‘Yes, Reichsführer,’ Wilson said. He lied easily, being well beyond morality, thinking only of his own plans for the future and ignoring all else. ‘I’m willing to do that.’
Himmler stared steadily at him, his gaze searching, then he nodded, as if coming to a decision, though not without doubts.
‘You must really despise your government,’ he said, ‘for what it did to you.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Wilson said. ‘Such emotions are redundant. I’m here not because I want revenge, but because my government won’t support my work and I think you will. It’s as simple as that.’
‘You are more than committed to your work,’ Himmler observed. ‘You are clearly fanatical.’
‘I live only for my work – as you do – and that makes us superior men.’
‘I think you really believe that, Herr Wilson.’
‘I do, Reichsführer. I do.’
Himmler smiled at the subtle flattery but was otherwise unmoved by it. He then glanced down at Wilson’s drawings, scratched his nose while studying them, shook his head from side to side in wonder, and looked up again.
‘I am going to have you placed in the custody of the Gestapo,’ he said, ‘in their headquarters in the Prinz Albrechtstrasse. You needn’t worry. I do this merely for convenience. I wish to have these drawings examined in more detail – and to have you interrogated at length, regarding your past and present attitudes as well as your work. Naturally, you will be interrogated by one of my intelligence officers – but hopefully one with an engineering background. Should the results of our investigations prove positive, you will, as you request, be given work at the rocket research establishment at Kummersdorf West. On the other hand, if our findings are negative, you will be shot and buried as the German citizen whom these false identification papers say you are. Is that acceptable, Herr Wilson?’
‘Yes, Reichsf
ü hrer – and thank you.’
Himmler nodded at the armed guard in the corner of the room, and Wilson was led out to begin his journey to Gestapo headquarters.
CHAPTER FIVE Bradley met Robert H. Goddard on the porch of the latter’s large frame house on a street shaded by horse chestnut trees in Worcester, Massachusetts, in the winter of 1933. The snow had not yet come, but the day was misty and cold, and the leaves were blowing around Bradley’s feet when Goddard shook his hand and ushered him inside.
It was a pleasant, old-fashioned house, with its original furniture covered in relatively new slipcovers, its windows draped with chintz, and a wood fire burning in the large, open fireplace. Bradley knew that Goddard had lived here all his life, and it certainly suited him, being an unpretentious, comfortable place.
‘Please take a seat,’ Goddard said, his voice as formal as his appearance when he indicated the sofa by the fire. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you much – my wife's not home at the moment – but I can at least make a cup of coffee.’
‘That’d be fine,’ Bradley said. ‘I’ll have it black, with no sugar.’ Goddard nodded solemnly and disappeared into the kitchen; he returned a couple of minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee. Bradley noticed his stooped walk, which, like his bald head, had been caused by tuberculosis in his youth. Goddard handed Bradley the black coffee, sipped at his own, then took the armchair facing the sofa. His eyes were brown over a small moustache, his gaze slightly suspicious, reminding Bradley that he wasn’t keen on representatives of a government that had ignored his remarkable talents for too long.
‘So,’ Goddard said, ‘you insisted on seeing me, even after I put you off on the phone when you called me at Clark. Have you come to make me an offer?’
Bradley grinned. ‘No. I’m not in science or finance. I have heard that you’ve had trouble getting financed, but that’s not what I’m here for.’
‘If you’re not part of the government’s scientific community, why come to see me? The US government has never shown much interest in my work, so I’m naturally surprised that one of their representatives should turn up on my doorstep – more so since he hasn’t come to offer me help.’
‘The National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics was recently formed to advise the government on every aspect of aeronautical development, political and scientific, both here and abroad. For that reason it was composed of those most respected in the aeronautical community. You were invited to join – and you rejected the offer.’
‘With all due respect to Orville Wright and my good friend Charles Lindbergh, I don’t consider such an offer to be of help. In making me such an offer, you were seeking my help – and what I need is government backing for my expensive research. That has never been offered.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
Realizing that this was not going to be easy, Bradley decided to
skip the formalities. ‘In fact, perhaps to make matters worse, I’m asking for help again.’
‘Obviously not scientific help.’
‘No. I’m an intelligence officer for the US Army Air Force and I need information.’
‘Information about my work?’ Goddard asked suspiciously.
‘No,’ Bradley replied. ‘I need to know about someone who worked with you – a man named John Wilson.’
Goddard straightened up, looking surprised, then collected himself by sipping some more coffee. When he lowered the cup and saucer to his lap, his gaze was masked.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘Wilson. An odd bird. So why do you want to know about him?’
‘Because I have to find him,’ Bradley said, ‘and he hasn’t left many tracks. Do you mind if I smoke?’
When Goddard shook his head to say he didn't mind, Bradley, who smoked only when he didn’t know what to do with his hands, lit a cigarette.
‘Why do you have to find him? Has he committed an offence?’
‘No,’ Bradley said, exhaling a stream of smoke. ‘And that’s all I can say for now. But please accept that this man must be found – and you’re our first lead.’
Goddard shrugged. ‘I can’t help you much, Mr Bradley. I doubt that I know any more about him than you do. I only worked with him.’
‘With him? I thought he worked for you.’
‘You mean as my assistant?’
‘Yes.’
Goddard smiled for the first time – a slight, laconic smile. ‘Well, he certainly was that – or was supposed to be that – but a man like Wilson doesn’t work for anybody else. He was too bright for that.’
‘How bright?’
‘Brilliant. He was clearly a genius.’
As Goddard wasn’t known for his generosity to fellow scientists, Bradley was surprised by this description.
‘You’ve been called a genius,’ he said. ‘Are you saying that – ’
‘The word genius is used far too casually for my liking,’ Goddard interjected, ‘and so isn’t one I’d normally use lightly. Yet I’d apply it without doubt to Wilson. The man was a genius.’
‘How much did you learn about him?’
‘Not much, Mr Bradley. He was guarded about his past, almost paranoid about remaining anonymous, and seemed to have few interests, other than space flight. Like me, he thought it possible to fly to the moon – and that’s why he came to me.’
‘When was that?’
‘In 1930.’
Bradley saw a glass ashtray on a low table near the bookcase, so leaned sideways, picked it up, balanced it on one leg, and nicked some ash into it. ‘And how did he come to work with you? Did he initially write to you?’
‘No. He simply turned up out of the blue, told me he was an aeronautical engineer who had designed airships – ’
‘Airships?’
‘Correct.’
‘Did he say he did that work in Europe or America?’
‘He certainly didn’t mention Europe. In fact, I got the impression that he’d never been there in his life.’
‘Yet that’s where most of the airships have been constructed and flown.’
&nbs
p; ‘That’s where the first airships were constructed and flown,’ Goddard corrected him. ‘The first was built by Henri Giffard of France in 1852; powered by a 350-pound engine, it was successfully flown over the Paris Hippodrome at a speed of six miles an hour. An internal combustion engine fuelled by hydrogen from the airship’s bag was then used by the German, Paul Haenlein, for his even more successful flight in 1872. Albert and Gaston Tissandier of France successfully powered an airship with an electric motor in 1883, and the first rigid airship, with an aluminium-sheeting hull, was built in Germany in 1897. And I don’t have to tell you that the Germans used a number of large Zeppelin airships to bomb Paris and London throughout the Great War.’
‘All European airships,’ Bradley reminded him.
‘Yes, of course – they were the best known. But a few airships were constructed here in the 1920s, and more are being constructed right now – so there’s nothing remarkable in Wilson’s assertion that he worked on airship designs.’
‘Which must have been just before he came to work for you.’
‘Probably,’ Goddard said.
‘What else did he tell you?’ Bradley asked.
‘He was obsessed with the possibilities of space flight – and therefore with my rocket research. He said he’d been inspired by the fact that I’d managed to launch liquid-fuelled, instrument-carrying rockets, and informed me that he wanted to work with me and learn from me.’
‘I’m surprised you let him.’
Goddard didn’t smile. ‘As he was older than me,’ he said, ‘I was certainly initially uncomfortable with his suggestion, suspecting him to be someone simply desperate for work. However, he showed me his papers, which proved beyond doubt that he’d attended the MIT between 1888 and 1893 – before my time there — then Sibley College at Cornell University, in Ithaca, New York, where by 1895 he’d obtained his Bachelor of Science in aeronautics. He also proved, both verbally and with various papers he’d written and let me read, that he had an extraordinary – and I don’t use the word lightly – an extraordinary grasp of aeronautics and physics. Naturally, Mr Bradley, after that, I couldn’t turn him away.’
‘He started working for you immediately?’
‘Yes.’
‘This was at your Guggenheim-financed experimental station in Roswell, New Mexico?’
‘Correct.’
‘For how long?’
‘Approximately six months.’
‘That doesn’t seem too long.’
‘No, but it was all he needed. During that period he helped me enormously – but he also learned everything I’d discovered so far about steering systems, gyroscopic controls, and various kinds of selfcooling combustion chambers. Those were the things he wanted to know about – and when he’d found what he needed, he left, with not even a goodbye note.’
‘Not exactly showing gratitude,’ Bradley said.
Goddard smiled for the second time. ‘Wilson wasn’t a man for gratitude – and I learned as much from him as he did from me, so I can’t really complain.’
Whether or not Goddard felt the need to complain, Bradley certainly thought that Wilson’s abrupt departure could only be the act of an extraordinarily cold, thoughtless, self-centered man. When he also thought of how casually Wilson had dismissed and left his former mistress, the intriguing Gladys Kinder, he was even more convinced that the man he was trying to picture clearly was not the warmest, most sensitive soul on earth. Certainly he was a man who used people and casually cast them off – a man who didn’t need love or friends. A man completely alone.
‘So what did you think about him as a person?’ Bradley asked, desperately hoping to fit a human face to his shadowy quarry.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Goddard said with scientific detachment.
Bradley blew a smoke ring, watched it grow larger and thinner before disappearing, and then, realizing what he was doing, felt a little embarrassed. ‘Did you become friends in any sense?’ he asked.
Goddard shrugged, at least displaying his confusion, which made him more likable. ‘I got on well with him,’ he said, ‘but in an academic way. We both lived for our work, we’d both had bad times with the government, and we agreed that the mind should rule the heart – not vice versa, as is commonly believed. Oddly enough, then, though there was little warmth between us, we had much in common.’
Bradley hardly heard the last remark, because his lawyer’s instincts, always tuned to the unusual, had honed in on something else.
‘Did you say he’d had trouble with our government?’ he asked, leaning forward, forgetting the ashtray, but managing to grab it before it fell off his leg.
‘Yes,’ Goddard said. ‘Just like me.’
‘You mean the trouble was related to his work?’ Bradley asked as he rearranged the position of the ashtray.
‘Yes,’ Goddard confirmed. ‘He didn’t tell me much about himself, but he did say that he’d come from Iowa, worked on some airship projects, and came to me when those projects were first taken over by, then dropped by, the US government. Is that why you’re interested, Mr Bradley? Were you involved in his problems?’
Feeling distinctly uneasy, Bradley was nevertheless able to answer honestly. ‘No. I know nothing about them. It’s interesting, though, that he should have said that. What do you think?'
‘I don’t think I have to tell you, Mr Bradley, that for years I’ve felt neglected by the US government – and if Wilson was working on airships, or similar projects, and was then either dropped or blocked by the government, he would feel as bitter as I do – which is very bitter indeed.’
Bradley almost felt Goddard’s bitterness. Deeply embarrassed by it, he disguised it by drinking more coffee and then clearing his throat.
‘Did he say or do anything to substantiate such bitterness?’
‘Yes,’ Goddard replied without hesitation. ‘Just before our rocket test flight of December 31, 1930, which Wilson should have attended, he told rne that our government didn’t appreciate its brightest minds, that it would eventually make things difficult for me, and that I should consider leaving the country for good and taking my talents where they’d be more appreciated.’
‘And where did he suggest, Mr Goddard?’
‘Germany,’ Goddard said. ‘He reminded me that the German rocket scientists revered my work and that because of that I’d certainly get the financing there that I couldn’t get here. Two days later, while we were testing our latest rocket, he packed up and disappeared.’
‘Was your rocket test a success?’ Bradley asked, thinking it wise to lighten the conversation.
‘It was gratifying,’ Goddard replied. ‘The gyroscopic controls didn’t work properly and the descent parachute didn’t open, but the rocket reached a speed of 350 miles per hour and a height of nearly two miles.’
‘That’s impressive.’
‘Yes, it’s impressive – but not to your superiors.’
Feeling that he’d just been slapped on the face, and also oddly haunted by the ghostly man he was pursuing, Bradley finished his coffee, stubbed his cigarette out, placed the ashtray on the table, and prepared to leave.
‘Is there anything else you can give me that might help me?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Goddard replied, standing up to show him to the door. ‘What I’ve told you is all I
can tell you. Apart from that, he’s a mystery.’
Bradley sighed. ‘Thanks anyway,’ he said. ‘I’d like to apologize for how the government’s treated you, but – ‘
‘It’s not your place to do so.’
‘Yeah,’ Bradley said, grateful for the unexpected sensitivity. ‘Right. It’s not my place. Thanks again, anyway, Dr Goddard – and the best of luck for the future.’
Goddard just smiled and nodded, led him to the door, remained on the porch till he drove away, then disappeared back into his attractive, old-fashioned house.
Bradley drove straight to the MIT, flirted with the middle-age lady who worked in the
records department, and soon learned that John Wilson had indeed attended the university before going on to Cornell in Ithaca, New York. He was also able to ascertain from Wilson’s old registration card that at the time of his enrolment, he had been living in Massachusetts with only his father, that before that he had lived with both his parents in Montezuma, Iowa, and that he had been born there on July 6, 1870.
Growing ever more intrigued by the fragmented trail of his brilliant, mysterious quarry, Bradley took the next train out of Massachusetts.
‘Airships,’ he muttered to himself as he sat in his reserved seat in a first-class car and lit a cigar. ‘What next? I wonder.’ The train moved into darkness.
CHAPTER SIX Ernst awakened at dawn, after a night of bad dreams, thinking he was in a cell in Stadelheim Prison, his heart pounding with fear. Then he saw his own bedroom, felt Ingrid beside him, and so heaved a sigh of relief and reached out to touch her. She was naked beneath the sheets, her skin smooth and warm, and aroused, he rolled in against her, hoping to waken her.
She did not awaken immediately, which disappointed him again, and still caught in the web of his frightening dreams, he gazed through the windows. The curtains had not been drawn and he saw the dawn’s dark-gray light, gradually illuminating the houses opposite, in the modestly-priced Berlin suburb of Helensee. They had moved here a year ago, two weeks after they were married and had honeymooned in Paris, which, compared to Berlin, had been like heaven on earth. It seemed longer than a year ago (so much had happened in that turbulent period) and Ernst, now the father of a daughter, Ula, wondered where all the joy had gone.
Germany had changed dramatically in the fifteen months and he had changed with it.
Not wishing to think about it, feeling the need for escape, he pressed himself against Ingrid’s spine and ran his hands over her. He heard her breathing change, felt her stiffen and then relax, so he whispered her name into her ear and she sighed and turned into him. She gazed at him with sleepy, cat-like green eyes, then kissed him sensually.
This was the dawn’s sole reward, and he made love with feeling, aware that it was not like it had been, but grateful to have her. Ingrid’s body was still sublime, a soft retreat from harsh reality, and he slid along her belly, sucked and licked her breasts and neck, and moved inside her with the desperate need to obliterate what had recently been haunting him – the knowledge that he was losing her love as his pride was destroyed.
INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1) Page 6