Vengeance 10

‘Well, Memling.’ Englesby stood up and motioned to a chair beside the desk. He did not offer to shake hands, and his expression changed subtly as he took in Memling’s filthy battledress. His nose wrinkled briefly as the odour of perspiration, cordite and petrol fumes crossed the polished desk. Certainly he has not changed, Memling thought. About to make a remark to that effect, he noticed another man in the room, a middle-aged army officer with a colonel’s crown and pips on his shoulder boards.

‘I would like you to meet Colonel Oliver Simon-Benet.’ Englesby turned to introduce the other. ‘The colonel is from SOE.’

Simon-Benet was youngish-looking seen close to, one whose easy grin belied the formality of his name. He shook Memling’s hand with a firm grip. ‘Englesby here has just been telling me they snatched you straight off a ship from Norway. I can see you must have had a fun time. Successful?’

Memling glanced quickly at Englesby who was looking faintly annoyed. There was no help there, he could see. ‘Some. Did what we were supposed to and got back with light casualties.’ Simon-Benet stared at him for a moment, a faint smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, then clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good answer, Lieutenant, could mean almost anything.’ Memling’s nerves were on edge, and the colonel’s bonhomie was not helping. It seemed that it was always like this whenever he was required to visit Northumberland Avenue. He decided to take the offensive for a change.

‘All right, Englesby, what the hell is this all about?’

The MI6 executive started, blood suffusing his face. ‘Just one moment,’ he began, but Memling cut him off, now beginning to enjoy himself.

‘‘I’m not one of your people any more, Englesby, and I don’t have to put up with your nonsense. Why did you drag me all the way to London? And who is this’ — he hooked a thumb at the colonel — ‘and what the devil is an SOE?’

‘I see you two are old friends,’ Colonel Simon-Benet murmured. ‘Perhaps, Charles, I had better explain.’ Without waiting for Englesby to agree, he pulled his chair up to face Memling and chuckled. ‘You commando boyos do tend to run a bit roughshod at times. But don’t blame poor old Charles here. This is my doing. He tends to frustration, stuck here in London when we all know he would rather be in North Africa or somewhere doing something useful. But then someone has to keep up the home front, hey, Charles?’

Englesby snorted but otherwise paid no attention to the colonel’s heavy-handed humour.

Simon-Benet scratched his head, then stared at his fingernails absently as if expecting to see something there. Memling relaxed. The gesture was familiar and indicated that the colonel had spent a great deal of time in front lines somewhere.

‘You see, we have a problem, one that requires someone with a rather unique mix of talents to help us out.’ He stopped abruptly and turned.

‘Ah, Miss Thompson, much as I regret having to ask this, I don’t think we need a record of this conversation. Would you mind?’

The girl smiled and got up quickly, unembarrassed by the abrupt dismissal. It had happened many times before. Englesby had an obsessive desire to record every word spoken in his rooms. But his visitors rarely shared that desire.

When the door had closed behind her, the colonel sighed dramatically, then turned to Memling. ‘As I was saying, we have a problem and one that must be solved quickly. So, the General Staff came to SOE.’

‘And SOE is….?’ Memling prompted, sorry the girl had gone.

‘Special Operations Executive. We do odd and dirty jobs, mostly behind enemy lines, which these days can be just about anywhere.’

‘I see,’ Memling murmured. There were all sorts of strange, irregular groups popping up all over Great Britain these days. His own commando unit had started life in 1940 under the sixteenth-century name Independent Companies.

‘I am certain you do. In any event, the Czech government-in-exile has reported an alarming decrease in resistance activities inside Czechoslovakia, which they ascribe to three factors: the relatively benign occupation; the belief, heartily encouraged by the Nazis, that the war is nearly over and that we have lost; and finally, the personality of the man heading the occupation, Reinhard Heydrich.’

That name sounded familiar. Memling recalled his pre-war studies of the Nazi party hierarchy. ‘Heydrich,’ he muttered. ‘I believe that he was once the number-two man in the Gestapo, reporting directly to Himmler?’

‘Close enough. He was, and is still, in command of the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, or Security Service, of the party. He has become a very powerful man — some say he will be named to succeed Hitler — primarily because he has the dirt on every official and officer in Germany and occupied Europe.’ The colonel paused long enough to light a cigar. When it was going to his satisfaction, he remembered his manners and offered his case to the other two. He could not quite hide his relief when they declined.