‘Yes sir.’
‘And the Professor?’
‘As you ordered sir.’
Kessler smiled at his little ruse and headed for the first-class compartment in the adjacent passenger car. Once everything was secure, the public could board the rest of the train.
Nash took a welcome sip of hot coffee and observed the scene. To the average passer-by he was just another worker taking breakfast at one of the many cafes outside the station. So far the count was fifteen crates, and some thirty men; but no sign of Professor Mayer. The weapons they were carrying amounted to a fair arsenal: the latest automatic pistols, machine guns, grenades. These men were ready for a war, not a train journey. They were also professionals. The commander did not need to bark orders. Small gestures were enough to get the men moving quickly and efficiently.
One last crate appeared from the back of the truck. Still no Mayer. Had he missed something?
He would have to be careful.
After casually finishing up his coffee, he headed across the street towards the main entrance to the station. He shuffled the train tickets he had purchased earlier, while pretending to check platform numbers on the board. It was easy to blend in with the morning crowd.
The main concourse gave a clear view down the length of the train; exactly twenty passenger cars, with the goods carriage sandwiched between first and second class. Good news – nothing appeared to have been altered since last night. Two guards followed the last crate on to the train and the cargo doors were locked behind them. Another six heavily armed soldiers boarded the adjacent carriage.
Christ! Half the bloody German Army is on the train.
It didn’t matter. Whether Mayer was on the train or not, his orders were to get the missing pages back at any cost. It seemed unlikely that such valuable pages would be locked away as cargo. If the papers were here at all, they would be on the person of the commanding officer.
A sharp blow of the station master’s whistle announced boarding. Passengers filtered through the makeshift barrier onto the platform. Making like a commuter, Nash blended in with the bustling masses and soon found his seat; in the same carriage as the target. A bristling line of soldiers in the gangway gave the position of the German commander, hidden away some four compartments along the corridor. Nash estimated the distance: thirty feet or so away, a lot could happen over such a distance. It was a big risk, even for a trained assassin.
Nash sat quietly, ignoring the other passengers, taking comfort from the feel of the Colt Forty-Five pistol under his coat and the collection of stiletto throwing knives secreted about his person. All he could do now was wait. Everything depended on the small explosive charges he had placed under the first carriage last night, just enough to create a loud bang and damage some of the gearing, and hopefully noisy enough to draw the soldiers away to investigate. The window of opportunity would be narrow, very narrow indeed. Nash sat back, and to avoid striking up conversation with the locals, buried his head in a newspaper. It would be ‘show time’ soon enough.
The screech of brakes threw passengers forward, as the remnants of the explosion filled the air with smoke and the smell of cordite. Nash pushed past screaming passengers and burst into the gangway, catching a glimpse of the guards heading away up the corridor towards the explosion. Head down, breathing hard, pumping up the adrenalin, he charged, pushing civilians aside as they emerged from their compartments.
One… two… three compartments… he slipped a stiletto throwing knife into his hand and, at full tilt, piled through the door into the fourth.
Speed worked to his advantage as the knife instinctively found its target. A trooper dropped to the deck gasping for air as the blade penetrated his windpipe and spinal cord – that left only the Commandant. Allowing momentum to carry him over the body of the trooper, Nash landed hard, pulverising the Commandant’s rib cage with his shoulder. Both men flew backwards onto the window seat.
Kessler drove his elbow into the side of Nash’s neck, trying to catch the nerve endings that crossed the shoulder blade. It had the desired effect: Nash erupted in pain as the power to his right arm evaporated. Kessler was well rehearsed at close-quarter hand-to-hand combat, and knew how to damage his opponent.
‘You cannot escape!’ Kessler drove his elbow down again onto Nash’s neck and shoulder.
Jarred by the impact, with nausea rising, and dizzy, Nash twisted abruptly.
‘Guards! Guards!’ Kessler bellowed, still raining down controlled blows on his adversary’s head and neck.
Snorting blood, ignoring the pain, Nash arched his back, pulling out a second throwing knife. The blade danced around in his hand. He stretched his back some more to create a working space, then adjusting his grip, he drove the knife upwards, hoping to find the soft tissue of the lower jaw and then push the steel on into the brain stem.
‘Arrggghhhhh!’ Kessler sensed the danger, and using both hands halted the advancing blade, but too late – blood gushed from under his chin as the blade penetrated beneath his jaw.
‘Arrrrgggghhhh!’ Hammering hard, as if against an anvil, Kessler thumped both hands down on the hilt of the blade; a second gush of blood issued forth as the blade swept free.
Nash swung again.
Kessler blocked, but not fast enough. The knife opened a long gash up on his left cheek. Missing the eye socket, the tip of the blade glanced off his eyebrow. He screwed his face up against the pain, and raised his arm to protect the injury – it was a bad move.
Nash drove the blade hard towards his exposed jugular.
Instantaneously, Kessler responded, catching Nash in the stomach with his knee and sending the knife off target. The blade sunk harmlessly into the seat, a fraction of an inch from Kessler’s head.
‘Guards! Guards!’ Kessler lashed out with his legs and, managing to get one foot squarely on Nash’s stomach, he kicked hard. The blow forced Nash backwards onto the opposite seat. Kessler launched himself forward in attack but, as he did so, Nash dived sideways and grabbed the Commandant from behind into a headlock.
The men rolled frantically around the carriage, but with each jolt the headlock got tighter.
Rasping for breath, clawing at the vice-like grip across his windpipe, Kessler’s vision began to blur. He tried to focus. Tunnel vision started to set in as the room slipped from reality. Kessler blacked out.
The sound of boots thumping down the corridor, and the barking of orders, marked the return of the soldiers. Nash flipped the Commandant over to expose the pockets on his tunic, and searched frantically. His instinct had been right. He grabbed the papers from the Commandant’s inside breast pocket, then folding the sheets quickly buried them deep inside his own pocket. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice; this time the pages would be secure.
Nash glanced into the gangway. Bemused civilians milled about in total chaos amongst the soldiers, lots of soldiers! It would have to be the window; this was becoming a habit. He smashed the butt of the Colt against the glass. It did the trick, shattering the window in an instant.
The train stopped dead as Nash jumped.
Luck was on his side for once. A steep grassy embankment offered a soft landing. A dense pine forest at the bottom of the bank beckoned. Nash rolled more or less uncontrollably down the slope, only just managing to gain his feet as he bounced into the first pine tree.
Shots rang out. Wood splintered next to his head. He dove into the dense tree line, and was suddenly swallowed by the damp and darkness of the tangled pines. He rolled into a semi-crouching posture, and plunged headlong into the woodland with his clothes ripping and branches slashing at his face – determined to put some distance between himself and the train. After about sixty feet, fatigue set in. The branches were just getting too dense for a belt and braces charge. Changing tack, he went down to an almost crawling position and, tucking his head in for protection, he drove on. It seemed to work, providing a bit more headway.
Instinct told him to change direction.
>
Always make the pursuit difficult.
He veered to the right, and ploughed onwards, desperately trying to keep tabs on time and distance. It would be all too easy to get disorientated, and with no view of the edge of the tree line, the last thing he wanted to do was to wander round in circles and end up back at the train.
He stopped to take stock in the darkness. Gulping deep breaths, Nash tried to calm his breathing; the noise rattled around inside his head. In the darkness, one needed to be able to hear or smell the enemy. Willing himself quiet, he tilted his head and opened his mouth wide; it all helped to focus on hearing. A few minutes of silence passed – nothing, no soldiers – he was in the clear, for now.
The corporal considered climbing out of the window after the assailant, but decided against it. The man was already in the tree line, and his orders were to stay on the train and protect the cargo. Besides, he had two casualties to deal with, and a crowd of panicked civilians. He resigned himself to the task as he put away his revolver.
Kessler groaned as he came to. He gradually focused his one good eye, and concentrated on breathing, then pulled himself onto a seat with some help from the corporal. He tried to shake his head clear. He needed to take command and assess the situation. Had he been out for just a few seconds, or was it longer? He looked down at the dead soldier on the floor. Huge quantities of blood had soaked into the cheap carpet from the knife wound on the soldier’s neck. The corporal checked for a pulse, but both men knew their comrade was dead.
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.
CHAPTER 12
Princeton
Heinkel 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 1st 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 steadil
y 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.’
The Reich Device Page 9