‘What altitude have you reached?’ he asked, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of the technological advance, conceal his dismay, and sound vitally interested at the same time.
‘It is not altitude that counts these days but range, my friend. And that is secret, so let us just say that one of our U-boats photographed the third test vehicle as it fell into the South Atlantic.’ Mundt laughed with delight at his expression.
‘But that is incredible! With that much power you could reach the moon.’
Mundt winked. ‘I have told you enough to whet your appetite. Would you like to join us and accomplish something meaningful?’
‘What would I do?’ Memling stammered.
‘Work with me, of course. As my assistant. I need someone to oversee the preparation of the appropriate documentation for the engines. You would also assist in supervising the test crews. Now, yes or no?’
‘Yes! Of course, yes! How could I possibly say no?’
‘Good.’ Mundt beamed with satisfaction. ‘Report to Building Twenty-three at seven a.m. The guards will tell you where to go. You’ll have your own office and secretary. We even have air conditioning, and of course, as a member of the professional staff, you will have access to the officers’ club. For the first few days you will not be allowed to do much, as you won’t have the proper security clearances. I should warn you that this project has attracted the personal interest of someone very high in the SS. So, the SD is in charge of security, rather than the army. But don’t worry about that. I knew you were going to say yes, so I submitted your name to the SD two days ago. It normally takes only three or four days to complete a security check.’
Memling could only nod weakly.
Mundt grabbed up his shirt. ‘Well, now that’s settled and the girls are waiting. Sorry you can’t come along, but then that is what I liked about you from the start. No nonsense when it comes to work.’
Memling burst into the kitchen, grabbed Francine, and hurried her to the attic in spite of her protests.
‘We’re leaving tonight,’ he told her. ‘As soon as it’s dark.’
‘Leave tonight?’ Francine wailed, and Memling glared her into silence.
He told her what had happened during the lunch hour. ‘Mundt thought he was doing me a favour. Instead, he’s put our necks in a noose. And as if that isn’t bad enough, tomorrow ‘I’m to meet two people I knew before the war.’
Francine burst into tears, and as Memling turned away in disgust he heard voices below. He stepped to the door to see Frau Zinn pull her husband into the kitchen. The old bitch must have been listening, he thought. Leaving Francine to her self-pity, he took the Walther pistol from beneath the mattress and slipped down the stairs, keeping as close to the wall as possible to avoid loose boards. From the hall he could hear easily as the woman described his abrupt return and the visit of a curious village constable earlier that afternoon. Memling swore, having no way of knowing whether that meant they were already on to him. Zinn immediately shushed the woman and began to pace. After a few moments he stopped.
‘We have no choice, my dear. We must send to the authorities and tell them that we suspect our boarders are spies. If we hurry, it will look so much the better for us. If he points the finger, they will not believe him then but will think he is trying to get even. I’ll go this moment…’
Zinn broke off as Memling stepped through the doorway, silenced pistol in hand. The woman saw him first and jumped from her chair. Memling raised the Walther, and Frau Zinn took a hesitant step towards him. Memling motioned her back and shouted for Francine.
The girl clattered down the stairs. He told her what had happened. ‘Get some rope or cord. I don’t want these two loose.’ Francine nodded. As she slipped out of the kitchen she struck the woman a blow so stout that she sat down abruptly in her chair, gasping for breath. Francine was back in moments with a coil of heavy fishing line, and Memling herded the two frightened people into the bedroom and had them lie on the bed. He lashed their hands and feet securely with the line, drew the blanket over them, and lashed several coils around the bed, drawing the blanket tight so that they could not move. He then rummaged through a drawer, found a pillow slip, then tore it into strips and gagged them both. After he had tested the bonds, he dragged Francine out with him in spite of her protestations that he allow her to kill both of them.
‘You should have cut their throats, the swine!’ she hissed.
‘Stop it,’ Memling snapped. ‘There’s no need to kill anyone. Let them explain to the SD what the hell happened. Now shut up and let me think a minute.’
Francine glared, and he sent her to fix a quick meal while he tried to work out the next move. He stood by the window, staring at the narrow road fronting the end of the quay. Before Usedom Island had become a military research centre, Peenemunde had been a tiny fishing village of a few hundred inhabitants. The village of Peenemunde faced the River Peene, and except for a new wharf across the shallow indentation that served as the harbour, it had been little altered by the war or the presence of the Army Research Centre.
Watching the wharves now, Memling could see fishing boats at anchor and several coming up river. On the far side a petrol barge and tug were tying up to the government quay, and a lone sentry paced lazily in the evening heat. Abruptly he made his decision and went into the kitchen.
‘I’m going for the radio. I want you to keep an eye on those two. I’ll be back before midnight and we’ll leave then.’ Francine started to argue, but he cut her off. ‘Get this through your head,’ he snapped. ‘If we stay in Germany we haven’t a hope of surviving. If you like the idea of a Gestapo torture cell, I’ll point you in the direction of Wiescek when we reach the Danish border. Understand?’
As if out for a stroll, Memling walked along the road towards the south end of the village. He passed one or two locals who ignored his polite guten Abend with the usual sour charm of isolated country people, and was soon out of sight of the last house. He struck off into the pine forest then, moving swiftly through the trees parallel to the road. It took two hours to cover the seven kilometres to the sharp bend in the road and the lightning-blasted tree where he had hidden the radio.
Jan dug it up and ran the wire aerial up into the tree as high as it would stretch, then took a deep breath and flipped the power switch. He had little faith in the radio; during training he had tested it in the Orkneys and been unable to raise his contact near Glasgow, even when it was operating properly.
A green light glowed on the panel, and he adjusted the crystal until the cat’s-eye narrowed to the thinnest line he could obtain. He began to transmit his call letters, but to his dismay, the power light faded abruptly. Memling swore and sat back on his haunches, then retrieved the aerial and started back towards the village. With the Zinns safely out of the way, he could use the house current.
Dusk was coming earlier now, so that by ten o’clock it was pitch black. The full moon was just beginning to show through the trees. The air was more oppressive than ever, night having brought little relief from the heat. Memling’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. The village was silent, and few lights showed despite the fact that blackout regulations were in effect only in the event of an air raid. There were no lights in the Zinn house. Memling paused in the shadows and studied the surrounding area. The night was absolutely silent. No one was about, not even the usual sentry on the government wharf. He waited, sensing something wrong, the lessons drummed into him by years of commando training controlling his actions.