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.
‘I’ve just had a telephone call from the production director’s office. Raw material delivery schedules have been delayed again, and all production figures must be revised this week. Take this folder back to his office. We shall have to wait until they are finished, and do it all again!’ He slapped the desk with his hand and flung himself around in the chair to stare at the rain spattering the window.
‘A miserable country. It does nothing but rain,’ he muttered.
Memling varied his route to the director’s office, to pass the closed-off section, but there was little to see except plywood walls and unsmiling guards.
He returned the folder to the blonde secretary, who sniffed at him but did not speak. Returning by the same route, Memling noticed as he turned into the corridor that one of the plywood sections had been moved aside to allow a cart carrying a large canvas-shrouded object into the area. The man directing the operation was wearing a white laboratory coat – the Germans allowed no one but their own people to wear white coats. His own was a dirty brown. The cart snagged on the edge of the door, and one of the soldiers swore. The guard stepped forward to help push, and while all eyes were on the cart Memling, who had stopped behind the guard, leaned forward to peer into the opening. He was back in position an instant before the guard straightened and returned to his post. He had seen all he needed.
Sunday was cold and windy, and rain fell intermittently. Jan Memling pedalled into the Parc d’Avroy past the monument to Charles Rogier. In spite of the rain and cold and the late season, the park was crowded with shabby citizens sitting on benches, examining the great equestrian statue of Charlemagne, or wandering the paths and eyeing the food stalls affordable only to German soldiers and their well-dressed collaborators. There was little else to do in the city. The shops were empty, and those theatres that remained open were too expensive, and full of Germans in any event.
Twenty minutes later he crossed the boulevard Piercot and rode up the rue Saint-Jacques. The gardens of the Place Emile-Dupon at the end were practically deserted. Tall Flemish-style houses from the 1700s frowned across the lovely miniature park. Its once immaculate gardens went untended, but the long rows of trees leading one inevitably to Pollard’s bronze group, The Forsaken, were still magnificent. As he found a bench the sun slipped through the cloud briefly, and he soaked up its warmth in gratitude. Two old men huddled on a bench across the way, oblivious to him and each other. An officer in Luftwaffe uniform strolled past, hands behind his back, a contented expression on his face. In one of the houses opposite, Memling caught a glimpse of a small child peering out.
Memling saw her coming along the footpath and grunted in relief. She was wearing a shabby overcoat and a scarf that hid her blonde hair. Her collar was turned up, and she wore the heavy rubber galoshes that had become mandatory in the winter, now that the trams had stopped running.
‘It was dangerous to contact me at the factory. Don’t do it again.’
Memling nodded, knowing she was right. Maria Kluensenayer, the production director’s secretary, was his sole contact with the Belgian resistance movement.
‘I have to see Paul.’
Maria frowned at that. ‘It is far too dangerous.’
‘What I have to tell him could be even more dangerous if ignored.’ Even as he spoke he realised how melodramatic that sounded.
The girl nodded after a moment. ‘All right. I will see, but it will take time. I will meet you here this evening, at eight.’
‘No. The gates are closed at six.’
Maria bit at her lower lip, indecision plain on her face, then shook her head. ‘It cannot be done. It is far too dangerous.’
‘Look,’ he said, striving to keep the desperation from his voice. ‘I’ve never asked for anything from you people. I could have made a nuisance of myself, but I haven’t. Now I am telling you, I have to see Paul!’
Her fingers were tapping nervously on her thigh, and for an instant he had a vision of the smooth, satiny skin the threadbare coat concealed. He swore at himself and jerked his mind back to the problem at hand.