The Reich Device (12 page)

The papers!

Suddenly snapping to alertness, as if hit by a bolt of lightning, Kessler checked his tunic pocket; but he already knew the answer: the pages were gone. Boiling rage welled up. He controlled it, outwardly maintaining his composure for the sake of his men. He needed time to think.

He noticed the knife lodged in the seat opposite. He pulled out the blade, rolling it over in his hand. A commando’s throwing knife; and well balanced. He gently ran a thumb on the stiletto blade. Razor sharp; but then he already knew that from the wound on his face. The injury pulsated. Blood dripped from above the eye. Ignoring it, Kessler continued to examine the knife. It wasn’t Swiss, and there were no manufacture marks on the blade. English then? Or maybe American? He would find out.

The main problem now was deciding what to tell his superiors when he arrived in Berlin. Admiral Dönitz had specifically requested the papers. The security arrangements
had
been good. The operation
should
have gone smoothly.

Kessler smiled. At last a worthy adversary, a seasoned professional. The explosion had been a creative diversion. He would have his men collect any remains of the device, and samples of the explosive residue. It might at least give some indications of where the charge came from. He would also question the railway staff and his sentries at Leipzig station. How was the explosive device planted without arousing suspicion? Who was his attacker? Where did his attacker get his intelligence from? Who were his masters? Why were the papers so important? There were lots of unanswered questions.

H
einkel perched in the elegant Georgian-style armchair in the Governor Suite of the Princeton Hotel, while resting the bulging document wallet embossed with the US Patent Office logo on his lap. The edges of the once manila folder had discoloured into a rustic brown. Numerous worn pages protruded haphazardly from the bundle. He removed the red ribbon, turning the ageing cover to reveal the first page – new paper, dated 1
^st
May 1933 – good, the contents would be up to date. The secretary had done well.

He glanced over to the bed.

The gaping corpse lay sprawled, with its head dangled over the foot of the bed; eyes rolled back in their sockets. The greying, cold skin contrasted with the cherry red lips of the young blonde.

Why did these American women insist on wearing so much make up? Or maybe it was just the after effects of the poison – it did that sometimes, bringing an eerie redness to certain parts of the flesh.

He turned the first page.

It was just a file note from one administrator to another. The second page looked more promising; a contents list of the patents filed by one Dr Robert Goddard from Princeton University. Things were on the right track. Goddard was some kind of American inventor who had turned his hand to the problem of vertical take off using liquid oxygen as a fuel. Goddard was a rocket man, one of the first. Ridiculed by his peers in the academic community, he had left Princeton and vanished into the fringes of society. The SS were still tracking him down but, for now, his old laboratory would do nicely.

Heinkel scanned the list: gas-propelled rockets, methods for producing hydrogen, titanium alloys for thermal stability – whatever that was – and then he saw it.

Liquid oxygen propulsion systems.

Dr Goebbels had specifically requested information on any and all uses of liquid oxygen, especially in engines or similar devices.

He flicked through the pages. Was it the right information? The morass of technical notes, calculations, equations, and schematic diagrams would have to be judged by experts back in Berlin. He turned over a page of mathematics, a technical drawing caught his eye. Was it some kind of prototype component of a fuel system? Part of a rocket engine? It certainly looked important. The technical drawing looked very intricate, some kind of metal alloy with flanges and connectors. The engineers back at Kummersdorf would figure it out. It was good intelligence. At least he would know what to look for.

He checked his watch.

After midnight, and definitely time to get going.

He carefully closed the document wallet and placed it in his leather satchel, then ripped down one of the drapes.

He could dump the American bitch along the way.

Heinkel adjusted the Princeton tie against the ill-fitting, crumpled blue shirt and then pulled on the cheap tweed jacket; the kind with the leather elbow patches sewn in. He looked the part as he stepped out of the beaten up Chevrolet parked up on the main campus. For good measure, he grabbed a couple of textbooks from the passenger seat. Nobody would take any notice, he was just another eager young professor working late.

He locked the car door, and walked purposefully along the footpath, being careful to moderate his pace. Neon street lamps lit the way through the landscaped gardens. He paused at the first intersection in the pavement, glancing at the convenient campus map protruding from the neatly trimmed hedgerow. The Physics and Engineering Department was dead ahead, some fifty American yards.

The new red-brick building slowly emerged in the twilight.

He scanned the perimeter.

Lights were on in a few rooms, but that was to be expected. American academics seemed to keep the strangest hours. The glass-fronted lobby was deserted – all good – no sign of the night watchman. Not that some old, fat security guard would present any problems.

All the same, he thumbed the leather catch off the pancake holster under his jacket. The snub-nosed forty-five was a detestable American firearm; heavy, clunky, and with no range, but it would have to do.

He skipped up the steps and tried the front door.

It opened.

He moved into the freshly tiled lobby with its white walls and bright lights. The Yankees were obviously into modern architecture and minimalist clean lines. Contemporary furnishing provided a seating area in one corner near the reception desk.

He scanned the perimeter, listening for the telltale sound of footsteps.

Nothing.

He edged across to the noticeboard pinned to the nearest wall, flashing his eyes down the list of names and room numbers: the Rocket Science Laboratory was on the first floor. He ditched the school books on a convenient coffee table and, seeing a small illuminated sign on the far side of the lobby, found the entrance to the stairwell.

He worked quickly across the open-plan space, pausing to glance through the wire-meshed glass of the security door.

No movement.

He slipped into the stairwell, and climbed steadily up the steps, checking ahead constantly as he turned the corner onto the next flight. His shoes echoed off the concrete. The first-floor landing hosting a large number one on the breeze block wall soon appeared.

He peered through the door into the corridor; more white walls and tiled floors. Not much cover for a firefight, but then, he probably wouldn’t need it.

He stepped into the gangway, moving left down the hall, hoping that he’d chosen the correct direction. He was in luck, the door numbers tallied and he soon found the right laboratory.

The white chipboard door gave the sponsor’s branding:
Princeton Aeronautical Society, Rocket Science Laboratory
.

He paused, listening at the door, but it was no good. There was no telling what was on the other side. He would have to go in using his charm, or the forty-five.

He pushed open the door and moved silently into the laboratory.

The room was chaotic. The neat rows of parallel benches had long since been lost under mounds of debris. Engine parts, electrical components, wire and boxes of tools were heaped on every bench. The occasional paper-strewn cubby hole in the moraine of spare parts marked where the scientists, cave troll-like, were stationed during the day.

Heinkel walked slowly through the laboratory, checking each bench for life as he went. The place seemed deserted.

Suddenly, the sound of shuffling paper penetrated from the last bench.

He moved quietly, bringing the last bay into view.

A woman, or at least he thought it was a woman, sat hunched over some documents, scribbling away on a notepad. Her chunky frame stretched the white laboratory coat to its limits. Greasy, unkempt hair stuck to the collar.

One of the cave trolls was home.

Heinkel took out the forty-five.

The scientist stopped scrawling on the notepad and stiffened as the cold steel of the weapon pushed against the back of her skull.

‘If you want to live, keep perfectly still and do exactly as I say.’

‘I… who… what?’

He pushed the gun deeper into the matted scalp. ‘Silence! Do not be alarmed. You must simply do
as
I ask,
when
I ask. Nod if you understand.’

The scientist nodded slowly.

‘Good, I am glad we understand each other. Now, turn around slowly, but keep your hands where I can see them.’

The scientist swivelled slowly on the laboratory stool, hands in the air. Thick-rimmed glasses, and a pockmarked face stared back. Heinkel estimated the creature was in her late twenties. Obviously a laboratory assistant working late, but would she have access to the materials and documents he needed?

‘I understand this is the Rocket Science Laboratory, and Dr Robert Goddard used to work here?’ Heinkel waved the forty-five.

‘Yes… yes it is. I… I… worked for Dr Goddard… ’

‘That’s good, in that case you should be able to help me. Where are Goddard’s notebooks?’

The assistant gulped, trying to keep her hands in the air. ‘He… he took them with him… when he left.’

‘You say you worked for Goddard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you will have your own notes of the work?’

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’

‘Where are they?’

The scientist titled her head stiffly towards the drawers at the end of her bench, hands still in the air.

‘On your feet, get them.’

He shoved the assistant forward, driving the gun into the small of her back for good measure.

She opened the top draw, producing some moth-eaten hardback notebooks.

He gestured with the gun. She squeezed the pile of books onto the end of the bench. He flipped open the first notebook; it was full of scrawled numbers and equations. ‘Tell me about these documents.’

‘They’re just my everyday work on Goddard’s project.’

‘Like what?’

‘Err… err… ’ The assistant closed her eyes.

Heinkel cocked the mechanism of the forty-five. ‘Answer the question, be specific.’

‘A record of my work for the last three years. Notes and calculations on several topics.’

‘What topics exactly?’

Beads of sweat dripped down the assistant’s forehead. Her mind screamed in terror as she fought for clarity. ‘I… I have worked on fuel tank design, the oxygen mixing in the fuel lines, manifolds for the blending of the fuel and its burn time during flight.’

Heinkel raised the weapon, pressing the muzzle of the forty-five into her forehead. ‘Now I have another question… ’ He took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, one of the sketches from the Patent Office. ‘Tell me, did Goddard make this?’

The scientist peered at the diagram, adjusting her glasses as she squinted. ‘It’s an injector manifold. Yes, it’s Dr Goddard’s design.’

Heinkel pressed the weapon home again. ‘But has it been made? Do you have it here?’

‘No… no… not exactly, only an earlier prototype.’

‘Where?’ He jolted the forty-five.

‘Please, please! It’s… it’s on my bench!’

He gestured with the pistol. The assistant got the message and rummaged around on the bench, eventually producing a small but heavy component about the size of a grapefruit.

He took the weight of the flanged object and turned it over in his hand. ‘Do you have other similar components?’

‘No, Dr Goddard took them with him.’

He examined the expression on the assistant’s face. The steady flicker of the eyes, the constriction of the pupils, and the submissive tilt to the head – she was telling the truth.

He crammed the metal object into his jacket pocket, and waved the assistant back to her stool.

‘Sit.’

She complied.

‘Now, I must be leaving.’

‘Please, please… don’t hurt me.’ Tears streamed silently from under her glasses. Her hands shook as she struggled to keep them in the air.

Heinkel gave a neutral expression, and holstered the forty-five. ‘I am not going to shoot you.’

The assistant sagged in relief on the stool, sobbing openly.

Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of greasy hair, forcing her head back. He pulled a knife from his back pocket. The assistant snorted, bubbles of snot mixed with the tears; she clenched her teeth, chest heaving for air.

He shoved the knife hard into her gullet, twisting the blade to hasten death. The blade jolted against sinew and bone, crunching on the resistance of the cervical column.

The assistant gargled, eyes pleading, arms clawing at Heinkel’s chest.

He held firm, locking his victim against the laboratory stool. He gave a final nudge of the blade. The knife slipped deeper, severing the spinal cord.

The body went limp.

He propped the corpse against the bench. Blood pulsed onto the worktop from the neck wound. He wiped his knife clean on the edge of the laboratory coat, then turned to pick up the notebooks and headed for the door.

C
ommandant Kessler reported to the front gate of the Armaments Corps in the small village of Kummersdorf, a few miles south of Berlin. Kummersdorf was the traditional headquarters of the German artillery regiments and had been since the days of horse-drawn cannons in the eighteenth century. Things were a little different now with mechanised heavy artillery, but all the same, Kummersdorf was known in military circles for its big guns.

It also had a more clandestine role as the home for military research into ballistics and new rocket technology.

Kessler stretched his legs in front of the guard house, thankful to be out of the armoured car. He stared absently at the mini convoy; the armoured car sandwiched between two military support vehicles bristling with machine guns. That was all fine, but damned slow and uncomfortable.