Memling had left tea things set out for her, and she smiled at this bit of thoughtfulness as she heated water and took a plate of cold meat from the refrigerator, the last of her week’s ration. She saw a shopping bag full of food and realised that he must have stopped on his way to the flat and used his coupons to buy it. She cleaned up the kitchen quickly, then went through the hall to the bedroom. He had picked her room by the luck of the draw, and she stood just inside the door, the dim hall light spilling over his covered form. He lay sprawled on his back, one arm thrown across his forehead, the other tucked beneath his head; he slept soundly. He did not move when she opened the cupboard door for her night things. For a moment she hesitated, biting her lip, not quite understanding what was happening to her, then went out, closing the door behind her. Janet went back into the kitchen, poured her tea, and picked at the cold tasteless meat until she found herself nodding off. She got up slowly then, recalling her promise to fix him a hot meal. Obviously he needed sleep more at this point.
Janet undressed slowly in the bathroom, shivering in the cold air and grimacing at the way her skin tightened into goose bumps and her nipples grew erect. The last thing she was capable of this night was sex. And she blushed furiously at the thought. Quickly she slipped the woollen nightgown over her head and went through to the empty bedroom. In spite of her exhaustion, sleep did not come quickly. When she did begin finally to drift off, Janet knew why she had offered Memling the room. She needed to feel the presence of a man nearby.
Twelve hours’ sleep had done much to restore him, Memling thought as he peered into the mirror and scraped away six days of stubble. The blackish pouches beneath his eyes were still there, however, and unaccountably, there was a great deal of grey in his hair. Or was that just the electric light? he wondered, twisting his head to see better.
It had taken him a few moments to recall just where he was and why he was in a real bed beneath a feather tick. He had remained motionless, knife in hand, while the fear drained away and objects took on a semi-solidity in the darkness. Finally he sat up and found the bedside lamp. Memory returned with the light, and he was again ashamed of his fear. That strange colonel – what the devil was his name? Simon something, damn it, another of those double-barrelled names; in any event, he had been promised a car for 0700 hours.
He rinsed his face and pulled on his shirt. The clothes he had purchased from stores did not fit all that well, but they were clean and so was he – for the first time in more weeks than he cared to recall. In spite of the regulations, he had run a hot bath the day before. The girl – he persisted in thinking of her as such in spite of the fact that she had to be at least his age if not a bit more – had said to make himself comfortable, and he had extended this to include the use of a bottle of bath salts. He smelled like a French whore, but the luxury of the bubbles and the hot water had been worth it.
Memling found an army topcoat in the hall cupboard and slipped it on wondering to whom it belonged. It was a bit too large but would do. He did not think Janet would mind if he used it. He hesitated outside her bedroom door, then changed his mind. She had looked tired enough when he left Northumberland Avenue the afternoon before, and there was no sense in waking her just to say thank you.
It was just seven o’clock and deathly cold when a green Humber stopped at the kerb and he stepped from the doorway into the back seat. The driver gave him a sullen good morning and wheeled the car out into the empty street. Memling lit a cigarette and sat back, huddling into the coat against the penetrating chill. The only competing traffic was military plus a few essential civilian vehicles.
The driver made good time along Uxbridge Road, even though a light rain had begun to fall. Turning on to Greenford Road, they eased to a stop before a barricade. An SP in a yellow mackintosh peered into the car and examined the card the driver held up. Satisfied, he nodded, and they shot ahead. The driver barely slowed for a sharp curve, and then they were driving across a level sweep of brown and lifeless lawn. The car stopped before a bungalow-style building, and Memling got out. He looked about the golf course. Then, as he started to ask the driver a question, the car pulled away, leaving him to his own devices.
Somehow the army had managed to make the luxurious clubhouse look like every other military installation in the world. The interior was nearly as cold as the exterior, and several overcoated clerks worked busily at ancient green desks, ignoring him. The peeling walls were plastered with posters commanding closed mouths, purchase of defence bonds, and increased productivity. An SP came forward to ask his name; his manner and voice were polite. None of the clerks seemed to think that in the least extraordinary, and Memling followed him down a draughty hall lined with closed and padlocked office doors. Standing outside one office was another armed SP who nodded pleasantly to Memling’s guide. Memling found it all rather unmilitary.
The SP opened a door and ushered him in. Colonel Simon-Benet was waiting for him, full of questions about his well-being, as if he were really interested. Memling replied, wondering what was going on, and when Simon-Benet discovered that he had not yet had breakfast, he ordered a tray from the canteen.
Afterwards he took Memling across the corridor to a largish room furnished with school desks. Two men were waiting, and they rose and nodded as the colonel made the introductions. ‘Good, now let’s get down to cases. I have asked the lieutenant to teach you gentlemen how to conduct yourselves as quality control technicians. Lieutenant, you have only three days in which to do so, but they needn’t be letter-perfect, as they have only to fool border guards and security patrols, not other quality control technicians.’
It was late evening before Memling returned to Janet’s flat for his things. The session had lasted all day and into the evening. Meals fetched by the SP guarding the door were taken in the training room. The two men, both Czechs, were quick to learn. Both had university training and so he was able to cover the concepts of statistical sampling, specifications establishment and production records smoothly, in western countries,’ he told them, ‘the quality control organisation almost invariably reports to the legal department. In occupied Europe it seems to report directly to the occupation forces in the person of the German works manager. In the former instance the object is to prevent undue influence by the production or accounting sections, while in the latter case it is to provide a very close check on the native workers to ensure that sabotage is eliminated or at least minimised.’
They left once for an hour in mid-afternoon, and Simon-Benet came in to question him about their progress.
‘Just get them speaking the lingo. All you scientist types have your own jargon meant to confuse the layman and keep him outside your magic circle. By the way, I’ve arranged to transfer you back to your unit as soon as you’re finished here. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to remain and work with me?’
Memling did not hesitate, and he thought afterwards that he may have injured the colonel’s feelings by his quick rejection. ‘Thank you, sir, but no. I would rather return to my unit. I’ve discovered that ‘I’m really not cut out for clandestine work.’ Simon-Benet nodded. ‘As you wish, my boy.’ He hesitated, then said quietly, ‘We’ve just had the news through from MILORG headquarters. The parachute raid on Rjukan failed. Both gliders crashed on the plateau. The survivors were shot. I thought you would want to know.’