Moving off cautiously, instinctively rolling his feet to gently apply his weight on the old floorboards, he scanned the room for anything obvious. A first pass revealed nothing. He picked up a paper from the desk and squinted at the text. The words just danced in the haze. He produced a small torch from his pocket and, using his fingers to partly cover the bulb, he switched it on. A small glowing beam revealed the contents of the page. A student’s essay – great – how was he meant to find the all-important documents amongst this crap? He grabbed the next piece of paper; the torch reported nothing interesting.
This could take forever and the place is crawling with sentries!
A systematic three-dimensional search was the only way to be sure; efficient and methodical. He treated the room like a big box, mentally dividing it up into one-metre cubes. The deal was straightforward; you searched the room a cube at a time taking in everything from floor to ceiling. He started on the first mentally constructed cube. The orders from London were clear: find the manuscript that the Professor was working on and make sure you find it first! No pressure then. The bureaucrats in Whitehall really didn’t have a clue. The first few cubes revealed nothing. He shrugged it off and moved on, but the clock was ticking with only two hours to sunrise.
He focused on the next mental cube: an ornate bookcase. His eyes, starting on the bottom shelf, flicked from left to right. More bloody books! Suddenly, the lip of the bottom shelf caught his eye. What’s this?
He rubbed his fingers along the rim, revealing a clump of dust. Then, down on all fours, he carefully shone the light under the bookcase – and stopped dead.
A solitary crisp brown envelope, and stuffed with something?
He moved the torchlight around the envelope and tracked the skirting board at the back of the bookcase. Nothing, at least no wires he could see. The envelope looked smooth and flat, with no telltale protrusion of a timing device or detonator; but there was only one way to find out.
He carefully lifted the envelope, shining the torch underneath it. He held his breath – no explosion. Pocketing the torch, he carefully slid the envelope out from under the bookcase. He pressed gently with his fingertips around the edges of the envelope.
Nothing suspicious so far, perhaps it’s just paper?
He flicked open his pen knife, and opened the envelope; not at the seal, but by rolling back the front cover, just like opening a can of sardines. The first rule of counterespionage: never use the main entrance. He smiled to himself – a manuscript. A quick scan of the pages didn’t help much, just meaningless numbers and equations, but it had to be the right document. Why else hide it under a bookcase?
He carefully placed the envelope into the inside pocket of his grey coat.
There was one last task.
It took a few seconds to find an identical blank envelope. He stuffed it with paper, taking care to achieve the same thickness and weight, then placed it in exactly the same position under the bookcase. To the untrained eye at least, the room would appear exactly as he had found it.
He moved back to the desk, making a final sweep across the room. Everything seemed in order. Then, something on the desk caught his attention. Fishing for the torch, he switched on the beam.
This cannot be?! A document with the same title page?
He flicked through the first few pages. It looked the same; only there were lots of pencil marks on the margins.
Suddenly the distant clank of keys, and locks turning, echoed down the corridor. Visitors!
Multiple footfalls, coming up the stairs from the lobby – and fast! At least four, maybe five men, definitely in boots.
The grey man did a double take at the papers in his hand.
Definitely the same as the manuscript in the envelope!
Boots approached the office door.
He grabbed the papers from the desk, stuffing them into his outside coat pocket, and headed for the window.
The latch gave after a heavy thump on the wooden frame, but the window opened under protest. Heaving himself onto the window sill, he glanced down at the silhouette of the bushes far below – not good – but then, not much choice.
The door burst open.
With the familiar sight of German uniforms out the corner of his eye, the grey man jumped to the deafening noise of automatic fire. Flecks of broken glass and masonry splintered across the window, as a searing pain erupted in his back.
Instinct took over as the ground rushed up to meet him; feet together, ready to take the impact, and roll. The bushes also did their job, and after bouncing off them, he hit the ground hard.
Breathing in deeply, his head jarred from the impact, he tried to move his legs – success – nothing seemed to be broken. He staggered to his feet, with pain lancing through his back.
The sound of distant shouting penetrated his skull.
Stooped in pain, he stumbled across the lawn, and glanced back down the footpath; shadows moved quickly in his direction. A dap of warm liquid soaked into his shirt. Escape and evasion were the priorities now. Holding onto the wound as best he could, he ploughed forward into the undergrowth. Twigs snapped under foot and, with branches tearing at his face, the grey man pushed for the perimeter.
The squad leader looked up at the broken window, sweating and panting. Broken glass crunched under his feet as he cocked his weapon. ‘Find him! Two-man teams! Move it!’
With renewed vigour, men moved haphazardly around the lawn. ‘You and you! Search over there!’ Two teams scurried off towards the tree line. ‘… And you! Along the edge of the building: move!’
There was a slim chance their man was lying injured in the bushes.
The squad leader allowed his men to disperse. He bent down, breathing heavily, trying to recover from the chase. A flap of paper came into view, and then another. He stooped into the bushes, recovering the two sheets. Typewritten text, equations and numbers stared back at him. He squinted at the paper in the poor light. It was hard to tell, but maybe there were pencil marks in the margins? Whatever it was seemed important.
The soldier folded the pages and placed them carefully in his tunic. At least his superiors would get the consolation prize of knowing what the intruder was trying to steal.
CHAPTER 7
London
Oliver Heinkel paced up the gangplank, coming to a stop expectantly on the grubby deck of the tramp steamer. His tall, lean, muscular physique, elegant good looks and neatly combed blond hair, were at odds with the surroundings. He surveyed the scene with contempt. Of course, security dictated that travelling at night would be best. At least the dilapidated wharf in the sidings of the busy industrial port of Hamburg would go unnoticed. He handed his bag over to the awaiting deckhand, but couldn’t help curling up his nostrils at the stench of diesel oil and barrels of salted mackerel.
‘If you would follow me please, sir.’
Heinkel dusted down the lapels of his jacket and checked the position of his silk tie as they walked. The deckhand moved busily along the starboard gangway and flung open a steel door leading to one of the berths. ‘Thank you sir, this way.’ He beckoned Heinkel inside and closed the door so his superior had some privacy.
The steel floor of the cabin vibrated in tune with the idle of the ship’s engines. Heinkel automatically stooped to miss the sharp metal bulkheads. The robust smell of expensive cologne suddenly mingled with the stale air of the confined space. The narrow room contained two bunks and a small fold-out table with a slim, almost skeletal, German officer perched behind it.
‘Dr Goebbels, I am… I am… honoured.’ Heinkel tried to keep his facial expression formal to conceal his surprise.
‘Forgive me, the location is a little unusual,’ Goebbels smiled. The brass buttons on his crisp tunic reflected in the electric light. ‘I have your orders from High Command. In fact, from the Führer himself!’
‘I am humbled. I am at the Führer’s service of course.’ Heinkel nodded a dignified salute and clicked his heels gently together.
Goebbels threw open a leather satchel, pulling out a thick manila file onto the desk. ‘Study these documents – you’re going back to America.’ Goebbels suddenly hissed as he lowered his voice. ‘It is time.’
‘Tell me Herr Doctor, will we hit the Americans where it hurts the most this time – Wall Street?’
‘Of course… and more… much, much more.’ Goebbels gave a sadistic smirk.
Heinkel nodded slowly. ‘At last the waiting is over, I am ready to do my duty.’
‘You are tasked with obtaining funds, substantial investment shall we say… in the interests of the Reich. Charm the rich Americans out of their money. Take advantage of their greed.’
‘It will be done Herr Doctor.’
‘That’s not all. The Reich has lost far too many of its great intellectuals, engineers and physicists to the disgusting excesses of America. Bring back the technological advances that are rightfully ours!’
‘Yes, Herr Goebbels, I already have some weapons technology in mind.’
‘Good, I see you are prepared.’ Goebbels unfolded a crisp white handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped his hands. He continued. ‘Any German-American that will not return will be deemed a traitor… and we know what happens to traitors.’
‘Of course, Herr Doctor, they will be dealt with most severely.’ Heinkel gave a click of his heels.
‘Everything is in the file.’ Goebbels folded his handkerchief back up into an immaculate square and returned it to his pocket. He looked Heinkel directly in the eye. ‘Use your influence with these dim-witted Americans. Relieve them of their funds, steal their secrets, kills the ones that will not cooperate – kill them – kill them all!’
Sir Hugh Sinclair, head of the fledgling Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), considered the intelligence reports; it made grim reading. He stood at the head of the large ornate table in the cabinet office briefing room. The elegant fabric of his pinstriped suit, fresh from his tailor at Saville Row, easily accommodated his wiry frame. Hawk-like, he took in every detail of the men flanking each side of the oak monolith.
‘Gentlemen, welcome.’ The hubbub of the meeting room suddenly turned to silence. Sinclair had summoned his key field operatives and technical experts from SIS, and given the delicate political situation, the British Ambassador to South Africa, Lord Elgin-Smyth, also attended. General Gort, Commander of the British Army, sat next to the Ambassador.
‘Gentlemen, I hope you have done your reading, this intelligence is fresh information courtesy of my man just back from Leipzig.’ His sharp eyes flicked at the grey man, then went back to the report. Sinclair lifted the first page. ‘The situation in Germany is deteriorating.’
All eyes focused on Sinclair.
‘It is now clear that, since the Enabling Laws, Adolf Hitler has more or less complete control over the German people. Reports are coming in of Nazi brutality against minority groups. People are being murdered, and the police are doing nothing. In fact, it seems that some of the disappearances are being sanctioned by the state.’
‘I agree,’ the British Ambassador cut in with a polite smile, flashing his pristine white teeth momentarily, before pulling a gold pen from the pocket of his silk shirt. ‘If you don’t mind Sir Hugh… ’
Sinclair shrugged, offering the floor to Elgin-Smyth.
‘Gentlemen, the diplomatic situation could not be more fragile. The apparent lack of civil liberty in Germany is abhorrent. The idea of an undemocratic regime in any country bothers me. It’s morally objectionable. Also, I fear it will create regional instability, and the last thing we need is another war in Europe.’
‘I agree,’ Sinclair nodded, ‘and for that reason alone we are stepping up the number of field agents in Europe. The Prime Minister has already decided to support the democracies of Austria, Poland and others in Europe through diplomatic means. The intelligence services will, shall we say, supplement the diplomatic effort as and when required.’
Sinclair paused to pick up his pipe, he flicked a match into the bowl and took a couple of long slow drags to get the embers burning, then continued. ‘Hitler has a security service, the newly formed SS, that seems to have no accountability to the army or police. We need to keep a close eye on this SS, and for all its lack of subtlety, it does seem to nurture a certain malevolence – and a new breed of German spies.’
‘From a diplomatic viewpoint the German state and the judicial system seem to be one. That has to be bad news for the civilian population.’ The Ambassador tapped his gold pen on the notepaper. ‘This is why the Prime Minister is keen to open up diplomatic channels with Chancellor Hitler. We will be seeking assurances… ’
‘Thank you Mr Ambassador,’ Sinclair took the chair. ‘Gentlemen, nonetheless, it would be foolish of us not to increase our intelligence gathering within Germany. We cannot let the situation spill beyond Germany’s borders, and we must understand the details of how this new regime is operating.’
‘Our island is well protected.’ General Gort crossed his arms, and scowled across the room. ‘The army has reasonable reserves, albeit mostly inexperienced young men on their national service, but they’re feisty and eager. If the Hun want to kick off again, we will be ready.’ Sweat trickled from his short grey hair, running down his chubby face onto the over-starched shirt collar of his uniform.
‘Sir, if I might make an observation… ’ The grey man leant forward.
‘Danny, go ahead… gentlemen, Major Nash has been our eyes and ears on the ground in Germany for some time.’
‘Leipzig is crawling with German troops. These are not conscripts or boy soldiers, but in the main, seasoned professionals. The security services are utterly ruthless with the civilian population. I have personally witnessed summary executions; and in broad daylight. Both the regular army and the SS seem to be driven by a single purpose: to impose Hitler’s ideology on the masses. The Nazi Party has become a ruthless killing machine. This situation is repeated in towns all over Germany as far as I can tell.’
Murmurs of disapproval went round the room.
Nash paused, absently rubbing his brow. ‘My gut feeling tells me there’s something else. I don’t know exactly… the SS are showing a particular interest in civilian engineers and physicists, but for what purpose? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘I dunno man, that would tie in with goings on in South Africa.’ Rudy Temple, a weather-beaten and grizzled Africaan in his early fifties piped up. His muscular stocky frame stretched the fabric of his worn lumberjack-style shirt.
‘Go on… ’ Sinclair furrowed his brow.
‘Yep, the bloody Germans are messing with us. What they do at home is their business; but there are too many of them running around the Transvaal these days. It’s making some of the diamond traders a bit edgy; it’s not good for business.’
The Ambassador nodded. ‘I agree, it just isn’t cricket. We’re reliant on both the diamond and the precious metal trade in the region. The Germans are posturing, they want their old colony back – well they can’t have it! At the end of the Great War, the reparations were very clear. German West Africa, or Deutsch-Südwestafrika as they liked to call it, became a British territory. The west-coast diamond trade and other mineral rights in the colony are ours.’
‘But why do you think this is aggravating the Germans now?’ Sinclair probed the Ambassador.
‘I don’t know. The influence of the National Socialists is spreading, they’re finding sympathy with unsavoury types. Stirring up trouble in the colonies, as it were.’
‘So what are the Nazis up to?’ Sinclair spoke for everyone.
‘The intelligence reports make some bloody interesting observations. Several reasonably senior figures from the Nazi Party have made journeys to Cape Town via banks in Geneva; but what the hell for? Anyways, the visits have been all too damned regular for my liking.’ Temple spat his disgust, pausing to let the information sink in.
‘Are these confirmed reports?’ interrupted Sinclair.
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‘Yes,’ the Ambassador nodded vigorously. ‘Signals experts have deciphered the code used by the diplomatic arm of the Nazi Party. We know the dates of intended arrivals of party officials, and who they are; what’s more they’re bringing large amounts of gold with them.’
‘Gold?’ Sinclair stood upright.
‘Yes, for several months now.’
‘I’ve seen it myself,’ Rudy Temple picked up the thread. ‘I purchased one of the gold bars on the black market, Swastika stamp an’ all. They’re selling the stuff like it’s going out of fashion.’
‘Yes, but why are they selling gold?’
‘Gentlemen, my diplomatic sources confirm some very large deposits of gold in the banks in Cape Town, and elsewhere. There is also evidence that the gold bars are being used to purchase supplies,’ reported the Ambassador.
‘Supplies? What kind of supplies?’
‘All kinds of crap. Industrial materials, large quantities of chemicals.’ Rudy Temple shook his head.
‘If I may, Hugh. I have an inventory of some of the materials… ’ the Ambassador flicked through his notes, ‘… including titanium, sodium permanganate, and mercury. Also… an assortment of dried goods… coffee beans, sugar, and the like.’
‘Is there cause for concern about these industrial materials?’
‘It’s hard to tell. The materials could be used in construction, for any number of legitimate peace-time activities. The chemicals are a bit of a worry, but again, they could be used as catalysts in several industrial processes. It may all be legitimate,’ concluded the Ambassador.
‘Legitimate? I don’t think so,’ Nash shook his head. ‘It doesn’t stack up. These materials can be used for armaments, and the chemicals in the production of high explosives. I believe the Germans are up to something.’
‘That may be so, but I don’t understand; the Germans have access to minerals and they are in the heartland of European industry. Why get these materials from Southern Africa?’ mused Sinclair.
The Reich Device Page 6