The bomb damage was appalling. Whole blocks had been destroyed and cleared away to leave gaping holes in the line of buildings. For some reason he had not noticed before how ragged the city had become. Shops, however, were open, and the streets crowded, particularly with children, who seemed to have filtered back in spite of the government’s efforts to keep them in the countryside. It rained steadily, but the air was warm and he didn’t mind. No one paid attention to his shabby clothing and run-down shoes; he looked more or less like the majority of Londoners around him, except that most men his age were in uniform.
As he started up Gray’s Inn Road a teenage girl darted up, thrust a white feather at him, and disappeared, giggling, into the crowd. An elderly woman clucked and turned away as he stared after the girl, too outraged even to swear. Suddenly all the frustration, all the fear and misery he had endured for so long, crashed upon him. People stared with mixed expressions at the tall no-longer-young man dressed in shabby civilian clothing swaying on the kerb; most thought him drunk.
The block of flats on Montague Street seemed unchanged; the unpleasant image of an earlier homecoming had been in his mind the past few days. The flat was locked and, as he expected, Janet was out, probably still at work. Memling considered going across to Red Lion Square and reporting in, then decided against it. Tomorrow was soon enough, and he was exhausted. He sat down on the top step and leaned against the banister. It was four-thirty, and Janet wouldn’t be home until after six. He closed his eyes, seeing the foolish little girl with her bunch of white feathers and no idea in her silly head except to ... to ... To what? he wondered. They were about the same age, that silly girl and Francine. The futility angered him all over again before he realised that he was canonising her. Francine was no different from that girl with the feathers. She too had considered it all a great game, until it had killed her.
So much had happened since he left that it might have been someone else who lived here. The memory of his terror was rapidly being sublimated as events of the past month receded. He did not understand them and doubted he ever would. Nor did he understand himself or the fear which infected him, and of which he was ashamed. He knew he would never be able to discuss it with anyone, not even Janet.
He forced his mind away from that line of introspection as he had done so many times in the past, and thought about the strides the Germans were making in rocketry. My God, he breathed, as the wonder of it struck him again. A rocket powerful enough to reach the moon! It was incredible, but the thrill died abruptly when he remembered that a rocket that powerful could also deliver thirty metric tons of explosive on London in one blow.
Any sympathy, any understanding, any liking for the Peenemunde personnel, had evaporated with the girl’s murder. The scientists may have had nothing to do with her killing, but they had acquiesced in it by tolerating the sadists infesting the SS and the Gestapo. And he knew with fierce pleasure that even though there had already been one bombing raid, there would be many more when he made his report. The fact that massive enemy rockets existed could no longer be ignored.
Janet found him two hours later when she came up the steps searching her handbag for her keys. He was sound asleep against the banister. In the dark she took him for someone who had wandered in out of the rain in search of shelter. But after turning on the hall light, she sat down abruptly, confused and conflicting thoughts swirling through her mind. She studied his face, wondering at the deep lines carved in the forehead and cheeks and the streaks of grey above the temples. He is too young, she protested silently. Too young! She knew then that she would neither give him up nor let him go again.
Franz Bethwig stared at the yellow telegram sheet.
REGRET STANDARTENFÜHRER EDGAR ULLMAN, NO. 3254678, KILLED IN ACTION, EASTERN FRONT.
He crumpled the flimsy sheet, dropped it in the wastebasket, and left the administration building. The day was exceptionally hot and still. A storm was brewing, but Bethwig was oblivious to his surroundings. He went along the paths leading to the beach, wanting only to be by himself. People scurried past, so many that their faces did not even register. Once he had known everyone on the island, including the military guards.
He found a deserted stretch of beach and threw himself down on the sand. The sun blazed down, and after a while he removed his shirt. With Ullman dead, his last link to Inge was broken. A great emptiness surged from his chest to encompass his entire body. He was aware of sullen wavelets lapping the shore, the iron sun burning his skin, the gritty sand, all at the same time that the knowledge he might never see Inge again struggled to blot everything from his mind. Why? he thought suddenly. She was a prostitute, and a half-wit into the bargain. But none of that mattered. Heydrich had understood, perhaps even arranged it; certainly he had tried to use it against him and had nearly succeeded.
And now Himmler. Did Ullman die in combat, as a matter of course, or was he the pawn in this perverted game? Himmler had twice now tried to force him to replace von Braun, and twice he had refused.
Yet Bethwig could not bring himself to believe that something as petty as this would be important enough to occupy the attention of a man in Himmler’s position. Could he not understand that Bethwig did not have to be blackmailed into doing his best to make the A-10 project a complete success? There was nothing more important in this world to him than landing a human on the moon. The thought struck chill as it came unbidden into his mind. Was Inge?
A messenger found him an hour later, and he trudged back to the administration building to settle a jurisdictional dispute over the use of four automated lathes in the experimental machine shop.
The staff meeting began at two o’clock even though Wernher von Braun had not yet arrived. The department heads, most of them members of the original Kummersdorf or Greifswalder Oie teams, sat in a semicircle, listening intently.
Since that strange meeting with Hitler at Rastenburg in July most of the bottlenecks had disappeared. They had shown the Führer movies of the A-4 in flight and had briefed him on the capabilities of other projects such as the Wasserfall anti-aircraft missile and the A-10 multi-stage rocket. Hitler’s sudden enthusiasm for the new weapons was in striking contrast with his previous lack of interest. He had declaimed for more than an hour on the effect such weapons would have on the course of the war, promised to make von Braun a full professor as a reward, and ordered Minister Speer to see that top priority was afforded the army’s rocket projects. In spite of Dornberger’s dire predictions that priority at this late date could not make up for the years of neglect, work had been pushed ahead at Peenemunde with renewed zest.
There had been no overt reaction from Himmler, but word had reached Bethwig through the grapevine that the Reichsführer was furious that von Braun had discussed the A-10’s capabilities with the Führer. A series of petty annoyances had begun, including the seemingly endless addition of SS security forces to the research centre. Apparently Hitler had queried Himmler about the extent of his interest and had issued a mild warning about overreaching one’s position. According to his father, the Führer was more than a little disturbed by the actions of his Reichsführer lately. Bethwig suspected, therefore, that von Braun’s demotion would come swiftly and that he would have no choice but to accept the position. Brooding, he listened with half an ear to the engineering department’s report on the new liquid oxygen valve servos.
The double doors slammed against the wall like gunshots. Everyone jumped, and a file of SS troopers double-timed into the room and spread along the walls, weapons at port arms. Shocked silence filled the canteen. Bethwig, as the senior official present, strode to the SD officer who stood with hands on hips surveying the startled scientists.
‘What is the meaning of this interruption?’ Bethwig’s voice whipped through the silent room, and the officer, a hauptsturmführer, surveyed him lazily. ‘I have orders to ...’
‘Stand to attention when you address a superior,’ Bethwig snapped, and the captain stiffened in reflex. Technically Bethwig’s pay grade as an army employee made him equal to a full colonel, but the SS was subject neither to military nor civilian control.
‘The next time you disrupt a scheduled meeting with your childish tactics, you fool, I will make you regret it to your dying day. Now, state your business immediately!’
The SS officer’s face went red as he struggled to retain control of himself.
‘State your business, sir,’ Bethwig demanded again, staring directly into the man’s protruding eyes.
‘I am ordered to arrest engineer Ernst Mundt immediately.’ The captain choked.
A shocked murmur ran through the room, and Mundt stood in confusion. Immediately two SS men ran forward to grab him, but Bethwig’s angry shout brought them to a halt as they began to hustle Mundt from the canteen.
‘You, sir - ‘ he addressed the officer - ‘will state the reason for this arrest and the authority by which it was ordered.’
The hauptsturmführer was on firmer ground here and knew it. ‘Engineer Mundt has been accused of aiding an enemy of the Reich, complicity in the murder of four security personnel, and consorting with the enemy. My orders are to bring him to SD headquarters for interrogation.’
Bethwig exploded. ‘Your orders are shit, Captain!’ he roared. ‘You have no jurisdiction here. Mundt is not a party member; only the state security police may charge and arrest him. Leave this canteen at once or I’ll see you on the eastern front by tomorrow night!’
The SS captain hesitated. He knew who Bethwig was, and his connections were rumoured to be extremely powerful. But he had his orders and they allowed no equivocation.
‘Stand aside, sir,’ the captain snarled, one hand going to his holster. The movement only enraged Bethwig further, and he would have grabbed the officer by the throat had Dornberger not arrived at that moment. Accompanying him were the senior SS officer at the facility and another man in civilian clothing whom Bethwig immediately recognised as Major Jacob Walsch. Bethwig ignored Walsch and made his protest to the senior SS officer. Dornberger joined in vigorously, the officer mumbled an angry order, and the SS troops filed out. Walsch had watched with a cynical smile, and when the SS had gone, he arrested Mundt and took him away. The staff meeting was cancelled. Dornberger and Bethwig dashed through the rain to a waiting car and drove in silence to Gestapo headquarters down the coast at Zinnowitz.
A massive storm of near hurricane proportions had broken during the night, and as they drove along the flooded coastal road broken and uprooted trees were everywhere, as were ragged POWs working with saws and axes to clear the debris under the watchful eyes of SS guards in rain gear.
‘Bastards,’ Bethwig ground out, slamming a fist on the dashboard. ‘How dare they ...’
Dornberger started to observe that he and von Braun had brought it on themselves with their insistence on obtaining high political backing for their pet project, but wisely kept silent rather than provoke a further outburst. Covertly he studied Franz; over the past months the scientist had become increasingly morose, to the point where his attitude verged on sullenness. He had tried more than once to discover the cause, but Bethwig refused to be drawn. Even his relationship with von Braun had been badly strained of late. His work had not suffered yet, but his standing with staff was deteriorating at an alarming rate. First that outburst at Himmler last spring, and now this. He had better learn, and soon, that the SS was untouchable. He could not continue to attack and obstruct unless he wished to end up in a concentration camp. Bethwig was correct in his judgement that the SD had no jurisdiction over Mundt, that this morning’s nonsense was no more than another ploy to increase their power at the expense of the army. But there were other, more effective means of handling that kind of situation. Domberger had no doubt that if Bethwig had continued to interfere, the captain would have shot him dead on the spot - and, under SS guidelines, would have been perfectly justified in doing so.
Rain lashed the windows of Gestapo headquarters, and by leaning against the glass Bethwig could watch the waves crashing against the breakwater below. He was only half listening as a very confused Ernst Mundt described his conversations with a Belgian contract worker who, it appeared, had murdered four SD security men and was now missing. When Mundt finished, the thin Gestapo officer gave him a ghastly smile, meant to be reassuring, and indicated the stenographer.
‘Your statement will be typed shortly, Herr Mundt. I would appreciate it if you would wait to read and sign it. I will then have one of my drivers return you to your office. I appreciate your candour, and you really have nothing to worry about. It would appear that your actions were correct and that nothing has been revealed that should not have been. In any event, we will soon have the man, and that will take care of that.’
Mundt, now greatly relieved, was ushered out, but the Gestapo officer signed to Dornberger and Bethwig to remain. When the door closed, Walsch regarded them both with a trace of contempt.
That man is a fool. He has no conception of the political realities of war. It seems I have made this point to both of you before,’ he finished, eyeing Bethwig.
‘That man is an engineer and a scientist,’ Dornberger snapped. ‘He is not concerned with politics. That is your department.’
‘No, Herr Generalmajor. It is our collective responsibility. You and your staff ...’
‘Enough of this nonsense,’ Bethwig snapped. Tell us what harm if any has been done, so that we will know what actions to take.’
The Gestapo officer stared at him for a long minute, then indicated the chairs before his desk. ‘Sit down, please.’ A long rumble of thunder muttered in from the sea, and the rain beat down even more insistently.