The girl gave no sign that she had heard, but rolled her eyes in exasperation and flounced back to her desk. Just for an instant Memling was tempted to call her back and repeat the message, but it was far too dangerous. He would have to hope she understood. His face was flushed and his heart pounded as he gathered up the sheets and left.
Walsch was waiting in the corridor. ‘I hope that you have made progress.’ He chuckled and walked away.
The final whistle sounded, and he joined the throng of workers edging towards the gate. The sun was setting in a burst of colour, and it was intensely cold. The line shuffled forward, and as it rounded the building Memling saw with a sinking heart that the guards had been doubled. Troops in full combat gear stood elbow to elbow along the way leading to the barrier. Memling noticed that none of the workers were being motioned out of line. This kind of intense inspection was usually carried out only as a pretext for selecting deportees.
As Memling neared the barrier a civilian stepped from the shed that housed the security offices, and spoke to an officer standing near the checkpoint. Wisps of vapour wreathed their heads as they talked, and then the civilian pointed directly at Memling. The officer turned, nodded, and sauntered towards the line of soldiers. The man went back to the shed, and Walsch appeared in the doorway. He smiled at Memling and nodded.
Walsch motioned again with his head, and Memling turned. A gallows had been erected on a wheeled cart stored in the alley between two buildings. From the crossbeam glinted a wire noose. Memling swung around, anger overriding the shock of fear. His lips formed a single obscenity, and Walsch laughed and turned back into the shed.
‘Papers, you stupid bastard,’ a soldier shouted at him, and Memling jerked around to see that he was already at the barrier. He braced himself as Walsch appeared behind, grinning his death’s-head grin. The soldier had slung his bayoneted rifle over his right shoulder to leave both hands free to handle the papers. With any luck, Memling thought, I could take it from the guard. As he reached inside his coat for the papers he rehearsed the moves in his mind. With the rifle and bayonet he might kill two Nazis before they shot him down. With any luck, one would be Walsch. The guard took his papers, and Memling was suddenly elated. It was over. They would not dangle him from a wire noose today. He drew a breath, drunk with the cold, acrid tang that filled his throat and lungs.
‘Pass.’
The barrier was open, and the guard motioned him on impatiently. Memling stumbled through, the sudden reversal draining away the adrenalin to leave him weak and nauseated. Somehow he found, and mounted, his bicycle. A trick, another damned trick to terrorise him, he realised. Walsch was playing with him, keeping him off balance with fear so that he would never know when they might drag him to the wire.
Headlights swept over him, lighting up the street. He glanced over his shoulder at the thin slits of hooded light from the familiar Volkswagen.
The explosion knocked him from the bicycle and spun him against the kerb. Dazed, he struggled to his knees just as the Volkswagen’s petrol tank went up in flames. A man flopped half out of a door, clothes burning. A figure dashed across the road, reached into the flames, and jumped back, holding a machine pistol triumphantly aloft for an instant before firing one shot into the burning man’s head. Several more shots were fired, and a lorry burst into the street. Figures jumped down, grabbed and hustled Memling into the back. A second explosion blew the Volkswagen to pieces, digging a huge crater in the street. Someone laughed, and the lorry lurched, backed, jerked once more, as it ran up and over the kerb to the sound of automatic weapons’ fire and a third, crashing explosion.
The lorry raced through the narrow streets, throwing him from side to side on the splintered floorboards. Two men were framed against the open back as they crouched behind the tailboard, machine pistols pointing out. A match flared, and he turned to see Paul’s face illuminated a moment as he lit two cigarettes. He passed one to Memling.
‘Surprised?’
Memling pushed himself up on the hard bench beside the resistance leader and took the cigarette. The lorry hit a pothole, and both were thrown against the side. Paul swore and rapped on the glass window above his head with the butt of a pistol; the lorry slowed appreciably.
‘Everyone drives like a Chicago gangster,’ he muttered.
Memling finally managed to assemble an entire sentence. ‘What in hell is going on?’
‘The Gestapo was on to you. We could not afford to let you be taken.’
Memling grunted and braced himself. ‘Did you get Maria away?’
Paul flung the cigarette on to the floorboards where it exploded in a cascade of sparks, and swore bitterly. ‘We knew that you were interviewed by one Captain Jacob Walsch at thirteen thirty-five yesterday afternoon. They had hoped to panic you into doing something foolish, but you appear to have handled them admirably. When Maria’s telephone message came we decided to move tonight. Unfortunately it was too late for her. She was arrested this afternoon.’
Memling was shocked into silence. He had not expected that Maria would be arrested, rather that she would be watched and followed to uncover other members of the resistance. Paul sensed the direction of his thoughts.
‘The Gestapo would not waste the time watching her. As soon as they were certain she was a member of our group, they took her in for interrogation. They have methods which are much quicker and surer than cloak-and-dagger games.’
‘Interrogation,’ Memling echoed, remembering the beating.
‘It is much worse for a woman,’ Paul went on remorselessly. He paused to light another cigarette, and in the glow of the match Memling could see the bleakness in his eyes. ‘There are so many more things they can do to…’
‘Christ, I….’
The Belgian was silent a moment, then Memling felt the movement as he shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about it. It was not your fault. You did exactly what you should have done. They may have been watching her before you made contact. It was probably through her they came on to you. Not the other way round.’
‘Where is she now? Do they…?’
‘As I said, do not worry. She is beyond their reach, and she told them nothing. Of that I am certain.’
‘But how…?’
‘It was her decision, made when she joined. Maria had a family. She knew what would happen to them if she were caught, and so did they. She could not run. Therefore she could only wait to be arrested. She will be dead now. All of us carry a small poison pill.’
‘Good Christ!’
‘You have no idea what they can do to you in their torture chambers.’ Paul described a few of their methods, and Memling felt sick. ‘They are not human, none of them. They, men like this Walsch, delight in inflicting pain, the most savage pain imaginable. You would have had only a taste. Death is a small price to pay to escape their attention.’
Memling took a deep breath, beginning to recover from the shock. He shook his head as if to rid himself of the knowledge, and his fists clenched so hard, a joint popped. He stared at his hands in the darkness, struck by the certain knowledge they were covered with blood. In spite of what Paul had told him, he knew that he was at fault, that he and he alone had led the girl to her death by insisting on the meeting.
The lorry lurched over a grade crossing and sped on. The canvas flap had been lowered, and the air inside had grown stuffy in spite of the frigid dampness. ‘Where are we going?’ he muttered.
‘To meet an aeroplane. I am having you flown out tonight.’
In spite of his self-loathing, Memling felt a surge of hope. ‘I don’t understand. Did London agree?’ It was inconceivable they would… he was far too unimportant…