'Yes,' he said. 'Of course. It's the only thing to do. And thank you, Herr Wilson.'

'My pleasure,' Wilson said.

When Schriever had left, Wilson gathered the remaining technical notes together, placed them back in his already stuffed suitcase, then phoned through for his driver to come and collect him. When the uniformed SS driver arrived, he picked up Wilson's suitcase and walked ahead of him, merely glancing at the large flying saucer on the raised ramp, and led him out to the waiting car.

Wilson looked toward the firing range. He was on the proper side of it now. Wernher von Braun and his rocket teams had moved to Peenemnde on the island of Usedom, off the Baltic Coast, and Projekt Saucer had been moved to this side of the firing range, into the bigger, better-equipped hangars. As Wilson had felt increasing resentment at having regularly to pa.s.s on certain of his innovations to von Braun's A-2 and A3 rocket projects, he had been relieved in more ways than one when they finally left.

He slipped into the car, sank into the rear seat, and relaxed during the fifteen-mile journey, through the cloudy, gray afternoon, to his new apartment in the Krhessen district of Berlin. His former nurse, Greta, who'd been warned of his arrival, had prepared dinner for him.

a.s.signed to look after only him when he had been recuperating from the second of what he knew would be many operations designed to aid his longevity, Greta had also been instrumental in satisfying his old man's odd s.e.xual whims, mostly of an oral and masturbatory nature. Then, when he had been awarded this s.p.a.cious apartment by a satisfied Heinrich Himmler, Greta, obviously attracted by his authority and high position in the n.a.z.i hierarchy, had agreed to move in with him as his nurse, housekeeper, and mistress, with her duties in the latter category few and far between, as Wilson now noted without rancour.

s.e.xually abused as a child by her father, twice married, now widowed and a professional nurse, she was well-proportioned and auburn-haired, with an attractive, worldly face, cold hazel eyes, and a great deal of knowledge about the s.e.xual needs of men, which was all Wilson needed. Greta had few illusions, was not blinded by emotionalism, and was probably even relieved to be receiving so much for doing so little. She kept a clean apartment, cooked only for herself since Wilson never ate cooked foods, helped him produce the s.e.m.e.n he needed for his continuing experiments, and had her occasional affairs on the side, about which he did not complain.

Sometimes she even gave him advice, as she now did over dinner.

'Did you visit the factory before you came home?' she asked, as she tucked into her Wiener schnitzel and he nibbled his dried vegetables and biscuits.

'Yes,' he replied. 'Everything was in order.'

'Did you see Rudolph Schriever?'

'Yes, of course. Why?'

'He came here yesterday,' Greta said, 'and feigned surprise when he didn't find you here. When I said you weren't returning until today, he made a great play of smacking his forehead with his hand and telling me what an idiot he was, that he'd simply forgotten.'

'You thought his visit was deliberate?'

'Yes,' Greta said, wise in the ways of men. 'In fact, I'm convinced of it. I think he just wanted an excuse to see how we lived perhaps even to look around.'

'Which you didn't let him do.'

'Of course not!'

Wilson smiled. 'I hope you invited him in for some tea, at least.'

'Yes, I did and his eyes wandered all over the place. I could see he wanted to check out the other rooms, but I kept him pinned to his chair.'

'Not physically, I hope.'

'No, he's not my type. I merely pinned him to the chair with my gaze and eventually let him go.'

'I hope the poor man at least enjoyed his tea.'

Greta didn't return his smile. 'Don't trust him,' she said.

'I don't.'

'Good. You can't trust anyone these days. But that kind, they're the worst.'

'What kind?'

'The kind who are weak but have ambitions. They're always the worst.'

'I'll remember that,' Wilson said.

A few hours later, when he'd had a bath and was preparing for bed, he asked her to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e him and ensure that his s.e.m.e.n wasn't lost. She did it with practised ease, making him come into a small dish, and when he saw it, he was reminded of his adolescence in Iowa, when he would hold his fresh s.e.m.e.n in his hand and try to sniff out its properties. He had been a scientist even then, always detached, investigating, and now, these many years later, nothing had changed. He was experimenting with himself, trying to find the secret of life, so this form of masturbation, while offering relief from his waning s.e.xual agitation, was also serving a scientific purpose.

Greta transferred his s.e.m.e.n from the small dish to a gla.s.s phial and put the latter into the refrigerator, to keep it cool until tomorrow, when she would deliver it to the experimental laboratory of the hospital where she worked. There the technicians, following Wilson's written instructions, would experiment with it. He was searching for a way to extend his life before his time ran out.

He slept soundly that night.

Three days later, two Gestapo agents wearing black greatcoats arrived at k.u.mmersdorf to take Dr Belluzzo away. The old man was shattered, not knowing why it was happening, and he protested in vain and collapsed into panic, and was staring entreatingly at Schriever and Wilson even as he was dragged away.

He was not seen again. He disappeared into the camps. A few months later Wilson heard that he had died of a heart attack, reportedly induced by increasing ill health, though more likely caused by maltreatment.

His original, unworkable designs for a flying saucer were locked up in Schriever's safe.

Clearly, Schriever thought he might find some use for them.