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Bethwig recalled the weedy young man he had met in Arnsberg before the war. He would never have credited him with the ability or the courage, yet three times now this Memling, by his activities, had managed to involve them with the Gestapo. How much time have we lost because of him? Bethwig asked himself angrily.

‘He was employed,’ Walsch continued, ‘in the pre-production shops. He worked there for nine days, and during that time was promoted twice to positions of greater responsibility by that fool Mundt. We also know that he was employed for nine months in 1940 as a quality control technician at the Manufacture d’Armes in Liege. Couple that with your own indiscretions in 1938 and you can be certain that the English are very much aware of what is going on at Peenemunde.’

Walsch paused long enough for them to absorb the impact of his statement, then said in a thoughtful voice, as if it had just occurred to him, ‘It would seem that someone at Peenemunde may be assisting an agent of an enemy nation to obtain information about the rocket development programme.’

It was Major Jacob Walsch’s turn to stand at the rain-streaked window. Tapping his teeth with a finger – an old habit he had given up trying to break – he watched the automobile plough through the flooded streets towards the northern end of the island, and wondered if perhaps they were not chasing the wrong phantom after all. Politically von Braun was too stupid to be attracted by British promises. After all, what could they offer? But Bethwig? Perhaps. He certainly had sufficient cover: important family connections, a long and honourable party record, and friendships in high places. He would bear closer watch. He must be on the lookout, Walsch decided, for a way to control him: perhaps a thorough search of his records? Records – he tapped his front tooth with a pencil. Of course, his records. Now that he thought about it, there had been more than the usual number of requests from Berlin, in fact from SS headquarters, to review Bethwig’s file. Why? Did they already suspect him of something, something they were not yet ready to divulge? How ironic – Walsch chuckled at the thought – if one responsible for the blot on his record should be the one to erase that with a blot of his own and perhaps, just perhaps, an execution?

Having made up his mind, the major picked up the telephone and ordered his aide to release Mundt. Perhaps a small trap could be set. If it failed, no harm done, as no one would know. If it succeeded, well and good. This man Mundt was, after all, Bethwig’s employee; in fact, he had noted in the man’s records that it was Bethwig who had insisted that he be hired, even though the man was considered politically unreliable. One never knew these days.

Two weeks had passed with no further word concerning the supposed English spy or the alleged murders of the four SD agents, and after trying several times to obtain additional information from Walsch, Bethwig forgot the matter.

On this cloudless Tuesday afternoon in the third week of August, he strolled slowly towards Building 40, the bachelor quarters where he still resided. It had been a frustrating day, beginning with the report of another failure in the A-10’s valving system, which would delay the launch three weeks. Then had come lunch with a very disheartened Wernher von Braun. Apparently there had been an early meeting with Degenkolb and his staff at which the minister had set forth impossible demands for A-4 production, refusing to recognise that the rocket was still in the advanced stages of design testing and nowhere near ready for production.

‘“Gentlemen, don’t tell me such stories,”’ von Braun had mimicked. ‘“I am not interested in them. I produced a thousand locomotives a month in the interest of the Reich, after being told it was impossible.”’

‘I pointed out to the fool that the principles of locomotive Construction have been known for a hundred years. If one encounters a problem, one has only to consult a book for the answer. He refuses to recognise that we are still writing our book!’

Von Braun’s evident frustration brought a rare smile to Bethwig’s face. ‘Go on and laugh,’ von Braun muttered. ‘You’ll be getting the same pressures soon enough. And to make matters worse, Doktor Theil tried to resign. Walter refused to accept the resignation, but I am afraid the old man is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. If that happens, your project will be in jeopardy also.’

Both had declined Dornberger’s invitation to go shooting, although Bethwig had been sorely tempted. The general was spending so much time in Berlin these days that when in residence, he grabbed every opportunity to tramp the island’s thick pinewoods in search of deer or grouse. Then that afternoon a cable arrived that closed off the final avenue in Bethwig’s search for Inge. The Prague hospital reported that she had been moved to an unknown treatment centre in May of that year. Himmler had lied to him again; he spent the afternoon trying to decide what to do next.

A note had been slipped under his door inviting him to dine with Hanna Reitsch that evening. Surprised, he checked the date; he hadn’t known she was at Peenemunde. Normally he looked forward to dinners with his old friend, an attractive and sophisticated woman who was considered one of Germany’s top test pilots, but tonight he wasn’t in the mood. He telephoned the visitors’ quarters to leave a message declining, but found one waiting for him which stated that Hanna would be very much put out if he did not attend.

Strangely enough, he felt a great deal better then, and whistling he went to bathe.

Bethwig enjoyed himself more than he would have expected. The dinner at the officers’ club was superb, and the head waiter presented several bottles of Chateau Latour 1924, remarking that they had just arrived, having been ‘purchased’ recently from the chateau itself. As always, Hanna’s presence put everyone on his best behaviour, and Dornberger’s dinner was pronounced a success.

Towards midnight Hanna drew Bethwig aside, and they went on to the terrace. The evening was soft and quite warm; a full moon glowed above the island and coated the buildings with silver. Dance music filtered softly through the half-open french doors, and the only reminder that they were at a military research and development centre was the muted roar of an engine being tested somewhere to the north. Bethwig lit a cigarette and leaned against the balcony.

‘Hanna, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you brought me out here for immoral purposes.’

She laughed and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps another time, Franz, I might. But – ‘ she grew serious – ‘I need to talk to you.’

Below, there was a flurry of laughter and goodbyes as Dornberger, leaving early, walked across the square towards the guest quarters. Bethwig drew on the cigarette and let the smoke escape slowly.

‘What about, Hanna?’

‘You. And your attitude.’

Franz pushed himself upright. ‘Oh?’

‘Now look here, Franz. None of that “You are meddling in my business again, Hanna,” silliness. We’ve known each other too long for that. The stories about you circulating in Berlin are verging on the ridiculous. When that happens these days, it’s time for a friend to take a hand. The rumours are that you’ve been quarrelling with Himmler. Is it true?’

When he didn’t answer, she shook her head impatiently. ‘Franz, stop acting like a little boy. If it is, you are a fool. You cannot possibly win. ‘I’m told you refused to allow the SS to arrest a scientist. That you actually threatened to strike an officer. Is that true?’

Bethwig stared at her a moment, then flicked his cigarette away and watched it spiral down to the lawn where it disappeared in a miniature explosion of sparks. ‘Certainly it’s true. The SS had no jurisdiction and no reason to arrest him.’