Menzies sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking about the consequences of such an onslaught. ‘Of course, we would retaliate with our own weapons, or launch a pre-emptive strike. We have stockpiles of similar biological agents.’
‘Yes, I know that, but are you desperate and ready enough to use them first?’ The German paused and let the question hang in the air. ‘I very much doubt it. The Allies are seen as having the moral high ground, infinitely so compared to the Nazis and the Third Reich. And because you are so close to winning, why would you want to use such weapons anyway? Germany is nothing more than a huge heap of rubble. All your bombers are doing now is simply convulsing the same devastation every time they drop a new load of bombs. No - I can’t see you stooping to such a level, unless Germany used them first. And if you did, what gain would you achieve? My country is in ruins. As for Himmler and the Nazis, they have nothing left to lose.’
Silence stretched between them. The stranger’s logic was irrefutable, but Menzies was not about to accept his point of view quite so easily. He wanted corroboration. ‘How do I know this is not a complete fabrication on your part? We’ve heard nothing about this through our own sources.’
The German looked back at him evenly. ‘I understand your concern and doubt, Herr Menzies. Believe me, I would not risk my life to bring you this information without a very good reason. And as for you, can you afford to ignore me and take such a risk?’
‘What about proof? Location, production schedules, specifications and so on - I’ll need documentation to add weight to what you’ve told me.’
The German pulled out an envelope from inside his inner coat pocket, deftly concealed it in his serviette, and surreptitiously slid it across the table. ‘I apologize for the rather cloak and dagger approach, as you English are prone to say, but you never know who’s watching. These are copies of the few documents that exist. Getting access to them has not been easy. Himmler has been extremely careful to keep knowledge of this operation as restricted as possible, and I’ve yet to find out the factory’s exact location. It’s well known that Hitler is against the use of such weapons, for fear of Allied retaliation. But his health has not been the best of late, and I have no doubt that Himmler would take over in a flash should anything happen to his beloved Führer. That’s all I have at present. More may follow. As for when the weapons will be ready, I’m not sure, but if I were you I wouldn’t waste time. I suggest you take this back to London and consult with your superiors immediately. Then we can discuss the terms of our agreement.’
They had agreed to meet again within the next month. Before the German slipped away, Menzies asked one final question.
‘In all this time, you haven’t told me who you are.’
‘No…there’s no need for the moment.’ His opponent grinned for a moment. ‘Though I’m sure you have a few ideas. It’s best that my identity remains unknown at present, for my own protection. I’m not ready to trust your side completely, not yet. You never know when somebody’s tongue might slip, and I don’t want you to hold the threat of exposing my identity over my head. That’s why I don’t want any photographs. But I need to know whether I can trust you. And as I’m sure you know, in our line of work trust is not easily established. Perhaps when we meet again, things will be a little easier, although a lot of that will depend on what your masters say. I look forward to our next conversation.’ With that, he smiled again, pulled the brim of his hat down to cover his face, turned and hurried off. Almost as soon as he reached the restaurant exit, another dark car appeared almost out of nowhere and whisked him away.
The news had produced a furore in London and Washington. Yes, the Allies had their own chemical and biological weapons. But they had nothing as lethal as what this report claimed the Germans had, and nothing approaching the means of targeted delivery. The enemy was acknowledged to have an overwhelming lead in rocket technology, far beyond the fledgling progress the Allies had made in this field. His German contact in Spain had been right. The use of such weapons by the Allies would be considered only as a last resort. The political realities of the world situation had dictated that. So what could they do to stop the threat?
He remembered the urgent trip to Washington, and his summons before the Combined Joint Chiefs of Staff meeting at the Pentagon. It was the most high-level meeting he had ever been to, full of the most senior Allied commanders. The Americans were especially worried. This was the first time since the surprise Japanese attack at Hawaii that they had ever needed to seriously consider the possibility of an attack on their home soil. The knowledge that Nazi Germany could reach out across the expanse of the Atlantic and target American cities shook them profoundly, even if some of them were more than a little sceptical.
The conference buzzed along throughout a long day at an unprecedented level of intensity. Many options were discussed at length, but all of them bar one were ruled out as impractical and ineffective. Bombing would probably not produce the desired result. Neither the British nor the Americans had bombs that would penetrate deep enough underground to destroy such a target. They might be able to block the entrance and bury the area temporarily, but without the pinpoint location of where this factory was the chances of success were remote.
Another option that was considered was sending in an American airborne division to seize the area and destroy the factory. However, again this would probably not be a viable mission, not until the precise location of the factory had been identified. Moreover, much of the Harz mountain region was known to be unsuitable for airborne landings. The area was full of woods, hills and steep valleys. Parachute and glider landings in this type of terrain were considered highly risky. The resulting disruption and heavy losses would seriously compromise the success of a mission, and the survivors would most likely be easy meat for any local German garrisons. The example of what had happened to the British at Arnhem only a few months ago was still fresh in everyone’s mind.
Something else was briefly discussed. One of the American generals present made an oblique reference to something called the Manhattan Project. Menzies was instantly on high alert. He could not fail to notice the sudden hush in the conversation, and the widespread look of puzzlement on most of those present. But the moment was fleeting. George Marshall, the most senior American general present, had simply glared at his colleague who had been so indiscrete as to bring the subject up, and announced that it would not be ready for at least six months- far too late to help them in their current predicament.
In the end, there was only really one way to do it - sabotage from inside the factory, before the weapons were finished and the rockets sent on their mobile launchers to wreak havoc from wherever their launch sites were. A dedicated German-speaking team of saboteurs would have to be sent in, but from where would they be found, and how would they get past the heavy security? Menzies’ suggestion that MI6 would be the best organization to take care of the job was eagerly accepted. The Americans had few assets available, and all were fully occupied with the latest enemy developments in Belgium and France. Besides, MI6 had several agents in Germany who might be able to help out, and get inside the factory without arousing suspicion.
So the responsibility for the mission passed over to him. And now here he was, ready to insert another agent into Germany, and hopefully start the ball rolling to neutralize yet another Nazi threat. A further secret meeting in Spain had produced a little more information, but still no exact confirmation as to the factory’s location. In exchange, he had promised that the German’s case would be looked on favourably at the war’s end. His opponent appeared satisfied, as if he suspected that Menzies’ pledge was all he could hope for. The German also provided details of how he could be contacted in Berlin, with various recognition codes. In addition, there was the possibility of him getting someone inside the factory. One of his own agents was making excellent progress in recovering from his wounds, and would soon be sent to work at the underground complex. The German smiled enigmatically. Perh
aps the name of this agent might be familiar?
It was. The man facing him had to be Schellenberg. Who else could find out such secret information, and be of sufficient trust to be able to make secret trips abroad at this stage of the war? He had never been photographed by MI6, or by anyone else for all Menzies knew. The man courted anonymity. The German had merely smiled in response to Menzies’ obvious question, and declined to comment. ‘When I need your help I’ll know how to get in touch’ was all that he said. The important thing was to remember where Max Simon could be contacted, and how he might be used to help abort Himmler’s deranged plan. The deal was then concluded, and the German disappeared again as quickly as he had arrived.
Steele’s cover was good enough. His credentials should be impeccable, and he could easily pass for an SS officer. He’d spent most of the last three years inside Germany, and could move about without restriction. Steele would link up with Simon and a plan would be devised, most likely with the help of this senior officer from Berlin. Part of the load he carried tonight was a new form of plastic explosive that was disguised as bars of chocolate, but was most definitely not for internal consumption. All it needed was the appropriate fuse, a timer, and placement in the right areas. The ensuing devastation should take care of everything else.
Kohnstein factory complex 1130
‘So what do you think, Max? Impressive, isn’t it?’ They had just finished the tour of the underground factory, and were back in Hartmann’s office. A secretary had been sent off to organize coffee. In the meantime the factory commandant gratefully slumped back into his leather-backed swivel chair, glad to ease the weight off the stump of his left leg. It was clear that the amputation still gave him trouble from time to time.
‘Yes Harald, it’s very impressive indeed. It’s quite a facility you have here.’ Simon smiled outwardly, but inside he was less certain. His old friend greeted him warmly enough, and after a few opening comments and a brief catch-up on what had happened to them since they last met, whisked him out on a guided tour of the facility. But something between them was different from the last time they’d met, something that Simon was at first unable to put a finger on. The subsequent tour soon confirmed his fears.
The factory was indeed remarkable. Based on a pre-war underground chalk quarry, it consisted of two very large main tunnels, both linked by a multitude of smaller cross-connecting passageways and smaller tunnels leading to workshops, storage areas and other assembly halls. The main tunnels bored back under the Kohnstein hill mass for nearly two kilometres in length. Over twenty rockets were in the final stages of assembly, all mounted on flat-bed rail carriages and waiting to be railed out to their launch areas when completed. He counted at least as many more, in various states of assembly. All of them were surrounded by teams of bustling workers, watched carefully by supervisors and the occasional white-coated scientist type. The pace of work appeared to be chaotic, but after a time a pattern of activity became obvious to any careful onlooker. There was method in the frenzied madness, and a fearful precision and discipline in the way the workers laboured, but that in itself was unremarkable. What concerned him far more were the conditions they worked in.
They wore the same pyjama-striped uniform that he had first seen at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Most of them looked Jewish, although there was a sprinkling of Slavic faces amongst them- probably Russian prisoners of war, Simon guessed. All of them were emaciated, no doubt existing on starvation rations. They looked dirty, weary and depressed, and stank to high heaven, but none of them dared to slacken on the job or take a rest break.
Discipline was ferocious and brutal. There were guards scattered everywhere throughout the workshop and rocket assembly areas, all of them carrying Schmeissers or whips and truncheons. He had already witnessed the occasional kick and savage lashing from a few of them, directed at some poor unfortunate who was judged not to be putting in the required amount of effort. At one point in the tour several workers collapsed under the weight of a rocket motor component they were attempting to move into position that had slipped out of its restraining harness. Two of them were pinned to the concrete floor under the massive load. Their colleagues rushed to their help. As they did so they were mercilessly beaten as they struggled to lift the crushing weight off them, but by the time the two could be freed their screams of agony had gurgled into silence. They were far beyond any help. The guard in charge pistol-whipped several of the rescuers, then forced them to drag the two bodies away from the production area. A large crimson smear stretched back behind them, marking the trail of death and mutilation.
What shocked him most was his friend’s seeming acceptance of the casual brutality that was evident here, directly under his command. Hartmann had merely ordered the mess cleaned up, and encouraged the guards to be even more vigilant in punishing slackers. A worrying thought crept into Simon’s mind, something he was reluctant to entertain, but the nagging doubt would not go away. Had Hartmann become a different person to the one he thought he knew? What the hell was he doing in charge of this slave labour factory? What had happened to his desire to do something about the thugs that ran the perversion that was Nazi Germany? It was nearly a year since he had last seen his friend at that field hospital in Poland, and Simon was more than a little surprised and dismayed at the apparent change in Hartmann’s attitude.
Hartmann had swiftly guided him away from the scene, carrying on as if nothing had happened. The tour led deeper into the mountain, past the Junkers jet engine assembly line and the rocket fuel and explosive store areas, eventually ending at a heavily guarded and sealed entrance. Hartmann’s explanation was brief and to the point. ‘Nobody’s allowed in here except by a special pass, authorised and controlled by the Reichsführer himself. That includes both of us. I don’t know what goes on in here, nor do I wish to, and if you take my advice, nor should you.’ With that, Hartmann had led him back to his office.
Hartmann ceased rubbing the area below his left knee, and pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down Max, it makes me uncomfortable seeing you standing there like a spare prick at a wedding. Besides, you don’t look that steady on your feet.’ He gave him a hard look. ‘Something’s on your mind, I know it. You look as if you’ve swallowed a toad.’
Simon eased himself down into a chair, and sat looking at his friend. ‘Sorry, sir, but I just can’t reconcile the fact that you’re working here.’
‘A pleasant surprise, eh?’ Hartmann frowned. ‘Are you just referring to the coincidence that brings us together again? Or is it just fate, if that’s what it is?’
‘Neither sir. It’s just that I never thought I’d see the day when I’d find you working in a place like this. It’s a far cry from the front line.’
‘Yes, so it is. But you better get used to it - quick.’ Another hard look crossed Hartmann’s face. ‘Remember this - I’m still your boss whenever you’re here, still two ranks above you, despite your promotion, so you’d better mind your manners and clear anything you plan with me - in advance. Got it?’
Simon nodded quickly. ‘Yes sir.’
‘That’s better.’ Hartmann’s face suddenly broke out into a big grin. ‘Just testing, Max - it’s still the same Harald Hartmann you knew from before, eh? For Christ’s sake, stop calling me sir, and stop looking so bloody serious!’ He laughed.
But Simon still felt uncomfortable. Somewhere along the line something was different. What was it? Was he under some form of duress? ‘Harald, I don’t understand it. How can you work here? It’s just like…’ He stopped himself just in time. He was about to blurt out ‘Auschwitz’, but that would have been unwise. He was still under oath to keep his mouth shut.
‘Just like what?’
‘Sorry, Harald, but I’m under orders not to say any more. I can’t talk about it, not even to you.’
‘I see. That’s OK - perhaps I don’t want to hear it anyway.’ Hartmann shifted in his seat. The smile left his face. He looked somewhat awkward and apologetic. ‘Look, Max- I’m not trying to
justify this place or why I’m here. Last summer I was ordered to report here, once my rehabilitation was complete.’ He tapped his wooden leg. ‘Direct orders from the Reichsführer himself, and no questions asked. God knows why they picked me, of all people, but I had no choice. I was expecting a desk job at the divisional depot, or something similar. Instead, I get this shitty little job as camp commandant. I’m under strict orders here - rocket production is top priority, and everything else, everything else, is secondary and utterly unimportant as far as RSHA goes. That includes the workforce. I don’t like it one little bit, but there’s bugger all I can do about it.’
‘You could give the workforce more food, and treat them better.’
Hartmann shrugged resignedly. ‘I tried that, shortly after I arrived. However, it changed little, and the Reichsführer soon put a stop to any humanitarian measures I took. Himmler keeps a very close eye on what we do here. He has informers all over the place. The guard’s pay rigorous attention to detail, and the reduced rations state keeps the prisoners very much on their toes, even if they suffer as a result. The Reichsführer introduced this strict regime towards the end of last year. Since then the amount of sabotage has dropped to virtually zero, and production has reached record levels. But all the time I’m under pressure here to produce results, and keep production at increasingly higher quotas, and if I fail my head’s on the chopping block. I don’t like the way things are run here, but all I can do is look the other way, as I’m sure you noticed. The prisoners here are, according to RSHA, quite expendable, and my orders give me precious little room for maneuver.’
‘But they’re starving!’
‘I know.’ Hartmann looked unhappy. ‘Like I said, there’s nothing I can do about it. You’ve got to remember that it’s not much better for ordinary civilians living in the Nordhausen area outside. Food is scarce everywhere at this stage of the war.’
The Fall of the Father Land Page 12