Memling was half-asleep in his chair, stupefied by heat and exhaustion, when his superior officer, Charles Englesby, entered the room. He gave Memling a distant glance and sat down behind the desk. Memling roused himself with an effort, and Englesby took a cigarette from the open box but did not offer him one. Memling lit a cigarette of his own, ashamed and angry that he could not keep his hands from shaking, even now.
He had not slept in thirty-six hours, and the overheated office, after the intense cold of the forest and the unheated aircraft, was threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.
‘I would like to know why,’ Englesby began in sudden, clipped tones that startled him fully awake, ‘you felt it necessary to create an international incident. Both the German and the Belgian authorities have been on to the Foreign Secretary about your behaviour, and he is quite angry. An illegal exit from a country, in full view of hundreds of witnesses, is not characteristic of an intelligence agent, or did you not know that?’
Memling made an effort to gather his wits. ‘I’m sorry about the disturbance,’ he began, ‘but I felt… felt it was quite necessary. You see, sir, quite by accident I came across some information that may have drastic military implications. I was being pursued by two Gestapo agents when I jumped from the train.’
Englesby pushed his glasses down and stared over the tops at Memling. What he saw was a tall, gangling young man in a badly cut, muddy brown suit and well-worn shoes, one of which showed a gaping hole where the upper and sole had parted company. The man certainly does not display the type of breeding one is used to, he thought, or he would have had a brush-up and a wash before coming in. But then, the new regime… He sighed inwardly. The service seems to be taking in a number of his sort these days.
‘Explain,’ he snapped.
Memling did so. He talked for ten minutes, reviewing his cover as an engineer for a London manufacturing concern, briefly reporting on his contacts with certain members of the Belgian and German engineering societies – his real reason for travelling to Germany – and finally explaining his accidental meeting with Wernher von Braun. He sought to impress upon Englesby the importance of the German scientist’s position and summarised the details of Bethwig’s cooling design for rocket motors. He kept it as simple as possible, sensing that Englesby would not understand the technical details, would in fact be put off by them.
Even before he finished, however, he realised he was wasting his time. Englesby sat staring at him over the pencil with which he had been playing.
‘And you say the German government has given these two scientists all the money they need to develop rockets for use in war? Preposterous! I would certainly expect that you would realise when someone was exaggerating his own importance. Even Hitler and that crew would not waste time and money on such foolishness. Of what use would a giant rocket be? I dare say they do not even celebrate Guy Fawkes Day.’ Englesby permitted himself the trace of a smile.
Memling ploughed on doggedly. ‘To replace artillery and even bomber planes for long-range attacks. The importance of Bethwig’s design is beyond belief. His development will lead to massive rockets that could bombard cities from long distances. Paris and perhaps even London itself.’
‘London!’
‘Yes, sir. The importance of this discovery must not be underrated.’ He knew that he was repeating himself but could not help it; he had to make Englesby understand. ‘In a few years’ – Memling had leaned forward to speak earnestly – ‘using Bethwig’s discovery, it will even be possible to build a rocket powerful enough to travel to the moon. You see…’
This was too much for the civil servant in Englesby, and he threw down the pencil. ‘Enough of this nonsense. Next you’ll be asking me to believe in fairy castles and death rays. I don’t know whether or not you made up this ridiculous tale to cover your mistakes, but I intend to find out. You have, in any event, disgraced the service and yourself by botching your first assignment, which, I may say here and now, I had great misgivings in allowing you to attempt. I do not believe you are suited for this type of work, and you have proven me correct. The minister is displeased, and I dare say the Prime Minister will be livid.
‘Appropriate disciplinary action will have to be taken, but until then you are on ten days’ leave of absence. Before you go, write out a complete report of your activities from the moment you left Dover. Do you understand?’
When Memling nodded, he pushed a button under his desk and the door opened silently. ‘Please show Memling here to the writing-room, Peters,’ Englesby snapped, not bothering to look up.
It was a long drive from Arnsberg to Berlin, and it was quite late when Bethwig wheeled his Lancia into the deserted car park. The thin drizzle that had accompanied them since midmorning had increased as they neared the city until it was a steady downpour slashing at the buildings of the Heersversuchsstelle Kummersdorf (the Army Research Centre at Kummersdorf) in the southern suburbs of Berlin. Wind rushed through the pines surrounding the Centre and sprayed sheets of water from the immense puddles that had gathered on the metalled surface. They snatched their bags from the boot and ran for the administration building where, in spite of the late hour, a lamp was burning in the office of the superior, Colonel Walter Dornberger. The door was open, and Dornberger entertaining a guest, but he waved them in.
‘Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you might not arrive tonight in this rain. Come in, come in!’
Dornberger’s expression seemed to harden a bit as he turned to his guest. ‘Allow me to introduce Herr Doktors Wernher von Braun and Franz Bethwig. Their work has been invaluable to the programme. Gentlemen, may I present Captain Jacob Walsch.’ Walsch unfolded his gaunt body just far enough to extend a hand, which Bethwig clasped with reluctance.
‘Pleased, gentlemen.’ His voice was quite resonant, in contrast to his appearance. The ceiling lamps served to deepen the hollows beneath his cheeks and eyes.
‘Well, and what have you to tell me?’ Dornberger’s voice was eager. He motioned them to chairs and produced glasses and a bottle of cognac from his desk. He held the bottle up to the light with satisfaction. ‘A gift from Colonel General Brautisch.’ He accented the name and title just the slightest bit and glanced covertly at Walsch, Bethwig noticed, before he poured.
‘Your wire arrived this morning and, of course, I have been waiting impatiently for details.’
Von Braun started to speak, then hesitated and glanced at Walsch. Dornberger nodded.
‘You may speak freely before Captain Walsch.’
Von Braun then began the recital of the events of the past two weeks, and Bethwig sank down in the comfortable chair to nurse his cognac. He eyed Walsch, wondering just who he was. Hauptmann, Dornberger had called him. The title captain implied a military connection, but the man was not wearing a uniform and did not look like military material. As von Braun talked on, Bethwig gradually became aware that although Walsch was listening politely, there was no comprehension in the man’s expression. So then he was not an engineering or an artillery officer. One could also eliminate the Luftwaffe, as air force officers would certainly be familiar with enough technical terms at least to follow what von Braun was saying.