He found his robe in the closet, slipped it on, and went out into the living-room. The flat was tastefully furnished with rather fine antiques from the Regency period, and the blue Oriental carpet was soft beneath his feet. He found the tea in the kitchen and put the water on to boil, then stood at the window for a few moments watching the summer rain fall on the city. The streets glistened as if they had been newly scrubbed. A figure hurried past, umbrella slanted against the rain. The kettle whistled softly just as a blue navy staff car stopped below. Memling scowled at this intrusion of the real world. Not today, he thought, and closed the curtains. He turned back to the stove, shut off the gas, and fixed the tea. He found some breakfast biscuits and carried everything through into the bedroom, whistling reveille.
Just as he was settling back into bed, Janet in his arms and tea finished, the doorbell rang. They looked at each other, Memling shaking his head, ‘Ignore it. It could only be an encyclopaedia salesman.’
Janet giggled as he ran his tongue along her throat. ‘Don’t be silly. They are all in service…’
‘That’s certainly where they belong, then,’ he growled, and grabbed for her, but Janet slipped laughing to the other side of the bed. The doorbell rang again, this time accompanied by heavy pounding.
‘Christ, he’s going to knock the door down.’ Memling leapt up and, drawing on his robe, headed for the entrance hall.
Throwing open the door, he roared, ‘Look here, whoever you are…’ and stiffened to attention. Out of uniform, he was not required to salute, and he stopped himself just in time, then whipped the robe more tightly about himself.
‘Sorry to intrude at a time like this.’ Colonel Oliver Simon-Benet chuckled, and stepped inside. ‘But there is a war on, you know, and none of us are exempt.’ He took off his raincoat, surprising Memling with brigadier’s shoulder boards.
‘Colonel… I mean, ah, Brigadier… what…?’
But Simon-Benet, looking past him, tipped his hat as Janet appeared in the doorway, not at all embarrassed that both were in their robes.
‘Good morning, Brigadier,’ she said brightly. ‘Have you had your breakfast yet?’
Simon-Benet laughed. ‘Ah, yes, some time ago, I am afraid. I do apologise for interrupting like this, but it is important. I must borrow Lieutenant Memling for an hour or so. Do you mind terribly?’
Janet gave him a sweet smile. ‘Yes, I do mind. And the next time I think you might just telephone to say you are coming, Brigadier.’
Simon-Benet actually coloured at that. ‘I do apologise, but there just was no time. It’s a stroke of luck the lieutenant is in London at all.’
Memling rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Damn it all, Brigadier…’
Simon-Benet scowled, and he gave up. ‘All right, sir. I’ll need a moment to wash and shave.’
Thirty minutes later they were sitting in a cafe a block away, waiting for the waitress to finish distributing eggs and tea. Memling gave the brigadier a sharp glance when she left. ‘This had better be damned good, Brigadier. I am on a week’s leave, you know.’
‘And making the best of it too.’ Simon-Benet grinned, then seriously: ‘Janet’s a damned fine girl, Memling. See you take good care of her.’ He hesitated then and contrived to look around the room without appearing to do so. ‘I wanted to talk with you a bit, in private. It concerns some work you once did for your previous employers.’
Memling picked at the egg. ‘Most of that work was classified secret.’
Simon-Benet hesitated. ‘So it was. But we need only to speak in generalities. Look here, you never did see eye to eye with old Englesby, did you?’
Surprised, Memling shook his head. ‘What has that got to do with…?’
‘Forget it. Not a question I should have asked. Except that it does explain a good bit. Look here, Memling. You were trained as an engineer. There is a notation in your MI-Six file that you were selected personally by the admiral for that reason. In spite of that fact, you were put on reserve status nearly two years ago and joined the Royal Marines. I’d like to know why?’
Memling looked stubborn. Simon-Benet watched him a moment, then said, ‘It could be quite important.’
‘I left,’ Memling replied in a reluctant voice, ‘because I felt there was little I could do to help the war effort sitting behind a desk reading German technical manuals already ten years out of date. No one paid any attention to my reports anyway. My wife had been killed in a bombing raid, and I felt I needed a bit of a change. I enlisted in the Royal Marines. Simple as that.’
The brigadier played with his glass a moment, then stared through the taped-up plate-glass window at the rain, which continued to slant down even though the cloud had broken to the west and blue sky was becoming visible.
‘I believe there was more to it than that, wasn’t there?’
Memling shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I…’
‘But you do. You returned from Belgium with what you saw as vital information which was totally ignored. You knew that the people who helped you get out were killed, and then you discovered that your wife had died in the blitz. On top of that, a departmental enquiry into your activities in Belgium did not give you a clean bill. It was at that point you joined the Royal Marines where, in view of your reserve status with the Firm, you were commissioned and sent to Home Army Intelligence. You wangled your way into the commandos and have since taken part in several raiding expeditions.’ Simon-Benet gave him a quick grin. ‘Would you say that forms an accurate summary of your career to date?’
Memling had listened with a growing dislike for the brigadier. ‘Yes, sir, that is correct.’
‘In that case’ – Simon-Benet gave him an appraising look – ‘a bit more detail is in order, I think.
‘In 1938 you were sent to Germany. You met a man named Wernher von Braun. How well did you know him?’
‘Wernher?’ Memling looked at Simon-Benet in surprise. ‘You have been doing some digging, haven’t you!’ When the brigadier did not react, he went on. ‘I met Wernher von Braun in Paris in 1934. I was still at school then and interested in rocketry. I had saved all that year to attend a congress on rocket development. Von Braun was a member of the German Society for Space Travel and about my age. I suppose we became friendly because most of the others attending were dabblers and fantasists.’
‘And you two were not?’
Memling frowned. ‘Yes, we were. But we were also realists in the sense that we knew it would not happen unless we were willing to acquire the proper training. I dare say Wernher had learned that lesson sooner than I. In any event, we struck up a friendship that continued by correspondence.
‘Our letters were infrequent and after 1936 stopped altogether. The following year I joined MI-Six and soon had to give up my position in the British Interplanetary Society for, well… other reasons.’
‘You did not correspond with, or see, von Braun from 1936 to 1938?’
‘No. And then strictly by accident. We just happened to be staying at the same hotel. We had dinner that night, and he introduced me to a colleague, a… Franz something or other.’
‘Bethwig,’ Simon-Benet supplied.
‘Yes, that’s the name. I next saw von Braun in 1940 at the arms factory in Liege.’
Simon-Benet sipped his tea. ‘Both times you made reports concerning Germany’s research on long-range rockets?’