Vengeance 10

Finally they drew up before the building in Northumberland Avenue, and Crawford waved Memling out. The car remained in position until he had opened the heavy oak door and stepped in. The hall was much the same, smelling of wax and age. The mahogany panelling still shone from daily polishing, and the porter still sat in his little office, looking less wizened than when Memling had last seen him — as if the war agreed with him. A different marine sergeant watched from the end of the hall. The porter nodded the usual greeting, failed to remark on his dirty battledress, and spoke softly into the telephone.

The hall was cold, as was every building in Britain these days. Jan perched on a chair. His eyes drifted closed as the events of the past few days began to fade. The destroyer had taken them off after dark and had run down the fjord in a nightmare of darkness, fog, and gunfire, which they dared not return. The fog had continued most of the morning before melting away at noon, and RAF Mosquitoes had arrived to provide a semblance of air cover. But by mid-afternoon the planes were forced to leave as the anti- cyclonic front that had favoured their landing in Norway moved west towards Britain, hauling with it the rain and fog and leaving their particular area of the North Sea in weak sunlight. It had taken the Luftwaffe only an hour to find them.

Fortunately for them, Driscoll had done his work well. The Ju.87 dive-bombers had to come from further north, and the ship’s gunners had done a creditable job of holding them off, even damaging one severely enough to send it limping home before dusk caused the Stukas to break off. There had been two submarine alerts during the night, but the threat had never materialised. Memling had snatched an hour’s fitful sleep before the seas began to break and he was seasick.

‘Lieutenant Memling?’

Memling opened his eyes to see a neat pair of ankles. Momentarily intrigued, he followed them up past dimpled knees which even the heavy lisle wartime stockings could not conceal, past the hem of a victory skirt which caused momentary pause, then past a neat waist, breathtaking bust, and a pert and somehow familiar face framed by long dark hair. He got hastily to his feet, suddenly conscious that he had not shaved or bathed in five days.

‘Hello.’ Memling was certain he had met her before.

She smiled and indicated the staircase. ‘Will you follow me, please?’

As they climbed the stairs she glanced back with an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry we must walk, but the electricity to the lift has been shut off.’

Memling shrugged. ‘Climbing stairs is supposed to be healthy.’ He wanted to say ‘good for your figure’, but refrained.

‘I wouldn’t think you needed exercise, Lieutenant. You look fit enough.’

Before he could answer, she hesitated and half turned to him. His head was level with her chest, and he dragged his eyes up to her face with some difficulty. ‘You wouldn’t remember me, Lieutenant Memling, but we met just after you returned from Belgium. ‘I’m Mr Englesby’s assistant, Janet Thompson.’

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.