Authors: Richard D. Handy
‘Danny… I am… I am sorry.’
Light flooded into Nash’s world as she flung her arms around his neck.
A
dust devil swirled another blast of heat into the cafe. Nash adjusted his wicker chair; looking casually at his newspaper, he took a sip of the hot sweet tea; at least it was better than mouthfuls of dust, heat and diesel fumes. Cairo was always the same.
Still, it was a good spot, a side street near the central bazaar. More importantly, it gave a reasonable view of the thoroughfare and offered several escape routes into a myriad of alleyways. There was no point taking any chances. He took another sip of tea as a donkey overloaded with domestic goods shuffled past, closely followed by the hubbub of a small group of market traders, all dressed in rough-cut Egyptian cotton.
The brief was simple. He was to use his contacts in Egypt to create a mock-up production line for rocket engine components, take a few photographs, then let the information slip into German hands with the speculation that the Arabs and Jews had made significant advances in rocket technology. That would ruffle a few feathers in Berlin.
Nash casually glanced at his watch, as he took another swallow of the hot sweet tea. Playing the idle western tourist, his eyes scanned the crowd. Suddenly, a man dressed in rags sat in the chair next to him. Nash took a whiff of stale sweat and diesel oil; the last thing he needed was a beggar blowing his cover. He gestured discretely to move the beggar along.
‘This way to meet Henry Ford, Sahib.’ A toothless grin smiled idiotically.
Nash had found his contact.
His man moved off without saying another word. Nash glanced up and down the street. No one seemed to be watching. He casually dropped some loose change on the table, and followed at a discrete distance.
It was the usual circus: up and down several streets, through narrow alleyways, then doubling-back several times. Nash worked the crowd. Were they being followed? With the hustle and bustle of the market day it was almost impossible to tell. He moved at a natural pace, but maintained a visual on his contact.
They turned left away from the market, then took a right into a cobbled street. The crowds started to thin out. After another hundred yards, the contact slipped into an alleyway. Nash followed, ducking under laundry, stepping in between baskets, bags of rubbish and yapping dogs. Suddenly, the alleyway curved and widened. Nash emerged from the domestic paraphernalia of Egyptian life into an empty street. He followed the contact for another hundred yards. The man stopped at a nondescript door, and waved Nash forward. Both men quickly stepped through the doorway.
Nash squinted into darkness, and could make out his man ahead in the dusty corridor. He followed, skipping down a flight of stone steps into a basement.
He suddenly caught up with his contact; their path was blocked by a solid steel door. The man tapped on the door, and a spyhole quickly opened, followed a few seconds later by the metallic sound of several heavy iron bolts sliding. They were greeted by a person in plain Arabic dress sporting a Mauser rifle. He gestured for them to move down the single, narrow corridor.
The corridor took a zigzag with several right-angled corners. Ideal for muffling a blast in the corridor, or for fighting off intruders, noted Nash. They eventually arrived in a small reception room; if you could call it that. The room was poorly furnished with a moth-eaten armchair and a couple of upturned orange crates. A small stove sat in the corner, with tea on to brew. The room had two doors leading away from it, plus the entrance to the corridor. The contact gestured for Nash to sit and wait, and after a few minutes he returned with a westerner dressed in desert fatigues.
‘Greeting Major, welcome to my shithole,’ smiled Clarke Sanker.
They shook hands. Nash knew they would get along instantly.
Sanker worked for the Institute of Aeronautical Science (IAS) based in New York. The IAS often recruited engineers with military experience, and as luck would have it, the SIS had maintained contact with a few ex-servicemen who now worked in the private sector. One of these men was Clarke Sanker.
‘Sorry about all the shenanigans, but one can’t be too careful these days. Would you like some tea?’
Sanker offered Nash a brew.
‘I have the photographs you requested.’ Sanker passed a brown envelope to Nash.
He studied each photograph briefly. They showed flasks of liquid oxygen, and engine components under construction. Each photograph also had local artefacts that would enable the Germans to identify a Middle East connection: tea glasses, partial shots of men in local clothing. The pictures were a good start.
‘I have something else.’ Sanker handed over a metal object constructed of flanges and grills, about the size of a grapefruit, but much heavier.
Nash gave Sanker a puzzled look.
‘What is it Major?’
‘I’ve seen this before.’ Nash was perplexed.
‘Is that so?! Where?!’ Sanker beamed, unable to contain his excitement.
‘A drawing, obtained in Cape Town from a German with a heavy briefcase. In addition to documents, apparently the German was carrying a piece of machined metal just like this one.’
‘So, the Germans are working along the same lines,’ offered Sanker. ‘Where is this German now?’
Nash gave a shrug. ‘Somewhere in Cape Town I guess. We had to let him go, but I believe he’s still under surveillance. He was allegedly some kind of industrialist, being funded by the Rockefeller Foundation in New York.’
‘New York! Rockefeller! Christ! We have offices in the same building!’
The IAS had its head office in the Rockefeller Centre, a huge tower block in the heart of the business district of New York. The institute had been invited to set up shop in 1930 during the construction of the Rockefeller Centre by Rockefeller senior himself. The IAS had remained there ever since.
‘Do you think there is a connection? Are the Germans trying to infiltrate the IAS?’ Sanker looked firm.
Nash rubbed his chin thoughtfully ‘Probably not… I think it’s a coincidence. Nonetheless, we are trying to keep tabs on our German visitor.’
‘Did you keep the machine part?’
‘Afraid not – there was no cause to make an arrest or confiscate the item.’
Nash studied the flanged metal again and passed it back to Sanker. ‘What is it? Obviously not a machine part from a factory?’
‘This… ’ said Sanker as he turned the metal object over in his hand, ‘… is a prototype fuel injection system. It is designed to mix liquid oxygen in precise quantities with a hydrogen peroxide solution.’
Sanker was a brilliant engineer who had been working on rocket engines for a number of years. He had been hosting visiting scientists from the Middle East. In fact, the Arabs had just started their own rocket programme.
‘You mean it’s a part of the fuel injection system for powering a rocket?’ Nash wanted to be sure.
‘Yes, precisely,’ confirmed Sanker. ‘What’s more, and this is the clever bit… ’ Sanker headed into a technical rant about the injector system; after all, he was an engineer who loved his work. ‘… The inner workings are designed to cope with the corrosive nature of the ingredients. Hydrogen peroxide, as you know, is nasty stuff. However, we add a sodium permanganate catalyst to the hydrogen peroxide mix as well. The sodium permanganate speeds everything up by making the burn more efficient. We must not forget that pure oxygen is also very reactive and will oxidise and weaken the surface of the injectors.’
‘So how do you protect the inner workings of the system?’ asked Nash.
‘With a thin layer of inert titanium coating the inside of the injectors,’ Sanker grinned.
It was all starting to make sense now. Industrial chemicals! The Germans were after industrial chemicals in South Africa. Rudy Temple had been right; the Germans were up to no good. Hydrogen peroxide, sodium permanganate, and titanium were all on the Germans’ shopping list.
‘Tell me, why would the Germans want to buy these chemicals in South Africa, surely they have access to these in Europe?’
‘Well, yes they do,’ replied Sanker. ‘But the purity of the material is critical to the burn characteristics, and some of the best permanganate deposits are found in Africa. Likewise, the purity of the titanium coating is also important. The best stuff comes from Canada, and we buy most of it.’
‘So the Germans are buying top-grade permanganate in Africa, and getting Canadian titanium via the USA?’ queried Nash.
‘Yes, that’s about the size of it.’
‘So the solution is simple. We stop the sale of these chemicals and therefore bring the German rocket programme to a halt?’
‘I wish it was that simple. Not so I am afraid… ’ Sanker paused as he shook his head, ‘… the minerals market is controlled by international companies, some of them are German, and for others the Germans have significant shareholdings.’
‘So, just close them down?’ argued Nash.
‘No can do.’ Sanker gestured firmly with his hands. ‘Raw materials are at the base of the global economy. If we pull the plug on one of the global metal giants, then the entire financial supply chain will risk collapse. The depression is fresh in people’s minds, so I doubt the politicians in London or Washington would want to go down that road.’
It all made sense now. Nash could not believe what he was hearing. American institutions were wrapped up in the industrial food chain that supplied the Germans with raw materials for their rocket programme via Southern Africa.
‘I am curious… ’ asked Nash. ‘I am pretty sure the drawing I have is identical to this prototype. How is that possible?’
‘Courtesy of the US Office of Patent Applications.’ Sanker smirked.
‘What?’ Nash was lost.
‘One Mr Robert Goddard has filed a whole bunch of patents on the construction of a liquid fuel injection system to propel rockets in the last few years. The Germans have simply got hold of the patents and are copying the designs.’ Sanker gave a wry smile.
‘Unbelievable! I take it this Goddard works for the US government?’
‘Actually no. Goddard made some early prototype rockets in his backyard. Homemade jobs – he’s not a professionally trained scientist from the establishment. He managed a vertical lift of fourteen feet before his first rocket died. A few of the national newspapers in the USA got hold of the story and ridiculed Goddard as some sort of nutcase. After that, no one in the scientific community, IAS included, would take him seriously.’
‘Where is he now?’ pressed Nash.
‘Not sure, last I heard he was in Nevada working on some crazy experiment.’ Sanker wasn’t a fan.
Nash sighed and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Look, thanks for the photographs… I’d better get going.’
Sanker smiled as they shook hands. Nash took the photographs and the prototype fuel injectors, then headed out into the street. There was no time to waste. He needed to get the next flight to Cape Town.
T
he Chief Medical Officer flicked through the charts at the end of the patient’s bed. The Professor was making very slow progress; but then this was to be expected for such a complex set of injuries. It was early days yet. The broken ribs were inflamed, which at least indicated that the bones were starting to mend. Examination of the abdomen had revealed a damaged spleen, which had been removed to stop the internal bleeding. This had complicated the recovery; without his spleen the Professor was more likely to succumb to post-operative infection.
The doctor lifted the dressing off the head injury to examine the wound. The surgery had gone according to plan, and they had managed to reposition the skull, and then close the wound. The Professor had done well on the first day after the operation, but became feverish and slipped back into unconsciousness on the second day.
The head injury was showing signs of infection with pus emerging through the stitches. The doctor cursed his bad luck and did his best to clean the wound. If this continued he would have to re-open the cut and clean out all the infected tissue inside the skull; and then stitch it up again. For now he would wait; after all, there was no point angering the Commandant unnecessarily.
‘How is the patient today, Herr Doctor?’ asked Kessler.
The doctor had been concentrating so hard on the patient that he did not hear the Commandant enter the room.
‘I am afraid the patient is still very sick. He is unconscious most of the time, and in the short spells when he does come round, the patient is very confused.’
‘Tell me Doctor, when the patient is awake, does he have the power of speech? Can he understand simple questions?’ pressed Kessler.
‘No, Herr Commandant, he is feverish and mutters to himself. He barely knows where he is, and cannot give any answers yet.’
‘Well, perhaps you can administer a stimulant to wake him up!’ Kessler suddenly produced a small leather box from his inside breast pocket. The doctor opened the box to find a glass syringe with a yellow liquid inside it.
‘What’s this? Adrenalin?’ enquired the doctor, perplexed.
‘Something to wake him up,’ Kessler smiled.
The doctor folded his arms and huffed. ‘I cannot! A sudden rise in blood pressure could rupture his wounds, even kill him!’
Kessler spoke evenly in a firm tone. ‘Give the injection, or stand aside and I will do it myself.’
The doctor flushed and threw his hands in the air. ‘Alright! Alright, I will do it.’ He took the syringe. It was better than having some ham-fisted attempt by an untrained thug like Kessler. He swallowed and steadied himself. The idea of such brutal methods went against all his medical training.
He slowly administered the drug into the patient’s arm. The effect was immediate. Mayer started to groan as he came to, opening his eyes to a squint; he was clearly disorientated.
Kessler slipped easily into interrogation mode, speaking clearly and softly, directly into the Professor’s ear. He listened and watched the Professor’s lips intently for any response. He tried a test question.