‘But we’ve already decided,’ von Braun protested, and waved a hand as Bethwig started to point out that London could hardly know that. Then he blanched under the impact of Bethwig’s news. ‘My God, if he should be caught…’
‘He was,’ Bethwig told him calmly. ‘With three German citizens, all members of the resistance. Early this morning.’ Quickly he described to von Braun what had taken place over the past eighteen hours. ‘Two hours ago it came to a head. My contact in the Gestapo reported that the three traitors had signed confessions, and been shot. That left only your English friend. If he confessed, which I was assured he would, you and I and a good many others would be dead by now.’
Von Braun slumped against the wall. ‘Where do we stand now?’ he asked finally. ‘You said if he confessed. If? What about Kammler? Surely he won’t…’
‘Forget Kammler. He’s in enough trouble himself.’ He reviewed what Prager had told him of the SS’s own intramural squabbles ‘The Gestapo was our major enemy, primarily because Walsch hated us both. But it doesn’t matter any longer. Walsch is dead.’
Von Braun perked up at that. ‘How?’
‘Your English friend Memling shot him. Saved me from doing so, for which one of these days, I am sure, I will be grateful. I don’t know how, but Memling had a weapon when we arrived and had already killed four of the SS. If it had not been for him, we might not have made it.’
‘I don’t believe any of this.’ Von Braun shook his head, it sounds like a thriller story.’
‘Never mind that now. We are not out of the woods by any means. The SS will soon discover what happened in Trassenheide, and if they should find out who was responsible, we are all dead. But we could also have them about our ears anytime now if someone gets cold feet and decides to stop the launching or if Kammler screws up his courage and bulls his way through the roadblocks. Don’t forget that his orders about shooting us are still in effect.’
Von Braun pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps down the hall, then spun and came back. ‘How in hell can we stop them? What about Sussmann? He was supposed to be setting up some kind of defence…’
‘Sussmann was wounded quite badly. He’s in hospital right now, but I persuaded Memling to keep the SS busy. Your English friend, it turns out, is a commando officer.’
‘I thought he was a spy, worked for that… I don’t remember…’
‘So did I.’ Bethwig shrugged, in any event, I made a deal with him, one it will be up to you to honour.’
Bethwig glanced at his wristwatch. Time was running out. ‘I promised that after the launch you would help hide him. He speaks excellent German, and it shouldn’t be difficult to pass him off as a middle-level technician for a while. Everything is falling apart here, and with the entire Gestapo staff dead, security checks are certain to fall by the wayside, at least for the moment. Memling said there is a submarine standing by for him and anyone else who wants to leave, but you can deal with that. I gave him directions to your house in Zinnowitz. He will be discreet. Now, I have one more thing to do. Stay on the control console for me a while longer, please?’
Bethwig was half-way down the hall as he asked the final question. Von Braun started after him, demanding to know where he was going this time and why he couldn’t take care of the Englishman himself, before he realised Bethwig had already gone. Von Braun tore off his cap and slammed it to the tiled floor in frustration.
Outside, Bethwig hesitated, then turned away from the car park. There might be roadblocks and he could not afford the delay. The SS guard normally stationed at the blockhouse door had disappeared; he did not know if that was a good sign or not, but as there seemed to be no one about, he plunged through the shrubbery and began to run.
Jan Memling crouched in the shadows beside the fence while Prager, a few metres on, pushed up a strand of wire and wriggled through. The few incandescent lamps mounted on high poles swayed with the wind, flinging shadows and light in every direction. Memling slipped through after him, and they trotted towards the looming bulk of the tank farm. There were only two guards, one at each entrance – the first asleep in his hut, the other sheltering from the wind and staring glumly into the night. It was obvious that neither expected the slightest bit of trouble. And why should they? Prager observed. In the six years of its existence, the Peenemunde facility had had only one actual taste of war: the bombing in 1943. And here they were, a year and a half later, guarding a useless farm on a miserably cold January night while they waited for the Russians.
‘The tank contains approximately fifty thousand litres of alcohol,’ Bethwig had explained. ‘Not enough to do more than make a big flash. Wernher’s brother, Magnus, is in charge of our security, and he made it his business to see that if we needed it, a suitable distraction could be produced. The thirty thousand metric tons of high explosive removed from the V-Ten warhead has been stored inside a deserted petrol tank near to the alcohol tank. If it could be exploded, I am certain it would keep the SS far too busy searching for Russian saboteurs to interfere with us.’
Prager hissed, and they both went to ground. A shadow passed on the single-track road, and a moment later they heard the racketing sound of a motor fading into the night. The two men exchanged glances.
‘Let’s get this over with fast,’ Memling muttered, ‘before they come back. Do you have your bearings yet?’
Bethwig had given them the code number of the alcohol tank and described its location on the seaward side of the farm. Their way was impeded by a tangle of pipes, fire barriers and deserted buildings, and it was 21.39 hours when they reached a concrete wall that overlooked an isolated cluster of tanks squatting above the beach. The moon, jousting with broken cloud, silhouetted their target against the sullen Baltic.
They vaulted the wall and trotted down the slope. Memling explored the surrounding area for the fill pipes, which he then traced back to the metering valves mounted on the tank itself. The piping was stainless steel – to prevent contamination of the alcohol – which only made their task that much more difficult. The joint where the piping ran into the tank proper was well protected by a heavy riveted iron flange.
He backed off then and stared upwards. The tank was made of cast-iron sections, and therefore it had to be lined with glass or stainless steel to prevent contamination; somewhere inside would be the emergency drain valve. Memling found the ladder on the north side, jumped, caught hold, and went up quickly.
The top of the tank was gently rounded and covered with a glare of ice. He crouched against the wind and made his way along, clutching the handholds for dear life. The cloud was broken enough to make visible the entire northern end of the island. In the vague moonlight he could see the smaller, squatter petrol tank downslope and a hundred metres or more distant. He thought about the thirty thousand kilos of HE stored inside, and shivered. The damned thing had to be full of petrol fumes; it was a bomb waiting for a spark. Yet he had to be certain. Amatol was incredibly stable and damned hard to ignite. Only because of that had they dared hide it in the abandoned petrol tank.
He ducked his chin into the collar of his jacket. To the south, five kilometres or more distant, the launch area glowed as if aflame. Behind, the wind-whipped Baltic disappeared into the invisible horizon; somewhere out there was a submarine waiting for his signal. They would wait for a long time; the Gestapo had taken the ‘Joan’ radio transmitter lent by the OSS. For a moment the old uncertainty and fear swept him. Once the tank exploded, the SS would be out in force. Unless he and Prager kept moving and were exceptionally lucky… he stopped the wild, random thoughts. Bethwig and his mad scheme. The man was crazy, or was he? Wouldn’t he do exactly the same if he had the chance? This was perhaps the final opportunity of their generation to fulfil one of man’s oldest dreams. He had been asked to play a very small part and would do so no matter the cost. Bethwig was right. A man’s dreams are all he ever really has.