‘You could say so. However reluctantly. They do not, understandably enough, wish to give up an agent on the ground. But I convinced them that your information is much more important than any vague plans they have for the future.’ The lorry rounded another comer, and in the fading light cast by a lone street lamp Memling could see Paul’s cold expression. ‘Be thankful they did agree. Otherwise, we would have had to kill you back there.’
‘But…’
Paul’s voice was harsh now. ‘You were to be arrested tonight. After interrogation, what was left of you would have been hanged in the factory yard tomorrow morning. Maria would have been hanged beside you.’
He drew an audible breath. ‘We could not chance your arrest. Your information concerning the rockets is far too important to be lost. I repeated your calculations and arrived at much the same answers. With such weapons, the Nazis will win this war. If you had been taken, you would have betrayed us. You had no way of killing yourself quickly, whereas Maria did. It is impossible to resist them – if pain does not work, drugs will.’
Jan nodded. The news of independent confirmation of his calculations did much to relieve his indecision. Looked at in that light, his nebulous plans for coursing the hills to inflict damage on the enemy in a series of brilliant, if short-lived, guerrilla actions was more than foolish; it was stupid, little short of an adolescent fantasy.
His thoughts turned inevitably to the woman. She had exuded sexuality as some people did friendliness or hostility. That was a valuable, a priceless, asset that could have provided her a comfortable life under the German occupation. Instead, she had chosen to live on the edge of madness. Why? What was it that drove people like her, like Paul, like the driver and the two men crouched beside the tailboard? He discounted his own activities on the grounds that he had been forced by circumstances. But they had not. Why? Patriotism? He doubted that. Certainly there were other, safer ways to fight the Nazi, ways that did not mean a slow, painful death at the hands of sadists who delighted in inflicting the worst possible pain.
After what seemed hours the lorry slowed and lurched to one side. They had turned off the road and were travelling at a much slower speed now. Memling had the impression that they were moving uphill, up a slope full of turns and twists that caused the motor to labour and the gears to grind painfully. The canvas cover had been rolled up again, and he could see dark masses of trees on either side. The lorry slowed again, and at a word from Paul the two men scrambled over the back and disappeared. They were travelling at a walking pace now, and Paul knelt at the rear, his machine pistol resting stock down on his bent knee. There was silence except for the rumble of the engine. He saw Paul’s head lift to search the sky which was filling quickly with broken cloud.
The lorry stopped, and the driver rapped on the window. Paul climbed out, followed by Memling. A torch beam sprang out of the blackness, and Memling jumped. One of the men materialised beside them and made his report to Paul in tones too low for Memling to hear. The man disappeared again, and Paul gestured with his torch, indicating a narrow path through the forest. They walked until the trees fell away on either side, and the Englishman realised that he was on the verge of a large clearing.
‘Is this the landing site?’
‘We’ve used it only once before. We’re sure the Germans do not know about it. They are scattered thinly in the countryside as yet, preferring to hold most of their forces in the metropolitan areas.’
Memling shifted from foot to foot, uneasy that he could think of nothing to say. His guilt was growing with the realisation that soon he would be going home, flying out of danger, while Paul and the rest had to remain behind. He refused to let himself think about the girl.
The wind was fresher here on the edge of the trees, and the sense of oppression caused by the dense forest had eased. Memling stamped his feet and jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, wishing he had a decent coat and gloves. Paul gave him another cigarette, and they smoked behind cupped hands. Afterwards the Belgian tucked the packet into his pocket without a word. It was nearly an hour before they heard the distant drone of an aircraft. The wind played tricks with the sound, so that he was taken by surprise when the first flare shot up. In the pitch-blackness the orange glare seemed to light the entire horizon. The plane circled once as the pilot lined up on his landing approach. Paul stamped impatiently, turning to stare back into the trees or around the far unseen edges of the clearing as the aeroplane drifted towards them. Memling sensed the air of uncertainty, and his stomach knotted tighter until nausea caught at the back of his throat. He restrained the gag reflex with great difficulty.
The aircraft had reached the far edge of the clearing, and they could see it now as a vague shape over the first of the oil flares. The engine beat changed as the pilot throttled back. It fled past then and settled with an audible thump on to the frozen field. The engine ran up as the plane swung about and, as Paul waved his electric torch, began to taxi back towards them.
Memling followed him on to the frozen field. Paul was shouting to him now over the noise of the approaching aircraft: ‘…damned fools in London we need weapons and food. Impress that on them. No more propaganda leaflets…’
The passenger door swung open as the pilot turned around once more, ready for take-off. The sky exploded with light, and geysers of dirt and grass shot upward. Paul shouted for him to run, but the field was uneven and full of grassy hummocks and dead berry vines that clutched at his boots and trouser legs. A heavy machine-gun ripped the surface as he ran, gasping for breath. The Lysander aircraft was painted a flat black, and it was a moment before he realised it was rolling forwards in fits and jerks, propeller turning at full speed, the pilot allowing him every last possible chance by standing on the brakes.
An amplified voice shouted at him to halt, first in Flemish, then in German, and finally in English. There was a burst of explosions at one end of the clearing, and he could see the flicker of small-arms fire. Memling veered suddenly to his right, and a stream of bullets cut a deep furrow past his feet. He stumbled and nearly fell. The pilot saw what he was doing and at the last moment released the brakes. The aircraft jumped ahead. Memling ducked to avoid the strut, and as the pilot stamped the brakes one last time, he jumped and caught the cockpit coaming where he hung, feet scrabbling for purchase on the landing step, while the aircraft bounded ahead. The field was now in continuous eruption as successive explosions sparkled about them; something slicked past his leg as he hauled himself up and into the cockpit. The Lysander bounced one more time and was airborne. Memling could still hear the iron voice roaring at them as streams of tracers hosed the sky and they banked for the protection of the forest. There was just time to look back and impress upon his mind for ever the searchlight playing along the fringe of trees, the two armoured vehicles firing long strings of tracers, the flaring oil beacons at either end of the field, and, from the forest itself, the pinpoint flashes of answering gunfire as Paul’s group delayed the inevitable.
Then the engine shuddered and racketed as the Lysander lurched. Tracers whispered past, and for an instant they were standing on the left wing thirty feet above the treetops. The plane came upright with insane slowness, and the trees fled.
Not until the Channel coast had they outflown the anticyclonic disturbance and broken out of the nightmarish winds and cloud. There was nothing to see below, not even the lights of a ship to break the immense darkness. Not until the pilot was lining up for his approach did Memling realise they had crossed the English coast and were home.