Vengeance 10

As he crouched in a corner of the cell he began to examine the possibility of extinction dispassionately. Memling recalled the relief he had felt when he had thought they were going to shoot him. He had been grateful then that he could escape the pain, that it would end simply in the crash of a bullet.

His parents had insisted on a parochial school in spite of strained circumstances, but the religion the nuns had endeavoured to impress on their charges had been wasted in his case. Even now, he realised, his thoughts did not turn to salvation. He also found it curious that he thought little about Janet… as if she belonged to another time and had no business in this present. It was, he knew, a result of his intense preoccupation with his own fate and another manifestation of the selfishness that could drive one to madness.

When he had been returned to his cell after the first glimpse of Gestapo justice, he had made a singular discovery: he was not afraid of dying. He had never been subject to paralysing fear in combat situations, because he knew death, if it came, would be quick. What he did fear, to the point of gibbering nonsense, was pain and torture. When he thought back to the times he had been frightened into panic, it was because torture seemed an imminent possibility. That first time on the train, then in Liege, during the long walking trip to Peenemunde — and now. He knew the pain would be prolonged and excruciating. No matter what he told them, no matter how he begged, Walsch would see that the torture continued until he died.

The solution to his fear was therefore simple enough. Suicide. Even though they had stripped him naked, it was possible to kill himself — not pleasantly — but possible. A major vein ran close to the surface of the wrist. A knife or sharp edge would be less painful, but one could bite through the vein and bleed to death in less than thirty minutes.

Under other circumstances the pain involved would have repulsed him, but compared with Gestapo torture techniques, such pain would be minor. Once he had made that decision, the fear that paralysed him, that had nearly driven him insane in the darkness, receded to a controllable level. And as it did he began to think about alternatives.

Each time they had come for him, one guard had swung the door open and the other had entered to haul him out, clearly expecting no resistance. In fact, the one guard had remained in the doorway the last time, looking off down the hall as he joked with someone out of sight. Death in action, however feeble, was preferable to gnawing through one’s own wrist, Memling decided.

A second pair of boots stopped outside, and a key was jammed into the lock. It happened so quickly that Memling barely had time to crouch into position against the far wall before the door swung open. He anticipated the blast of light and shut his eyes tightly. A hand grabbed his left arm and yanked him up, but Memling was limp and the man swore under his breath and reached for his other arm. As his knees came under him Memling straightened abruptly and shot his left arm out straight to break the soldier’s grip. As it reached full extension he doubled his fist into a hammer and whipped it straight back and down to smash into the man’s testicles. The blow was so sudden and powerful that it paralysed him for the vital second needed to spin, flip the holster open, and extract the heavy Walther pistol.

Memling had thought each move through during the endless hours, rehearsing them over and over in his mind. His thumb sought the safety catch and shoved up as he turned, crouching and pushing the agonised soldier out of his way. A startled exclamation from the guard in the corridor gave him the last bits of necessary data. He fired once, blindly, lining up by instinct and sound. The blast of the nine-millimetre cartridge was deafening, drowning the results, but Memling was already moving sideways. He parted his eyelids the tiniest fraction to focus on the darkness inside the door. Even so, the glare was intensely painful after hours in pitch blackness, and he could distinguish nothing more than a blotch of light as the echoes died inside the cell. There was no answering shot. He covered his eyes with his left hand and peered through slitted fingers. Legs sprawled across the doorway, and shouting could be heard somewhere in the building. Feet pounded towards the cell-block.

Memling jumped to the door and dragged the body inside. A scraping sound told him that the guard’s machine pistol was still slung over his shoulder. The Walther P-38 held eight cartridges, one now gone. There was no time to check the magazine, but no experienced soldier would keep his weapon less than fully loaded. He eased to the cell door, extended the pistol into the corridor, and fired six shots, three in either direction. A scream told him he had scored at least one hit, and a door slammed. There was now one cartridge left for himself.