Vengeance 10

He came up the well-remembered steps. The cold fresh air blowing off the Thames helped dissolve the memory of the interrogation and the smugness of those who had not been there and who twisted facts to suit their preconceptions. He was free of the terror, and that made the rest endurable. No matter what happened now, Walsch could never touch him. He drew a deep, icy breath and laughed.

Memling crossed Victoria Embankment to stand watching the river for a moment. A policeman hesitated, taking in his worn, baggy clothes, then passed on.

The sky was turning from grey to blue as the sun edged up and the cloud eased away; but the wind had also stiffened, and Memling was thoroughly chilled by the time he had walked up Northumberland Avenue to the grey unassuming building that had been MI6 headquarters for so many years.

Inside, the same elderly porter nodded politely to Memling, as if he had seen him only yesterday. There was no recognition in the nod, and no surprise either at his ill-kempt appearance. It was said the porter condescended to recognise the director but only now and again.

Memling gave his name and asked to see Englesby, and the porter consulted a child’s exercise book in which he kept a list of appointments for the day.

‘I am afraid, sir, that your name is not here. Do you perhaps have the wrong building?’

‘Perhaps Mr Englesby has forgotten, or has not been notified. Please telephone his office.’

A marine sergeant stepped from a tiny cubicle and looked Memling up and down. ‘Here now. What’s this? Lost your way, have you? Off with you now. There’s no…’

Memling shook his hand off. ‘My name is Jan Memling, and I have business here. Who the bloody hell are…’

He shut up abruptly as a revolver was pressed against his head and he was surrounded by three other marines, all heavily armed. His wrists were cuffed, and he was shoved into the cubicle and slammed against the wall.

‘All right, now,’ the sergeant snapped. ‘Just you stand right there, mate. Try any more funny moves and I’ll break your neck.’

Memling heard a clatter of high-heeled shoes on the stairs, and a moment later a woman’s voice was demanding to know what was going on. The officer tried to send her on her way, but she pushed past him.

‘Are you Jan Memling?’ she demanded, and he nodded, bemused.

‘Turn around,’ she snapped, and when he did so she compared his face with the photograph in her hand. ‘Take those handcuffs off that man,’ she told the red-faced soldier, ‘and next time, know what you are about.’

Memling rubbed his wrists where the steel rings had bitten deeply. The sergeant glared at him.

For a long moment he said nothing, then, ‘There are a lot of people like you, Sergeant, across the Channel. They wear black uniforms and they like to abuse people too.’

The man’s face went even redder, and Memling turned to the woman. ‘Thank you, miss. I wish to see Mr Englesby.’

‘I know,’ she smiled. ‘‘I’m his secretary, Janet Thompson. I’ll take you up.’

She turned without waiting for an answer and started up the stairs. Memling followed, thinking that her accent was definitely not London. Closer to south-west with the burr and the zz’s removed. At the top of the steps she gave him a quick smile and led him along to the well-remembered office. He noticed, as she opened the door and half-turned to see if he was following, that her figure was slim but full and that she walked with a slight sway, all of which reminded him very much of Margot. My God, he thought, I’ll see her in a few hours. What a surprise… she’ll come home from the shop and I’ll be there. It was only the strictest self-discipline that had kept him from going straight home as it was.

‘Mr Memling?’

He snapped awake as if from a trance, and she smiled at his awkwardness. ‘‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t quite know where I am yet.’

Englesby was waiting for him in the inner office. He looked up as Janet ushered Memling in, then motioned to a chair set before the desk. ‘Be with you in a moment, Memling.’ He could have been gone only a few hours rather than eight months from the warmth of Englesby’s reception, but he was too tired to care.

To cover the lapse, Janet asked him if he would have a cup of tea; and when Memling shook his head, she glared at Englesby and went out. Englesby read on for a moment more, then closed the file and looked up.

‘Sorry about that. Too damned much to do. Home safe and sound, I see. Bit of a bad time over there?’

Memling realised the questions were rhetorical, and contented himself with a nod.

Englesby shifted in his chair. ‘Had some nonsense come through on the blower that you were asking to be pulled out. Something about vital information. Can’t be true, I told the director.’