That name sounded familiar. Memling recalled his pre-war studies of the Nazi party hierarchy. ‘Heydrich,’ he muttered. ‘I believe that he was once the number-two man in the Gestapo, reporting directly to Himmler?’
‘Close enough. He was, and is still, in command of the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, or Security Service, of the party. He has become a very powerful man – some say he will be named to succeed Hitler – primarily because he has the dirt on every official and officer in Germany and occupied Europe.’ The colonel paused long enough to light a cigar. When it was going to his satisfaction, he remembered his manners and offered his case to the other two. He could not quite hide his relief when they declined.
‘We have been assigned to eliminate Herr Heydrich.’ His voice was soft but with sufficient menace to cause Memling to shiver. ‘And we need your help to do that.’
‘Me? Hell, I don’t even speak Czech. How…’
‘You do not have to speak the language. You are needed for another reason. The agents who will do the actual work are Czech nationals. But they still need a cover. You are going to supply them that cover… as skilled technical types assigned to the Skoda arms works. We believe the skilled worker is accorded high status in occupied Europe. And the Germans positively kowtow to quality control technicians. They just don’t have enough, and a skilled QC man can literally get away with anything short of murder. Do you see?’
Memling nodded. From his own experience he knew Simon-Benet’s theory to be essentially correct. ‘And you want me to teach them how to talk and act like quality control technicians?’ He felt the slow but inexorable surge of fear expanding in his chest at the thought of being sent back into occupied Europe. It had not left him after all; he had not managed to overcome it, and for a moment he thought he might be physically sick.
‘Correct. An easy enough task. You aren’t being asked to parachute in with them, only to teach them what they need to know to survive. You spent enough time in Belgium to see how the Nazis work. And too, they will only have to stay long enough to get the lie of the land, do the job, and get out again. What do you say? I know it’s not as exciting as a commando raid, but it is rather necessary.’
Memling grinned in relief at the news that he would not be expected to accompany them. ‘Of course. Not that I expect I have any choice in the matter.’
‘Decidedly not.’ Simon-Benet turned to Englesby who had remained silent during the exchange. ‘Well then, Charles, you can get on with the paperwork for transferring Lieutenant Memling here on to your ration strength.’
Englesby snorted. ‘I expected that you would want him carried on my budget. I tell you, it just cannot be done. We are already seriously over for my quarter and—’
‘Now, Charles,’ the colonel interrupted as he stood up and motioned Memling to his feet, ‘I’ve always said that no one can figure a way around red tape as well as you.’ He glanced about the room appreciatively. ‘Why, I was telling that to Stewart just the other day, and he agreed with me.’
Stewart Graham Menzies was the director of MI6 and the man known as C. The use of his first name seemed to do the trick, for Englesby subsided with no more than a grimace.
In the outer office Janet Thompson looked up as they closed the door, and the colonel winked at her. She coloured and bent to her typewriter.
‘Look here, Memling, don’t be too concerned. This shouldn’t take more than two or three days. Then they’ll be on their way, and you can return to your unit. In the meantime enjoy a little light duty. I know what you chaps go through. Helped to design the training course myself.’ He saw a bit of scepticism creep into Memling’s expression, nodded, plucked the Fairbairn knife from its scabbard in Memling’s jacket, and whipped it across the room to the door-frame where it thudded directly above an indented nail hole which paint had not quite filled.
‘Didn’t want to break off the point,’ he chuckled. ‘Now, Miss Thompson here, who seems to have taken a shine to you, will fix you up with quarters. Your end of the training will be done in London. Miss Thompson will arrange to have a car call for you at 0700 sharp. Cheerio.’
Simon-Benet flipped the knife back as he went through the door, and Memling caught it by reflex.
‘He’s nothing but an over-age boy.’ Janet shook her head in prim disapproval, imagine, throwing a knife in here like that. What if someone had come through the door at that moment?’
‘I expect they might be dead by now,’ Memling replied thoughtfully. ‘Maybe he did have a hand in designing that damned course after all.’
‘Colonel Simon-Benet? Of course he did. Now, suppose we see about getting you fixed up. First you could do with a bath and a shave.’ She picked up the telephone and dialled a number.
While she was talking on the phone, Memling went to the window and stood looking down on the street below. Again he was struck by the absence of motor traffic and the tremendous number of pedestrians. It was as if the population of London had doubled. And everyone seemed to be in a hurry.
‘Bother!’
He turned to see Janet replace the telephone with an impatient gesture. She glanced at him and her expression softened to a smile, ‘I’m afraid there is nothing available at the BOQ until after 2400 hours. Do you have any friends you can visit until then?’
Memling had to think before he realised there were none. In the entire city of London, he doubted if he knew anyone well enough to impose even for a single night. His few friends or acquaintances had all lived in the same road, and all had died in the bombing raid or been resettled elsewhere. His stomach lurched at the memory of the raid, and he struggled to get hold of himself. The girl was watching, her look of concern suggesting she suspected what was passing through his mind.
Memling shook his head, ‘I’m afraid not.’ He tried to smile, ‘It’s been too long since I’ve spent any time in London… Look here, that’s no problem really. If you can arrange the proper papers for me, there’s an officers’ club in Curzon Street. I can wait there until midnight. I can also get a bath…’
‘You will do no such thing. Those places are terrible and overcrowded. Here.’ She took a key from her purse and pressed it into his hand. ‘You can use my flat. There should be plenty of hot water, although you’ll have to buy a razor. I shall have to work late this evening anyway and probably won’t be home until nearly eight. You get some sleep, and I’ll cook you a hot meal when I come in. And it’s only a short walk to the BOQ in Cleveland Street.’
Memling started to protest but the girl would have none of it. She forced the key into his pocket, wrote out directions for the underground, and gave him his new orders, ration book, and enough money to replace his battledress with civilian clothing.
‘Now go along with you. I have a great deal of work to finish.’ She picked up her notepad and went into Englesby’s office, shutting off his protests. He took the key from his pocket, looked at it a moment, then, conscious of his utter weariness, did as he was told.
Memling was still asleep when Janet unlocked the door and entered the flat. She struggled out of her wet coat and for a moment remained in the narrow entry, too tired to go further. In a strange way, she found herself conscious of Memling’s presence and realised that she could not have explained to anyone else why she had offered him the use of a bedroom – could not even have explained it to herself. It was more than the fact that he was clearly on the verge of exhaustion. London was full of exhausted soldiers. Now that she thought about it, Janet expected it had something to do with their first meeting and Memling’s reaction to Englesby’s fumbled attempt to tell him of his wife’s death. She tried to recall the young, frightened boy who had come to Northumberland Avenue more than a year before and to compare him with the quiet, tense, and competent man now sleeping in the other room. And she thought of her own husband, how two years in the desert had hardened him, changed him irrevocably from the boy she had once known – before he was killed.