Vengeance 10

The Gestapo agent turned to rest against the windows and rubbed his head against the cold glass as if to relieve a headache. ‘Only rumours so far. I was told that one of the people helping him, a woman and a German national, confessed that this Major Memling had been sent to try and persuade you, Doktor von Braun and the scientific staff to revolt against the SS and defect to England. Foolishness! But that is what Walsch believes, or wants to believe. The man was probably sent to sabotage the V-Ten project.’

Bethwig wondered. He lit another cigarette but said nothing more. He suspected that Walsch was closer to the truth than he knew, and if so, all of them were in real danger. Himmler could very well be persuaded to carry out his threat to shoot all scientific personnel. Wernher was convinced that he was badly frightened of their capture by the Russians. Something would have to be done, but what?

* * *

The interior was pitch-black. There was no sound. They designed it this way, he told himself over and over until it became a chant. They designed it this way to make you concentrate on your own terror. Memling gagged and tried to vomit again, but his stomach was empty and the retching went on and on. When the spasm subsided, he lay back on the wet cement floor and tried to breathe through his nose.

It was a set-up, Memling thought for the hundredth time. They were waiting; the SS troops rose, seemingly from the ground, as he was gathering his parachute. Within seconds he and the three Germans were disarmed, handcuffed, blindfolded, and pushed and kicked towards waiting lorries. The Germans even knew how many of them there would be, as there were exactly four empty lorries.

They were driven for what seemed like hours over rough tracks before the lorries stopped and they were taken one by one inside. Blinded by the lights, he was stripped and searched, photographed and fingerprinted, then taken naked into an administrative area where three female clerks had giggled and darted glances at him as he was shoved on to a hard bench and ignored for an hour or more before a door opened and a tall, very gaunt man in a black, ill-fitting civilian suit emerged. Memling went rigid.

‘Major Jan Memling, I believe. We have met before, if you recall. Twice in fact. You worked for your secret service, MI-Six, at the time. At our first meeting you jumped from a train to avoid a conversation with me. The second time you ran away from a very fine position in Liege.’ He chuckled. ‘Unfortunately you do not have those options this time.’

Memling remembered the skeletal figure unfolding from a seat to pursue him through a crowded train racing towards the Belgian border, a grinning death’s-head leering at him from across a scaffolding in a factory yard. He rarely dreamed, but for the past seven years he had endured nightmares in which Walsch’s face predominated.

‘My name, in case you have forgotten, is Major Jacob Walsch, of the Secret State Police Office, Division Three. I would suggest that a great deal of time and pain can be spared if you are prepared to co-operate and answer my questions.’

Memling nodded, fearful that his voice would betray his terror. ‘Good. Then perhaps you will tell me about your mission here on Peenemunde — most particularly, the names of the three traitors who agreed to assist you, and any others of whom you may have knowledge?’

‘My name,’ Memling began, speaking softly to disguise the tremor, ‘is Jan Memling. My rank is major, Royal Marines. My identification number is S5698034. I am a member of the regular military establishment of the United Kingdom and, as such, am entitled to the treatment accorded to prisoners of war under terms of the Geneva Convention.’

‘That may well be true, Major Memling. But you must realise that you have forfeited all rights to such protection, as you are out of uniform.’ Walsch chuckled at his own joke. ‘I suppose you will make the usual protest that your clothing was taken from you, and so it was. I did instruct my people to make certain that it was properly labelled and stored. I can show you if you wish, but you will find, I am afraid, that they are still civilian clothes. In any event, Peenemunde is not a military installation but a secret research centre owned and operated by the SS and therefore not subject to civil or military law. I might also add that I have had a request from the local SS commander to have you released to their custody. It seems they wish to settle an old score.’

Memling had expected nothing else when they had taken his uniform away. He strove not to allow his fear to show.

‘I am concerned most with three traitorous German citizens,’ Walsch continued, ‘arrested while aiding an enemy of the Reich. I intend to root out and eliminate the rest of their pack. You can spare yourself a great deal of pain, very severe pain, and perhaps even death, if you co-operate. You will have time to think the matter over while I discuss the situation with your comrades.’