Vengeance 10

Lucky bastard, Memling thought as he left the office. He knew where the German would sleep that evening.

He had been gone long enough for Belden to begin to fret, and so he hurried along the aisles between the machines. He had eaten only a hard crust that morning, and there were rumours that the meat and sugar rations would be reduced by a third in January. Perhaps Belden would offer him a cup of tea and possibly even one of those tinned biscuits. The idea was overwhelming.

Preoccupied, Memling almost missed the tall muscular man in civilian suit escorted by the director of production and a high-ranking army officer. As he glanced back, his heart turned over, but the civilian had continued on without a sign of recognition. Memling had last seen him in 1938, in Amsberg, Germany. He was not surprised that von Braun had not recognised him; he was twenty pounds lighter, his hair was twice as long, and there was still a bit of newspaper stuck to his chin where the worn-out razor had nicked him again.

But what the devil was Wernher von Braun doing there? He was a rocket scientist. Had he been drafted to work on more conventional armaments? Memling puzzled over the question, so absorbed that the sentry had to ask twice for his pass. He delivered the folder, accepted the half-filled cup of tea, fending off Belden’s arm with what grace he could, and listened to the familiar complaints concerning changes and revisions to plans about which they were never consulted. He soon escaped to his own desk against the windows overlooking the vast production floor.

From his vantage point he could see across and down into the various partitions that divided the factory floor and made it such a warren. Against the far end of the building the Germans had built a tightly closed and guarded section roofed and walled with plywood. Uncharacteristically, they had used their own engineering troops for the job. The area was guarded by heavily armed sentries, and rumours spoke of a miracle weapon under development. But like all rumours under the Nazi occupation, these were both contradictory and fantastic. The quality control department was the pivot in any production facility, especially one dealing with mass-produced weaponry. Vast quantities of specialised materials were demanded, and specifications were rigid. Tolerances between parts were often no more than hundredths of a millimetre. If any kind of weapon were being developed within those plywood walls, they would know about it in quality control — unless, he thought, it was so secret that the Germans had installed a separate quality control department.

But that was absurd. Belden, as fretful of his standing as he was, would hardly have remained unaware of such an operation. And if that was the case, Memling could hardly have failed to hear of it. Or could he? Suppose it was so important that even Belden was keeping his mouth shut? He glanced at the mock-up of the MP40 machine pistol lying on his desk — a cheaper version of the MP38, he knew; compared with what might be hidden behind those walls, it was nothing. Was that why von Braun was in Liege?

* * *

It was still raining hard when the final whistle blew. This winter gave every appearance of being much like the previous one — the hardest in Europe for nearly two hundred years. Memling rode his bicycle slowly, lost in the silent, sullen crowd. The wait at the checkpoint seemed longer than usual.

Memling lugged his bicycle up the steps of his boarding-house and nodded a greeting to his landlady who was waiting beside the doorway. Tomorrow night she would want his weekly rent. Arrests were so common these days that rents were demanded on a weekly basis. A few, like his landlady, determined not to lose a penny due her, had tried to collect daily; but someone had complained to the civil authorities, and a man had come round to forbid the practice.

In his room at the top rear of the ancient house, he shed his wet pants and coat and wrapped himself in a blanket, then set about heating his half-can of soup over a tiny gas ring. As had become his habit, Memling remained huddled in the chair to conserve warmth and energy, reviewing any information he had memorised. But tonight his mind refused to concentrate, insisted instead on speculating over the presence of Wernher von Braun in Liege until he fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

The clock chimed eleven as Hans Belden opened the door and motioned him inside. Memling could see that Belden was angry and knew there would be no tea this morning and probably precious little time to warm himself by the electric fire.