Vengeance 10 (17 page)

Memling nodded. From his own experience he knew Simon-Benet’s theory to be essentially correct. ‘And you want me to teach them how to talk and act like quality control technicians?’ He felt the slow but inexorable surge of fear expanding in his chest at the thought of being sent back into occupied Europe. It had not left him after all; he had not managed to overcome it, and for a moment he thought he might be physically sick.

‘Correct. An easy enough task. You aren’t being asked to parachute in with them, only to teach them what they need to know to survive. You spent enough time in Belgium to see how the Nazis work. And too, they will only have to stay long enough to get the lie of the land, do the job, and get out again. What do you say? I know it’s not as exciting as a commando raid, but it is rather necessary.’

Memling grinned in relief at the news that he would not be expected to accompany them. ‘Of course. Not that I expect I have any choice in the matter.’

‘Decidedly not.’ Simon-Benet turned to Englesby who had remained silent during the exchange. ‘Well then, Charles, you can get on with the paperwork for transferring Lieutenant Memling here on to your ration strength.’

Englesby snorted. ‘I expected that you would want him carried on my budget. I tell you, it just cannot be done. We are already seriously over for my quarter and - ‘

‘Now, Charles,’ the colonel interrupted as he stood up and motioned Memling to his feet, ‘I’ve always said that no one can figure a way around red tape as well as you.’ He glanced about the room appreciatively. ‘Why, I was telling that to Stewart just the other day, and he agreed with me.’

Stewart Graham Menzies was the director of MI6 and the man known as C. The use of his first name seemed to do the trick, for Englesby subsided with no more than a grimace.

In the outer office Janet Thompson looked up as they closed the door, and the colonel winked at her. She coloured and bent to her typewriter.

‘Look here, Memling, don’t be too concerned. This shouldn’t take more than two or three days. Then they’ll be on their way, and you can return to your unit. In the meantime enjoy a little light duty. I know what you chaps go through. Helped to design the training course myself.’ He saw a bit of scepticism creep into Memling’s expression, nodded, plucked the Fairbairn knife from its scabbard in Memling’s jacket, and whipped it across the room to the door-frame where it thudded directly above an indented nail hole which paint had not quite filled.

‘Didn’t want to break off the point,’ he chuckled. ‘Now, Miss Thompson here, who seems to have taken a shine to you, will fix you up with quarters. Your end of the training will be done in London. Miss Thompson will arrange to have a car call for you at 0700 sharp. Cheerio.’

Simon-Benet flipped the knife back as he went through the door, and Memling caught it by reflex.

‘He’s nothing but an over-age boy.’ Janet shook her head in prim disapproval, imagine, throwing a knife in here like that. What if someone had come through the door at that moment?’

‘I expect they might be dead by now,’ Memling replied thoughtfully. ‘Maybe he did have a hand in designing that damned course after all.’

‘Colonel Simon-Benet? Of course he did. Now, suppose we see about getting you fixed up. First you could do with a bath and a shave.’ She picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

While she was talking on the phone, Memling went to the window and stood looking down on the street below. Again he was struck by the absence of motor traffic and the tremendous number of pedestrians. It was as if the population of London had doubled. And everyone seemed to be in a hurry.

‘Bother!’

He turned to see Janet replace the telephone with an impatient gesture. She glanced at him and her expression softened to a smile, ‘I’m afraid there is nothing available at the BOQ until after 2400 hours. Do you have any friends you can visit until then?’

Memling had to think before he realised there were none. In the entire city of London, he doubted if he knew anyone well enough to impose even for a single night. His few friends or acquaintances had all lived in the same road, and all had died in the bombing raid or been resettled elsewhere. His stomach lurched at the memory of the raid, and he struggled to get hold of himself. The girl was watching, her look of concern suggesting she suspected what was passing through his mind.

Memling shook his head, ‘I’m afraid not.’ He tried to smile, ‘It’s been too long since I’ve spent any time in London ... Look here, that’s no problem really. If you can arrange the proper papers for me, there’s an officers’ club in Curzon Street. I can wait there until midnight. I can also get a bath …’

‘You will do no such thing. Those places are terrible and overcrowded. Here.’ She took a key from her purse and pressed it into his hand. ‘You can use my flat. There should be plenty of hot water, although you’ll have to buy a razor. I shall have to work late this evening anyway and probably won’t be home until nearly eight. You get some sleep, and I’ll cook you a hot meal when I come in. And it’s only a short walk to the BOQ in Cleveland Street.’

Memling started to protest but the girl would have none of it. She forced the key into his pocket, wrote out directions for the underground, and gave him his new orders, ration book, and enough money to replace his battledress with civilian clothing.

‘Now go along with you. I have a great deal of work to finish.’ She picked up her notepad and went into Englesby’s office, shutting off his protests. He took the key from his pocket, looked at it a moment, then, conscious of his utter weariness, did as he was told.

Memling was still asleep when Janet unlocked the door and entered the flat. She struggled out of her wet coat and for a moment remained in the narrow entry, too tired to go further. In a strange way, she found herself conscious of Memling’s presence and realised that she could not have explained to anyone else why she had offered him the use of a bedroom - could not even have explained it to herself. It was more than the fact that he was clearly on the verge of exhaustion. London was full of exhausted soldiers. Now that she thought about it, Janet expected it had something to do with their first meeting and Memling’s reaction to Englesby’s fumbled attempt to tell him of his wife’s death. She tried to recall the young, frightened boy who had come to Northumberland Avenue more than a year before and to compare him with the quiet, tense, and competent man now sleeping in the other room. And she thought of her own husband, how two years in the desert had hardened him, changed him irrevocably from the boy she had once known - before he was killed.

Memling had left tea things set out for her, and she smiled at this bit of thoughtfulness as she heated water and took a plate of cold meat from the refrigerator, the last of her week’s ration. She saw a shopping bag full of food and realised that he must have stopped on his way to the flat and used his coupons to buy it. She cleaned up the kitchen quickly, then went through the hall to the bedroom. He had picked her room by the luck of the draw, and she stood just inside the door, the dim hall light spilling over his covered form. He lay sprawled on his back, one arm thrown across his forehead, the other tucked beneath his head; he slept soundly. He did not move when she opened the cupboard door for her night things. For a moment she hesitated, biting her lip, not quite understanding what was happening to her, then went out, closing the door behind her. Janet went back into the kitchen, poured her tea, and picked at the cold tasteless meat until she found herself nodding off. She got up slowly then, recalling her promise to fix him a hot meal. Obviously he needed sleep more at this point.

Janet undressed slowly in the bathroom, shivering in the cold air and grimacing at the way her skin tightened into goose bumps and her nipples grew erect. The last thing she was capable of this night was sex. And she blushed furiously at the thought. Quickly she slipped the woollen nightgown over her head and went through to the empty bedroom. In spite of her exhaustion, sleep did not come quickly. When she did begin finally to drift off, Janet knew why she had offered Memling the room. She needed to feel the presence of a man nearby.

Twelve hours’ sleep had done much to restore him, Memling thought as he peered into the mirror and scraped away six days of stubble. The blackish pouches beneath his eyes were still there, however, and unaccountably, there was a great deal of grey in his hair. Or was that just the electric light? he wondered, twisting his head to see better.

It had taken him a few moments to recall just where he was and why he was in a real bed beneath a feather tick. He had remained motionless, knife in hand, while the fear drained away and objects took on a semi-solidity in the darkness. Finally he sat up and found the bedside lamp. Memory returned with the light, and he was again ashamed of his fear. That strange colonel - what the devil was his name? Simon something, damn it, another of those double-barrelled names; in any event, he had been promised a car for 0700 hours.

He rinsed his face and pulled on his shirt. The clothes he had purchased from stores did not fit all that well, but they were clean and so was he - for the first time in more weeks than he cared to recall. In spite of the regulations, he had run a hot bath the day before. The girl - he persisted in thinking of her as such in spite of the fact that she had to be at least his age if not a bit more - had said to make himself comfortable, and he had extended this to include the use of a bottle of bath salts. He smelled like a French whore, but the luxury of the bubbles and the hot water had been worth it.

Memling found an army topcoat in the hall cupboard and slipped it on wondering to whom it belonged. It was a bit too large but would do. He did not think Janet would mind if he used it. He hesitated outside her bedroom door, then changed his mind. She had looked tired enough when he left Northumberland Avenue the afternoon before, and there was no sense in waking her just to say thank you.

It was just seven o’clock and deathly cold when a green Humber stopped at the kerb and he stepped from the doorway into the back seat. The driver gave him a sullen good morning and wheeled the car out into the empty street. Memling lit a cigarette and sat back, huddling into the coat against the penetrating chill. The only competing traffic was military plus a few essential civilian vehicles.

The driver made good time along Uxbridge Road, even though a light rain had begun to fall. Turning on to Greenford Road, they eased to a stop before a barricade. An SP in a yellow mackintosh peered into the car and examined the card the driver held up. Satisfied, he nodded, and they shot ahead. The driver barely slowed for a sharp curve, and then they were driving across a level sweep of brown and lifeless lawn. The car stopped before a bungalow-style building, and Memling got out. He looked about the golf course. Then, as he started to ask the driver a question, the car pulled away, leaving him to his own devices.

Somehow the army had managed to make the luxurious clubhouse look like every other military installation in the world. The interior was nearly as cold as the exterior, and several overcoated clerks worked busily at ancient green desks, ignoring him. The peeling walls were plastered with posters commanding closed mouths, purchase of defence bonds, and increased productivity. An SP came forward to ask his name; his manner and voice were polite. None of the clerks seemed to think that in the least extraordinary, and Memling followed him down a draughty hall lined with closed and padlocked office doors. Standing outside one office was another armed SP who nodded pleasantly to Memling’s guide. Memling found it all rather unmilitary.

The SP opened a door and ushered him in. Colonel Simon-Benet was waiting for him, full of questions about his well-being, as if he were really interested. Memling replied, wondering what was going on, and when Simon-Benet discovered that he had not yet had breakfast, he ordered a tray from the canteen.

Afterwards he took Memling across the corridor to a largish room furnished with school desks. Two men were waiting, and they rose and nodded as the colonel made the introductions. ‘Good, now let’s get down to cases. I have asked the lieutenant to teach you gentlemen how to conduct yourselves as quality control technicians. Lieutenant, you have only three days in which to do so, but they needn’t be letter-perfect, as they have only to fool border guards and security patrols, not other quality control technicians.’

It was late evening before Memling returned to Janet’s flat for his things. The session had lasted all day and into the evening. Meals fetched by the SP guarding the door were taken in the training room. The two men, both Czechs, were quick to learn. Both had university training and so he was able to cover the concepts of statistical sampling, specifications establishment and production records smoothly, in western countries,’ he told them, ‘the quality control organisation almost invariably reports to the legal department. In occupied Europe it seems to report directly to the occupation forces in the person of the German works manager. In the former instance the object is to prevent undue influence by the production or accounting sections, while in the latter case it is to provide a very close check on the native workers to ensure that sabotage is eliminated or at least minimised.’

They left once for an hour in mid-afternoon, and Simon-Benet came in to question him about their progress.

‘Just get them speaking the lingo. All you scientist types have your own jargon meant to confuse the layman and keep him outside your magic circle. By the way, I’ve arranged to transfer you back to your unit as soon as you’re finished here. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to remain and work with me?’

Memling did not hesitate, and he thought afterwards that he may have injured the colonel’s feelings by his quick rejection. ‘Thank you, sir, but no. I would rather return to my unit. I’ve discovered that ‘I’m really not cut out for clandestine work.’ Simon-Benet nodded. ‘As you wish, my boy.’ He hesitated, then said quietly, ‘We’ve just had the news through from MILORG headquarters. The parachute raid on Rjukan failed. Both gliders crashed on the plateau. The survivors were shot. I thought you would want to know.’