After they had gone, Kay stood awkwardly in the kitchen, alone with the family. She looked at Arnaud. She spread her hands. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He stared back at her – a terrible expression, full of accusation and betrayal: she would never forget it – and then the back door opened and the soldier came in. He trained his rifle on the Vermeulens. He said to Kay, ‘Tell them to get their coats and come with us.’
Dr Vermeulen said wearily, ‘It’s all right. We understand.’
* * *
—
‘And then she said, “Don’t worry – I’m not a virgin!” ’ The captain laughed at his own joke. His companion drummed his glass on the bar.
‘Section Officer Caton-Walsh?’
She looked up. A young lieutenant was standing in the doorway. ‘Yes?’
‘Come with me, please.’
She collected her coat and suitcase and followed him up the main staircase to the second floor. Behind a closed door, a telephone was ringing. A corporal crossed the corridor carrying a stack of files. The lieutenant knocked on a door at the end of the passage and opened it. He stood aside to let her enter.
The square-faced major was seated behind a desk with a file open in front of him. Wing Commander Knowsley was in a chair to one side. Kay saluted. The major said, ‘Take a seat, Section Officer.’ She did as she was told. She felt numb. He placed a pair of meaty fists on the table, one on either side of the file. She noticed the black hairs on the back of his hands and fingers; they were like paws, she thought. ‘Well, that was quite a show you were involved in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anything you want to say about it?’
‘Only that I’m sorry, sir.’
The two men exchanged glances.
Knowsley said, ‘Sorry for what, exactly?’
‘I should never have left evidence of our work in my room – that was an unforgivable lapse.’ She hesitated. ‘And I should never have allowed myself to have any kind of relationship with someone from the local population.’
Knowsley said, ‘This was the other son, I take it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You disclosed details of our mission?’
‘No, sir. Absolutely not.’
‘But he tried to find out what you were doing?’
‘He asked a few questions. I didn’t tell him anything. But I drew attention to myself.’ She was squirming at the memory of her foolishness. ‘In my defence, I wasn’t to know the family were German sympathisers.’
The major said, ‘In your defence, I don’t think they are German sympathisers – the younger son was, obviously, but the other three were just trying to protect him, as far as we can tell.’ He looked down at the file. ‘He volunteered to join the Germans in 1941, soon after they invaded the Soviet Union. Thousands of young men in occupied Europe did the same. They fell for the line that they were joining a crusade for Christian civilisation. He was seventeen. His unit was cut up pretty badly this year on the Eastern Front and they were shipped out of the front line. He seems to have deserted and come running home to mummy and daddy just before we arrived in Belgium.’
She considered this information. It wasn’t at all what she was expecting. ‘May I ask a question, sir?’
‘Go on.’
‘If he was a deserter, in hiding, how did he manage to tell the Germans about what we were doing?’
‘Well, obviously he didn’t.’
Years afterwards, whenever she allowed her mind to go back to Arnaud – which was rarely – she was to remember this moment as the worst of all.
The major said, ‘At about one o’clock this morning, the Radio Security Service intercepted a shortwave transmission from Mechelen to Berlin, which they were able to trace to a block of flats in town. The building was cordoned off, the residents detained and questioned, all the apartments were searched. A radio transmitter was found in the home of a local teacher. According to our friends in the resistance, he’s long been suspected as a collaborator, but there was no proof and in the end they left him alone. I think you know what I’m going to tell you next.’
She bowed her head. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Section Officer Colville spent part of the evening in this man’s flat. She’s insistent she never told him anything about her work, and he’s refusing to talk, even though he’s almost certain to be hanged as a spy. But…’ He rolled his eyes in disbelief and opened one of his paw-like fists. ‘Let’s just say the text of the radio transmission suggests otherwise.’
Knowsley said, ‘She is very indiscreet, unfortunately.’
‘Oh God,’ said Kay, ‘poor Barbara.’
‘Poor Barbara indeed.’
‘What will happen to her?’
The major said, ‘She’s on her way back to England. Just between us, I doubt she’ll be prosecuted – there’s no proof we could offer in court.’
Knowsley said, ‘I can, however, safely predict that she’ll lose her commission and be transferred to other duties.’
‘And the Vermeulens?’
The major shrugged. ‘That’s a matter for the Belgians. Jail, certainly, I would have thought. There isn’t a lot of forgiveness in the air, as you’ve probably noticed.’
‘No, sir.’
Knowsley said, ‘Which brings us to you, Section Officer.’ He leaned forward and studied her. ‘Do you want to go back to Medmenham or stay on here? I can’t guarantee the Germans won’t lob another rocket in our direction, but they must know it’s pretty pointless. And if they do – well, it’s one less rocket on London, I suppose.’
She looked at him in surprise. She had come upstairs expecting dismissal, and now she was being offered a choice. She remembered the exhilaration of the previous day – the feeling that she was actually properly at war at last, striking a blow directly at the enemy. It wasn’t really a choice at all. ‘I’ll stay, sir. Thank you.’
‘Good. I’ll tell Flight Officer Sitwell. You can have Colville’s billet tonight, and I’ll see you on duty tomorrow morning.’
She stood and saluted, picked up her case and coat. ‘Could I ask, sir, if the enemy has launched any more V2s today?’
‘Only one,’ said Knowsley, ‘but that seems to have been a misfire. It didn’t fly towards any target, as far as we could tell.’ He made a soaring motion with the flat of his hand. ‘It just went straight up into space.’
21
GRAF STOOD BESIDE THE LAUNCH table, his face raised to the sky, his arms thrown wide, willing his own destruction.
Come on, you bastard! Come home to Papa!
It was pure histrionics. He knew it. Either the easterly wind that had been blowing all day or the winds in the stratosphere, which could reach 200 kilometres per hour, would affect her descent. That was what was absurd about this British effort to calculate the launch positions by extrapolating the parabolic curve. The gyroscopes and the rudders would battle against nature to try to hold her on course. But without electronic guidance by radio signal, the rocket could never fly exactly true.
After five minutes of scanning the clouds, he dropped his arms. She must have been blown out to sea.
He turned and began to walk back through the still-empty woods towards Scheveningen. He felt ready for whatever might come next.
When he reached his hotel an hour later, half a dozen soldiers of the artillery regiment were standing in the passage. They parted silently to let him pass. Upstairs, his door frame was shattered and a couple of Gestapo men were inside the room. They had upended his bed and mattress. Biwack had already opened the suitcase, and was standing at the window holding up one of the strips of microfilm to the fading light, frowning at it.
‘What is this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You expect us to believe that?’
‘I don’t care what
you believe. I don’t know what’s on it.’
‘Why do you have it in your room?’
‘I was asked to look after it.’
‘By whom?’
‘Professor von Braun – you can ask him if you like.’
‘Oh, we will, don’t worry. And there is a lot more we intend to ask you.’
They marched him down to the street, where a car was waiting, and drove him through the darkening streets to the big modern house not far from the town centre that the Gestapo used as their headquarters – a curious, high-roofed, sinister place, much more brick than windows, shaped like a monk’s cowl.
In the interrogation room on the ground floor, his file was already on the table. It was ten centimetres thick. They must have sent for it some time ago, Graf thought, either from the regional office in Stettin or, more likely, from the national headquarters in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse in Berlin. No wonder Biwack had known so much about him from the start.
It was Biwack who took the chair opposite him.
‘You are a saboteur.’
‘No.’
‘You sabotaged a missile three days ago, resulting in the deaths of twelve men, and you sabotaged another this afternoon.’
‘No.’ If it had been anyone other than the National Socialist Leadership Officer, he might have been tempted to tell the truth just to get it over with. But he would not give Biwack the satisfaction. ‘The missile was faulty. Ten per cent of them are, you know. Or do you think I’m responsible for every launch that goes wrong?’
‘A soldier in the technical troop says that you asked him to open control compartment number two rather than number three.’
‘He is mistaken.’
‘Shortly before the launch, you climbed up and disabled the radio receiver.’
‘No. As I said at the time, I wanted to check the transformer. You’ve seen me do it before.’
‘Why lie, Graf? If nothing else, your behaviour after the rocket misfired establishes your guilt.’
‘If you’re asking why didn’t I run away with the rest of you – why should I? The chances of it landing at the precise point from which it took off are a million to one against.’
Biwack was starting to look irritated. He glanced at the two Gestapo men who were leaning against the wall, watching with their arms folded. ‘Listen to his lies!’
One of them said, ‘Do you want us to take over?’
‘Yes, by all means. I can’t bear to look at the swine. I’m going to find out what’s on those microfilms.’
He stood and left the room. The two Gestapo men settled down opposite Graf. The second one opened his file. He sounded weary before he even started. ‘You were first arrested on the twenty-second of March this year…’
* * *
—
Graf lay on a thin mattress in a windowless cell in the basement. The naked low-wattage light bulb cast a jaundiced glow. The cell was cold. His belt and shoelaces had been taken from him, but not his coat, which he had pulled over himself as a blanket. The place had a fearsome reputation. The old brownish specks of blood on the mattress seemed to confirm it. He preferred not to look at them, and stared at the concrete ceiling.
What would he miss? The truth was, not much. His parents, of course: he had not seen them for a year. Some of the fellows at Peenemünde. He would miss sunny days on the Baltic, the play of light on the water and the scent of the pine trees in the evening after a hot day. But Karin was dead, and he would not miss the rocket. He was done with it. And with it went the central purpose of his life.
After about an hour, he heard the scrape of footsteps in the passage. The door was unlocked. Two heavily muscled bullet-headed men, like nightclub bouncers, came in and pulled him to his feet. Now the unpleasant part starts, he thought. They bundled him into the corridor and told him to move fast. But it was hard without laces in his shoes. He shuffled along as best he could. One of the men gave him a shove in the back that sent him sprawling, then kicked his backside. He managed to scramble up the stairs, and fell again. They hauled him upright and marched him along the passage to a door, knocked and opened it.
The same two Gestapo officers but a different room. Biwack was seated at a desk winding a roll of 35 mm film onto a bulky microfilm reader. The words Top Secret briefly flashed across the screen, followed by a blur of mathematical calculations and various complicated diagrams. He stopped at one and adjusted the focus. He squinted at it.
‘What is this?’
Graf bent to look. ‘That’s a vacuum reservoir…compensator…fixed diffuser…Laval nozzle…honeycomb…’
‘Yes, but what is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that – it’s classified.’
Biwack hit him in the face. Graf stumbled backwards. His head was ringing. He put his hand to his nose and felt blood.
‘That was for impertinence. The next will be for refusing to cooperate. So I ask you again: what is this?’
Graf inspected his fingers. His nose was hurting more than he thought possible. And that was only the beginning. ‘I am not authorised to share classified material with anyone without security clearance.’
Biwack drew back his fist. Graf closed his eyes and braced himself. When nothing happened, he opened them again. Biwack’s fist was still raised, but his head was turned away, distracted. Through the buzzing in his ears, Graf could vaguely make out an argument going on outside the door. It was abruptly flung open and an SS officer strode in. On his collar were the four silver squares of a Sturmbannführer. Biwack and the two Gestapo men came instantly to attention.
‘Heil Hitler!’
Von Braun returned their salute. ‘What is going on here?’ He glanced at the screen. ‘Turn that off immediately!’ Biwack hastily pressed a switch and the screen went dark. ‘I shall need the names of every man in this room.’
Biwack said, ‘If I might explain the situation, Professor von Braun. Dr Graf has been arrested for sabotage. In his room we discovered one hundred and seven reels of microfilm. I was asking him for an explanation.’
‘Asking him? My God! Is this what you call asking?’ Von Braun pulled a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to Graf. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I think so.’ He dabbed at his nose. It felt loose, spongy, painful to touch.
Von Braun turned back to Biwack. ‘How dare you mistreat one of my senior staff in this manner? Has this arrest been authorised by Gruppenführer Kammler?’
Biwack looked uncomfortable. ‘No. I tried to contact him, but he was already back on the road to Hellendoorn.’
‘So,’ said von Braun, ‘unauthorised.’ He transferred his gaze to the two Gestapo men. He was magnificent in his authority. ‘This is what is going to happen, Sturmscharführer.’ He didn’t even deign to look at him. ‘You are going to take that microfilm off the machine – without switching on the screen, unless you wish to be prosecuted – and return it to me, along with all the other rolls I had entrusted to Dr Graf for safe keeping. He is then going to accompany me back to Peenemünde, where he will be available for questioning if you wish to pursue this absurd allegation of sabotage any further. Is that clear?’
‘With respect, I have the authority of the National Socialist Leadership Office—’
Von Braun ignored him and spoke to the other two. ‘Is that clear?’
The Gestapo men looked at one another, nodded.
* * *
—
Outside, von Braun handed the suitcase to his driver. Graf crouched down on the gravel to lace up his shoes. ‘Do that in the car,’ said von Braun. ‘Let’s not push our luck.’
Graf climbed into the back seat beside him. The Mercedes pulled out of the gate into the road and swung left. The driver looked in the mirror. ‘Where to, Professor?’
‘Peenemünde. We can stop for fuel in Bremen.’<
br />
The big car gathered speed.
Graf had his head tilted back, the handkerchief pressed to his nose. ‘I don’t want to go back to Peenemünde.’
‘Don’t be absurd. You can’t stay here.’
‘Even so. It’s all finished for me.’
Von Braun sighed. He leaned forward. ‘Get clear of the town,’ he said to the driver, ‘and then find a place to pull over.’
It was dark, beginning to rain. The windscreen wipers scudded back and forth. Graf had no idea where they were. They drove for another five minutes. Just beyond a crossroads, they left the road and bounced up onto a flat stretch of grass. The driver switched on the interior light.
‘Come on,’ said von Braun.
They walked away from the car. The rain was soft and soothing. Graf tilted his face towards it. He dabbed at his nose. He could hear the sea in the distance, the roll of the waves hitting the shore. They found shelter under a tree. Von Braun lit a cigarette and gave it to Graf, then took one for himself. In his black uniform, in the brief flame of the lighter, his face glowed, disembodied.
‘It’s not all finished,’ he said, ‘not for me, and not for you either. For Germany, yes, it’s finished, certainly, but that’s a different matter.’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘Listen to me. There’s a plan. I’ve been discussing it for months with Dornberger and one or two others. We want you to join us. Every specification, design and test result has been microfilmed at least twice and dispersed for safe keeping: the rocket motor, the turbo system, the guidance mechanism – everything. That’s why I gave you the blueprints of the wind tunnels. They can measure up to Mach 8 – there’s nothing like them in the world. Over the next couple of months, we’re going to start gathering it all together into a single priceless archive.’
‘To do what?’
‘To offer it to the Americans, along with ourselves, as soon as the war is over.’
Graf stared at him. In the shadow of the tree, he could barely make out his face, just the red dot of his cigarette bobbing in the darkness. ‘You’re crazy.’
V2 Page 25
