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“Klaus was killed by those gottverdammt Polish guerrillas!”

Kappler shook his head.

Who else knows this? Höss clearly doesn’t.

“What exactly happened?”

Von Braun looked at him a long moment, clearly deciding what he should—and should not—share.

He then exhaled audibly and began, “Much of this is highly secret, but Reich Minister Bormann would not have sent me here if you could not be made privy to such. When Klaus was killed, he was traveling for me—I could very well be the one who could be dead right now. He was sent to inspect a manufacturing facility for the Special Program. The railroad tracks were sabotaged, and when his train crashed, Klaus was killed. The entire scene went up in flames.”

“That is tragic,” Kappler said, hoping his tone sounded appropriately concerned.

“It has been a significant setback,” von Braun said.

Always about the work, Wernher?

“As you know, he left behind a wife and four young children,” von Braun added almost absently, then sipped his coffee.

Kappler looked at him. And how many more young families will be left behind because of your new bombs?

“I do know the family. Sad,” Kappler said. “He was traveling alone?”

Von Braun returned his cup to its saucer as he shook his head.

“With two SS scharführers on my personal passenger car. It was the only railcar, as it was a trip of the highest priority. We cannot afford any further setbacks—Der Führer has made it extremely clear that he wants the V-bombs falling on London immediately—and I have selected a manufacturing site that, unlike our current one, is far more difficult for enemy aircraft to reach. It would appear particulary imperative in view of the fact that the enemy now has struck the Ruhr Valley.”

“I understand completely,” Kappler said. “So we will be shipping the material to this new manufacturing site. . . .”

Von Braun nodded. “They have already repaired the sabotaged railroad track, and construction continues only slightly behind schedule.”

“And this manufacturing site is where?”

You said the “gottverdammt Polish guerrillas” . . .

Von Braun looked at him another long moment, and Kappler could clearly see that he again was deciding what he should—and should not—share.

“I’m afraid that that currently is restricted information,” he finally said. “I’m sure you will know soon enough.”

Kappler raised his eyebrows and grunted.

Kappler then wordlessly reached across his desk. He picked up a large manila envelope, fingered open its brass clasp, and double-checked the contents. Then he slid the sheets back inside and flattened the clasp.

He stood and held out the envelope to von Braun.

“You will find all the production figures in there, both current and projected, not only meet but exceed the quotas required,” Wolfgang Kappler said perfunctorily, then took a long look at his wristwatch, tapping its crystal with his index finger. “If there is nothing else . . .”

The look on Wernher von Braun’s face showed that he did not appreciate at all being dismissed. But he took the envelope and stood, then walked to the doors without another word.

At the doors, he turned and said, “Wolfgang, I think it might be a good idea that when Reich Minister Bormann and I share news about the Special Program with Der Führer, that you accompany us. That way you may—how shall I say?—personally witness how fervent his genuine conviction is for this Special Program. If you take my meaning . . .”

He pulled open the door and went through it.

* * *

It had taken Wolfgang Kappler nearly fifteen minutes to walk from his headquarters office to the Bebelplatz, the popular Mitte district public square. The gray sky heavy with humidity, he had walked quickly, worried that it might begin to rain at any moment.

As he moved the folded newspaper under his right arm to under his left arm, he turned south, away from the wide boulevard Unter den Linden. He wound through the crowd, circling the square twice, finally stopping at a bench to retie his shoes while carefully scanning the crowd for anyone who might be following him.