Vengeance 10

‘Maybe,’ Memling replied doubtfully. ‘But my superior, the man with whom they will check, is the same as then.’

Paul nodded. ‘I understand. However, there is nothing else I can do. Our contacts with London are as yet quite limited. Your government is only beginning to pay attention to resistance organisations on the Continent. They are still preoccupied with a Nazi invasion threat.’ He glanced about suddenly.

‘I have spent far too much time here as it is. I will send a report through as soon as possible, and if there are further requests for information, they will be passed on to you. Otherwise’ — he paused and laid a hand on Memling’s arm — ‘everything will remain as before. Do not contact us except in an emergency. You have done quite well to date. If I need any further information, the request will come through Maria.’

Memling could not keep the concern from his face, and Paul chuckled. ‘If you doubt her reliability, then she has done well. Believe me when I tell you her attitude towards the Nazi is an act. She is my most valuable source of information. You may continue to trust her with your life.’ Paul stressed the word continue.

The Belgian clapped him on the arm and walked away without looking back. Memling leaned on his bicycle and found a cigarette. Two in one day was extravagant, but in view of the risk, the tension, the disappointment, and his empty stomach, he felt he deserved it. The sun had broken through in one final gesture of defiance and set the storm clouds afire. The Hopital des Anglais glowed as did the distant buildings of the Academie des Beaux- Arts. It would require a Constable to capture those colours, he thought; and the homesickness that overwhelmed him then was devastating.

* * *

The door slammed back against the stop, and two SS men stamped into the office, followed by a young officer. Work stopped abruptly as the five technicians stared in fear at the sudden apparition. Memling’s fingers convulsed, and his pencil snapped, cracking across the silent room like a gunshot. The door to Belden’s office flew open, and the director of quality control rushed out ready to protest the intrusion — until he saw the SS flashes on the officer’s collar. The officer ignored him and stared at each technician in turn, but it was on Memling that his stare lingered longest.

‘Pieter Diecker?’

Memling stood. ‘I am Pieter Diecker,’ he said, hoping the terror in his voice was not apparent.

The officer glanced at him, then at the partially disassembled machine pistol on the workbench and nodded. One of the SS enlisted men slung his rifle and stepped forward to grasp Memling’s arm, and he was led to the door without a word.

Eyes followed their progress as Memling was hustled through the factory, but not a head was raised. Crammed between the two soldiers who followed the officer, he was conscious of the smell of their unwashed uniforms, the odour of heavy Balkan tobacco that hung about them both, and the red smear of birthmark on the neck of the man to his left.

Even before they crossed the yard, which was swathed in a frigid mist, Memling had been under no illusion about their destination. And he was badly frightened. If they had found him out, there was no hope. The fear that gripped him was like nothing he had ever experienced before. He felt as if he were frozen, as if time had slowed, his body reacting only to autonomic control.

He was taken to a single-storey building, little more than a shed, where a man several inches taller and at least two stone heavier than him, signed a receipt, then pointed to an ironclad door.

The room beyond contained a single chair and a bright lamp fastened to the ceiling. Memling was shoved to stand beneath the lamp. He raised a hand to shade his eyes, but it was slapped away. He heard footsteps and the door slammed.

It was intensely wearying to stand with his hands at his sides, squinting against the glare that grew more painful as the minutes crawled by. His feet began to protest, and the joints of his knees throbbed. When he heard the door open, he actually experienced a moment of relief; an instant later a blow sent him sprawling against the wall.

Memling suppressed the oath just in time and pushed himself up — only to receive a sharp kick in the ribs. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked him up to meet a punch that snapped his head back against the wall. A second punch beneath the heart drove every bit of air from his lungs and left him paralysed and gasping. He rolled on to his side, knees drawn up, and struggled to breathe.

‘Please, Mr Diecker,’ a quiet, understanding voice murmured. ‘You must stand quite still. My friend here has had a bad night and is quite impatient this morning. You have been invited to assist in a police investigation. It is a small, rather unimportant matter, but’ — the man’s tone was apologetic — ‘we are still required to perform our duty. We do hope you will be willing to help. It would save us a great deal of time and trouble.’