Vengeance 10

The day was exceptionally mild, and Fleming drove at breakneck speed through the rolling countryside. Somehow he had obtained an elderly Bentley that had obviously been restored in painstaking detail. With the top down it was difficult to talk, and Memling lay back against the leather seat and closed his eyes, revelling in the fresh air, warm sun, and semblance of freedom the car’s passage provided.

He could remember little of the first three days after the Swedish patrol boat fished him from the water, other than a successive flicker of static scenes; a jouncing ride in an ambulance, soft sounds and sterile walls, a woman in white uniform bending over him, and then nothing.

He awoke in the Allied detention camp at Korsnas, north of Vasteras, in central Sweden. A week later had come a hearing presided over by a civilian and attended by Swedish military officers and one representative each from the British embassy and the International Red Cross. The British diplomat impressed upon him the importance of keeping his mouth shut. At the end of the hearing, conducted entirely in Swedish, he was remanded to the detention camp for the duration of the war. Since then, all his attempts to contact the British embassy had been fruitless.

Routine, he was told in the officers’ billet to which he had been assigned. His fellow internees were mostly aircrew, pilots and one or two Norwegian MILORG Officers who had come overland from Norway after finishing a mission.

‘They’ll get us all back in time, never fear,’ one of the RAF types had told him. ‘Until then, just relax and enjoy life.’

But he could not. Memling was aware that time was running out. Bad weather would set in shortly over the Baltic, and when it did, the RAF would probably cancel all plans to bomb Peenemunde until spring. So he fretted and fumed and made a nuisance of himself at the administration centre trying to contact someone in the embassy.

The internees pretty much had the run of the camp, he discovered, but the perimeter was well guarded by armed sentries and dogs. The food was excellent, and the officers’ club functioned like its counterparts in Britain, even to mess bills. Nor was it difficult to obtain a pass into Korsnas, a village of a few hundred people, or even for a day trip around the countryside. But to obtain a pass, you had to give your parole and he had not been prepared to do that.

Fleming slowed the car and turned off on to a farm track that led back into a field. He kept on until the track bent double and disappeared into a grove of trees where he stopped the car. The naval attaché walked into the field towards the road to make certain they were concealed sufficiently, then strolled back.

‘How about a spot of lunch?’ Fleming opened the trunk, removed a wicker hamper, and spread a blanket beneath a massive beech. ‘Had the hotel put up a basket. Much more pleasant than a roadside cafe. And we can talk here.’

After years of wartime strictures, Memling was amazed at the variety of food that appeared from the hamper: sandwiches of all kinds, canapés, cheeses, sliced and potted meats, and sweets.

‘Had the devil of a time teaching the chef to make a proper sandwich,’ Fleming remarked, offering one. ‘Kept insisting it was sacrilege to put a slice of bread over the top.’ He produced a chilled bottle of wine and pulled the cork with a flourish. ‘A nice Chateau Margaux 1928. Bought several bottles from an old gentleman in Strangnas by the name of Iwan Morelius.’ He sniffed the cork and held the bottle up to the sun. ‘Not bad,’ he muttered, examining the colour with a critical eye, ‘for wartime.’

They ate in silence. The sun filled the glade with light, reminding Memling of his first week in the Mecklenburg forest with the strange Polish woodcutter. Insects droned lazily, and a light breeze rustled trees. A distant cicada thrummed; a small stream ran nearby, and the water chuckled over moss-covered stones. The sounds of summer, he thought.

Fleming glanced at his Rolex wristwatch and broke the silence. ‘I must apologise for taking so long to pull you out of there. The Hun is very well organised in Sweden, and he has a great deal of support from certain types. They know you are alive, and they seem to want you quite badly, which caused no end of furore at the Foreign Ministry. Seems Jerry claimed you were not a British citizen at all but a Belgian working on contract for them. Claimed you murdered some policemen, and wanted you returned to Germany for trial.’

Memling snorted, but Fleming held up a cautioning hand. ‘Wait. It was damned close. There is strong sentiment for Germany in certain quarters of the Foreign Ministry. The warrant had actually been issued, and several policemen and a German Gestapo official were already on their way when I found out about it. You may actually have seen him at the camp. He looks cadaverous.’