Vengeance 10

Memling had found his position in the quality control department of the Manufacture d’Armes in mid-May, before the occupation forces had established themselves. He had been lucky to find it, but the army officer running the factory was desperate for trained technical personnel and not overly inclined to ask questions. Jan had given his birthplace as Barchoa, a small town east of the Meuse destroyed by German artillery. As long as he gave the Germans no reason to investigate his background, he felt safe enough.

In the meantime the factory was run efficiently, and some consideration was even given to the workers. In contrast with their counterparts in other German-run factories, they were provided a bowl of hot if watery soup at midday to supplement their rations, were released from work at mid-afternoon on Saturdays, and, if lucky enough to work in an office, enjoyed a measure of heat in the winter. Memling’s current task was to prepare quality control inspection procedures for two new German machine-gun designs, the MP40 and MG42.

‘Ah, Memling, here you are. Good. I must have you go down to the director of production’s office and bring back the latest MG-Forty-two estimates for the coming year.’

Hans Belden, his superior, was a fat, timorous, and self-pitying German civilian who enjoyed the rank and privileges of his position as director of quality control in a factory of great importance to the Third Reich. He was not inclined to pamper his Belgian subordinates — except for Memling. For some reason he had taken a liking to Jan, even to the extent of occasionally inviting him into his own office, which had an electric fire, and offering him coffee and cigarettes. He like to pat Memling on the shoulder or put an arm about his waist. Belden was Nazi to the core, and Memling did not trust him for an instant. Instead, he treated his boss with a deference — verging on sycophancy — to which Belden responded with privileges now and then.

Memling showed his pass to the sentry and went out on to the vast production floor. A dirty, nearly opaque skylight allowed only the palest version of daylight to filter through. The Manufacture d’Armes, or the Gun Factory, as it was known locally, was the largest in the world. Beneath the endless glass roof, in carefully-guarded areas, were manufactured and assembled a wide variety of weapons ranging from the Browning nine-millimetre automatic pistol to the panzer tank. Hundreds of lathes, milling machines, and polishers ran twenty-four hours a day to feed the insatiable maw of the German war machine.

The German production director occupied a spacious suite with a carpeted reception area. His amply endowed Belgian secretary attracted German officers like flies. When Memling entered, an oberleutnant in the dark blue of a Luftwaffe dress uniform was leaning on the counter above her desk staring into the front of her blouse as she reached for a folder. He said something that Memling could not hear, and the girl hesitated, half-twisting to smile at him so that her blouse opened a bit more. Memling walked to the desk and, ignoring the German officer, handed over the requisition.

‘What do you want?’ the officer snapped in annoyance.

Memling turned to him, pretending not to understand German.

The lieutenant tried to repeat the question in halting Flemish, then in French, and gave up as Memling continued to stare.

The secretary made a remark in German, and they both laughed before she turned to Memling.

‘Director Belden asks for the summer production figures on the MG-Forty-two.’ His voice was steady enough and devoid of any emotion.

‘Oh, all right,’ she answered petulantly. ‘But it will take a moment. Wait over there.’ She indicated the far side of the room.

The girl stood up, brushing her dress smooth across her hips, and with practised movements swayed across to the filing cabinets. The drawer she wanted was in the lowest tier, and rather than kneel, she bent forward so that her skirt drew tight across a shapely bottom. It took her several moments to find the correct folder, and during that time Memling could have removed the officer’s sidearm and boots.

She found it at last and, turning, dropped the folder. This time, when she bent down to retrieve it her blouse opened far enough that even Memling, across the room, was aware of soft breasts barely restrained by wisps of silk. The lieutenant grunted as if hit, and Memling closed his eyes, stricken suddenly with the memory of Margot’s soft, strong body.

‘Here,’ she snapped, and Memling came to the counter. He signed the register she pushed towards him, and when she handed back his identity card from which she had recorded the numbers, she gave him a slight wink. Memling’s answering nod was barely visible.

‘Next time, you are to advise me ahead of time which file you wish to see.’ She turned away, dismissing him. The lieutenant’s hands twitched as she slid into her chair.