Authors: Richard D. Handy
‘What is your name?’
The Professor mumbled a reply. It was clear that he had understood the question. Kessler was spurred on.
‘Who helped you escape?’
Mayer mumbled. The answer wasn’t very clear, but the gist was that he did not know.
‘Where were you being taken?’ Kessler kept the questions simple, firm and clear.
The Professor mumbled again. This time the answer was inaudibly weak. The stimulant was wearing off quickly. A small spot of blood appeared through the dressing on the head wound.
‘Enough!’ shouted the doctor. ‘If you kill him now, you will have no answers at all!’
Kessler conceded that the patient was not fit for interrogation. ‘Good day Herr Doctor, I will see you the same time tomorrow.’ Kessler stormed out of the room.
Furious that the prisoner had not answered his questions, he would come back every day and keep asking the same questions until he had some answers! Doctor or no doctor – he would do his interrogation.
In the meantime, he would continue his investigation of the plane wreckage and the corpses recovered from the scene. Several facts were clearly apparent. The bodies carried no identification and the clothing labels from their overalls had been removed. These were soldiers who wanted to remain anonymous. The plane itself was easy to identify; a Catalina seaplane. There were only a handful of manufacturers in Europe and most of these were in Scandinavia, or the United Kingdom. The various dials and emergency panels on the plane had instructions written in English first, and Norwegian second. So, perhaps this plane was made in the UK, and used by the Norwegians for a time? The weapons recovered from the bodies were definitely American. So was this some kind of Anglo-American operation? Kessler was determined to find out.
Mayer fell through space and time; as he did so, images leapt from the cosmos.
A meadow of wild flowers, a child in a pink dress… holding hands with a woman… the woman has red hair… Sophia! They are running happily in the pleasant sunshine. Bumblebees buzz from flower to flower, taking pollen from the foxgloves. Suddenly, the woman breaks. Skidding to a halt, she screams, and sweeps the child up into her arms. She runs in the opposite direction… but too late… the device hovers overhead. A sudden red glow lances forth from the machine… they are vaporized in an instant. Only scorched shadows remain.
Mayer screams, stars rush past.
Einstein appears, silhouetted against a boiling yellow inferno: the sun. He doesn’t seem to mind the heat. ‘Gustav… ’ He smiles. ‘Gustav… go back… go back… resist… fight! Do not despair. We are with you! Go back… fight!’
N
ash scratched at the stubble on his neck, eyeing the dark green boiler suit of the Cape Mineral Company up and down in the wing mirror. The battered pickup truck looked the part, but the boiler suit didn’t. Something was wrong.
Too clean.
Nash stooped, picking up a handful of cement dust. He rubbed the dirt into his knees, and then liberally over the cuffs of his overalls. For good measure, he wiped his hands on the back of his trousers.
Much better.
He climbed aboard the pickup truck. The sweltering stale heat of the vehicle filled his lungs. He wound down the window quickly and exhaled.
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.