The Reich Device

by Richard D. Handy

  The intelligence analysts back in Whitehall came up with some hare-brained ideas from time to time, and this was certainly one of them.

  It had better work, there wasn’t a plan B.

  He flipped open the glove box and removed a brown envelope.

  Would Heinkel take the bait? Passing false intelligence on the rocket programme in the Middle East up the chain to Germany would rely entirely on convincing Heinkel that the documents were genuine.

  Nash slipped the photos from Cairo, and a few other random pages for good measure, into the back of the large brown envelope containing some Cape Mineral Company documents. He shoved the documents back into the glove box.

  He took a deep breath and blew out steadily through pursed lips, relaxing his shoulders. It was time to slip into roleplay mode. He fished amongst the debris in the driver’s well, retrieving a cloth. He smeared it across the windscreen, removing a fine layer of cement powder from the glass.

  It would have to do. He tossed the rag in the back with the other working man’s detritus and switched on the engine.

  The rattle of diesel and the acrid exhaust added to the authenticity.

  Heinkel would surely find the photographs, but would he report it to Berlin?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Nash rolled up outside the foreman’s office in a cloud of dust. He leant out the window and smiled at the receptionist, who was already standing on the porch, clipboard in hand. She looked totally out of place in her high heels, black pencil skirt, and neat white blouse.

  Nash spoke with the best South African accent he could muster. ‘Is Mr Heinkel ready? I am here t’give him a tour of the mine.’

  ‘I won’t keep you a moment.’ The receptionist smiled, and shuffled along the boardwalk towards the office door, being careful not to loose a heel.

  Moments later she reappeared with a tall, well-dressed man – Heinkel.

  Nash stepped down from the vehicle, and strode purposefully across the gravel towards the VIP. Heinkel was already offering an outstretched hand.

  Heinkel looked in his mid-thirties, well groomed, and slim. The cut of his dark blue suit gave away an athletic physique. Nash assimilated a first impression of the man – disciplined, clean, and fit – just like a soldier. Heinkel even stood like a soldier: straight back, stomach in, chest out, and feet slightly apart. Yes, definitely, Heinkel had either seen military service, or was still a soldier now. There would be time later on to dig a little deeper into Mr Heinkel’s past. Nash filed away a mental note.

  They shook hands firmly.

  ‘Good mornin’, Mr Heinkel. I am the site foreman. Victor Lutz’s the name, but everyone round here calls me Vic.’

  Nash held the handshake for an extra fraction of a second longer – rough hands – so Heinkel didn’t spend all of his time pushing pencils.

  Heinkel smiled. ‘Thank you for taking the time to show me around.’

  ‘Oh, that’s no bother, not at all, Mr Heinkel.’

  Nash walked Heinkel back to the truck. ‘Jump in, let me give ya the tour.’

  Heinkel climbed aboard, loosening his tie slightly, to get some comfort in the blistering dry heat of the day.

  Nash jumped in with a smile, and started up the truck. A cloud of black smoke issued from the rear as he gunned the throttle.

  ‘Well, let’s be on our way. It’s not far to the open caste pit, just a few minutes along the track.’

  The vehicle pulled away, bumping spasmodically over the stony ground.

  ‘Ya’ been in South Africa long?’ Nash grinned.

  Heinkel kept his gaze out of the windshield, bracing his knees on the sides of the seat to absorb the jerking motion of the pickup. ‘A couple of weeks… ’

  ‘So, I hear ya’ want t’buy some titanium… well you’ve come to the right place for sure. We make… I reckon… three hundred tons a month of the stuff. Finest money can buy – or at least that’s what they say!’

  ‘Very interesting… ’ Heinkel stared out at the bush.

  The terrain gradually steepened as the track filtered up the natural line of the valley, into a natural rocky bowl.

  ‘It won’t be long now… ’ Nash pointed up ahead. ‘Over that rise, and we’re into the mine itself.’

  The pickup truck rumbled on a few hundred metres and turned sharply over a rock bluff into the open caste mine. A huge white scar marked the landscape. The road disappeared in a zigzag down a steep slope into the bowels of the earth.

  Nash found a convenient spot with a good view of the mine, and pulled up, generating another cloud of white dust.

  ‘Well, here we are.’ Nash gave a sweep of his hand. ‘The largest titanium mine in South Africa.’

  ‘Yes, certainly very impressive. What is the purity of the material you produce?’

  ‘Ninety-five percent pure titanium dioxide ore.’

  Heinkel stared blankly at Nash. ‘And the impurities? What are they?’

  Nash held on to the driver’s wheel for a second, racking his brains for the technical details from the intelligence briefing. ‘Yep, there are some impurities… but not so much… ’

  ‘Yes, of course, but perhaps you can brief me on some of them Mr Lutz?’

  Nash struggled to find the information locked away somewhere in the depths of his skull. His mind raced.

  This is a test? The bastards probing my cover!

  ‘Manganese… yep, manganese at about one percent, some silicon… and a calcium mineral called hydroxyapatite.’ Nash gave an inward sigh of relief, and forced a calm composure.

  Heinkel stared at him, expressionless for a second.

  ‘What about the mineral crystal structure of the titania? What form?’

  Nash paused for a second time. Think! Minerals… what crystals? Christ! Say something! ‘… Crystal structure?’

  ‘Yes, titania comes in three naturally occurring crystal forms. Which type are you digging from this mine Mr Lutz?’ Heinkel scanned Nash’s face for the telltale signs of deception.

  Nothing.

  ‘Oh! I see ya now mate. It’s anatase. The crystal structure’s anatase.’ Nash surprised himself – where the hell did that little nugget pop from?

  ‘Anatase?’ Heinkel repeated, gazing at Nash.

  ‘Yes… ’ Nash swallowed the lump in his throat. Was it the wrong answer? A bead of sweat trickled down his brow.

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Lutz.’ Heinkel flicked his eyes. ‘It may seem like a personal question, but I was wondering… that’s the remains of quiet a nasty bruise on your face.’

  ‘Oh! That’s nothin’ but a little indulgence.’

  Fuck! The game’s up!

  Sweat erupted on Nash’s chest, soaking into his overalls.

  ‘Yes, but how did you get it?’ Heinkel maintained an unreadable facade.

  ‘Okay, you got me! Saturday night.’ Nash shook his head and began to chuckle. ‘Brawling with the blacks! I wouldn’t be a good foreman if I didn’t keep the coloureds in their place, would I?’

  His sniggering subsided.

  Jesus, what a bloody stupid thing to say!

  Silence filled the cab for two or three seconds. It may as well have been an eternity. Finally, Heinkel spoke.

  ‘It seems as if we can do business after all, Mr Lutz.’

  Nash gripped the steering wheel, and smiled. ‘Glad we can help, Mr Heinkel.’

  Heinkel spoke formally and evenly. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I would like some detailed geological reports on the titania, and also contact with your plant manager for making the subsequent titanium alloy sheeting.’

  Still unreadable, this guy was good.

  Nash saw his chance. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Heinkel. I have one of our brochures right here.’

  He reached over to the glove box, retrieving the brown envelope. Nash raised the envelope for effect, studying Heinkel for the slightest reaction – nothing.

  ‘Brochures you say?’

  Nash offered the documents to Heinkel.
‘Yes, take a look at your leisure later on. It contains some information on the minerals. I’ll get one of the boys to drop some more geological details over to ya’ hotel later t’day.’

  Heinkel took the envelope.

  Still nothing – poker face.

  ‘Thank you Mr Lutz, that is very kind. Shall we be on our way?’ Heinkel gave a slight controlled smile, just enough to show an amicable closure to proceedings.

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Heinkel. I’ll drop ya’ right back at the main gate.’

  Nash drove back to the site office, using the ruts in the road to shake things up a little, and avoiding the risk of small talk along the way. He lurched the vehicle into a turn in front of the boardwalk, so that the passenger door would open onto the veranda. The secretary was dutifully waiting.

  ‘Well, here we are Mr Heinkel.’ Nash smiled.

  Heinkel opened the door, stepping onto the walkway. He turned and leaned back into the cab, offering Nash his hand.

  The two men shook. Heinkel held Nash’s grip.

  ‘I have a feeling we will be seeing each other again, Mr Lutz.’

  ‘Yep, I expect so.’ Nash stared back.

  With that, the meeting was over.

  Nash watched Heinkel walk away with the secretary.

  He was a cool customer alright, and well trained. He must have been trained in the military, but what regiment? Was Heinkel SS? Either way, he was not to be underestimated. Perhaps Rudy Temple could shed some light on the comings and goings of Mr Heinkel during the rest of his visit to Cape Town.

  Regardless, the task was done. The evidence was planted. It was just a question of waiting to see if he would take the bait.

  Heinkel sat in the leather armchair in his hotel, calmly considering the situation.

  This Mr Lutz clearly wasn’t a geologist, but had the traits of some kind of professional; he certainly wasn’t a rough neck working for the Cape Mineral Company. Far from it. So, who was he? A customs officer?

  It seemed unlikely. He’d been dodging them for days, and besides the local police had no need for such an elaborate charade. They would simply call in their suspect for questioning, and make up a plausible excuse for the interrogation. No finesse. This man was smarter than that.

  An intelligence officer of some kind, but from what agency?

  The South African intelligence services were fragmented. It was possible, but not likely.

  That only left the British.

  But why would they show an interest? Had they been tipped off by the Americans? Were British agents waiting to intercept him on the return leg to Berlin? The British and their damned Commonwealth: the whole of Africa was awash with either the British Army or its military intelligence people. Whatever the reason, this was a situation that required care.

  Heinkel smiled as he dumped the envelope on the coffee table. It usually paid dividends to think on suspect information. Ignoring it for a couple of hours would be a good precaution.

  He allowed his mind to drift as he stretched out in the comfortable leather expanse of his chair.

  A forest emerged into view.

  The smell of bluebells, the gentle warmth of the sun, an inner peace as he rested the hunting rifle on the log. He looked through the cross hairs.

  The wolf stood firm, almost majestic, snarling gently as the faint scent of human sweat caught its nostrils.

  A steady voice of experience whispered into his ear. ‘Feel the shot son, become one with the rifle. Take your time… ’

  Heinkel rested his chin against the stock of the rifle. The smell of linseed oil made him feel at home with the weapon. He worked his finger gently onto the trigger.

  The beast snarled through the telescopic sight.

  ‘That’s it my boy… slowly… relax… a clean kill… ’

  Heinkel fired.

  The wolf dropped to the ground.

  ‘An excellent shot my boy! You’ve the makings of a fine gamekeeper. Your mother would have been proud.’

  Heinkel surged with pride. At three hundred metres, not many sixteen-year-old boys could have made the shot. He looked at the rifle, admiring the elegant woodwork and craftsmanship of the weapon. Finally, he’d found his purpose in life.

  It was early evening by the time Heinkel got to the brown envelope. After checking the blinds, he locked the door to his room. Carefully, expertly, he felt the edges of the brown envelope. There was no sign or smell of explosives. He gingerly worked open the sealed end, and laid the envelope flat on the desk.

  He peered inside, trying not to disturb the contents.

  The papers were as Lutz, whoever he was, had suggested; a brochure from the Cape Mineral Company, with some stapled inserts giving some recent geological data. Nothing looked suspicious.

  He decided it really was just an envelope, and carefully emptied the contents onto his desk. The documents appeared to be genuine. He scanned one of the geology reports, the language looked technical enough. There were a few loose pages, and what looked like the edge of a couple of photographs protruding from the papers. The loose pages were letters of correspondence. A random collection of letters: one from a bank offering financial services in Cape Town, another concerning a hotel booking, and another relating to vehicle hire.

  Heinkel pulled out the photographs.

  He took in the details of the first photograph: liquid oxygen cylinders and men at work in Arabic dress.

  A factory or installation of some kind?

  He flipped to the second photograph: engine components, and what looked like a very large shell casing in the background. Maybe not a shell, it was too large, perhaps something else?

  He wasn’t sure. He picked up each photograph by the edges, and carefully turned them over. On the back, the photographic paper had an Egyptian watermark.

  So, the pictures were either taken in Egypt, or at least, they were printed there. But what did the photographs represent?

  Instinct started to churn in his gut. It was obviously a place where some very technical work was being done, involving some sophisticated engineering. The liquid oxygen was an interesting factor. Getting hold of liquid oxygen was not cheap, especially in Egypt. This was at least a well-funded engineering project, and certainly of military interest. But who would fund such an operation? It could be any number of governments with interests in the Middle East.

  It was also possible that the photographs were deliberately planted amongst the papers – no not a possibility – definitely so. The question was really who put them there? And why?

  Plant, or no plant, Berlin would want to see the photographs; but who should he use as the courier? He could do it himself, but that would blow his cover. He’d worked too hard over the last three years to infiltrate the Rockefeller Empire and its oil companies around the globe. No, he would get some local partisan to do it. There were plenty of African Germans looking for a better life back in the Fatherland. There were several captains in the merchant fleet who were loyal to the Wehrmacht, and any one of them could be the fall guy if things went wrong.

  Heinkel smiled to himself as a plan formed in his mind’s eye. Heinkel was a spy – no ordinary spy – but the best Germany had to offer.

  CHAPTER 22

  Mayer and Kessler

  The doctor reviewed his notes. It was no use, he couldn’t put Kessler off any longer. Professor Mayer had been at death’s door and was simply unable to answer questions; but that was some weeks ago. The patient was still very fragile, and it was annoying that an SS thug could overrule the Army Medical Corp, but what could he do? He had already done everything that was possible.

  The doctor stood at the end of the ward, notes in hand, trying to speak quietly so as not to disturb his patient.

  ‘Commandant Kessler, I must protest. As you know the skull injury has been infected and I have had to open the wound several times to drain the pus. I have only just finished re-stitching his skull back together again. I think it will heal this time, but the patient is too unwell to
be interviewed.’

  ‘It matters not. Time is now of the essence and the prisoner will answer my questions.’ Kessler stood straight, towering over the doctor.

  ‘I agree his fever is subsiding, but the repeated operations have resulted in some neurological damage. The patient has partial paralysis on the left side of his body – his left arm and left leg are very weak, and he may never walk again. His facial muscles are also partially paralysed. The patient can only mumble.’

  ‘Paralysis or not, the prisoner is alive and I will interview him. What of the Professor’s mental faculties?’

  ‘He speaks with a terrible lisp, almost inaudible; I just don’t know… please Commandant, let the patient rest for a few more days.’

  ‘Impossible! We will proceed.’ Kessler stormed off in the direction of the patient’s bed. The doctor skipped along behind, still protesting.

  Kessler sat on the end of the Professor’s bed next to a nurse who was working intently on massaging the Professor’s arm.

  ‘Good morning Fräulein. How is the patient today?’ Kessler smiled at the nurse.

  ‘Improving Herr Commandant,’ she dutifully replied. ‘I have been giving daily physiotherapy, each day his arm is regaining some mobility.’

  ‘Good and what of his speech?’ Kessler watched as the patient drooled.

  ‘This is not so good, Herr Commandant. His words are very slurred and broken, but I think I can now understand when he speaks.’

  ‘Good, that is good,’ Kessler smiled, patting the nurse on the knee. ‘You will act as my interpreter.’

  The nurse smiled back politely. Kessler turned his attention to Mayer.

  ‘Good morning Professor, it is time for our weekly little talk. How have you been this week?’ Kessler wasn’t used to the softly, softly, approach; but he had no choice.

  ‘Goooood… ’ the Professor rasped in reply.

  ‘I see you are being looked after well, and the food is good?’ Kessler gave a sickly smile.

  Mayer tilted his head forward slightly, not exactly a nod, but clear enough.

  ‘Well I have some questions for you. I want you to think hard. I want you to think hard about the accident. Can you do that for me?’