Page 68 of V2

‘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.’

‘Not at all. We’ll offer to continue the whole programme after the war, and it will be as if nothing has ever happened – you’ll see.’

‘So we’ll build missiles for the Americans?’

‘Missiles to start with’ – the cigarette tip described an expansive arc in the damp gloom – ‘and then we’ll get back to what it’s always been about: spacecraft!’

‘Spacecraft!’ Graf started to laugh. It made his nose hurt like the devil. He was sure it must be broken. Even so, he couldn’t help himself.

‘Do you think I’m joking?’ Von Braun sounded offended. ‘If I could convince Adolf Hitler to spend five billion marks building a rocket, do you think I couldn’t convince an American president to go to the moon?’

Graf looked over his shoulder at the road and wondered if he should walk back to Scheveningen. But it was raining harder now and he felt very tired. He would drift with the current and see where it took him. ‘Whatever you say.’ He threw away his cigarette. ‘Let’s get back in the car.’

22

Tuesday 4 September 1945

‘IT’S ALL A MATTER OF geography,’ said the man from the Ministry of Supply. ‘The Russians got Peenemünde, the Americans got Nordhausen, and I’m afraid we’ve ended up with not very much.’

‘Apart from the craters,’ said the air commodore. Everyone laughed. Kay stared at her hands. It was the first time she’d seen Mike since the previous November. They were back in the same panelled conference room in which the Mechelen operation had been approved, and he was in his element, surrounded by top brass from the army and the RAF.

‘Quite,’ said the Ministry of Supply man, whose name was Sir Marley Rook. ‘We do have the four intact missiles at Cuxhaven, and a few captured technical troops. We’re planning to fire the rockets next month. But it’s all very much crumbs from the big boys’ table. The Americans have got a hundred V2s. So we need to make the most of today.’

‘What time did they get in?’

‘They landed at Northolt from Munich yesterday evening. The War Office put them up overnight at a place they have in Wimbledon. The Americans want them back in Germany tomorrow.’

‘What are they offering them, do we know?’

‘A new life in the States for them and their wives and children – restricted movement at first, but full citizenship in due course.’

‘It’s hard to compete with that.’

‘We know. And of course money will be no object over there.’ Rook’s expression was morose. ‘On the other hand, they’ll have to live in White Sands, New Mexico, at the atom bomb test site, God help them, whereas here at least they’d be closer to home. It’s worth a try, anyway.’

‘Who do we have coming?’

‘Von Braun – he’s the head man; Steinhoff, who was in charge of guidance and control systems; Schilling and Graf, who between them ran rocket propulsion. Von Braun and Graf speak English, apparently, but we’ve got a translator on hand in case it gets too technical.’

‘All right,’ said Mike. He looked at his watch. ‘They’ll be here in a bit. Why don’t we talk to them in here? I’ve arranged for beer and sandwiches to be brought in at half-time. Flight Officer Caton-Walsh?’ He somehow succeeded in looking her directly in the face without actually focusing on her.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Why don’t you wait with your stuff in an office down the corridor, and we’ll get you involved if we have enough time?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ She stood and saluted. She had rather dreaded the prospect of meeting him again, but now it came to it, it had not been too bad. She felt nothing for him at all.

The four Germans were all in the same car, an Austin 12, the biggest the Air Ministry could provide. Von Braun was in the front seat next to the driver; the other three were squeezed in the back. A smaller car full of military police followed immediately behind.

The day was thundery, the car stuffy with the smell of warm leather and cigarette smoke. The south London suburbs seemed to drag on forever. Graf said, ‘Does anyone mind if I open the window?’ Nobody replied. They were all staring at the bomb-damaged street. He wound down the window. Where the houses in the middle of the terrace had been demolished, they had left ghostly images of their former selves imprinted on the neighbouring walls – patches of paintwork and fading wallpaper, sheared floors, the ragged saw teeth of vanished staircases.