by Joe Poyer
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?’
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 reg
ulations, 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.