Читаем Vengeance 10 полностью

A sudden chill ruined the beauty of the day. Memling stared at the thin officer sprawled beside him. His coat had fallen open, and he saw that Fleming was wearing a chamois-skin shoulder holster and what looked to be a twenty-five-calibre Beretta. ‘Very thin? Gaunt actually. A face like a skull’s?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. There certainly can’t be two alike. Do you know him?’

‘Yes… I do.’

Fleming looked up sharply at the tone in his voice but asked no further questions.

‘Anyway, I got the ambassador to ring up the Justice Ministry and get you off the hook, but it was a near thing. If the camp commandant had not insisted on double-checking the warrant, you might be sitting in a Nazi concentration camp at this moment.’

Fleming sipped his wine and unwrapped another sandwich. ‘That’s why the government wants you out of Sweden today.’ He chewed with evident pleasure and swallowed. ‘My orders are to see you on to a plane for London as quickly as possible. An American transport leaves this evening for Iceland. You can transfer there for a flight to London. We don’t dare try and set it up from here because Jerry’s radio interception is excellent. But you should have no trouble finding a flight in Reykjavik. Dozens go out every day in both directions. Otherwise, there are plenty of British naval vessels in the harbour.’ He got up then and fetched a manila envelope from the Bentley.

‘Diplomatic passport and all that. You can read it on the way. Take good care of it as the FO gets quite upset if one is lost. They only agreed as you are an MI-Six reserve officer.’

Memling took the envelope and slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘Thanks very much for all you’ve done. I…’

Fleming waved a hand. ‘All in a day’s work. Think no more about it.’

Fleming fetched another bottle from the Bentley, this time a fifth of Haig and Haig. ‘Just the thing with which to celebrate.’ He produced two small cups, filled them, and offered Memling a silent toast. ‘Now, tell me who the young woman was?’

Memling hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No, Commander. I don’t think I had better say anything at all.’

Fleming nodded. ‘Probably the wisest course. However, we have little choice in the matter. She is the only gap in the story, and the Swedes are pressing for an answer.’

Memling finished the Scotch and stared at the silver-plated cup. ‘Look here, she was a member of the German resistance assigned to help me. SD thugs tortured her, and, well, she contracted pneumonia and died. That’s all there is to it.’

Fleming gave him a level stare. ‘I see. I suppose the “SD thugs”, as you call them, are the four dead policemen?’

When Memling stared off at the forest instead of answering, Fleming nodded, laced his fingers behind his head, and closed his eyes. After a long while he murmured sleepily, ‘I suppose I should tell you they did let me in on the purpose of your mission. You might be interested to know that in 1939, shortly after the war began, our embassy in Oslo received a package containing a report that described much of Germany’s secret war research, including radar and rockets. The report was carefully studied, but no one could decide if it was a plant or not. So nothing was done. Seems there was something to it after all.’ Fleming was silent for a while.

‘London had given you up for lost, and Bomber Command laid on the Peenemunde raid a week ago. The official word is, they did one hell of a lot of damage.’

Memling was stunned by the news. Christ in heaven, it had all been for nothing, then, he thought. Francine’s death, everything they had gone through, his estrangement from Janet, all of it wasted.

‘How in… they must have known I was in Sweden…’

Fleming gave him a sympathetic nod. ‘Yes. We notified London that you were here but it looked as if the Germans might get you and the weather was deteriorating and someone decided they couldn’t wait any longer. But’ — he brightened — ‘you should be of immense help in interpreting the after-action damage photos, as you were there, on the ground, so to speak.’

Memling could only nod in bitterness.

* * *

No one was at Croydon to meet him; but then, Memling hadn’t expected it. He found the military transport office and, after an argument over the priority accorded him by his diplomatic passport, gave up and bought a ticket on the London-Brighton Line for London Bridge. He still had to wait an hour on the dripping platform. At London Bridge Station the crowds streaming down the tube platform deterred him, and he walked north across the bridge and past Saint Paul’s towards Holborn.