for sabotage. They were removed to Gestapo headquarters in Stettin.’

The news stunned both men, and they stared at each other as Buhle went on to tell Dornberger that he was to meet with Field Marshal Keitel at nine the following morning. Buhle offered his sympathy and privately told Domberger not to expect much help from Keitel. Having refused a drink, he left abruptly, as if by remaining longer he would be contaminated.

As Buhle predicted, Domberger’s meeting with Keitel was a farce. ‘He told me point-blank he was afraid for his position,’ Dornberger stormed as the heavy automobile raced north again.

‘“Himmler is waiting for me to make one mistake,”’ Dornberger mimicked Keitel. ‘“He will have me removed and the officer corps will have lost its last direct pipeline to the Führer. Then the Reichsführer will have it all his way.”’ The general slammed a hand on the seat of the car. ‘Keitel has not yet realised that Himmler already has everything except the Führer’s position. Then, heaven help Germany, we will have a madman at the helm.’

Keitel had, Dornberger told Bethwig, agreed to arrange with Himmler’s aide for Dornberger to see the Reichsführer, but Himmler had refused, preferring instead that Dornberger meet with SS General Ernst Kaltenbrunner, Heydrich’s successor. When Dornberger then demanded that Keitel issue an order for the release of the three scientists on grounds that as army employees they were not subject to Gestapo arrest, Keitel refused, claiming he could not interfere in an ongoing investigation.

Kaltenbrunner, SS chief of security for Berlin, was not available. Instead his deputy, SS General Heinrich Muller, was waiting for them in Kaltenbrunner’s office. After Domberger stated the reason for his visit, General Muller rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, as if seeking sympathy, and denied any knowledge of the circumstances surrounding von Braun’s arrest. He was a huge, florid-faced man who obviously depended more upon physical size and demeanour than brains. Bethwig watched him in fascination, thinking that in his presence one had the feeling that a physical assault was imminent, and admitted that he was, indeed, intimidated.

Domberger adopted a reasonable tone, explaining that the three men must have been arrested by mistake, that they were absolutely indispensable to the A-4 project which was in its most critical phase. He asked for their immediate release. When he finished, Muller eyed him carefully, then turned towards Bethwig.

‘And what is the reason for your presence in my office, Herr Bethwig?’

His tone was belligerent enough to make Bethwig bridle, but he kept his temper under control. ‘Simply to support General Dornberger. I am a scientist and an engineer and can—’

‘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.

Scotland – Germany – Poland June 1944

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:

‘We’ve discovered the Germans are firing numerous A-Four rockets on a range established in Poland. It is Ml-Six’s guess that they’re training operational crews, and Polish Intelligence seems to bear this out. In late May, the twenty-fifth to be exact, a rocket was fired from near a town named Blizna. It apparently went a bit off course and crashed beside the River Bug. The Poles got to it first, hid it from the Jerry recovery team, then spirited the whole thing away. From the reports we have, the damned rocket is completely intact, if a little bent. I’ve proposed to the committee that we bring it out of Poland. They agreed, and the Prime Minister endorsed the mission. Special Operations Executive has agreed to lay on a special aircraft. I want you to go along as the committee’s representative and take charge of the affair.’

Memling listened in silence, then shook his head. ‘Sorry, Brigadier, but the answer is no.’

Simon-Benet had expected a bit of hedging, perhaps some argument, but certainly not a firm, outright refusal. His temper got the best of him then. ‘Damn it all, Jan, I thought I’d made it clear it was time to stop playing the jilted schoolgirl. This is—’

Memling interrupted: ‘Brigadier, I don’t give one good Goddamn in hell what the committee thinks, or what they don’t think. I won’t go! I can’t,’ he finished lamely.

After a moment the brigadier asked, ‘Why ever not?’

Memling had turned away, his shoulders hunched, refusing to say anything more. Simon-Benet waited, not quite understanding. After a moment he said softly, ‘I saw Janet just before I left London. She’s looking well.’

Memling gave no sign of having heard.

‘She asked me to give you her love.’

‘Look here,’ Memling shouted, ‘let’s leave Janet out of this, shall we? She has nothing to do with your being here.’

‘All right, Jan. Let’s get back to the subject at hand. Why are you refusing? As a superior officer, ‘I’m entitled to an explanation.’

Memling walked off a bit, then turned and came back. ‘Damn it all, what more do you want from me? If you want to know so badly, I’ll tell you! I won’t go because I’ve bloody well lost my nerve. The idea of going anywhere near a German gives me the shakes. ‘I’m scared to death, damn it!’ Memling was on the verge of tears as he stared at Simon-Benet.

So that’s it, the brigadier thought. My God, and he hid it so well. No wonder… and he began to laugh.

Memling blinked in astonishment. ‘You think cowardice is funny?’ he demanded in outrage.

Simon-Benet had to lean against a rock for support, and it was a few moments before he could bring himself under control. ‘No, Jan,’ he finally managed. ‘I don’t. I don’t at all. And I am sure I do not know whatever gave you the idea that you were a coward. Good God in heaven, you have to be one of the bravest men I’ve ever met. If I could, I’d recommend you for the Victoria Cross.’ He paused to examine Memling’s anguished face.

‘Everything makes more sense now. Janet suggested that you had been having… ah… certain difficulties, and she felt that was why you—’

‘Jesus Christ, isn’t anything considered private any more? What right do you—’

‘Major!’ the brigadier’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘Shut your mouth. You are speaking to a superior officer, or have you forgotten?’ He glared the younger man into silence, then waited a moment more.

‘It might interest you to know that I am a physician and a psychologist. I held a professorship in medicine at London University Hospital before the war. So, I know what I am talking about when I ask you, by what possible conceit do you conclude that your problems are unique? Perhaps if you had discussed them with your doctor while in hospital you would have discovered they are not confined exclusively to you.

‘Of course you are scared and your nerves are shot. They should be after what you’ve been through. That does not mean that you are a coward. What it does mean is that you have a healthy respect for danger and your body will not allow your brain to overrule common sense. Fear is simply a warning of danger. Nothing more. If those damned fools at Combined Operations had listened years ago, we would be teaching courses in how to deal with fear, and as a consequence we would have far fewer officers and men institutionalised because of so-called battle fatigue. The lessons of the First World War were clear enough. Unless men are taught to respect and use fear as a self-protective device, they will…’ Realising that he was beginning to lecture, the brigadier broke off.

‘Look here, Jan. When in danger, any sane person is frightened. Often that fright persists after the danger has passed. Body and mind together must deal with the effects of fear, and to do so, a great deal of energy is expended, generally in situations that are stressful. Over time this is very debilitating and causes, a form of exhaustion, both physical and mental, and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Better to be ashamed of yawning, which is a natural response to an excess of carbon dioxide. Instead such reactions should be cultivated and trained as warning systems and used to increase strength and response levels to a high degree. The Vikings recognised, and trained their warriors in, the phenomenon we know today as a berserk rage. A Viking could turn it on and off at will. Its basis was fear, but fear channelled into a useful course. If you were a coward, as you suppose, nothing could have dragged you into the Royal Marines. Do you understand what I am saying, Jan?’

When Memling nodded, the brigadier sighed. ‘All right, then, to the next item, your so-called impotency, as I am certain that is what Janet was so delicately alluding to. She felt your trouble was exhaustion, and in that she was entirely correct, but I assume her response was to be embarrassed for you, and you in turn felt that you had failed. Correct?’

When Memling nodded angrily, he rolled his eyes skyward.

‘The ignorance of this supposedly enlightened generation as regards sex, a perfectly natural function of the human body, is at times beyond belief. Your impotency was originally due to exhaustion brought on by the stress of a lengthy sojourn in a fear-producing situation. If it continues at all now, it is because you have convinced yourself that there is something quite wrong with you, namely, this ridiculous idea of cowardice.’

Memling shook his head. ‘You’re wrong there, Brigadier. Damned wrong. Not everything that happened in Germany was in my report.’ Memling described Francine’s insistence that they live as husband and wife. ‘I don’t know why I went along,’ he admitted, his face flaming. ‘I was a married man… it was just that Janet and I had been having trouble before I left, and she was there and, well, I had no trouble with her, Brigadier. Absolutely none. So you see…’

Simon-Benet stared at him in amazement. ‘My God, boy, I find it hard to believe… I thought you had been married once before…’ He shook his head. ‘Look here, you need straightening out and badly. I’ve been married three times. I am also considered an expert in the psychology and training of combat soldiers, and I served in the first war. In fact, I survived twelve months on the Somme. So I think I know what ‘I’m talking about. You left England, guilty over your problems with Janet, fell into the clutches of. a nubile and probably oversexed teenage girl. What could be more natural than your reaction? From the way you describe her, she would have tempted Christ himself. There is nothing wrong in that, or in your taking advantage of the situation. If you hadn’t, I would have been worried. I would also think that under the circumstances, Janet, if she should ever find out, would be the first to dismiss it for what it was – mutual need. Now, as for being able to perform with this little German girl and not, afterwards, with Janet, you told me yourself that you stopped sexual relations after reaching the village because there was too much to do.

‘If you think back, you will probably find that your desire for sex had diminished. The young lady’s remained high because she, as you yourself maintain, did not appreciate the danger of the situation.’

The brigadier pushed himself away from the rock. ‘Look here, Jan. This isn’t simple cocktail psychology. The effects of stress on the human body have been carefully studied. Certainly this damnable war provides no end of subjects. One thing we know for certain – stress is cumulative over time and can and does cause temporary impotency. We are also finding that its cure is often quite simple, requiring nothing more than the patience and help of a woman who loves you.’ He hesitated, then decided that it was all or nothing.

‘I want you to run this operation for me, but only if you feel completely up to it. I suspected something like this after speaking to Janet, although certainly not the extent of the problem. Before I left London, I made arrangements to have you transferred back to my command, if you were willing. The only condition I now impose is that you speak to a certain doctor in London. I think he can help you appreciate what I’ve told you. Think about it. If you decide yes, ring me in Glasgow at this number.’ He handed Memling a card on which he had scribbled a telephone number.

‘If you decide no – well, then no hard feelings. But I must know within twenty-four hours. Otherwise it will be too late to get things organised properly.’

Simon-Benet punched him lightly on the shoulder and strode away, knowing that he had best have time alone.

As they walked along the path leading from the tiny Peenemunde cemetery to the waiting car Wernher von Braun caught Bethwig’s arm and steered him away from the others so that they were screened by the pines.

‘Franz, you know how sorry I am about this. I just wish…’ His voice trailed off, and he glanced around at the dripping branches and hunched his shoulders against the rain.

Bethwig nodded but did not reply, and after an awkward moment they resumed the walk to the car. The SS officer who had accompanied Bethwig stared sullenly as they approached, oblivious to von Braun’s glare; he opened the rear door, and once settled inside, Bethwig leaned against the seat, face carefully composed even though he was still clutching Himmler’s telegram expressing sorrow at his loss.

Bethwig was long past either sorrow or anger; both had ended with Inge’s death. The Peenemunde staff physician, an old friend, had offered no hope from the beginning.

‘I’m sorry, Franz, but there is nothing I can do other than to make her as comfortable as possible. She has advanced tuberculosis. A week, perhaps a month. Certainly not more. Since the war began, there are just not the medicines available, not that they would be of much use at this stage. The Allies are said to have a drug that will help but…’ He shrugged in helplessness.

The car turned into the drive. It had made little difference, he thought. Inge had no recollection of him. The house, the warm bed, food, and hot tea were enough. Whatever had been done to her in the camps had destroyed her already damaged mind. It was impossible for her to carry on even a short conversation; she had great difficulty composing the simplest sentence. His housekeeper, a taciturn Polish woman of middle age, assumed immediate care of her and even moved into the house to be with Inge at night. Bethwig found himself on several occasions studying this strange woman as she sat bundled in blankets on the enclosed porch, searching for even a vestige of the beauty that had so entranced him. But there was nothing left of her former self in this wasted frame. When she died quietly one night after a severe bout of coughing, he could only feel vast relief that she was now spared further agony. His consolation lay in Himmler’s defeat. Dornberger had persuaded Hitler himself to free von Braun, Gottrup and Mundt. Von Braun was now safe, by order of the Führer, and Inge was beyond reach.

Franz opened the door without waiting for the driver and stepped out. A sentry standing by the gate presented arms, and Bethwig turned to see the Gestapo officer Walsch stepping from the front seat of a touring car.

‘What is this man doing here?’

Walsch nodded towards the front of the house where another guard waited. ‘You are quite fortunate, Herr Doktor Bethwig. The Reichsführer takes great interest in your safety. It has been reported that a Russian assassination team has been sent into the area. The sentries will assure your safety.’

It was a barefaced lie, but Bethwig was too disgusted, too exhausted, to feel outrage. That fool Himmler should know by now that he could not be intimidated with threats to his life. Walsch, smiling now, continued. ‘Our counter-intelligence forces have established that the Russians have marked you and your family for murder, Herr Doktor. The Reichsführer has therefore extended the same protection to your father.’

The blow so stunned him that Bethwig could only gape. As if from a great distance, he heard Walsch explaining that precautions required that his father be placed in protective custody, that the Führer had personally approved the plan, and that the Reichsführer hoped he could now continue his work with his mind eased. Bethwig turned away and stumbled up the path as Walsch smiled and nodded after him.

‘I tell you, Franz, this may very well be our last opportunity.’ Von Braun kicked at the sand, then picked up a stone and hurled it towards the waves. It skipped twice and sank. ‘You can’t resign. You can’t give up now!’

Bethwig shook his head stubbornly. ‘I can and I will. If I have to leave Peenemunde, I’ll do so.’

Von Braun snorted. ‘Ever since that spy scare last summer, SS control has tightened like a noose. You could no more leave here than a front-line soldier could desert his unit.’

Bethwig shrugged, and von Braun muttered to himself in exasperation. ‘Damn it, Franz, you are badly needed here, now that Dornberger has been transferred to Berlin. Ever since that fool Keitel and the Army General Staff refused to support him a few months ago, it’s become clear the army is giving up all claim to rocket development… and Himmler is moving quickly to assume control. The attempt to kill the Führer only strengthened his hand.’ He stopped and swung around to face Bethwig. ‘You’ve met General Doktor Hans Kammler, the SS’s own wonder boy, and you know what he thinks of the work being done here. Well, tomorrow he assumes complete command of the programme and the Peenemunde facility.’

Bethwig looked at him in surprise. ‘How do you know this?’

‘My brother, Magnus, has a friend at OKW. A few days ago he was sent to General Buhle’s office to take notes on a meeting between Buhle and Kammler. Kammler described Walter as a public danger and told Buhle he ought to be court-martialled. Buhle refused, of course, but not strenuously.’

‘Degenkolb won’t stand for it,’ Bethwig protested. ‘Peenemunde is a private concern. That makes it immune to military takeover.’

‘Damn it, Franz, can’t you understand? This is not a military takeover. This is the SS. Himmler can do just about anything he pleases these days. It is said that even the Führer dare not oppose him now. My God, his personal bodyguard are SS troops. As for Degenkolb, when was the last time you saw him here? At least Kammler made one correct assessment when he described that man as a hopeless alcoholic.’

Bethwig shrugged.

Their walks had become much less frequent of late, and the conversation usually concerned political matters affecting their work. Rarely did they discuss technical or speculative matters related to science as they had done in years past.

Von Braun followed a pace or two behind, studying his friend with concern. Since the death of that strange woman and the arrest of his father, Bethwig had subsided into a world of his own, one in which he continued to function as effectively as ever, directing the final development of the A-10 transatlantic bomber rocket with skill but no personal interest. The drive that had so characterised him had disappeared. For weeks now Franz had taken little interest in staff debates concerning technical problems, preferring instead to issue directives from his office. How did that madman gain such control, von Braun wondered, that even Franz’s father, among the party’s earliest and most ardent supporters, could be thrown into a concentration camp like a communist or a Jew to keep Franz in line?

They turned inland after a while and strolled through the nearly deserted production buildings, which were quickly falling to ruin. No repairs had been made since the bombing a year ago. Windows remained broken, and sliding doors hung at odd angles. Rubbish littered the area, and weeds grew between the concrete slabs. The actual production facilities had all been moved into Germany proper, to an underground factory near Nordhausen where most of the work was performed by prisoners from the local concentration camps under, it was rumoured, appalling conditions. Von Braun had no reason to doubt that. Since the SS had assumed control of Peenemunde’s security, the quality of work obtained from both foreign contract workers and POWs had fallen well below standard; and he was certain that Dornberger’s imminent arrest stemmed in good part from his repeated protests against the starvation and brutality to which they were subjected.

Von Braun caught up with Bethwig as they approached the middle of the complex. Massive buildings frowned at them from the mist, and huge puddles were forming wherever stopped-up drains acted as miniature dams.

‘Franz, tomorrow ‘I’m returning to Poland for more test firings. They may keep me there for several weeks, and you know this is the critical phase. One more A-Ten test launch is all Kammler will allow. Unless it is a complete success, he will close the project down and we will lose for ever any hope of a lunar flight.’

‘But if he does,’ Bethwig answered in a bitter voice ‘at least my father might live. There would be no reason for Himmler to continue to hold him.’

Von Braun uttered an obscenity. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps the opposite. The man is mad; you cannot expect him to act rationally. What if he takes it into that stupid head of his that further failure is due to sabotage on your part? You know as well as I that he is capable of that kind of thinking. You only have to see what he is doing to Walter Dornberger. He has no scientific background and no conception of how such research is conducted.’

Bethwig looked at von Braun, his face a mask of anguish. ‘Wernher, how can I? How much longer can my father survive? The best information I have is that he is at Ravensbruck, which is supposed to be a special camp for important political prisoners. As long as I do exactly as I am told he has a chance. You saw what they did to… Inge.’ Bethwig had to force himself to say her name. ‘I just cannot go on, Wernher…’

Bethwig started to walk away, but von Braun called to him to wait. Something in his tone stopped Bethwig, and his shoulders slumped. He waited, apprehension growing, as von Braun came up and slipped an arm about his shoulder.

‘Franz’ – his voice was soft – ‘I wanted to spare you this, but too much is at stake and you should know. I am certain that Himmler has taken steps to see that you do not find out. As I told you, Magnus has a friend, a clerk at OKW.’ Wernher’s arm tightened and Bethwig knew then what he was about to say.

‘Your father died of congestive heart failure on September eighth. Franz, I can’t tell you how sorry…’

Bethwig nodded, then straightened his shoulders and walked off. His mind was clear now, icy and calm. He remembered von Braun after a moment and turned to see his friend looking after him, coat clutched about his neck against the rain and hair plastered about his face.

He nodded. ‘I’ll be ready, Wernher.’

Jan Memling trudged across the wet tarmac to the operations office where RAF Flight Lieutenant Stan Culliford was just finishing the weather summary. Jan leaned against the warped door and waited, hands jammed in the pocket of the Yank bomber jacket he had won in last night’s card game.

‘Looks like we might go tonight, old boy,’ Culliford grunted when he turned away from the board. ‘Weather’s clearing over the landing site until shortly after dawn, the Met boys think. Word is the ground’s firm enough to support the wheels.’

‘Whose Met boys?’ Memling asked sceptically.

Culliford grinned. ‘The Poles’ of course.’

‘Do we know where we’re going yet?’

Culliford nodded and pursed his lips, his expression pessimistic. ‘Place called Motyl, near the village of Zabrow. It’s an old landing field. The AK will provide the security.’

The Polish home army, the Armia Krajowa, operated under impossible circumstances, yet according to Simon-Benet’s assessment, they were the best in the business. The AK was a duplicate of the pre-war Polish army and perhaps the best organised of all resistance groups in Europe.

The two men walked outside. Culliford, noticing that they had glanced at the dawn sky together, chuckled. ‘Won’t do us any good to be looking around up here. We have six hundred miles to go and then some.’

Memling nodded, staring at the flaming Italian sky. Over the hills to the east, the sun was edging above the horizon in splendours of reds and blues, and the high cirrus glowed and danced in the growing light.

‘It’s your decision, Stan,’ he said after a moment. ‘You have to fly that thing.’ He gestured towards the waiting Douglas Dakota. In its coat of dead black paint, the aircraft was barely visible on the tarmac.

The New Zealander glanced again at the sky, then at the yellow flimsy in his hand, scratched his jaw, and nodded. ‘Let’s go. We probably won’t have a better chance for another couple of weeks and I sure as hell don’t want to hang around here any longer. You might lose that jacket and then I’d never get a chance to own it.’

They took off at 20.00 hours, with four officers and nineteen suitcases of equipment aboard. Three of the officers had flown in with Memling two weeks before but had remained segregated in separate quarters. He heard them speaking Polish among themselves and surmised that they were couriers or Special Operations Executive agents. The fourth, who had arrived the previous week from London, was a Captain Leslie Reynolds whom Memling knew vaguely from his work with R. V. Jones’s group the year before. The man had been a physics professor at Leeds University before the war and was an admirer of Viscount Cherwell’s.

The last few lights were disappearing below as they droned into the Adriatic. Memling climbed forward to the cockpit. The navigator gave him coffee from a Thermos, and Culliford pointed out a dark mass against the horizon.

‘Yugoslavia. I’ve flown across her several times. A few night fighters about but nothing serious as long as you keep below their radar. Our bombers work their coastal stations over quite regularly, and in case of serious trouble, the partisans will be glad to see us, or so ‘I’m told.’

‘By the way, we’ve lost our escort, ‘I’m not sorry to say. Bloody great lumbering beasts. Attract Jerries like flies to sugar.’

‘Lost them?’

‘One had engine trouble. Never left the runway. We’ve simply outflown the other. Not to worry, though. In case of trouble, we’ll just turn around. That second Liberator is about fifteen miles behind. Anyway, he’ll be leaving as soon as we cross the coast again, on a mission of his own.’

Brindisi had been chosen as the jump-off point for the flight into southern Poland. Memling gathered that SOE had been making good use of the Italian fields to insert agents all over occupied Europe. While it was nearly twelve hundred miles from Britain to southern Poland by the most direct route, the existence of Allied airfields in central and southern Italy enabled them to shorten the flight by half. The route took them up the Adriatic to cross the Yugoslav coast south-east of Split, then on across the Dinaric Alps to skirt the Hungarian-Rumanian border, across eastern Czechoslovakia and into southern Poland.

The Polish co-pilot, Kazimierz Szrajer, was saying something to Culliford which drew a laugh, but the noise of the engines prevented Memling from hearing. The flight settled into routine, and Memling left the cramped cockpit after a while. One of the Polish agents looked up from the Sten gun he was cleaning and smiled, happy to be on his way.

The Dakota had been stripped of all non-essential equipment to open up as much room as possible for the cargo they would be bringing back. The only seats, as a result, were unpadded benches bolted to the wall, and the curving side of the fuselage forced one to sit hunched forward. The accommodations, he remarked, were only slightly better than those of the Mosquito in which he had been flown into Germany the year before.

After much soul-searching Memling had visited the psychiatrist recommended by the brigadier.

‘He did telephone you were coming, and we discussed your case to some extent.’ The doctor smiled and offered a cigarette which Memling declined.

‘From what you have told me, I see nothing to suggest that his diagnosis was incorrect. If you will pardon my bluntness, your problems were created by ignorance. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that unless, of course, you persist in that ignorance. As to the treatment – unfortunately there are no magic cures: only patience and the determination to face up to the situation as it exists. Do you love your wife?’

The question had come as a complete surprise, and Memling’s reaction was automatic:

‘Of course I do. It’s…’

The doctor held up a hand. ‘No need to go into the matter now. If you want my advice, you will listen to Dr Simon-Benet. He seems to like you very much, and he has your best interests at heart. He tells me that you have a decision to make, one that may place you in a stressful situation similar to the one that appeared to be your undoing last autumn. I can only advise you to be certain you are physically strong enough to undertake the activity. If you are not, you cannot expect to deal successfully with the mental and emotional aspects of the problem. Other than that, I can only repeat what the brigadier has already told you. You must face the situation resolved to be the master of your own body. Fear is a powerful weapon, one you can use against an enemy or against yourself. Think it over carefully.’

Hunched uncomfortably in the old Dakota, Memling felt the familiar fear renewing itself. He thought he had mastered it before, after four separate commando raids, only to discover that the excitement of battle was far different from the corrosive agony of illicit activity behind enemy lines.

Captain Reynolds had fallen asleep and Memling was grateful for small favours. The captain had spent the last hour pointing out the errors in Memling’s A-4 rocket analysis with all the smug assurance of an academic whose closest contact with the industrial world had been polite discussions in immaculate conference rooms with executives who hadn’t been near a production floor in years. He had been quick to point out that as science and technology were systems of logic, their application in research, development and manufacturing were bound to follow logical procedures. One had only to list the steps to be taken, isolate those requiring the longest time to complete and arrange the remaining tasks within those parameters. The project would then be completed in the shortest possible time – the sum total of the longest tasks. He was, he admitted modestly, one of Britain’s leading experts in the new discipline called operations research.

‘I am certain, Major’ – Reynolds’s voice dripped superiority – ‘that it must have been difficult to obtain accurate measurements when you were at Peenemunde, but those measurements were, after all, the basis for your subsequent calculations, were they not? Now, if you were out as much as a foot, your estimates would be all skewed towards the minimum, would they not?’

Memling restrained the urge to swear.

‘I understand that you were not graduated from your technical course, so even though you did your best, one must be careful of over reaching oneself, what?’

‘You bloody bastard,’ Memling muttered, but Reynolds did not hear over the engine noise.

‘I do not mean to dwell on your shortcomings, Major Memling, but it is essential that you understand your mistakes so that the divisive debate of the past months can be ended. The payload of the rocket you term A-Four is inconsistent with the measurements you reported. A simple mistake in measuring has apparently led you to conclude that this rocket is incapable of carrying more than a ton, while your mistake with the other, the A-Ten, is of the same magnitude, only in the opposite direction. Why, the very size is…’ He started to say ‘preposterous’, then thought better of it: ‘…extraordinary. A rocket of that size could lift more than thirty metric tons.’

‘I see,’ Memling answered in a thoughtful voice. ‘You dismiss my estimates as nonsense but agree with the committee’s analysis which suggests the A-Four is capable of carrying ten tons of explosive as far as London?’

‘Well, yes of course. It was my analysis that corrected your figures, you know.’

‘And your analysis was made strictly from photographs – photographs, I might point out, neither detailed nor clear enough to enable Bomber Command to pinpoint targets – yet you arrived at accurate figures on which you then based your assumptions?’

‘Well, of course. I estimated the actual weight of each major component and used sophisticated statistical and mathematical modelling techniques, naturally.’ The captain’s voice was full of confidence as he warmed to his subject in the face of Memling’s unexpected interest.

‘For example, you estimated the weight of the fuel tanks based on their fabrication in steel. You must realise, old boy, that the use of steel in such a situation is illogical. Weight is everything in the rocket. Steel is far too heavy. Aluminium, which possesses sufficient strength, would provide a great weight saving. Also, and this is my greatest point of disagreement with you, old man, you suggested the rocket fuel consists of a mixture of alcohol and liquid oxygen. My dear fellow, that would be equally ridiculous.’ The captain chuckled to himself.

‘It has been well established by these Polish fellows, who do indeed possess a few good scientists, that hydrogen peroxide is being used as the oxidiser. Hydrazine, then, would be the logical fuel. Its specific impulse – you are familiar with the term – is far greater than what can be obtained with alcohol and liquid oxygen…’

Memling had taken enough. ‘Captain,’ he had interrupted the tirade, ‘you are an ass. I was at Peenemunde where I worked as a member of the quality control department. I witnessed a test firing. Logic is all well and good, but sometimes it has to bend in the face of reality.’

Reynolds began to bluster, but Memling bored on. ‘I am willing to bet you my figures are more correct than yours, Captain Reynolds. In a few hours we will have an A-Four rocket aboard this aircraft. You and I should be able to determine, just the two of us, if the fuel tanks are made of steel, as I said, or of aluminium, as you maintain. If they are made of steel, I win that part of the bet and you get one good swift kick in the arse. If, when the Farnworth wizards finish their analysis, they determine that my estimate of the payload is closer than yours, you make a public and abject apology to me before the committee. I am well aware of what you told them regarding my work, and it only reinforces my belief that you are an arrogant know-it-all as well as an ass. Now, as an officer superior to you in rank, Captain, I am giving you a direct order. Shut your mouth!’

The Dakota lost altitude abruptly, jolting Memling from his reverie. He turned to the window to see a bright path of light below and swore angrily. His watch showed just after midnight. They were over the landing site, and the flares lit by the Poles were bright enough to draw every German within a hundred miles. Apparently the Polish officers aboard thought so as well, to judge by their exclamations of dismay.

The aircraft side-slipped, lost more altitude, and bucked in the turbulence. As they came around to line up for the approach more flares were set off until the makeshift landing site seemed as bright as day. Memling rebuckled his seat strap as the jolting grew more severe.

They were losing altitude rapidly now. A stand of trees – only inches below the wings, it seemed – fled past. Then the first flare shot past, and in its glow Memling saw the wing flaps go down, then, unexpectedly, grind up again. Engines screamed and the aircraft shuddered. For an instant he was weightless as the plane staggered, then they were rising with agonising slowness. What the hell, he wondered; but the Dakota was banking hard to port to go around again. The noise added to the lights would surely bring the Germans swarming.

This time Culliford took them straight in. Once over the trees, the aircraft dropped so abruptly that Memling gripped the seat, willing them not to crash. Afterwards he was certain he had left finger marks in the wood.

The Dakota came down hard, bounced twice, and staggered across the field. As the plane turned at the end of its roll, Memling saw a man with a torch point to the right, then chop down abruptly. The engines shut off, and a moment later someone was pounding on the hatch. Memling drew his Colt automatic and heard the unmistakable snicks of four Sten gun bolts being cocked. Gingerly he unlatched the door, remembering a deserted landing field in the Ardennes, and swung it open.

‘Hello, Tommy!’ A bearded man dressed in worker’s clothes and a cloth cap greeted him, one gnarled hand clutching a Mauser rifle. He broke into rapid Polish directed at the four men standing behind Memling, and they shouldered him aside with shouts of greeting, jumped down with their suitcases, and disappeared into the press of people milling about the aircraft.

Culliford materialised at his shoulder. ‘My God,’ he roared above the noise, ‘don’t they know there’s a war on?’

Orders were shouted, and the crowd dispersed. The bearded man climbed inside and shook hands with Memling and Culliford, then threw his arms wide at the sight of the Polish co-pilot. For a moment the two men embraced, laughing uproariously.

‘He says to tell you,’ the co-pilot told them above his friend’s laughter, ‘welcome to Free Poland. He is General Kaspar Kierzek and he commands the Twenty-second Home Army Regiment.’

‘Yes, but for how long?’ Culliford demanded. ‘Those lights will have every damned German garrison in the area about our ears.’ When this was translated, the Pole laughed and went to the hatch. He gestured expansively and broke into a speech.

‘He says there is only one German garrison in the area. His people surrounded the barracks earlier. When the Germans opened the door to see what the noise was about, they heard rifle bolts being cocked and decided they were better off not knowing.

‘He says the Russians are pushing hard less than a hundred kilometres east, and the Germans are retreating through this area. They do not want trouble. He thinks we are safe for another two hours. The only threat is an SS panzer unit twenty kilometres north-west of here.’

‘He thinks?’ Culliford muttered.

A line had been formed, and bundles and packages were being passed along from hand to hand. An engine racketed to life, and a German armoured car lurched across the field dragging a makeshift trailer piled high with large, canvas-wrapped bundles. General Kierzek hustled Memling and Culliford out of the way while the Poles set about loading the aircraft.

The co-pilot, Szrajer, who had been pumping the guerrillas for information, wandered back. ‘It is amazing how much they have done with so little. This unit has been stationed in this area for two years now and has monitored all the rocket flights. When this one crashed in May, they got to it first and found it on a riverbank, virtually intact. They simply rolled it into the river and had a local farmer drive a herd of cows into the stream to muddy the waters. The German recovery team finally went away convinced they had been given the wrong location. General Kierzek then captured an armoured car and used it to extract the rocket from the river. The major components were disassembled and sent to the university in Warsaw for thorough study, and reports were submitted to London. When the decision was made to fly the rocket out of Poland, the components were repacked and returned right under the noses of the German security forces. The drawings and copies of reports were stored in Holowczyce-Kolonia, a nearby village, to wait for favourable weather.

‘A German infantry group came to practise here this afternoon, and two aircraft landed, but they all left before sundown. The general says the Nazis own the countryside during the day but hardly dare venture out after sunset.’

Kierzek came over to them. ‘Everything hokay.’ He nodded at the Poles lifting the last package aboard. ‘You go now.’

With the rocket aboard the Dakota, the Poles became subdued and tense. After perfunctory handshakes all around and a hasty farewell to the four intelligence agents who were staying behind, Memling hurried the others aboard and swung the oversized cargo door shut while Culliford went forward to the cockpit.

The engines exploded into life, and Memling strapped in. The noise mounted as the engines were run up, but the aircraft remained stationary. Culliford reduced power, then ran up again. Twice more and he shut down and stuck his head into the cabin. ‘The brakes are locked. Have you a knife?’

Memling handed over his Fairbairn knife and glanced into the cockpit. ‘What are you doing…?’

The co-pilot was levering a plate from the floor. He took the knife and ducked head and shoulders into the hole.

‘He’s cutting the hydraulic brake line. Without hydraulics, the brake shoes open automatically.’

A few moments later the engines were started again, but still the aircraft refused to budge. Culliford tried jockeying it back and forth, but the plane would not roll forward.

Finally he shut the engines down and came back. ‘Damn it all. Fifty pounds of boost and she still won’t budge. Everyone out!’ He flung open the cargo door and jumped down. The co-pilot followed and they went to examine the wheels with an electric torch. The engine vibration had caused them to sink into the wet soil.

‘Damn,’ Culliford swore. He paced about the area, kicking at the muddy ground with his heel, then he stopped and scratched his head. ‘Look here, I think we should try and dig out.’

Memling’s orders were to burn the aircraft and its contents if anything went wrong, then attempt to reach Russian lines. But he had little faith in their ability to find the Russians before the Germans found them and even less in Russian hospitality.

‘Dig!’

A line of men with shovels formed up quickly, and twenty minutes later two shallow trenches had been excavated. In the meantime another group unloaded the aircraft while a third disappeared into the night to cut brushwood.

The co-pilot took over, shunting Memling and Culliford aside. Memling felt like the proverbial fifth wheel and said so to the worried New Zealander who only grunted.

‘If they dig us out of here, you must realise that our troubles are only beginning.’

Memling closed his eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Well, we’re past schedule now, so we’ll be in the air, over enemy territory, during daylight. For several hundred miles. With the landing gear down. And,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘we won’t have any brakes for the landing.’

Memling stalked off with what he hoped was a semblance of dignity. A few minutes later he noticed that Captain Reynolds was struggling with a canvas shroud that covered a piece of the rocket. Memling started towards him, but Reynolds dropped the cover and walked away. The canvas was neatly tagged, but in Polish, and its lumpy shape was unidentifable. Puzzled at Reynolds’s actions, Memling had started after him when Culliford shouted.

The Poles were already reversing the loading procedure. Culliford was casting worried glances at the sky. A high cloud cover had begun to move in, obscuring the moon and the brighter stars visible through the glare of the landing flares.

The pilot jerked a thumb at the sky. ‘Rain, before dawn.’

General Kierzek hurried up and drew the co-pilot aside. His head snapped up, and he glanced around for Culliford and Memling.

‘Lorries have been sighted leaving the SS camp near Bialystok. They are headed in this direction. The road has been mined, so it will take them at least an hour to get here.’

‘Let’s go. Now!’

The bearded Pole grunted and shouted to his followers. The reloading was accomplished in fifteen minutes, and Memling swung the door shut. The starter cartridges went off with a bang, and both engines ran up easily, but again the aircraft refused to move. Through the window Memling saw one of the resistance men waving his arms frantically, and he flung the cockpit door open, grabbed Culliford’s shoulder, and pointed at the Pole. Cursing at the top of his voice, Culliford shut the engines down.

This time the wheels had gone in up to their hubs. Culliford stared at the bisected wheels, too angry even to swear. Finally, he took a deep breath. ‘Without brakes, we couldn’t run up to full power, and so she just vibrated her way in again. Goddamned ground!’ He kicked at the mound of soil that had piled up on either side of the landing gear.

Memling studied his watch. The SS detachment was now twenty minutes nearer. Culliford took his arm and pulled him aside. ‘I think we had better burn her and take to the hills, old man. We’ll never get her off the ground now. It’s going to start raining any moment, and even if it holds off a bit, the Hun is going to arrive.’

For a moment Memling was on the verge of nodding agreement, but then something made him hesitate. ‘Damn it, no. We’ve been through too much to… to…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look here, Stan, we’ll dig out once more, only this time we’ll use boards rather than brush under the wheels.’

General Kierzek arrived with more bad news. The co-pilot listened, his face growing longer with each word.

‘Outposts have spotted the SS detachment now less than three kilometres away,’ he told them. ‘It’s apparent the mines did not slow them as hoped. They have also rallied a small army garrison and sent them to circle around the far end of the valley. The general thinks they will reach here in about thirty minutes. His people report no artillery, but they are certain to have mortars and automatic weapons. The general suggests that unless we can take off immediately, we destroy the aircraft and go with his people.’

An argument in two languages broke out, but Memling shouted for silence. When he got it, he had the co-pilot question the general concerning the probable tactics the SS would employ. Kierzek answered impatiently at first and then with growing interest as the pattern to the Englishman’s questions emerged.

‘The general would like to know, Major, where you received your training?’

‘Royal Marine Commando,’ Memling grunted, and knelt to examine the map one of the general’s aides had produced. Kierzek knelt beside him and pointed to a road which Memling could barely see in the dim torch light. His answers now held a certain respect.

‘How much help do you think the general is willing to give?’ The co-pilot looked dubious but put the question anyway. The answer must have surprised him because he grinned and then translated. ‘He says that will depend on how long we would require to free the aircraft?’

Memling glanced at Culliford, who shrugged. ‘Judging from what they did before, twenty minutes maximum is my guess.’

‘Tell him,’ Memling ordered, but the general nodded.

‘I speak little English.’ He seemed to be thinking a moment. ‘Twenty minutes, no more. Burn airplane then. Hokay?’ Memling stared at the men surrounding him; even Captain Reynolds had wandered over to listen. ‘All right, twenty minutes it is.’ Memling ordered Culliford to organise the digging parties while the co-pilot saw to repairing the hydraulic line. He then turned to the general. ‘Can I help?’

The general laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Hokay, Commando. You come see how we do.’ He stood up and began to bellow orders. As the partisans formed up into units Reynolds approached Memling and coughed apologetically.

‘Ah, Major Memling, I did receive a basic training course. I can shoot a rifle. May I go with you?’

Surprised, Memling glanced at the scientist. He was obviously frightened; his eyes darted here and there, and his hands were tightly clenched, yet he wanted to do his part. Memling nodded. ‘Get a Sten from the aircraft.’

The general bellowed orders in Polish, and the guerrillas divided into three columns and moved out. One column was to backtrack to the end of the valley and ambush the army garrison pushing up the road.

The second and third columns were organised to form a trap. A thin screen, part of the second column, would be thrown across the road a kilometre north of the aircraft. They would allow the SS unit to burst through, into a fire field laid down by the remainder of the column. Again the SS would be allowed to break through, thus providing the impression that they had breached the partisans’ defences. While their confidence was high, but before the motorised column could resume speed, they would be slowed again by trees felled across the road. The general was confident that the column’s commander, rather than wait to clear the trees, would order the lorries on to the verge to bypass the roadblock. The soft ground would slow the troop carriers and the armoured car reported with them. At that point the partisans’ single thirty-seven-millimetre anti-tank gun would fire on the armoured car while soldiers with Molotov cocktails would destroy the lorries. With the way blocked front and back, the rest could be dealt with at leisure.

It was the classic guerrilla tactic against armoured vehicles, devised by the Finns during the winter of 1939-40. Even the weapons were the same: the thirty-seven-millimetre anti-tank gun and Molotov cocktails. Memling watched doubtfully as the partisans trotted off into the darkness. The tactic was well known; it might work against the invalided troops coming up in the rear but not against the battle-hardened Waffen SS who would have perfected their anti-guerrilla techniques on the Russian front. The general must have sensed his thoughts, for he clapped him a stunning blow on the shoulder.

‘His hokay. You see! German always do same thing.’

With Reynolds panting behind, Memling followed the fast pace set by the partisans. Loud cracks sounded just ahead, and a moment later he saw tree trunks crash across the single track. Memling and Reynolds dogged the general as he checked his forward positions. The ground on either side of the trees was even spongier than the landing site, and Memling’s boots squished. The Poles had excavated shallow trenches which were already filling with water. Memling slid in without hesitation but had to reach up and yank Reynolds after him. He took a quick look at Reynolds, but the darkness hid his face.

‘Ah, Major?’

‘Just keep your head down and you’ll be all right,’ Memling answered absently.

‘No, it’s… I had a look at the rocket. There was no sign of any radio guidance system, and the fuel tanks… well… they were, ah, made of steel. Just as you said they would be. I certainly owe you…’

An exchange of gunfire broke out with the sharp bursts of SS machine-gun fire predominating. The shooting stopped, and the engine noise of the lorries was clear in the night silence. General Kierzek chuckled and clapped Memling on the shoulder.

A moment later firing sounded again, only sharper and more prolonged this time. The lorry engines were louder, and suddenly the armoured car loomed in the darkness, silhouetted against the sparse trees. Its machine-gun chattered off a burst, swivelling across the road to either side, a tactic originated by Erwin Rommel during the 1940 blitzkrieg.

The partisans ignored the probing gunfire, and a moment later the driver saw the trees lying across the road. The machine-gunner fired a long burst into the area, and spurts of dirt and flying rocks kicked across the top of their trench. Memling heard a shout, and the armoured car turned on to the verge, followed by the first lorry. Both ground forward and bogged down. The anti-tank gun to their right went off with a bang, and the armoured car’s turret burst open. Troops tumbled out of the leading lorry, and the partisans opened up with everything they had. The thirty-seven-millimetre gun barked again, and the lorry exploded. A flaming bottle arced down on to the second lorry still on the roadway and splattered against the canvas top. The fourth and last in line received a similar barrage and blew up quickly.

The partisans who had manned the two forward lines appeared out of the trees to pour fire into the meagre defensive line the SS troops had managed to establish, and it was over in minutes. Scattered shots sounded as partisans finished off the wounded and dying SS troopers, then set about stripping the dead of weapons, ammunition, rations and boots.

The general is well pleased with himself, Memling thought as they trotted back towards the landing site at an easy pace. A runner had come up in the last stages of fighting to report the army troops successfully ambushed at the other end of the valley. There were no survivors. Thirty Waffen SS and twelve regular soldiers were dead, as against three slightly wounded partisans. And Captain Reynolds. Memling carried his ID tags in the pocket of his battledress.

Culliford met them, but the look of triumph and relief on his face disappeared quickly when Memling told him about Reynolds.

‘We’ve dug the Dakota out and repaired the hydraulic line. We can fill it with water and make it work well enough to get the landing gear up.’

The Dakota was already reloaded for the third time. They had exhausted their supply of starter cartridges, and when the last bundle was secured, Memling stood outside with the fire extinguisher while the partisans lined up to turn the port-side prop to start the engine. The co-pilot had gone to great pains to impress upon them that they were to jump aside as soon as the engine fired, but he needn’t have worried. Three times the nervous men had to reform before the engine caught with a bang.

When the second engine had been started, Memling tossed the fire extinguisher aboard, shook hands solemnly with the general, and, as an afterthought, removed his pistol belt and handed him the Colt automatic. The general was delighted and pressed him to take his own nine-millimetre Radom.

‘Have plenty guns now. Get them from Nazi. You take, remember me.’

Memling grinned then and buckled the belt and holster on and climbed aboard. He slammed the cargo doors on the partisans’ cheers and hurried to the cockpit to clap Culliford on the shoulder. ‘Make it good this time,’ he shouted.

The pilot’s face was grim, and the co-pilot, at his nod, eased the twin throttles back. The engines ran up smoothly, and Memling watched the rpm needles mount until they were hovering near the red line. The Dakota vibrated, then, with a Maori war cry, Culliford released the brakes and the Dakota bounded forward. For just an instant Memling could feel the wheels sink as they came off the boards, but the aircraft’s momentum was too great and she raced on. At forty-seven pounds of manifold pressure, the tail came up and Culliford began to pull back on the control column. The aircraft lifted easily for all its load, and they were airborne. The treetops flicked past, and the Dakota went into a climbing turn.

Culliford brought them around to fly down the field waggling his wings then climbed for altitude to the south-east.

Jan Memling landed at a new airfield west of London, near the suburb of Heathrow, having changed planes three times in two days. Rain swept across the tarmac in gusts as he trudged into the Nissen hut that served as reception. Two red-capped MPs escorted him to a damp office.

Memling broke into a grin when he saw the brigadier seated at the desk smoking a cigar, and he tossed the leather satchel containing the Polish reports on to the desk. ‘There they are. Safe and sound. You did receive my preliminary report from Brindisi?’

Brigadier Simon-Benet nodded and opened the satchel. His abstracted air as he glanced through the first report puzzled Memling. ‘You did very well, Jan. It was too bad about Reynolds. Very bad. But ‘I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.’ He glanced significantly at his aide who took the hint and stepped outside.

‘I take it you experienced no special personal problems?’ Memling looked at him in surprise. For the first time in thirty-odd hours, he thought about his fear, or rather the lack of it. From the moment they had touched down in Poland, he suddenly realised, there had been the usual apprehension but nothing more; in fact, he had even been able to understand Reynolds’s fear and admire the way he overcame it. Perhaps that was an end to it, then.

‘No, sir, none.’ He grinned. ‘You were right.’

‘Good,’ Simon-Benet answered gruffly. ‘I am happy that something came of all this. While you were waiting in Italy an A-Four rocket crashed in southern Sweden. We obtained it from the Swedish government in return for two destroyers and some radar sets. The bloody thing’s at Famborough now where the wizards are taking its guts apart. I don’t want to suggest that this mission of yours was not worth while; far from it. The more information we can gather, the better off we are.’

The brigadier studied him. ‘You’ve already been vindicated by the Swedish rocket, my boy. Preliminary reports indicate the fuel is alcohol diluted to seventy-five per cent with water and liquid oxygen. Hydrogen peroxide is used to drive a turbo-pump which pressurises the fuel tank – constructed of steel, as you reported. That and other uses of steel rather than aluminium account for the great weight discrepancy between Captain Reynolds’s analysis and yours.’

Memling nodded, his face suddenly haggard.

‘What’s the matter, boy. I would have thought you’d be happy to be proven right?’

Memling nodded. ‘I am… I was just thinking of a bet that I don’t have to collect now.’ He brushed a hand over his eyes, seeing Reynolds crouched beside him in the muddy trench firing his Sten at the third lorry in line, short bursts in the approved manner. He had reloaded even though his hands were shaking so badly that he had to rest the gun on the lip of the trench and ease the magazine into the breech. The next time he had looked, Reynolds was sitting against the back of the trench as if resting, his face shot away.

‘…found one difference between the Swedish rocket and your report,’ he heard the brigadier saying. ‘I suppose it can be counted as one for Captain Reynolds, since it was his pet idea. The Hun has apparently added a wireless type of guidance. One was found in the rocket. Now that we have it, it should be easy enough to develop a method to assume control of the rocket in flight and direct it away from inhabited areas, as he proposed.’

It was a moment before Memling absorbed what Simon-Benet was saying. Then he shook his head. ‘They don’t use a radio control system. The rocket is a ballistic missile. No provision was made for a wireless guidance system. Reynolds had a look at the rocket and admitted that himself.’

The brigadier smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Now don’t you fret about that, Jan. Even Jerry changes his mind occasionally. This rocket had a very sophisticated guidance system. You can see it for yourself tomorrow. But first I suggest you get to bed for a good sleep. You look as if you could use it.’ As he talked the brigadier led Memling to the door. For a moment a curious sense of déjà vu passed over Jan, and he wondered if it was starting all over again. The brigadier was speaking to him in the same condescending tone that all the others had used when refusing to accept his suggestions or evidence. But before he could say anything, Simon-Benet had opened the door and he saw Janet waiting for him in the corridor.