The Reich Device

by Richard D. Handy

  The plane picked up more speed. The skids started to lift off the water.

  Then it happened – a volley punctured the pilot’s rib cage. His body danced like a rag doll as the shots rang home. Slumping forward onto the controls, the pilot was dead.

  The plane responded by veering swiftly to the right, and then to the left. The passengers inside were thrown around the cabin. Nash lost his grip; flipping into the air like a wet fish, he bounced along on the water before coming to a hard stop in the middle of the lake. At that speed it was like hitting concrete. He lay semi-comatose on the water. Miraculously pockets of buoyancy in the ill-fitting German uniform kept him afloat.

  The plane careered on across the lake, totally out of control, and swinging violently. Suddenly, the portside wing tip touched the water. It was enough to send the plane cart wheeling. The plane skimmed towards the shallows, spinning several times, scattering bits of fuselage along the way, before the mangled remains came crashing to a halt a few feet from the shore. The engine finally stalled. Then silence. No one stirred from inside the wreckage.

  In the aftermath the troops focused on searching the plane and the immediate shore. It only took a few minutes before they were wading out to the wreck. The pilot and crew man were dead. The Professor, on the other hand, had been strapped into a seat. It had probably saved his life. He was badly injured, but nonetheless still alive.

  In the gloom of the night, the semi-conscious body of Nash drifted away on the surface of the lake.

  CHAPTER 16

  Cape Town

  Heinkel stood on the concrete pier, and took a deep breath. It was great to be on solid ground; the boat from New York to Cape Town had been a long haul. He flexed his toes, feeling the grip of the fine black soles against the firm substrate. A sudden breeze swirled a coating of fine dust onto his gleaming shoes and into his eyes. Blinking, he kept a firm hold on the leather satchel, and brushed down the lapel of his pinstriped suit with his free hand.

  The weight of the bag tugged on his shoulder muscles. He curled his fingers more tightly around the handle and, tensing his frame, he attempted to walk evenly towards the customs house. His eyes flicked down at the satchel. It bulged a little more than one would like for a border crossing, but it was too late to change the plan now; besides the contents were important to the Reich.

  He scanned ahead.

  A wooden balustrade, some twenty feet tall, topped with rusting barbed wire demarcated the end of the pier. Strands of wire mingled into the chain mail fence on the edges of the pier, preventing any escape onto the adjacent rocks. The only way out was through the small timber construction that was the customs house.

  Heinkel strained against the bright sunlight to see into the relative gloom of the customs shed. Thankfully, the shutters were wide open, letting air circulate into the space. Another dust devil spat grit into his eyes. Ignoring it, he assessed the threat.

  A spartan office was occupied by one table, two chairs, and mostly empty shelving. A coffee pot sat on the stove at the far end of the room. One man stood in the corner, stirring something into a cup. Another leaned against the shutters; a worn green hat – the type an experienced hunter would wear – concealed his features. Thick cigar smoke curled from a cheroot in his hand. A third man occupied the passport booth at the end of the building.

  Heinkel examined the booth. A fat American waiting in the queue bobbed to and fro, blocking his vision.

  The passport controller sat on a stool. The open face of the booth gave easy access for travellers to hand over their documents. A pistol protruded from under his khaki uniform, but that was to be expected; such officials were always armed in South Africa. A door came into view behind the booth: the entrance to an office? Or a guard room full of soldiers?

  The sweaty mass of the American tourist shuffled forward as Heinkel joined the back of the line.

  The official read the American’s passport, pausing to scrutinise the facial features of the holder. After some ten or fifteen seconds the American got his passport back – so far no bags or pockets had been checked.

  Heinkel stepped forward, with his documents open at the correct page. He nodded a silent hello to the official.

  The customs officer scrutinised his passport, flicking the pages. ‘What brings you to Cape Town, sir?’

  ‘I am here on business,’ came a neutral reply.

  ‘How long are you planning to stay, sir?’

  ‘Ten days.’

  The official looked up, checking Heinkel’s face against the photograph in his passport. ‘And where are you staying, sir?’

  ‘The Table Mountain Hotel.’ A precise and truthful answer.

  The side door suddenly opened, the bushman’s hat stuck out – an office door after all. A tall but stocky muscular frame filled the doorway. Smoke from the cheroot partly obscured the man’s face. Dust and grime marked his green shirt; a packet of cigarettes protruded from his breast pocket. His bush fatigues sported a worn-looking Gurkha Kukri knife.

  Heinkel stood fast, moving his eyes slowly between the two men. The official, he could drop in no time; but the big Africaan was a different proposition.

  Rudy Temple stepped forward blocking any chance of escape.

  ‘Would you mind stepping into the office, sir? A random bag check if you please,’ Temple lied.

  Heinkel stood firm. Gazing into the booth, he held out his hand. ‘My passport?’

  Temple spoke calmly to the official. ‘I’ll take that for now.’

  The customs officer duly opened the rear of the booth and handed over the documents.

  Temple escorted Heinkel into the back office.

  ‘Take a seat Mr… ’ Temple examined the passport; the pages were watermarked. It seemed genuine. ‘… Mr Heinkel… from Hamburg.’

  Heinkel moved slowly and purposefully, gently lowering himself into one of the wooden chairs, his eyes fixed on Temple. He placed his satchel on the floor, against the table leg, the handle accessible for a quick getaway.

  Temple puffed on his cheroot for a second, tapping the passport absently in his palm. ‘Well, Mr Heinkel. What brings you so far away from home?’

  ‘I am here on business.’ Heinkel sat upright and firm.

  ‘Yep, for sure Mr Heinkel, but what do you do for a living? Why are you here in Cape Town?’ Temple stood towering over the desk, drawing on his cheroot.

  Heinkel recognised the posturing, and smiled inwardly. ‘I am in the manufacturing business. I am here to trade for raw materials.’

  Temple nodded his appreciation, waving the cheroot. ‘What’s in the bag?’

  Heinkel shrugged. ‘Documents and valuables belonging to my employer.’

  Temple stooped, picking up the bag. He dropped it on the table with a clank. ‘Feels kind of heavy for a bunch of documents.’ He eased off the leather straps and pulled out a manila file; he opened it onto the desk. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a list of supplies.’

  ‘Go on… ’

  ‘Materials needed for my work.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘Industrial components and engineering.’

  Temple leafed a few of the pages. Mostly chemicals, machine parts, tools, and general supplies. The list seemed to tally with the man’s story, but Temple wasn’t buying it. He dug deeper into the bag, pulling out a heavy machine part.

  ‘What do you call this?’ Temple held the metal object up to the light. It was a heavy casing with a system of grills and flanges; a bit like the carburettor from an automobile. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Maybe this was just a straightforward business deal after all.

  Heinkel sat calmly. ‘Just a component from a machine in one of my factories.’

  Temple studied the German’s face. If he was lying, he was doing it well.

  ‘Who are you visiting in Cape Town?’

  ‘The Cape Mineral Company, and a couple of other metal smelters.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To place orders for
the Weimar Republic. Germany is an industrialised nation, and I understand South Africa is open for business – I am here to buy metals.’

  ‘I see Mr Heinkel, so your employer is the German government?’

  Heinkel smiled. ‘Something like that… ’

  ‘You’ve come in on a boat from America. What were you doing in the USA?’

  ‘We have clients in America as well as South Africa. Germany has interests in many places.’ Heinkel gave a majestic wave of his hand.

  ‘I am sure you do.’ Temple bounced the heavy flanged component in his hand. ‘Did you get this in America?’

  ‘I am sorry, that’s confidential. Business is competitive, as I am sure you understand.’ Heinkel forced a neutral expression.

  ‘Yep, South Africa is dead keen on keeping things confidential. I am sure our Minister for Trade would be the first to confirm that… ’ Temple leant forward and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke into Heinkel’s face, ‘… but I still need to know where you came from in the USA and your route to Cape Town.’

  Heinkel’s lungs surged with irritation at the smoke, but he forced himself to keep still.

  ‘I have come from the Rockefeller Foundation in New York.’ Heinkel gave a wry smile. ‘There is a letter of invitation in my jacket pocket. If I could take it out.’ He gestured towards his own pocket.

  Temple nodded and the German produced the letter. It was an embossed letter, inviting him to New York. The letter was genuine. It seemed that Heinkel was an industrialist doing some research on some new engineering techniques for manufacturing. The Rockefeller Foundation was partly sponsoring his research. It was possible. The Rockefeller Foundation was set up in 1913 by the immensely wealthy and philanthropic Rockefeller family. It was well known for sponsoring good causes all over the world, including scientific research.

  The Rockefellers were also of German descent, so they probably had some legitimate ties with Germany. They were also immensely powerful, owning half the banking sector of America, and international companies, including ones in South Africa. If this German was really a friend of the Rockefellers, then he might have friends in high places in Cape Town as well.

  ‘Do you know Mr Rockefeller then?’

  ‘I have met with him on behalf of the Weimar Republic. My business with Mr Rockefeller brings me here. An errand on my way home, if you like.’

  ‘I see.’ He nodded slowly.

  This was no time for a diplomatic incident with Germany.

  ‘An errand you say?’

  Heinkel maintained a steady tone in his voice. ‘As I mentioned, Germany has interests in the USA and now I have business in Cape Town.’

  Temple suddenly spoke with polite formality. ‘Thank you Mr Heinkel. It seems that everything is in order. You’re free to go about your business in Cape Town, for now. However, since you are visiting on behalf of Germany, I am unable to return your passport just yet. Protocol you understand.’

  Heinkel gave a hard stare. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I will not be staying long.’

  ‘Like I said, stick around and you’ll get your documents back when you need to leave.’ Temple drew on the cheroot and exhaled another thick smog.

  Heinkel stood slowly and held out his hand. ‘Please, my component… ’

  Temple handed over the lump. ‘Stay in town, please, Mr Heinkel… for your own safety of course. The natives… ’

  Heinkel gave a blank look. ‘You can count on it.’

  ‘You are free to go.’ Temple gestured towards the door.

  Heinkel gathered his papers, and carefully closed the satchel. ‘I will be back for my documents in a day or so… ’ He turned on his heels and headed for the door.

  Heinkel paced briskly into the baking sun, moving up the hill away from the customs house. It was interesting that no one else had been stopped. Did the Africaan know he was coming? If so, how? Was there a security leak or was it really just chance? Some prejudice against the superior German race was to be expected from officials. After all, the German colony of West Africa had been handed over to the South Africans after the last war. The damned Africaans had rubbed salt in the wounds ever since. German settlers in South Africa were on hard times; but not for much longer. The influence and power of the Reich was rising and, with these new weapons, the South Africans and their British puppet masters would be crushed.

  Rudy Temple considered the situation. He had no choice. There was no evidence to detain the German; but he was a spy alright! It all made sense. If the Germans were making weapons and getting special materials, what better cover than a German industrialist with influential contacts of the likes of Rockefeller, one of the most powerful men in the world, and with some big investments in mining rights around the globe, including Africa. The Rockefeller connection was worrying. In fact, it changed the game completely. Either the heart of America’s Wall Street was being conned, or the Rockefellers were in on it. The Rockefellers as German agents! Was that really possible? Either way, this German network was bigger and much more powerful than anyone had estimated. It might even explain the Nazi gold being deposited in banks around Southern Africa. Were the Rockefellers buying up Nazi reserves in exchange for industrial favours?

  Temple smiled to himself. He would follow this Heinkel, if that was his real name, on his little tour of Cape Town. Then, it would be time to head back to London and break the good news to his buddies at SIS. Sinclair would be overjoyed at this latest revelation.

  CHAPTER 17

  Capture at Kummersdorf

  Colonel Dornberger paced the room, perplexed by the events of the last twenty-four hours.

  Somebody had attempted to abduct one of the scientists, but why?… And how? How in damnation did this happen? This was supposed to be one of the most secure military establishments in Germany: but evidently not!

  ‘Commandant Kessler, tell me again, what happened last night.’ Dornberger needed to understand. The implications could be critical to the rocket programme. Had the secrets of the German rocket programme been revealed?… And why Mayer? What was so special about Mayer? It didn’t make any sense.

  ‘My investigation is still underway, Colonel, but this is what I have so far.’ Kessler tried to focus on the facts, the taste of failure stuck in his throat – it was strange and uncomfortable. He felt… emotions… felt… unusual… even a little human weakness… a blood-soaked iron cross flashed in front of his eyes.

  Kessler dismissed his strange mood and snapped into report mode.

  ‘My men are still sifting through the debris at the crash site, but at least I have a sequence of events. It was clearly a well organised attempt at abduction, and targeted at Professor Mayer.’

  ‘Are you sure that Mayer was singled out?’

  ‘Absolutely, the intruder had asked for him by name, specifically for him and no one else. The orderly on duty had taken the intruder, who he thought to be an officer, directly to the living quarters.’

  ‘Surely, the orderly would have thought this irregular?’

  ‘No, it was a professional job. The intruder had a genuine officer’s uniform, and had spoken with authority.’

  ‘In German, with no unusual accent?’

  ‘Yes, fluent. His ID had even fooled the guards on the main gate.’

  Dornberger could not blame the young soldier for unwittingly helping the intruder find his target. But who was this imposter? This was clearly not the work of local partisans or communists. He let his thoughts drift aloud. ‘So, this was a professional soldier. Someone well trained – from the intelligence services perhaps?’

  ‘All the evidence points to this, but there is more… ’ Kessler paused to drop the next bombshell ‘… The way he handled himself, acquired the uniforms… our man is more than just a soldier. I would say he is a trained assassin.’

  ‘Your friend from the train?’ Dornberger could not see the connection.

  ‘Yes, from the description; definitely the same man.’

  ‘Well, the intrude
r clearly wasn’t German. Who does he work for? The Americans, the Russians, the British?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, sir, at least not for certain.’

  There were so many unanswered questions. How did the pieces of the puzzle fit together? None of this could be a coincidence. In all probability the intrusion on the base was linked to events in Leipzig, and the unfortunate incident on the train to Berlin. The explosion on the train had damaged some of the Professor’s belongings and Kessler had also been attacked by a well-trained assassin – the same man. This assassin had taken papers. Why? Was there some secret that the Professor was keeping, or something in his notes of great importance?

  ‘Commandant, tell me about the train, the explosive device – what do we know?’

  ‘Well sir, a thorough forensic investigation of the explosive device and the train was carried out and has yielded some useful information. The explosive is a fairly common industrial mix that is used by any number of mining companies, and the like. I am afraid it provides no clues as to the perpetrator. However, we also recovered fragments of the timing device; and that was much more revealing.’ Kessler at last had some good news to report. ‘The device itself was simple and reliable. But whoever planted the bomb had made a mistake – the choice of materials for the timing device. It was made of some fairly sophisticated laminates; an unusual combination of materials. The outer casing was made of Bakelite, but inside there was also a thin layer of a new polymer called nylon. This is far from routine.’

  ‘What are you saying? Are we dealing with a government-sponsored assassin?’ Dornberger could not believe his ears.

  ‘Yes, almost certainly.’ Kessler was confident of the forensics. ‘The Bakelite material was identified as British in origin, and is now also used in specialist industrial components. It will not be too difficult to source. Only a handful of companies use this particular type of Bakelite in Europe. The nylon composite was very novel. Only government-sponsored organisations have access to such materials. It must have come from either the British, or perhaps the Americans. Certainly both would have this technology.’ Kessler concluded his report.