Vengeance 10

by Joe Poyer

  ‘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 soon
er than I. In any event, we struck up a friendship that continued by correspondence.

  ‘Our letters were infrequent and after 1936 stopped altogether. The following year I joined MI-Six and soon had to give up my position in the British Interplanetary Society for, well. . . other reasons.’

  ‘You did not correspond with, or see, von Braun from 1936 to 1938?’

  ‘No. And then strictly by accident. We just happened to be staying at the same hotel. We had dinner that night, and he introduced me to a colleague, a ... Franz something or other.’

  ‘Bethwig,’ Simon-Benet supplied.

  ‘Yes, that’s the name. I next saw von Braun in 1940 at the arms factory in Liege.’

  Simon-Benet sipped his tea. ‘Both times you made reports concerning Germany’s research on long-range rockets?’

  ‘Yes. I assume they are in the files somewhere.’

  ‘The first was, yes. The second seemed to have been misplaced. Carelessness, I was told when it was finally found.’

  Memling grinned. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised. The start of the war caught the old bureaucracy at Northumberland Avenue by surprise. I doubt they have adapted to it yet.’

  ‘They haven’t,’ the brigadier replied wryly. He paused, as if arranging his thoughts. ‘At the moment I am assigned a special task, that of co-ordinating information concerning Germany’s scientific and technical progress in one particular field, that of rocket research.’ ‘I’ll be damned.’

  The brigadier ignored him. ‘I put my staff to searching for further information among various Allied intelligence agencies, and bits and pieces began to crop up, especially from Polish intelligence.’

  ‘Polish intelligence?’ Memling murmured in surprise. ‘Why ever in the world would they be interested in rockets?’

  ‘Seems that parts of Poland are being surveyed for testing sites. In any event, there were quite a few reports stuck here and there that, when assembled, suggest that more is going on than meets the eye. And none of them were duplicated in MI-Six files. I had a talk with Englesby, and he tended to dismiss their importance. When I mentioned your reports he shrugged and made remarks that gave me the impression there was a personality conflict between the two of you.’

  The brigadier waited and, when no comment was forthcoming, called to the waitress for more tea. When she had gone, he fixed Memling with a steady look. ‘I am convinced there is something to this business of German rockets. What about you?’

  Memling shook his head. ‘I thought so at one time, before the war. But since then, no. The rocket motors I saw in Liege were part of a put-up job to trick me into leading the Gestapo to the resistance group operating in the city.’ And with that admission came the familiar sickening despair that had always accompanied any memory of those terror-filled last days in Belgium.

  ‘Nonsense! There is something to all this, and your estimates of the size and range of the German rocket are not so different from those made by my own staff from information obtained through other sources. A remarkable job considering the circumstances. That is why I want you to come to work for me.’

  Memling shook his head again. ‘I know damned well that whatever information you have must have been planted by the Nazis. Damn it, they tricked me, and God knows how many people died because of my stupidity.’

  The brigadier regarded him for a moment. ‘There does seem to be a certain arrogance in that statement. It suggests that since you were, or thought you were, fooled, everyone else will be as well.’

  ‘Wait a moment …’

  Simon-Benet held up a hand. ‘I know what you meant. I am afraid, however, that you must resign yourself to the fact that you are wrong. The rockets do exist and you are going to work for me.’

  ‘I can’t . . . sir. At least not until after the next mission. My section is raw and needs ...’

  ‘One junior officer more or less is not going to affect the war effort all that much. This might. I’ll allow you the rest of the day. Report to number Eighteen Red Lion Square tomorrow morning at 0700 sharp.’

  Memling toyed with his cup a moment. ‘You don’t seem to leave me any option.’

  ‘I can’t afford to. This isn’t a game.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence, which the brigadier finally broke. ‘I suppose you will stay on with Janet? Housing is very difficult in London now.’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ Memling started. ‘I can’t just move in there ... I don’t even know if she’d have me.’

  ‘If you want my opinion, she needs you about as badly as you need her.’

  ‘But good God, man, I can’t just...’

  The brigadier stood up grinning. ‘A damned puritan, hey? Let me tell you, boy, none of us may survive this war. If a bullet doesn’t find us at the front, a bomb might get us here in London. So if you can provide comfort to another, do so. Personally, I think prostitution and the theatre are the two noblest professions in which mankind can engage. Both offer entertainment and, best of all, relief from the outrages of the world.’

  He touched his swagger stick to his cap and ducked out into the rain. The patch of blue sky, Memling noted, had disappeared, and it was coming down harder than ever.

  ‘October has been a busy month for us at Peenemunde,’ Franz Bethwig told his gathered staff. ‘The first wholly successful launch of the A-Four was made on the third of this month. I am proud of you all and the work you performed under arduous and adverse conditions.’

  The staff applauded, and he smiled in acknowledgement. ‘I’m learning how to handle them, he thought. Perhaps Heydrich was right after all. ‘Today,’ he went on, ‘we have a much tougher job to do. With the A-Four we had behind us the assembled resources of a powerful nation - even though we lacked a meaningful top priority.’ He waited for, and received, the expected laughter. ‘But we are operating under even tougher conditions with the A-Ten. We all know how demanding the SS has become, and with good reason. We must push development as quickly as possible to spare the Reich the damage of a long-term, if ultimate, victory. For that reason Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler will arrive secretly at Peenemunde this morning to witness the first test flight.’

  As he expected, a low murmur filled the room. The SS was never welcome; Himmler doubly so. ‘I expect you all to conduct yourselves with the utmost courtesy and respect for his rank and that of his aides.’ Bethwig paused a moment, then grinned wickedly. ‘I myself will do my best to keep those desk commandos out of your way.’

  The room remained silent, except for the muffled exclamation of a horrified secretary. No one joked about Himmler.

  Scowling, Bethwig continued: ‘I am pleased to announce that the countdown is proceeding well. We are holding at the moment, waiting for the Reichsführer’s aircraft to arrive. We have also received word from our two picket submarines in mid-Atlantic. Both are on station. The count will resume in one hour. We expect to launch this evening at 1900 hours.’

  Franz and his new secretary, a pretty young land service girl named Katherine, went out into the watery autumn sunshine; a driver was waiting to take them to Launch Stand XII located near the centre of the island. The car drove off, keeping to the middle lane to avoid the pedestrians and bicyclists streaming towards the canteens for the lunch break. Few of them, Bethwig knew, were yet aware of the A-10; by this evening all would know about it. The massive test stand could be isolated and guarded in its remote, marshy section of the island, and the massive first stage could be shrouded during assembly and its move to the stand. But once the engines reached full thrust and the gargantuan vehicle rose above the trees and, one hoped, streaked down range, there would be no more secrecy. Bethwig’s staff had estimated that the noise would be heard in Stettin, some ninety kilometres distant.

  As the car approached the test complex they had an occasional glimpse of the massive structure rearing above the pines, and even after a year and a half Bethwig still could not shake the feeling of awe it inspired in him.

  The main control centre was housed in
a half-buried bunker located a kilometre from the launch stand. He made a quick series of inspections among the consoles, then went up to the bunker’s roof where the cameramen were running checks on their equipment. One or two nodded, but no one spoke. Ordinarily the crews would have been excited and expectant; but the spectre of Himmler and his SS minions had dampened their enthusiasm. The A-4, a much smaller and less-complicated vehicle, had required three attempts before a successful flight was achieved. And numbers four and five, fired since, had failed. The crews realised that this was to be expected, but no one knew how the Reichsführer, the second most powerful man in the country and reputedly not the most stable individual, would view a failure on their part. The A-4 was an army project, and they were no strangers to failure. The A-10 was an SS project, and the SS did not admit to failure. Himmler’s reputation was on the line, and all recalled how the once mighty Goering had fallen when his vaunted Luftwaffe had failed to polish off the RAF in the summer of 1940; and how the army had sunk in esteem when the Russians shoved them back from the very gates of Moscow the previous autumn.

  Bethwig tried to shake off these gloomy thoughts. The test firing sequence from static mountings had been pushed hard during the previous six months and had produced fairly consistent results. Lack of time had prevented them from incorporating the newest versions of his film cooling and fuel injection systems into the A-4 engines, but starting from scratch with the A-10, they had been able to do so. Combustion chamber overheating was a thing of the past. And only rarely did lethal amounts of fuel flood the chamber prior to ignition and cause an explosion. The construction and testing of the engines had proven easier than expected; relatively easier, he amended. The new fuel injection system made it possible to cluster the powerful engines to produce the massive thrust needed to break up and out of Earth’s gravitational well and reach the moon. He shook his head unconsciously. It never ceased to amaze him when he thought how great were the technical strides they had managed in the last three years.

  ‘Ah, here you are. Daydreaming, heh?’ Himmler had come on to the roof accompanied by two aides.