“Do you really believe this is wise?” von Braun asked, choosing his words carefully. “If Goddard is… um, liquidated… wouldn’t this alert the Americans that we’re involved in a rocket program of our own?”
Goering gave him a condescending smirk. “Oh, Wernher… the Americans and the British must know what we’re doing here. Why else would they have dropped bombs on you?”
“Da, Herr Reichsmarschall,” Dornberger said, ever the fawning officer. “You are correct. Perhaps not the specific details of Silbervogel, but…”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they knew about that, too,” Goering said, shaking his head. “And even if they don’t, you yourself said that they are doubtless working to develop a transcontinental rocket… did you not?”
Once again, von Braun regretted Dornberger’s exaggerations about the American rocket program. Had Goering figured out that it was all an elaborate lie to justify continued funding for Peenemünde and Wa Pruf 11? Yet even if he did, neither he nor Walter had any choice but to continue telling the lie. Goering had managed to get someone to drive him all the way from Berlin; he could easily return with von Braun and Dornberger as unwilling passengers, with the SS headquarters as their destination.
“You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t realize that earlier. Eliminating Robert Goddard might be the most prudent thing to do.”
“I thought you’d see things my way.” Goering abruptly rose from his chair, wheezing quietly with the effort. “Well, then… if there is nothing else for us to discuss, I’d like to view the damage. Colonel, if you would…?”
“It would be my privilege.” Dornberger was already stepping to the door; von Braun wondered if he was going to remove his uniform jacket and lay it across the puddle of water that lay just outside. Goering walked past the colonel with only the barest acknowledgment of his presence, but then he paused to look back at von Braun.
“Good day, Wernher,” he said. “May this be the end of your misfortunes.”
“I certainly hope so, Herr Reichsmarschall.” Von Braun watched him go but didn’t let out his breath until he heard the rumble of motorcycles pulling away. Then he lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes.
“He’s gone, thank God.” Unnoticed until she spoke to him, Lise had come back into the office. Then she lay a soft hand upon his shoulder. “Wernher, are you all right?”
“No… no, I’m not all right.” Raising his head from his hands, von Braun looked up at her. “I’m afraid I’ve done a terrible thing. I’ve given permission for a good man’s death.”
THE PLOT AGAINST ROBERT H. GODDARD
SEPTEMBER 30, 1942
There was no moon in the predawn sky, no stars. Clouds lay thick above the eastern tip of Cape Cod. The only light penetrating the darkness of the Provincetown beach was the flashlight beam of a Coast Guard seaman.
Petty Officer Third Class Tom Hawkes let the light lazily swing back and forth. It was a cool night, the first taste of autumn mixing in with the salt air, but even in the wee hours of morning, there was always the chance of finding a couple of teenagers making out on the beach. Just last month, Hawkes had discovered some kids screwing in the dunes. His light had been on them for nearly a minute before they’d noticed, and ever since, he’d been hoping something like that would happen again.
No such luck. In fact, that had been the most exciting thing to happen to him since volunteering for Beach Patrol. Hawkes expected to be catching German saboteurs coming ashore, but after spending the last four months walking up and down the beach, just about all he’d found was driftwood, jellyfish, and pop bottles.
Tonight was different.
He was halfway to the breakwater when he spotted another flashlight beam. About sixty feet away, a spot of light appeared for a moment, shining, then vanished again. Shining at the water’s edge, it came and went so quickly Hawkes couldn’t tell which way it was aimed, down the beach or out across the water. Yet the radium dial of his wristwatch told him that it was nearly 4 A.M., not a likely hour for beachside lovers.
“Who goes there?” Hawkes called out, heading in the direction of the light. “Who is that?”
Silence, then a voice, male and with a thick Massachusetts accent, barely intelligible above the rumbling tide: “Who’s that?”
“Beach Patrol… and I asked you first.” The light came on again, its beam moving toward Hawkes; a second later, Hawkes located its source. A tall, slender man, just short of middle age, wearing oilskin waders, a denim trucker’s jacket, and a long-billed cap. There was something in his other hand, but Hawkes couldn’t tell what it was until he came closer: a long angler’s rod, the kind used for pier fishing.
“Just out to catch ’em when they start biting.” The fisherman bent over a tackle box that lay open on the beach beside him. “How’s it going tonight? See anything interesting?”
“Only you, mister.” Hawkes relaxed but didn’t switch off his flashlight. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you out here before. You local?”
“Me? Naw. Just come down from Boston for a week.” The older man pulled a reel from the box. “Couldn’t catch anything from the pier except garbage fish, so I decided to come out here instead.”
“Yeah, guess that makes sense.” Hawkes glanced in the direction of town; its lights were over a mile away, with the municipal pier on the other side of the point. This part of the beach was uninhabited except for the one-room shacks rented to artists and summer vacationers; most of them were deserted now that the season was over, but it was possible that one or two might still be used by someone taking an autumn break from the city.
“Hope so.” The Bostonian chuckled as he stood up to attach the reel to his rod, then he bent over again to pick up a roll of high-test line and a fishing knife. He fumbled a bit as he tried to hold them in his hands along with his flashlight. “Hey, since you’re here, mind giving me a hand?”
“Sure.” Hawkes came closer, within arm’s reach. “What do you want me to do?”
“Hold your light on me while I put the line on.” The older man switched off his flashlight, stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Shine it so I can see what I’m doing, okay?”
“No problem.” Hawkes turned his flashlight downward, away from the fisherman’s face. Its beam found the roll of fishing line in his left hand, but the hand holding the knife vanished the moment the light touched its serrated blade. Hawkes barely had time to wonder what the fisherman was doing when he felt a sudden, sharp pain at his neck just below his Adam’s apple, and that was when he realized that his throat had been cut.
William Meriwell quickly stepped back, avoiding the blood that jetted from the seaman’s severed jugular vein. The Coast Guard patrolman staggered forward a step or two, gagging, his hands desperately clutching his neck. Meriwell kicked away the flashlight he’d dropped, then silently watched as the young seaman collapsed face-first upon the wet sand, his white cap falling off his head to be immediately snatched away by the surf. He tried to crawl forward, but it wasn’t long before he stopped moving and lay still.
Meriwell slowly let out his breath. His heart hammered at his chest, and he had an impulse to throw his fishing knife out into the water. He hadn’t wanted to kill the other man, but the moment the sailor spotted him, he knew that he had no choice. The kid had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, simple as that. No one could be allowed to witness what was about to happen next.
Pulling out his flashlight again, Meriwell quickly checked his watch. Exactly 0400. He switched off the light, aimed it out into the water, then flashed it three times. He couldn’t see anything in the moonless night, but if everything was going according to schedule, a U-boat had just surfaced about a mile offshore.