‘Knowing of your concern, I take this occasion to set your mind at rest. You may be assured that I will do all I can to assist you, as I am most concerned that nothing be allowed to distract you from our great plans.’
The implication was plain enough. Himmler had anticipated von Braun’s angry refusal. So, if he delivered von Braun, Inge would be his reward. Bethwig slammed his fist on to the note and flung himself about the room. How in the name of God did Himmler find time to concern himself with something as petty as this? Was the A-10 all that important to him? It must be. Look at the lengths to which he had gone: locating and then keeping the girl locked away and somehow disposing of her parents so the question of guardianship could be raised. German law was quite strict in that regard, and while Himmler might profess to be above the civil law, he was not averse to its use when it suited his purposes.
After a while he took his raincoat and went out to the officers’ club to look for von Braun. He had no other choice; and as Himmler had suggested, there were certain benefits to be derived from enlistment in the SS.
Spring had come early to London. The walk to Red Lion Square had turned pleasant in the past week, and only that morning Memling had thought seriously of requesting a few days’ leave to take Janet to Devon for a belated honeymoon. But all such plans had evaporated instantly in the last five minutes. He looked up from the photograph to the RAF squadron leader who sat across from him smoking an especially foul-smelling pipe.
‘Interesting, heh?’
Memling reached for his telephone and rang through to Simon-Benet. The phone clicked several times as the monitoring devices were activated, and then the brigadier was on the line.
‘Hello, sir. The Central Interpretation Unit people have come up with something quite interesting. Can we come across?’
A few minutes later he was introducing the squadron leader to Simon-Benet and handing him the magnifying glass at the same time. ‘Look just here, sir.’
The grainy black-and-white photograph showed an oval structure, oriented north-west to south-east, that looked vaguely like a sports stadium. The open centre was surrounded by high banks of what appeared to be packed earth. A large two- or three-storey structure was located at the eastern edge, and several smaller buildings were scattered about the area. A network of roads, appearing as white tracks in the photograph, circled the oval structure. Inside, near the south-east perimeter, was a snubnosed greyish object resembling a torpedo with large fins; it was lying on a transport vehicle of some kind. Several dots resolved into people under the glass, and one appeared to be walking towards a rectangular building.
‘I’m damned,’ the brigadier said after a while. He looked up at Memling who nodded in agreement. The brigadier glanced at the photograph’s scale, then took a metal ruler from his desk and measured the length of the torpedo shape. ‘Agrees with your estimates, at least as far as length is concerned.’ He tapped the photo with a finger.
‘Any more like this, Squadron Leader?’
The man shook his head. ‘Not yet, sir. But we have another high altitude flight scheduled as soon as the weather clears. The Yanks will be doing this one. We have to be careful, though. If Jerry gets the idea that we’re interested in the area, he’ll start taking precautions.’
‘Where was this taken?’
‘Place called Peenemunde. An island off the Baltic coast, near Stettin. Used to be a seaside resort before the war.’
Simon-Benet nodded as if the information were not unexpected. ‘Thank you, Squadron Leader. I assume that you have given this area the highest priority?’
‘Yes, sir. And we have initiated a review of past observations of the area.’
‘Very good. Keep me informed. That will be all.’
The brigadier motioned Memling into a chair as the squadron leader left.
‘You recognised the name of that island, sir?’
Simon-Benet nodded absently. ‘First heard of the place in 1939. A report appeared at our Oslo embassy just after the Nazis attacked Poland. Everyone thought it a plant.’ He sat down, still staring at the photograph. ‘How do you feel, Jan, now that you have been vindicated?’
Memling cocked his head at the unusual question. ‘It hadn’t yet occurred to me that I had,’ he answered stiffly.
The brigadier held up a hand. ‘Just pulling your leg, my boy. Didn’t expect it to come off in my hand. Look here, the name Peenemunde is familiar. For several months now, we’ve been getting reports through from various sources that something is going on up there. Civilians barred from the area, huge shipments of supplies and materials going in, a search through forced labour camps for scientific and technically trained types who are all then sent north. Tell you anything?’
Memling frowned. ‘Depends on how many of those people they are after, sir. If it’s only a few, it might not mean anything. But if it’s several hundred…’
‘Several thousand. And my sources believe it’s only the beginning. I might add that these sources are Polish. Their Armia Krajowa has been quite active in this area, as a good many of their POWs from 1939 have been sent to the labour camp at Peenemunde. Strange reports of flying torpedoes and such like have been coming through from the Baltic coastline for months. Seems they have been confirmed now.’
‘What’s the next step then, sir?’
The brigadier shrugged. ‘That may not be up to us. I’ve just had a meeting with our new boss. The Prime Minister is becoming concerned and has decided to formalise our little group. We are all now under the command of a gentleman named Duncan Sandys. Is the name familiar?’
Memling frowned. ‘Seems to be… but I can’t place it exactly.’
‘Well, Mr Sandys is, or was, joint parliamentary secretary for the Ministry of Supply. He does have two other qualifications that provide me with a degree of hope. He commanded an experimental rocket battery at Aberporth and he is Mr Churchill’s son-in-law. Perhaps we now have someone of sufficient stature to stand up to Lord Cherwell.’
Memling gave a low whistle. ‘And when did this all take place?’
‘Just the past few days. As I said, the government is beginning to take quite seriously the possibility that the Germans may indeed be developing long-range rockets. But until things clarify themselves, we must sit tight and see.’
Franz Bethwig studied the three faces and was struck by the way in which they delivered or received the news: the triumphant sallow face of Minister Gerhard Degenkolb, the apoplectic face of General Dornberger, and the thunderstruck countenance of Wernher von Braun.
Professor Hettlage cleared his throat timidly as if wanting to say something more, but Degenkolb signalled him to be quiet.
‘May I ask who suggested this insanity?’ Bethwig enquired politely.
Minister Degenkolb glared at him. ‘The suggestion came directly from Minister Speer. And I suggest that you modify your language appropriately or you may find yourself in very hot water, sir.’
Bethwig gave him a lazy smile. ‘You think so, do you?’
Dornberger intervened: ‘And why,’ he asked, voice barely under control, ‘did the minister suggest this course of action?’
Degenkolb glared once more at Bethwig before answering. ‘Minister Speer is most concerned with Reichsführer Himmler’s offer to employ Herr Doktors von Braun and Bethwig. Minister Speer is certain this is a first step towards assuming control of the Peenemunde facility, in spite of the good doctors’ persistent refusals. He felt that converting the entire Army Research Centre, Peenemunde, to a private stock company would circumvent the Reichsführer’s plans. I advise you to go along with him. Otherwise, you gentlemen’ – he glared at the two scientists – ‘will find yourselves in the employ of the SS, and you, sir’ – he addressed Dornberger – ‘will be seeking a new post!’