Vengeance 10

The ground came up fast. The lake had been misleading; it was further away from his point of impact than he had thought. Memling had just enough time to spot the pine tops, yank his shrouds to the left, and force relaxation into his knees before he smacked hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

He lay for some minutes, face pressed against damp moss, while he sought to regain his breath. When he could struggle painfully to his feet, the full realisation that he was in Germany broke on him and he had to sit down until the nausea passed. With few exceptions, every man, woman and child he encountered from now on would be his enemy.

At the same time, he experienced the heightening of senses that fear induced. The night was suddenly alive with a myriad of sounds, and even the darkness seemed to recede. His chute had caught on a pine branch, and that had upset his landing. Working quickly, he manoeuvred the canopy loose, tearing a long gash in the silk, and stuffed the endless yards of material back into the pack. He tied the flaps together and hunched down beneath the tree, listening.

He hadn’t seen the signal. And now there were only the normal night sounds to be heard: the scurrying of a small animal, the droning of insects, the bark of a distant fox, and once the flutter of wings as a night predator cruised past. He had been told as little as possible about his contact on the principle that the less he knew about the fledgling German resistance movement, the less he could betray during interrogation.

The hours inched by, and still he huddled beneath the tree, unmoving except for his eyes. Towards dawn he heard a cough some distance away and slid the Walther from his pocket, checked that the silencer was screwed on tight, and pushed the safety catch up with his thumb. A few moments later he heard a thin whistling. The sky had begun to lighten, so that he could make out large objects, but with the light had come a ground mist that softened and obscured outlines.

The whistling was closer now, and he stepped back into the trees.

It could be a woodcutter getting an early start or a routine patrol — although he could not imagine wasting manpower to patrol such an isolated section of the country. And it was not likely that a patrol sent out to find him would make so much noise.

Memling found himself staring at an apparition. The man, or woman, he could not be certain which, was dressed in a ragged jacket and pants; broken-down boots were tied on to its feet, a shapeless hat sat atop long greasy hair, and an axe was slung over one shoulder.

The apparition stopped, leaned on the axe, stared around, then asked in heavily accented English, ‘Where you are, Tommy?’

The man’s voice was deep, well modulated, and totally inappropriate to his appearance.

‘The password be’s Birmingham.’

Memling worked his way back into the trees as the man shrugged and sank down on to his haunches to wait. Memling moved silently back along his path, pausing often to listen and search the fog-shrouded trees for signs of a German patrol. The correct password was reassuring but not in itself sufficient. There had been plenty of time for the real resistance contact to be captured and the password extracted.

Memling went half a mile to the west, then described a wide circle south so that he approached his former location from the opposite direction. There had been no sign of any German activity; no sign, in fact, that anyone had been in the area in a long while. Jan came in through the trees, using the sparse underbrush as a screen, and the ragged woodcutter was still waiting. As Memling settled down to watch, the man yawned, shrugged, and stood up.

‘Tommy, I have not yet my breakfasts. When you satisfy yourself, you follow my tracks. I will have breakfasts waiting you. Okay?’

The man chuckled, and Memling gave it up. He stepped into the clearing, pistol in his right hand, eyes searching in every direction.

‘Oho! You are good, Tommy. Trusting nobodies. Good. Live to an old age, maybe. My name being Wolcowitz. Of Polish citizenships.’

Memling regarded him dubiously. ‘Polish? In Germany?’

‘Of course, and why not forever sakes? No Jew or officer. Just Wolcowitz the woodcutter.’

‘Woodcutters don’t normally speak English.’

The Pole bellowed with laughter, and Memling flinched. ‘For the love of God,’ he hissed, ‘keep quiet!’

The Pole shouldered his axe and motioned around at the trees. ‘Whyever do you say? Is no German nearby. None in woods. Only me, Wolcowitz. All Germans in Russia, fighting. Good place for them. Germans and Russians all kill each other, world be better place. Finn tell me once only Russian he like to see is over iron sights. For me, same with German. Come now. I quite hungries.’ Whistling, the Pole led off through the woods.

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