Vengeance 10 (25 page)

Memling gave him an anxious glance. ‘What do you think, sir? Have we much of a chance?’

The colonel flicked his cigarette away. ‘Why do you ask me questions like that? You know how I must answer.’

Memling shook his head. ‘Not with me, sir.’

The wind off the loch caught at his thick, fair hair, and whipped it about his head as he sighed. ‘You stand damned little chance, Memling. Damned little. Your Canadians are keen enough and, I don’t doubt, will give a good account of themselves. But they haven’t got the training, and we haven’t the equipment to support them properly. I dare say the objective is important; but in all fairness, you should remember that the real objective is a practice for the big one. London is expecting mistakes, quite a few in fact.’ The older man tapped his cane against his tin leg and studied the surrounding hills, it’s going to be hard, boy. Damned hard. In spite of our precautions, Jerry will be waiting, and that’s only one aspect. The other is lack of training. London thinks that troops can be trained in less than a month for this sort of invasion. Well they’re wrong, but they won’t believe it until they have their faces rubbed in the casualty lists. The problem is training a vast number of men, possibly upwards of a million or more, to invade a continent that has had four years to prepare. This dress rehearsal is designed to find out. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

Memling nodded. ‘I could be shot for hiding in a hole, sir.’

The colonel gave him a sad smile, then clapped him on the arm. ‘That you could, lad. That you could. A sacrificial lamb in either case. Just like we were in the last war at Ypres.’ Somewhat absently he tapped his leg. ‘Didn’t get this there. Happened in a car smash near Brighton twelve years ago. Had absolutely nothing to do with any war.’

‘It doesn’t seem to make any difference, then, does it, sir?’

The colonel gave his leg a last swat and limped on. ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t. Just remember,’ he continued, almost as an afterthought, ‘what you’re about over there. No sense inviting trouble. Think about that.’

Memling did think about it as the train lumbered south from Scotland. The raid against the still-unnamed French coastal town had other objectives which they were not being told about yet. They had given him less than a month to bring his Canadians up to shape. The problem was that with very few exceptions they were fresh from training camps in Ontario. They simply were not ready - by his standards. They needed blooding, a few easy raids into Norway, nothing more than a lightning-fast hit-and-run operation to get them used to the confusion, the mistakes, and the fact that nothing ever went as planned; in short, to teach them what individual initiative really meant. But there was damned all he could do about it now.

Janet was waiting for his train even though it was six hours overdue into Euston. He saw her at the barrier, and she waved and pushed across the crowded concourse until they met under the great clock. Taking his hand, she gave him a soft kiss on the cheek and, as they drew back in mutual embarrassment, leaned forward again and kissed him soundly on the lips.

There were no taxis to be had, naturally, and they walked slowly along Woburn Place, which was thick with pedestrians. As overcast as it was, there was little chance of the Luftwaffe appearing tonight. The Bofors anti-aircraft battery they passed in Tavistock Square was manned, but the crew were relaxing on the park benches with cups of tea and laughing with the NAAFI girls.

Janet had written to thank him for his note a week after he had left in February, and he had replied, thus beginning a correspondence that had become a regular part of their lives.

He had almost ignored her first letter, as he was still haunted by Margot’s death. But Memling was an intensely lonely man, had been most of his life, and the few months he and Margot had had together had worked a permanent change in him. In addition, he was intelligent enough to realise that the more time passed, the more pristine his memories of those brief months became until they had taken on an air of unreality.

Memling was surprised at the rush of excitement he had felt when spotting Janet at the barrier, a slim, pretty, dark-haired girl in a slightly shabby coat and a short victory skirt. He glanced at her now in the glow of a blackout lantern, but the blue light gave her complexion a sickly cast. She felt him looking at her and glanced up and smiled, and his heart turned over.

He struggled for something to say, but the best he could come up with was ‘Did you have much trouble finding me a place in an officers’ club?’

‘Yes. Quite a bit of trouble, in fact.’ She gave him an impish grin. ‘I could not find a room in all of London.’

‘Really?’ was all he could think of to say.

Janet squeezed his hand. ‘Really. You might think me a bit forward, but I am going to have to put you up at my flat again.’

Memling’s breath caught in his throat, and Janet took the moment’s silence for disapproval. ‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking... I mean, perhaps it is too soon...’ She stopped, and as she was still holding his hand, her weight had swung him about to face her. Her expression was somewhere between apprehension and defiance, and Memling stopped fumbling for words.

Janet had arranged to have the following day off, but Memling came wide awake at 4.30 a.m., a hopeless victim of years of discipline. He was standing beside the bed before he was fully awake, reaching for his trousers, at the same time blinking at the darkened room, trying to remember where he was and wondering why his Fairbairn knife was not strapped to his leg - his usual storage place when asleep. Janet turned on the bed lamp, gave him an exasperated look, and ordered him back to bed.

‘Whatever in the world possessed you?’ she demanded sleepily. ‘Why, it’s not even five o’clock and I can sleep as late as I want this morning.’

Memling stretched under the warm blankets, feeling the softness of her back and thighs, and gathered her into his arms. ‘I just wanted to have your full attention,’ he muttered, and began stroking the soft smooth skin that was a wonder to him. She half turned so that her nipples caressed his chest, and his breathing nearly doubled.

‘Now that you have me awake, I suppose we may as well make the best of it.’ She pressed her half-opened lips against his, and her tongue darted into his mouth. After a moment she whispered, ‘You must think me shameless,’ and buried her face against his shoulder until he lifted her head with both hands.

‘No, never. I think of you as the woman with whom I am falling in love.’ He nuzzled her cheek, inhaling the soft, sleepy odour of her skin.

Carefully she spread her thighs and wriggled downwards, and they lay like that for a few moments, holding each other tightly, locking out the world of violence and pain that had surrounded them a little more with each year. Then Janet moved, gently at first, and he followed, each successive thrust coming deeper and faster until she took his face in her hands and crushed her mouth to his, their tongues locked together. It seemed that they held to each other for ever, until their shudders were simultaneous. They continued to cling to one another afterwards.

When Memling awoke the second time, it was after nine and rain pattered on the roof. Janet was asleep, one leg and arm across his body, and he eased from beneath and touched his lips to the gentle hollow in her back. He lay quietly, content with himself and the world for the first time in years. No longer obsessed with the idea that he was betraying Margot, he wondered if his wife, cool, slender and quiet, would have approved of this ebullient and daring young woman. But it no longer mattered so much.

He found his robe in the closet, slipped it on, and went out into the living-room. The flat was tastefully furnished with rather fine antiques from the Regency period, and the blue Oriental carpet was soft beneath his feet. He found the tea in the kitchen and put the water on to boil, then stood at the window for a few moments watching the summer rain fall on the city. The streets glistened as if they had been newly scrubbed. A figure hurried past, umbrella slanted against the rain. The kettle whistled softly just as a blue navy staff car stopped below. Memling scowled at this intrusion of the real world. Not today, he thought, and closed the curtains. He turned back to the stove, shut off the gas, and fixed the tea. He found some breakfast biscuits and carried everything through into the bedroom, whistling reveille.

Just as he was settling back into bed, Janet in his arms and tea finished, the doorbell rang. They looked at each other, Memling shaking his head, ‘Ignore it. It could only be an encyclopaedia salesman.’

Janet giggled as he ran his tongue along her throat. ‘Don’t be silly. They are all in service ...’

‘That’s certainly where they belong, then,’ he growled, and grabbed for her, but Janet slipped laughing to the other side of the bed. The doorbell rang again, this time accompanied by heavy pounding.

‘Christ, he’s going to knock the door down.’ Memling leapt up and, drawing on his robe, headed for the entrance hall.

Throwing open the door, he roared, ‘Look here, whoever you are . . .’ and stiffened to attention. Out of uniform, he was not required to salute, and he stopped himself just in time, then whipped the robe more tightly about himself.

‘Sorry to intrude at a time like this.’ Colonel Oliver Simon-Benet chuckled, and stepped inside. ‘But there is a war on, you know, and none of us are exempt.’ He took off his raincoat, surprising Memling with brigadier’s shoulder boards.

‘Colonel... I mean, ah, Brigadier ... what...?’

But Simon-Benet, looking past him, tipped his hat as Janet appeared in the doorway, not at all embarrassed that both were in their robes.

‘Good morning, Brigadier,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you had your breakfast yet?’

Simon-Benet laughed. ‘Ah, yes, some time ago, I am afraid. I do apologise for interrupting like this, but it is important. I must borrow Lieutenant Memling for an hour or so. Do you mind terribly?’

Janet gave him a sweet smile. ‘Yes, I do mind. And the next time I think you might just telephone to say you are coming, Brigadier.’

Simon-Benet actually coloured at that. ‘I do apologise, but there just was no time. It’s a stroke of luck the lieutenant is in London at all.’

Memling rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Damn it all, Brigadier...’

Simon-Benet scowled, and he gave up. ‘All right, sir. I’ll need a moment to wash and shave.’

Thirty minutes later they were sitting in a cafe a block away, waiting for the waitress to finish distributing eggs and tea. Memling gave the brigadier a sharp glance when she left. ‘This had better be damned good, Brigadier. I am on a week’s leave, you know.’

‘And making the best of it too.’ Simon-Benet grinned, then seriously: ‘Janet’s a damned fine girl, Memling. See you take good care of her.’ He hesitated then and contrived to look around the room without appearing to do so. ‘I wanted to talk with you a bit, in private. It concerns some work you once did for your previous employers.’

Memling picked at the egg. ‘Most of that work was classified secret.’

Simon-Benet hesitated. ‘So it was. But we need only to speak in generalities. Look here, you never did see eye to eye with old Englesby, did you?’

Surprised, Memling shook his head. ‘What has that got to do with ...?’

‘Forget it. Not a question I should have asked. Except that it does explain a good bit. Look here, Memling. You were trained as an engineer. There is a notation in your MI-Six file that you were selected personally by the admiral for that reason. In spite of that fact, you were put on reserve status nearly two years ago and joined the Royal Marines. I’d like to know why?’

Memling looked stubborn. Simon-Benet watched him a moment, then said, ‘It could be quite important.’

‘I left,’ Memling replied in a reluctant voice, ‘because I felt there was little I could do to help the war effort sitting behind a desk reading German technical manuals already ten years out of date. No one paid any attention to my reports anyway. My wife had been killed in a bombing raid, and I felt I needed a bit of a change. I enlisted in the Royal Marines. Simple as that.’

The brigadier played with his glass a moment, then stared through the taped-up plate-glass window at the rain, which continued to slant down even though the cloud had broken to the west and blue sky was becoming visible.

‘I believe there was more to it than that, wasn’t there?’

Memling shrugged. ‘‘I’m not sure I ...’

‘But you do. You returned from Belgium with what you saw as vital information which was totally ignored. You knew that the people who helped you get out were killed, and then you discovered that your wife had died in the blitz. On top of that, a departmental enquiry into your activities in Belgium did not give you a clean bill. It was at that point you joined the Royal Marines where, in view of your reserve status with the Firm, you were commissioned and sent to Home Army Intelligence. You wangled your way into the commandos and have since taken part in several raiding expeditions.’ Simon-Benet gave him a quick grin. ‘Would you say that forms an accurate summary of your career to date?’

Memling had listened with a growing dislike for the brigadier. ‘Yes, sir, that is correct.’

‘In that case’ - Simon-Benet gave him an appraising look - ‘a bit more detail is in order, I think.

‘In 1938 you were sent to Germany. You met a man named Wernher von Braun. How well did you know him?’

‘Wernher?’ Memling looked at Simon-Benet in surprise. ‘You have been doing some digging, haven’t you!’ When the brigadier did not react, he went on. ‘I met Wernher von Braun in Paris in 1934. I was still at school then and interested in rocketry. I had saved all that year to attend a congress on rocket development. Von Braun was a member of the German Society for Space Travel and about my age. I suppose we became friendly because most of the others attending were dabblers and fantasists.’

‘And you two were not?’

Memling frowned. ‘Yes, we were. But we were also realists in the sense that we knew it would not happen unless we were willing to acquire the proper training. I dare say Wernher had learned that lesson sooner than I. In any event, we struck up a friendship that continued by correspondence.