The Reich Device

by Richard D. Handy

  No response. Kessler continued regardless.

  ‘You remember the accident?’

  Mayer tilted his head.

  ‘Do you remember working in the laboratory before the accident?’

  He tilted his head again.

  So, the Professor does remember things before the accident.

  ‘Good, good,’ Kessler soothed. ‘Think now about the day of the accident. You were in your sleeping quarters with all your colleagues. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yeeeees… ’

  ‘There was some noise outside, and you were awoken in the middle of the night. Do you remember that Professor?’

  Mayer gave a weak nod.

  ‘A man came into your quarters looking for you; a German Officer who specifically asked for you by name. Picture this man in your mind, Professor.’ Kessler paused to allow the patient to collect his thoughts. ‘Think hard about this man. What do you see? Think carefully… picture this man in your mind. Is the man a foreigner?’ Kessler tried to be soothing as he continued. ‘… Picture the man in your mind, think… and remember. He is dressed in a German uniform. Is this man a German… or a foreigner?’ He waited a few more seconds for Mayer to focus his thoughts, then spoke clearly and calmly. ‘Professor, is this man a foreigner?’

  ‘Yeeeees.’

  ‘Good, good… ’ Kessler paused, ‘… now, what kind of foreigner? Is this man a Norwegian perhaps?’

  Kessler remembered the instrument panel on the Catalina seaplane was partly in Norwegian.

  ‘Nooooo.’

  ‘Never mind, think hard Professor… ’ Kessler paused, allowing Mayer to keep up, ‘… is this man American?’

  ‘Maaaay beeeee.’ Mayer gave a spasm and began to cough. The nurse attended to him, giving the Commandant a disapproving glance.

  Kessler waited for the moment to pass, and then continued.

  ‘Professor, do you know why this man, the foreigner, wanted to speak with you?’

  Mayer gently shook his head.

  ‘Was it about rockets?’

  No response. Mayer went into another spasm and coughed again. Kessler pressed on.

  ‘Was it about rockets? Did the foreigner want to know about rockets?’

  ‘Maaaay beeeee… ’

  The reply was less audible. The interview was taking its toll.

  ‘Did the man ask about rocket fuel?’

  ‘Ca… can’t… reee… member… ’ Mayer muttered, less audible than before.

  Kessler decided on a different line of questioning.

  ‘Did this man carry a gun? An American pistol, perhaps?’

  No response.

  ‘Did he speak to you in English?’

  No response.

  The nurse interrupted. ‘I am sorry Commandant, he is very weak. Perhaps we can try again in a few hours?’

  Kessler gave a smile. ‘You are right, Fräulein. We will try again this afternoon.’

  Kessler hid his irritation. Every time he got to a critical step in the questioning the Professor would collapse. Was he really exhausted or was he just avoiding the questions? The game would continue later. Kessler rallied at the thought. He stood up and gave a polite nod to the Professor and the nurse, and headed back to his office.

  Kessler gathered his thoughts as he walked towards the hospital for the afternoon session. The investigation at the crash site had eventually identified the origin of the plane thanks to the unique identifying chassis number and a manufacturer’s mark stamped on the aluminium frame of the aircraft. It was a Catalina PBY mark 5 seaplane. This model was produced by an American company, but sold widely to the Australian Air Force, to forces in New Zealand, Canada, and England. The dual language on the dials suggested that the plane operated in Norway, perhaps between Britain and Norway. The small arms fired from the flying boat were American, but they had also found shell casings under the flooring grills from an older model Vickers machine gun. The Vickers was a giveaway – standard issue of the British Army. So this was clearly an American operation with a British connection.

  Kessler burst through the doors onto the ward, walking briskly with a smile towards Mayer’s bed. ‘Good afternoon Fräulein. I trust the Professor has rested?’

  She nodded and smiled.

  ‘Good.’ Kessler positioned himself on the bed, close to the patient. ‘Professor, let us continue our conversation… ’ he paused, ‘… we were talking about rockets. Did the foreigner ask you anything about rockets?’

  Skipping the small talk, Kessler was determined to make progress this time.

  ‘Nooooo… ’ Mayer gargled.

  ‘Did you tell him anything about rockets?’

  ‘Nooooo… timeeeee… ’

  ‘So you would have talked if there had been time?’ Kessler was curious.

  The Professor shook his head and went into a coughing fit. Kessler ignored it.

  ‘Did you know the man, had you seen him before?’

  ‘Nooooo… ’ Mayer coughed.

  Kessler’s senses worked overtime, something wasn’t quite right.

  ‘You did know the man! You have seen him before. Where?!’ demanded Kessler.

  ‘Nooooo… Nooooo… ’ Mayer erupted into a violent coughing fit.

  Kessler switched to a more soothing tone. ‘Think Professor, where might you have seen this man before?’

  No response. Mayer slumped.

  ‘Think Professor, where… where have you seen this man before? Picture the man in your mind… where?’

  ‘Deeee… ath… Der… Leib… haf… tigeeeee… ma… schine… ’ The words struggled to come out. Kessler looked at the nurse for interpretation.

  ‘Der Leibhaftige… maschine… ’ The nurse looked puzzled ‘He said something about death and the devil machine – does he mean the rocket?’ She looked at Kessler for confirmation.

  ‘Perhaps.’ He turned to the Professor. ‘What about the rocket Professor Mayer?’ Kessler pressed for a reply.

  ‘Deeeath!… Deeeath!… Der Leibhaftige… maschine!’ Mayer forced the words out and collapsed back on the bed.

  ‘What about the rocket Professor? Tell me? Tell me!’ Kessler moved closer, desperate to hear the reply.

  ‘Deee… ath… ’ Mayer passed out.

  ‘He must be delirious.’ Kessler shook his head in disgust. ‘We will try again tomorrow.’

  With that the interrogation was concluded.

  CHAPTER 23

  Cape Town Harbour

  Rudy Temple kept in the shadow of the fisherman’s hut, and peered through a gap in the wooden slats to observe the quayside. The hustle and bustle of workers carrying boxes of fish, crates of coffee and other dry goods partially obscured his view. Heinkel was easy to pick out in his crisply pressed light tan trousers and clean white shirt. Temple flicked a glance along the concrete pier.

  Good.

  His men were in position, and would hopefully go unnoticed amongst the workers. He returned his attention to the target.

  Heinkel walked at a steady pace, clutching a leather satchel.

  Temple squinted at the bag.

  Yep, the same one from the interview at the customs office, and looking just as heavy. He had to admit, Heinkel was clearly a professional who paid attention to detail. The team had followed him for several days. He never used the same route twice, he doubled back to add detours, suddenly changed modes of transport, and was always alert. In fact, Heinkel had almost given him the slip on more than one occasion. Doubling the surveillance teams had kept the tail going, but that had its own dangers; it could make the target more aware. It was a risk worth taking to ensure the false intelligence was on its way to Germany.

  But why was Heinkel putting everything on show now?

  Heinkel suddenly stopped, and skipped up the gangplank of a rusting German freighter, disappearing from view.

  Heinkel stepped over the metal threshold into the Captain’s cabin – if you could call it that.

  The room was barely ten feet square. A beam
of light fell through the one small porthole in the bulkhead, revealing a faded red carpet stained with a lifetime’s worth of greasy boot marks. A small table sat in the corner, heaped with charts, worn notebooks, and navigation instruments. An impossibly small, narrow bench, partly obscured by a moth-eaten curtain marked the position of the officer’s bed. The ever-present odour of diesel oil filled Heinkel’s lungs.

  ‘Captain, if I may, I have a small task that you can help me with.’

  The Captain stood in a threadbare woollen jumper, unshaven, with his grubby calloused hands shoved deep inside his oily trouser pockets.

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe, it depends what it is and how much it’s worth.’

  ‘You will be rewarded handsomely for your services.’

  ‘So, what’s the job?’

  ‘A package that needs to find its way to Berlin. Something of a delicate nature, one might say. A private matter for us Germans.’

  ‘We’re used to dealing with private matters. How big’s the package?’

  Heinkel opened the satchel, pulling out a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘It contains some documents, and other matters of importance to the Reich.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s not a problem. I can keep it in my safe.’ The Captain nodded towards a metal box welded into the wall above his desk.

  Heinkel stepped forward, examining the expression on the Captain’s face. ‘The parcel will remain secure?’

  The Captain stood firm, his gaze fixed on Heinkel. ‘We’ve done this many times before. Your package will be safe.’

  Heinkel etched a small, sarcastic smile. ‘Good. So, I can rely on you? The Reich can rely on you?’

  ‘There’s no love lost between my crew and the locals.’ The Captain removed his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. He maintained a calm but hard expression. ‘Yes, you can rely on me to get the job done. My men will need paying though.’

  ‘Of course, on delivery. Five thousand reichsmarks.’

  The Captain gulped, unable to conceal his surprise at the fee. ‘On delivery is fine. The journey will take four days, maybe five, depending on the weather. The package will be in Berlin within a week.’

  Heinkel kept an even, firm voice. ‘See that it is.’ His gaze moved towards the strong box. ‘Open the safe.’

  The Captain produced a heavy key from a lanyard around his neck, and calmly stepped up to the lock.

  Heinkel eased forward with the parcel.

  The Captain turned the heavy key in the lock and pulled open the door. ‘Will you be travelling with us?’

  Heinkel paused, checking the man’s face for deception. ‘No, just the package.’ He placed it in the safe.

  The Captain clanked the door shut, and turned the key.

  ‘I have another small task for you… I have been followed by some customs officials. See that you depart in full view, and be sure to leave a passage plan with the harbour master.’

  ‘You want them to know when and where we’re going?’ The Captain gave a puzzled look.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Whatever you say mister.’

  ‘Good, you will be met in Hamburg harbour – don’t be late.’ Heinkel took a white envelope from his satchel; a thick wad of reichsmarks protruded from the paper. ‘For your expenses… ’ He held out the envelope. ‘The rest you can collect in Hamburg.’

  The Captain nodded. ‘Consider it done.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Ambassador’s Residence, London

  The British Ambassador’s residence in Kensington was luxurious with a thick red carpet and antique mahogany furniture. The trappings of empire were everywhere. A huge oil painting of the Battle of Waterloo hung above the fireplace, and on the adjacent walls hung portraits of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. In between the paintings were trophies from various hunting expeditions: stags, wild boar and even a tiger’s head. The piéce de resistance was a huge stuffed bear standing about eight feet tall in the corner of the room – reared up on its hind legs, huge claws and teeth at the ready. Doubtless, the bear had been shot on one of the Ambassador’s many hunting trips.

  Nash looked around the room, perplexed; didn’t the aristocracy know this was the twentieth century? Maybe it was just a show to remind the minions of the British Empire? He smiled to himself as he waited for the Ambassador.

  Lord Elgin-Smyth entered the lounge, and headed for the fireplace. He waved for Nash to remain seated, as he tapped a Mayfair cigarette from its silver case. He lit up and, after a couple of drags to get the embers glowing, he checked the gold pocket watch in the waistcoat of his three-piece suit, then turned to his visitor.

  ‘Good day Mr Nash. Before we speak, I will mention a few rules of engagement.’ Elgin-Smyth absently brushed some ash from his label and ran one hand through his neatly cut, but now greying, hair.

  Nash nodded.

  ‘As the British Ambassador, I cannot be seen to be supporting any kind of espionage from this residence, and especially not the kind that might compromise diplomatic relations between South Africa and Germany, which are rather delicate at the moment.’ The Ambassador paused for thought. ‘So we must tread carefully. Despite our little meeting in Whitehall, this time I think it’s better that I don’t know what you’re up to. Do we have an understanding?’

  ‘Agreed,’ replied Nash.

  ‘This arrived last night in the diplomatic bag from Germany.’ He passed a large brown envelope to Nash. ‘… I almost forgot. Your orders from Sinclair; he’s overseas wooing the Americans apparently.’ The Ambassador dug into his breast pocket and handed over a telegram. ‘My instructions are to let you open the package, read it, and then burn it.’

  Elgin-Smyth politely turned to gaze at the flickering flames in the fireplace to give Nash some privacy. The Ambassador gently puffed on his cigarette and waited.

  Nash opened the package. It contained a situation report on Kummersdorf, and some fresh aerial photographs. There were no surprises in the situation report, and it didn’t really say anything beyond what he already knew. The Germans had recovered the wreckage of the plane, and had taken at least one survivor back to the base – probably Mayer.

  He jolted in his chair as he opened the telegram with his orders. He re-read the telegram:

  Most urgent. Terminate target. STOP. No rescue. Confirmed. Terminate target. STOP.

  He slowly folded the telegram. This was an unusual request; killing other soldiers was one thing, but murdering civilians?

  Nash studied the photographs for a few minutes to take his mind off the new orders. The Germans had already repaired the perimeter fence and the main entrance, but there was also some new construction. Evidently, earthworks were going up around the main buildings, and on the airfield some large containers had appeared. They looked like fuel tanks.

  He stuffed the photographs in his breast pocket.

  The Ambassador gave a disapproving look.

  Nash stood from his chair and moved around to the fireplace. He dropped the remainder of the documents into the fire and waited for them to burn to ash. Everything else, he had already memorised. Nash turned to the Ambassador.

  ‘We live in interesting times. This will be our little secret.’ Nash tapped his breast pocket.

  ‘If you insist,’ grumbled the Ambassador.

  Nash headed for the door.

  The Ambassador called after him. ‘Good luck old chap.’

  Nash smiled back, and was gone.

  Emily Sinclair worked cautiously down the new concrete steps, trying not to allow her footsteps to echo off the bare whitewashed walls; but it was no good, the high heels were hopeless. Coming straight from work in a tight pencil skirt had been a bad idea.

  The stairs gradually gave way to bright lights, and more fresh white paint. The basement corridor of the SIS headquarters extended for some fifty yards under the building. It was a miracle to get this far without being stopped by a policeman, but then, having a father who was the head of the in
telligence services came with its privileges.

  Doors marked the length of the hallway at regimented intervals, unanimous, gleaming with camouflage green paint – all standard issue from the army stores. The smell of lacquer irritated her nostrils as she counted down the doors. ‘One… two… three… ’

  She scraped a heel on the floor and, suddenly startled by the loss of balance, leant against the wall. She glanced up and down the gangway whilst rubbing her ankle. The muffled sound of voices issued forth from some of the rooms.

  She moved to the next door and listened. Nothing. Holding her breath, she tried the handle.

  It opened.

  She slid through a crack in the half-opened door, being careful to close it quietly with one hand on the door frame, the other tensing on the doorknob. The lock gave the faintest of clicks. Perspiration marked her palms. She instinctively wiped them on her skirt as she turned round.

  Evidently a small barrack room with four bunks – all unoccupied with just bare mattresses, except for one bed covered in kit. A man wearing a long grey field coat worked at a bench at the far end of the room.

  She smiled and moved quietly between the bunks, sneaking up on the grey-coated figure. The back of his head moved slightly to the sound of metal clicking against metal.

  She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

  Suddenly the room whirled in mass bright lights and grey movement. A vice-like grip twisted her arm, pulsing discomfort bolted from her shoulder. The touch of cold steel pressed under her chin.

  ‘Ouch! Danny, it’s me! Stop, you’re hurting me!’

  The click of the safety catch going on echoed in her ears.

  ‘Christ! Emily, I could have injured you.’ Nash released his grip, hastily shoving the weapon in the back of his belt. ‘How did you get in here anyway?’

  She rubbed her shoulder, giving Nash a prudish look. ‘I thought I would surprise you… ’

  Nash shrugged and smiled. ‘Well, yes, you did!’

  ‘I can see that. Danny, you’re wound like a spring.’

  ‘Sorry, I am just doing my kit prep for the next job.’