Vengeance 10

by Joe Poyer

  ‘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?’ Mem
ling 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 bel
ieved 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.