not. I merely wonder why an SS patrol reported that at the time of the accident you were in the restricted zone beside the sea some distance away.’
‘Obviously, I was signalling to a British submarine.’
When Seidel had tried unsuccessfully to suppress a snort of laughter, Biwack had rounded on him. ‘There’s nothing funny about this, Lieutenant!’
‘I’m aware of that. Stock was a friend of mine. I require no lectures from you.’
‘Leave it, gentlemen,’ ordered Huber. He explained to Biwack: ‘Dr Graf has been sent by Peenemünde as a technical liaison officer, because of the number of modifications to the missile. He is not required to attend every launch – it would be physically impossible.’
‘I’m not suggesting Dr Graf was responsible, merely that if he had been present, he might have noticed a fault in the missile. Plainly there was a fault, was there not? Is it possible there could have been sabotage?’
‘Most unlikely,’ said Huber. ‘Indeed, impossible. But security is the province of the SS.’
All eyes turned to the SS commander. Drexler far outranked the National Socialist Leadership Officer, and beneath his well-cushioned exterior was known to have a sharp temper, but Graf noticed he was careful to keep his tone polite. ‘Security is very tight. The rockets are closely guarded from the moment they leave the factory – all the way from Nordhausen by rail – and then when they arrive here, they are never out of the custody of the technical troop. It’s true that at the start of the campaign there was some evidence of sabotage carried out by foreign workers at the factory, but we took severe measures to deal with that, and nothing’s been reported since.’
Severe measures, thought Graf. He preferred not to imagine what that might mean. He wanted to say, Listen, gentlemen, are you all crazy? This rocket is the most technologically advanced feat of engineering the world has ever seen, and no one involved in designing it ever expected them to be rolled off a production line at the rate of one every ninety minutes. Instead he said, ‘The rocket is checked and rechecked by the technical troop from the moment it’s delivered to the railhead, so unless Sturmscharführer Biwack believes there are saboteurs within the regiment …’
‘I did not say that!’
‘… then the accident was the result of a technical fault. Or, I should say, a series of technical faults that compounded one another. I have visited the scene with Lieutenant Seidel, but there is nothing physically detectable that can tell us what went wrong. We must just stick to our pre-launch procedures, and make sure these are never skimped in our understandable desire to fire as many V2s as possible each day.’
Huber flushed and glared at Graf but made no reply.
‘Check,’ said Seidel.
Graf looked down at the board. He was thinking of the girl in the Wassenaar wood. What had she been doing there? He didn’t regret letting her go. If he had handed her over to the SS in their present mood, shooting would have been the least of it. He put his forefinger on the top of his king. He could move it again. Perhaps he would find a way out if he stalled for long enough. Seidel was not a strong player. But he couldn’t be bothered. He tipped the piece over.
‘I surrender.’
‘Finally!’ Seidel started clearing the pieces, as if he feared Graf might change his mind. ‘Another?’
‘Sorry. I’m too tired.’
‘A drink then?’ He signalled to the orderly. ‘Two cognacs.’
‘We have no cognac, Oberleutnant.’
‘What do you have?’
‘Curaçao.’
Seidel wrinkled his nose. ‘It had better be that, then.’
After the orderly had gone, Graf said, ‘That brothel this morning …’
‘What of it?’ Seidel was putting the pieces back in their box.
‘Who are the girls?’
‘Oh, all sorts. Some Dutch. Some French. Some Polish. It’s quite above-board. The army runs it.’
‘Where do they get the women?’
‘Prisoners from the camps, mostly. A few professionals from before the war. Why?’
‘Sounds grim.’
Seidel shrugged. ‘Everyone is just trying to survive.’
‘You’ve been?’
‘Once or twice.’
The orderly returned with two glasses of bright blue liquid.
Graf said, ‘It looks like copper sulphate.’
‘Smells like it, too.’ Seidel took a sip. ‘Actually, it’s not so bad. Try it.’ He waited while Graf put the glass to his lips. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s like gasoline with a twist of orange.’ He downed it nevertheless. He played with the empty glass for a moment, then set it on the table. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Where?’
‘This brothel.’
Seidel laughed. ‘My dear Graf, you surprise me every day! Are