Vengeance 10

by Joe Poyer

  Memling saw her coming along the footpath and grunted in relief. She was wearing a shabby overcoat and a scarf that hid her blonde hair. Her collar was turned up, and she wore the heavy rubber galoshes that had become mandatory in the winter, now that the trams had stopped running.

  ‘It was dangerous to contact me at the factory. Don’t do it again.’

  Memling nodded, knowing she was right. Maria Kluensenayer, the production director’s secretary, was his sole contact with the Belgian resistance movement.

  ‘I have to see Paul.’

  Maria frowned at that. ‘It is far too dangerous.’

  ‘What I have to tell him could be even more dangerous if ignored.’ Even as he spoke he realised how melodramatic that sounded.

  The girl nodded after a moment. ‘All right. I will see, but it will take time. I will meet you here this evening, at eight.’

  ‘No. The gates are closed at six.’

  Maria bit at her lower lip, indecision plain on her face, then shook her head. ‘It cannot be done. It is far too dangerous.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, striving to keep the desperation from his voice. ‘I’ve never asked for anything from you people. I could have made a nuisance of myself, but I haven’t. Now I am telling you, I have to see Paul!’

  Her fingers were tapping nervously on her thigh, and for an instant he had a vision of the smooth, satiny skin the threadbare coat concealed. He swore at himself and jerked his mind back to the problem at hand.

  ‘All right. Meet me in the Parc de la Citadelle at four-twenty- five exactly. Make certain that no one follows you.’

  Memling started to ask where in the park, but she turned quickly, slapped him hard, jumped to her feet cursing in French, and was gone. What the hell was that for? he wondered. Then he caught sight of one of the old men grinning slyly, and understood.

  A thin spatter of rain drifted across the cobbled street, and he glanced at the sky apprehensively. He had no money to buy lunch at a food stall, but if he went back to his room to eat, the landlady would wonder when he went out again, and there would be a thousand questions to dodge. Cursing the Germans and Maria, he mounted the bicycle and turned into the boulevard Piercot, trying to ignore the rhythmic bumping against the end of his spine as the patched tyre revolved on the cobbled street.

  The original citadel was designed and constructed in the seventeenth century by Prince-Bishop Maximilian Henry of Bavaria. With each succeeding war or threat of war, the fort was expanded and strengthened until by 1914 it was thought to impose an impenetrable barrier to German designs.

  The Imperial German offensive was begun on 5 August 1914. On 7 August General Erich Ludendorff entered Liege, and that same day, under bombardment from Krupp’s sixteen-inch howitzers, nicknamed the Big Bertha, the citadel surrendered. It would not be the last time an impregnable static defence position was overrun by superior technology. In 1914 it had been accomplished with giant cannon; in 1940, by glider-borne parachute troops.

  Memling entered the gracious city park that had been constructed on the grounds of the old citadel and wandered about idly, examining the overgrown ruins of the strongest in a chain of twelve forts once thought sufficient to defend the city below. Liege, Namur, Mons, Maastricht, ancient citadels in the most fought-over area in Europe. His stomach protested its emptiness, and he was shivering in the chill breeze and wet clothes.

  ‘You must be the Englishman?’ A hand fell on his shoulder and? squeezed. ‘No, no. Keep walking. Just greet me as an old friend you expected to meet. Your cover name is Pieter Diecker, I believe?’

  The shock of the unexpected approach, of being called an Englishman, had almost unnerved Memling, and he faltered. The hand held tightly to his shoulder, and he tried to smile but failed, miserably.

  ‘Maria’s description was quite accurate. I had no trouble spotting you.’

  Memling glanced at the man walking beside him. Rather tall and spare, he had a thin moustache and a three-day stubble of beard. His hair was concealed beneath an army garrison cap that had seen better days, and the uniform greatcoat that flapped about his knees was filthy and carelessly mended. He walked with a pronounced limp - which had probably kept him out of the camps where soldiers of the former regime were required to do a period of labour service. The armistice had been in effect for seven months now, and very few men had yet been released.

  ‘By the way, my name is Paul. I apologise if I startled you, but your reaction confirms your identity.’

  Memling’s breathing had begun to return to normal. ‘And if …. it hadn’t ...?’

  The man shrugged. ‘We would have walked into those trees.’ He palmed a thin-bladed military fighting knife before sliding it away in the depths of the coat. Memling drew an even deeper breath.

  ‘Where can we go?’

  Paul laughed at that. ‘Right here, my friend. I do not know you well enough for anyplace else. And we must hurry. The Gestapo and the SD vie with each other for my head.’

  They found a bench on the edge of the bluff overlooking the city. Memling struggled to find an opening that would catch the attention of this self-assured man. He knew nothing about him other than that he had been an army officer. How to explain something as complicated as rockets in a few minutes’ time? he wondered.

  He decided on a straightforward account. ‘The Germans are developing a powerful rocket which will have the capability of flying perhaps three hundred and fifty to four hundred and fifty kilometres,’ he began. ‘It will carry an explosive charge of up to twelve hundred kilograms. The motors for this rocket are being constructed down there.’ Memling pointed to the distant roof of the Manufacture d’Armes.

  ‘In the Royal Gun Factory?’ Paul asked in surprise. ‘A rocket? Like a fireworks rocket?’

  Memling shook his head impatiently. ‘No. Nothing like that at all. This one will be all metal, perhaps thirty metres high, with a powerful motor in which a mixture of petrol or alcohol and liquid oxygen will be burned. It will be able to climb thirty or more kilometres into the stratosphere and continue on for up to four hundred and fifty kilometres.’ Memling became aware that he was speaking much too quickly and drew a breath, fighting to slow himself down.

  ‘If launched from anywhere along the Atlantic or North Sea coasts, it could fall anywhere in London. It could be fired north to devastate Stockholm or across the Mediterranean against Egypt or targets in the Middle East.’

  Paul whistled softly. ‘How do you know all this?’

  The question was logical and at least did not express the complete disbelief he had been expecting. He began to relax a bit. ‘I saw the motors.’

  ‘Just the motors?’

  Memling nodded.

  ‘Tell me where and when.’

  The cloud along the western horizon had broken, and reddish light rushed through to flood the distant hills. Below, the city, shrouded in a century of industrial grime, remained grey and dismal. Memling began by describing his chance meeting in 1938 with Wernher von Braun and Franz Bethwig, his subsequent flight from the train, and the encounter with von Braun three days before, which had led to his glimpse of the sealed area.

  ‘I studied mechanical engineering and was also a member of the British Interplanetary Society,’ he continued, noting that Paul did not smirk or grin at the name as so many others had. ‘Before the war I helped to develop several small rockets that used liquid fuels. I am quite familiar with some of the problems.’

  Paul nodded. ‘I think I understand. Tell me about what you saw at the works.’

  ‘There was sufficient time for me to get a good look. It was a bell-shaped object one and half metres high and half that wide. The bottom flared into a bell muzzle as a rocket nozzle would do. Above the nozzle was a spherical container from which a series of pipes depended. The sphere was most certainly the combustion chamber.’

  ‘How can you be certain of the size?’

  ‘The soldiers were moving another one inside. It was on a standard factory car
t which stands exactly thirty-six centimetres high on its wheels. I measured one. The rocket motor rose to the level of the soldier’s chin. When he stood upright, he was as tall as I am, which is one point eight metres exactly.’

  ‘You are very perceptive. Where did you obtain the performance characteristics?’

  Memling cleared his throat. ‘An engineer must be a good observer. As for the specifications ... I - I calculated them from the dimensions of the engine.’

  Paul nodded for him to continue.

  ‘From the apparent diameter’ - Memling’s voice was feverish with the urgent need to make this man understand - ‘of the nozzle it is possible to estimate the width of the rocket. From the diameter of the combustion chamber it is possible to construct a series of estimates of specific thrust based on the fuels that might be employed. Given that, the rate of fuel and oxidiser use can be estimated, which suggests the amount of fuel that can be carried and thus the possible range. That, in turn, provides an estimate of the weight of explosive that can be carried. Military considerations would further limit the choice of weights; for instance, it would make no sense to shoot a fifty-kilogram payload a thousand kilometres or a six-thousand-kilogram payload ten kilometres.’

  Paul was watching the sunset, and Memling wondered if he was really listening. ‘Von Braun told me two years ago that their major problem was to contain the twenty-nine-hundred-degree-centigrade temperatures developed in the combustion chamber. He mentioned at the time they were using liquid oxygen. The only fuels that combine with liquid oxygen to produce that temperature are petrol and alcohol. Knowing the fuel and oxidiser, the combustion temperature, and approximating the rate of propellant/oxidiser feed - which is dictated by the combustion rate - it is possible to calculate speed and range versus payload. The targets are obvious and all within a four-hundred-kilometre range of occupied European territory.

  ‘For instance, a rocket capable of striking London from this side of the Channel will travel approximately two hundred kilometres from, say, the vicinity of Antwerp. If we assume that the rocket must travel at least three hundred metres per second, and the fuel consumption is thirty kilograms per second, or twice the acceleration of gravity, you can calculate to find that the rocket must produce five hundred and sixty thousand horsepower. With that figure you can refine your assumptions and define such characteristics as fuel load, desirable payload in explosives, and so on. These, of course, provide you with the maximum and minimum dimensions of the rocket.’

  Paul had remained silent throughout the discourse, and Memling was afraid that he had overdone it. The Belgian was staring out over the city to the western horizon where the storm clouds had regrouped, forcing the sun to retreat.

  ‘You are certain of these calculations?’ he asked, and when Memling nodded, he smiled. ‘I was an artillery officer, of the rank of lieutenant colonel. I am an engineer by training.’ He was silent a moment, then stood and motioned Memling to walk with him. They started back along the path, Memling pushing his bicycle and cursing his rumbling stomach.

  ‘I will do this much,’ Paul said after they had covered half the distance. ‘A message will be sent to London briefly describing your information and conclusions. They may well want a follow-up report.’

  Memling clenched his fists on the handlebars and strove to keep his voice normal. He shook his head. ‘That won’t do.’

  Paul glanced at him in surprise. ‘Why not, may one ask?’

  Memling described the reception his report had received in 1938.

  ‘Perhaps things have changed ... new personnel. ..’

  ‘Maybe,’ Memling replied doubtfully. ‘But my superior, the man with whom they will check, is the same as then.’

  Paul nodded. ‘I understand. However, there is nothing else I can do. Our contacts with London are as yet quite limited. Your government is only beginning to pay attention to resistance organisations on the Continent. They are still preoccupied with a Nazi invasion threat.’ He glanced about suddenly.

  ‘I have spent far too much time here as it is. I will send a report through as soon as possible, and if there are further requests for information, they will be passed on to you. Otherwise’ - he paused and laid a hand on Memling’s arm - ‘everything will remain as before. Do not contact us except in an emergency. You have done quite well to date. If I need any further information, the request will come through Maria.’

  Memling could not keep the concern from his face, and Paul chuckled. ‘If you doubt her reliability, then she has done well. Believe me when I tell you her attitude towards the Nazi is an act. She is my most valuable source of information. You may continue to trust her with your life.’ Paul stressed the word continue.

  The Belgian clapped him on the arm and walked away without looking back. Memling leaned on his bicycle and found a cigarette. Two in one day was extravagant, but in view of the risk, the tension, the disappointment, and his empty stomach, he felt he deserved it. The sun had broken through in one final gesture of defiance and set the storm clouds afire. The Hopital des Anglais glowed as did the distant buildings of the Academie des Beaux- Arts. It would require a Constable to capture those colours, he thought; and the homesickness that overwhelmed him then was devastating.

  The door slammed back against the stop, and two SS men stamped into the office, followed by a young officer. Work stopped abruptly as the five technicians stared in fear at the sudden apparition. Memling’s fingers convulsed, and his pencil snapped, cracking across the silent room like a gunshot. The door to Belden’s office flew open, and the director of quality control rushed out ready to protest the intrusion - until he saw the SS flashes on the officer’s collar. The officer ignored him and stared at each technician in turn, but it was on Memling that his stare lingered longest.

  ‘Pieter Diecker?’

  Memling stood. ‘I am Pieter Diecker,’ he said, hoping the terror in his voice was not apparent.

  The officer glanced at him, then at the partially disassembled machine pistol on the workbench and nodded. One of the SS enlisted men slung his rifle and stepped forward to grasp Memling’s arm, and he was led to the door without a word.

  Eyes followed their progress as Memling was hustled through the factory, but not a head was raised. Crammed between the two soldiers who followed the officer, he was conscious of the smell of their unwashed uniforms, the odour of heavy Balkan tobacco that hung about them both, and the red smear of birthmark on the neck of the man to his left.

  Even before they crossed the yard, which was swathed in a frigid mist, Memling had been under no illusion about their destination. And he was badly frightened. If they had found him out, there was no hope. The fear that gripped him was like nothing he had ever experienced before. He felt as if he were frozen, as if time had slowed, his body reacting only to autonomic control.

  He was taken to a single-storey building, little more than a shed, where a man several inches taller and at least two stone heavier than him, signed a receipt, then pointed to an ironclad door.

  The room beyond contained a single chair and a bright lamp fastened to the ceiling. Memling was shoved to stand beneath the lamp. He raised a hand to shade his eyes, but it was slapped away. He heard footsteps and the door slammed.

  It was intensely wearying to stand with his hands at his sides, squinting against the glare that grew more painful as the minutes crawled by. His feet began to protest, and the joints of his knees throbbed. When he heard the door open, he actually experienced a moment of relief; an instant later a blow sent him sprawling against the wall.

  Memling suppressed the oath just in time and pushed himself up - only to receive a sharp kick in the ribs. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked him up to meet a punch that snapped his head back against the wall. A second punch beneath the heart drove every bit of air from his lungs and left him paralysed and gasping. He rolled on to his side, knees drawn up, and struggled to breathe.

  ‘Please, Mr Diecker,’ a quiet, understanding voice murmured.
‘You must stand quite still. My friend here has had a bad night and is quite impatient this morning. You have been invited to assist in a police investigation. It is a small, rather unimportant matter, but’ - the man’s tone was apologetic - ‘we are still required to perform our duty. We do hope you will be willing to help. It would save us a great deal of time and trouble.’

  Memling regained his feet and staggered away from the wall gasping. He was shoved back beneath the lamp.

  ‘First, I must admit to an unfair advantage over you. I know your name, Herr Diecker, but you do not know mine. I am Captain Jacob Walsch of the Geheimes Staatspolizeiamt. The Secret State Police,’ he translated.

  There was a pause and then his hand was shaken.

  ‘Perhaps now we can become friends. The German government does not wish to inconvenience Belgian citizens any more than the needs of the occupation require. But in times like these we must be ever vigilant, heh?

  ‘Now.’ There was the sound of turning pages again. ‘You were seen in the gardens of the Place Emile-Dupon yesterday, about midday? Is that correct?’

  The man’s French pronunciation had a curiously guttural flavour, overlaid with the intonations of the south. He was clearly a German speaking French in the accents of that area. The only German he had spoken, the name of his police organisation, carried a singsong lilt that suggested the Schwarzwald.

  ‘I asked if that was correct, Herr Diecker?’

  ‘Uh . . . yes,’ Memling mumbled, trying to sound dazed even though his mind was working now. The blow that followed was as sudden and unexpected as the first. The man seemed to have mastered the technique of striking high on the spine, just below the shoulders, while kicking the victim’s legs away so that he landed head first. Half-conscious, head lolling from side to side, he was yanked to his feet and slapped hard.

  ‘Herr Diecker’ - the voice was annoyed - ‘I must ask you once more not to provoke my associate. You must speak up immediately and clearly when I ask a question. Please repeat your answer.’