Vengeance 10 (16 page)

The last of his company trudged off the ship, and Memling followed down the gangway. A non-commissioned officer wearing the red flashes of the Special Police stepped out from the canvas cover. ‘Lieutenant Jan Memling?’

Memling frowned and nodded. ‘What is it, Sergeant?’

‘I have orders to take you to London at the earliest moment, sir.’

‘London? I’ve just returned from an exercise, Sergeant. I must see to my men and make my report.’

‘Sorry, Lieutenant Memling. My orders state you are to be returned immediately.’

‘Damn it.’ Memling frowned. There was just one reason he would be recalled to London. ‘Just where in London are you supposed to take me?’

The SP gave him a long, steady stare, if you do not come willingly, sir, I am empowered to place you under arrest.’

‘What’s going on here, Memling? Why aren’t you with your people - this time?’ Renson had come up from behind, startling his junior officer.

The calculated insult was too much, and Memling swung around, but the SP interposed himself. ‘I am afraid, Captain, that I am to blame,’ he said, neatly diverting attention. ‘I have urgent orders for Lieutenant Memling that require his immediate return to London.’

‘London? Immediately? What’s this all about, Memling? Found some way to take yourself off active duty?’

Memling started towards him, but the SP gripped his arm tightly. Driscoll appeared out of the mist at that moment, closely followed by Memling’s sergeant major. Driscoll nodded and, glancing directly at Renson, motioned with his head. ‘Go ahead, Jan. We’ll see to everything here, won’t we, Sergeant Major?’ The implication was not lost on Renson who glanced from one to the other, then back to Memling. ‘I see.’ He nodded half to himself. ‘I see how it is now. Perhaps you should go along, Memling. I am certain that we can get along without you.’

‘Go along, sir,’ the sergeant major urged. ‘Lieutenant Driscoll is right.’

Memling nodded reluctantly and handed over his helmet, Sten and kit bag of Mills bombs. ‘Do I have time to clean up?’ he asked the SP, who shook his head with an apologetic grimace.

‘Afraid not, sir. I have a car, and if we hurry we can just make the afternoon train from Ipswich. So if you will follow me.’

Memling had been in Special Services for little over a year, caught up in the first sweep through the forces for officers with special training. Even though intelligence personnel were to be kept out of combat units for fear of capture, his MI6 background had been accidentally overlooked at Portsmouth, and he had managed a transfer from the Home Forces G-2 unit to which he had been assigned. In the months that followed, Memling asked himself why as he was slithering up vertical cliffs or wading chest deep through freezing streams in what was euphemistically called training. And although he knew the answer, he was loath to formulate it to himself. But the Norwegian raid was his third combat mission, and, as before, he felt he had performed creditably. His thinking had been cool and clearheaded, and the cowardly fear kept under control. Not once had he experienced the slightest panic.

The SP led him through a turnstile at Liverpool Street Station and stopped to speak with a man dressed in well-cut civilian clothes. The SP produced a receipt book, which the civilian signed after looking closely at Memling. The SP nodded goodbye and disappeared. The civilian introduced himself and offered a weak handshake. His accent spoke of public school and cricket.

‘Lieutenant Jan Memling, I take it. Name’s Crawford. Work for the Firm, you know. Asked to pop over and bring you around for a chat. Cup of tea if you come quietly.’ He laughed at his own feeble joke and led Memling out to an American car painted army drab. Not a word was spoken as the car began its journey through streets clogged with pedestrians and cyclists.

It seemed that every time Memling returned to London, the city looked ever more dingy and battered. The crowds were larger perhaps, if more ill-dressed, than before - thinner, paler, even dirtier after three years of war. But they still retained that infectious humour that had come to characterise the otherwise dour Londoners the moment the bombs began to fall. Traffic was light, nearly all military, due to petrol rationing.

Finally they drew up before the building in Northumberland Avenue, and Crawford waved Memling out. The car remained in position until he had opened the heavy oak door and stepped in. The hall was much the same, smelling of wax and age. The mahogany panelling still shone from daily polishing, and the porter still sat in his little office, looking less wizened than when Memling had last seen him - as if the war agreed with him. A different marine sergeant watched from the end of the hall. The porter nodded the usual greeting, failed to remark on his dirty battledress, and spoke softly into the telephone.

The hall was cold, as was every building in Britain these days. Jan perched on a chair. His eyes drifted closed as the events of the past few days began to fade. The destroyer had taken them off after dark and had run down the fjord in a nightmare of darkness, fog, and gunfire, which they dared not return. The fog had continued most of the morning before melting away at noon, and RAF Mosquitoes had arrived to provide a semblance of air cover. But by mid-afternoon the planes were forced to leave as the anti- cyclonic front that had favoured their landing in Norway moved west towards Britain, hauling with it the rain and fog and leaving their particular area of the North Sea in weak sunlight. It had taken the Luftwaffe only an hour to find them.

Fortunately for them, Driscoll had done his work well. The Ju.87 dive-bombers had to come from further north, and the ship’s gunners had done a creditable job of holding them off, even damaging one severely enough to send it limping home before dusk caused the Stukas to break off. There had been two submarine alerts during the night, but the threat had never materialised. Memling had snatched an hour’s fitful sleep before the seas began to break and he was seasick.

‘Lieutenant Memling?’

Memling opened his eyes to see a neat pair of ankles. Momentarily intrigued, he followed them up past dimpled knees which even the heavy lisle wartime stockings could not conceal, past the hem of a victory skirt which caused momentary pause, then past a neat waist, breathtaking bust, and a pert and somehow familiar face framed by long dark hair. He got hastily to his feet, suddenly conscious that he had not shaved or bathed in five days.

‘Hello.’ Memling was certain he had met her before.

She smiled and indicated the staircase. ‘Will you follow me, please?’

As they climbed the stairs she glanced back with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry we must walk, but the electricity to the lift has been shut off.’

Memling shrugged. ‘Climbing stairs is supposed to be healthy.’ He wanted to say ‘good for your figure’, but refrained.

‘I wouldn’t think you needed exercise, Lieutenant. You look fit enough.’

Before he could answer, she hesitated and half turned to him. His head was level with her chest, and he dragged his eyes up to her face with some difficulty. ‘You wouldn’t remember me, Lieutenant Memling, but we met just after you returned from Belgium. ‘I’m Mr Englesby’s assistant, Janet Thompson.’

Even then Memling had to think for a moment. He recalled very clearly his homecoming more than a year before. An image of Margot flashed through his mind, and the pain was still enough to cause him to clench his teeth. Janet Thompson saw the reaction, then turned and completed the climb to Englesby’s office. Memling remained silent as she led him down the hall; and when they paused outside the door, she risked a quick look at his face. His expression was composed enough, but his eyes were wide and angry. His stubbled face had put on flesh, firming the chin and creating sagging pouches beneath the eyes. She kept silent and opened the door.

As the war had stumbled on, her boss, Charles Englesby, had also progressed. He was now responsible for all intelligence- gathering activities in occupied Central Europe. He had retained the same office, but the Ministry of Works, never one to be put off by the exigencies of war, had kept pace with his rapid rise. A dark-green Wilton carpet now covered the floor of the inner office, Memling noted. The walls had been painted cream, almost the same shade as aged watered silk. Several original oils in the manner of Sargent had replaced the hunting prints, and the massive walnut desk that occupied one end of the room did more than anything else to establish Englesby’s new rank and influence. The man himself looked as prosperous as his office and appeared not to have missed a night’s sleep since the war began.

‘Well, Memling.’ Englesby stood up and motioned to a chair beside the desk. He did not offer to shake hands, and his expression changed subtly as he took in Memling’s filthy battledress. His nose wrinkled briefly as the odour of perspiration, cordite and petrol fumes crossed the polished desk. Certainly he has not changed, Memling thought. About to make a remark to that effect, he noticed another man in the room, a middle-aged army officer with a colonel’s crown and pips on his shoulder boards.

‘I would like you to meet Colonel Oliver Simon-Benet.’ Englesby turned to introduce the other. ‘The colonel is from SOE.’

Simon-Benet was youngish-looking seen close to, one whose easy grin belied the formality of his name. He shook Memling’s hand with a firm grip. ‘Englesby here has just been telling me they snatched you straight off a ship from Norway. I can see you must have had a fun time. Successful?’

Memling glanced quickly at Englesby who was looking faintly annoyed. There was no help there, he could see. ‘Some. Did what we were supposed to and got back with light casualties.’ Simon-Benet stared at him for a moment, a faint smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, then clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good answer, Lieutenant, could mean almost anything.’ Memling’s nerves were on edge, and the colonel’s bonhomie was not helping. It seemed that it was always like this whenever he was required to visit Northumberland Avenue. He decided to take the offensive for a change.

‘All right, Englesby, what the hell is this all about?’

The MI6 executive started, blood suffusing his face. ‘Just one moment,’ he began, but Memling cut him off, now beginning to enjoy himself.

‘‘I’m not one of your people any more, Englesby, and I don’t have to put up with your nonsense. Why did you drag me all the way to London? And who is this’ - he hooked a thumb at the colonel - ‘and what the devil is an SOE?’

‘I see you two are old friends,’ Colonel Simon-Benet murmured. ‘Perhaps, Charles, I had better explain.’ Without waiting for Englesby to agree, he pulled his chair up to face Memling and chuckled. ‘You commando boyos do tend to run a bit roughshod at times. But don’t blame poor old Charles here. This is my doing. He tends to frustration, stuck here in London when we all know he would rather be in North Africa or somewhere doing something useful. But then someone has to keep up the home front, hey, Charles?’

Englesby snorted but otherwise paid no attention to the colonel’s heavy-handed humour.

Simon-Benet scratched his head, then stared at his fingernails absently as if expecting to see something there. Memling relaxed. The gesture was familiar and indicated that the colonel had spent a great deal of time in front lines somewhere.

‘You see, we have a problem, one that requires someone with a rather unique mix of talents to help us out.’ He stopped abruptly and turned.

‘Ah, Miss Thompson, much as I regret having to ask this, I don’t think we need a record of this conversation. Would you mind?’

The girl smiled and got up quickly, unembarrassed by the abrupt dismissal. It had happened many times before. Englesby had an obsessive desire to record every word spoken in his rooms. But his visitors rarely shared that desire.

When the door had closed behind her, the colonel sighed dramatically, then turned to Memling. ‘As I was saying, we have a problem and one that must be solved quickly. So, the General Staff came to SOE.’

‘And SOE is . . .?’ Memling prompted, sorry the girl had gone.

‘Special Operations Executive. We do odd and dirty jobs, mostly behind enemy lines, which these days can be just about anywhere.’

‘I see,’ Memling murmured. There were all sorts of strange, irregular groups popping up all over Great Britain these days. His own commando unit had started life in 1940 under the sixteenth-century name Independent Companies.

‘I am certain you do. In any event, the Czech government-in-exile has reported an alarming decrease in resistance activities inside Czechoslovakia, which they ascribe to three factors: the relatively benign occupation; the belief, heartily encouraged by the Nazis, that the war is nearly over and that we have lost; and finally, the personality of the man heading the occupation, Reinhard Heydrich.’

That name sounded familiar. Memling recalled his pre-war studies of the Nazi party hierarchy. ‘Heydrich,’ he muttered. ‘I believe that he was once the number-two man in the Gestapo, reporting directly to Himmler?’

‘Close enough. He was, and is still, in command of the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, or Security Service, of the party. He has become a very powerful man - some say he will be named to succeed Hitler - primarily because he has the dirt on every official and officer in Germany and occupied Europe.’ The colonel paused long enough to light a cigar. When it was going to his satisfaction, he remembered his manners and offered his case to the other two. He could not quite hide his relief when they declined.

‘We have been assigned to eliminate Herr Heydrich.’ His voice was soft but with sufficient menace to cause Memling to shiver. ‘And we need your help to do that.’

‘Me? Hell, I don’t even speak Czech. How … ‘

‘You do not have to speak the language. You are needed for another reason. The agents who will do the actual work are Czech nationals. But they still need a cover. You are going to supply them that cover... as skilled technical types assigned to the Skoda arms works. We believe the skilled worker is accorded high status in occupied Europe. And the Germans positively kowtow to quality control technicians. They just don’t have enough, and a skilled QC man can literally get away with anything short of murder. Do you see?’