World War II Thriller Collection (56 page)

“Perhaps you should ask this gentleman,” Graves said, turning to Paul. “Major Chancellor, meet Major Clairet and Colonel Thwaite.”

Paul was annoyed at being put in the position of defending someone else's decision. Caught off guard, he replied with undiplomatic frankness, “I don't see that there's much to explain,” he said brusquely. “You screwed up and you're not being given a second chance.”

The woman glared up at him—she was a foot shorter than he—and spoke angrily. “Screwed up?” she said. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

Paul felt himself flush. “Maybe General Montgomery was misinformed, but wasn't this the first time you had commanded an action of this kind, Major?”

“Is
that
what you've been told? That it was my lack of experience?”

She was beautiful, he saw now. Anger made her eyes wide and her cheeks pink. But she was being very rude, so he decided to give it to her with both barrels. “That and poor planning—”

“There was nothing wrong with the damn plan!”

“—and the fact that trained troops were defending the place against an undisciplined force.”

“You arrogant pig!”

Paul took an involuntary step back. He had never been spoken to this way by a woman. She may be five
feet nothing, he thought, but I bet she scares the damn Nazis. Looking at her furious face, he realized that she was most angry with herself. “You think it's your fault,” he said. “No one gets this mad about other people's mistakes.”

It was her turn to be taken aback. Her mouth dropped open, and she was speechless.

Colonel Thwaite spoke for the first time. “Calm down, Flick, for God's sake,” he said. Turning to Paul, he went on, “Let me guess—this account was given to you by Simon Fortescue of MI6, was it not?”

“That's correct,” Paul said stiffly.

“Did he mention that the attack plan was based on intelligence supplied by his organization?”

“I don't believe he did.”

“I thought not,” said Thwaite. “Thank you, Major, I don't need to trouble you any further.”

Paul did not feel the conversation was really over, but he had been dismissed by a senior officer, and he had no choice but to walk away.

He had obviously got caught in the crossfire of a turf war between MI6 and SOE. He felt most angry with Fortescue, who had used the meeting to score points. Had Monty made the right decision in choosing to bomb the telephone exchange rather than let SOE have another go at it? Paul was not sure.

As he turned into his own office he glanced back. Major Clairet was still arguing with Colonel Thwaite, her voice low but her face animated, expressing outrage with large gestures. She stood like a man, hand on hip, leaning forward, making her point with a belligerent forefinger, but all the same there was something enchanting about her. Paul wondered what it would be like to hold her in his arms and run his hands over her lithe body. Although she's tough, he thought, she's all woman.

But was she right? Was bombing futile?

He decided to ask some more questions.

THE VAST, SOOTY
bulk of the cathedral loomed over the center of Reims like a divine reproach. Dieter Franck's sky-blue Hispano-Suiza pulled up at midday outside the Hotel Frankfort, taken over by the German occupiers. Dieter got out and glanced up at the stubby twin towers of the great church. The original medieval design had featured elegant pointed spires, which had never been built for lack of money. So mundane obstacles frustrated the holiest of aspirations.

Dieter told Lieutenant Hesse to drive to the château at Sainte-Cécile and make sure the Gestapo were ready to cooperate. He did not want to risk being repulsed a second time by Major Weber. Hesse drove off, and Dieter went up to the suite where he had left Stéphanie last night.

She got up from her chair as he walked in. He drank in the welcome sight. Her red hair fell on bare shoulders, and she wore a chestnut silk negligee and high-heeled slippers. He kissed her hungrily and ran his hands over her slim body, grateful for the gift of her beauty.

“How nice that you're so pleased to see me,” she said with a smile. They spoke French together, as always.

Dieter inhaled the scent of her. “Well, you smell better than Hans Hesse, especially when he's been up all night.”

She brushed his hair back with a soft hand. “You always make fun. But you wouldn't have protected Hans with your own body.”

“True.” He sighed and let her go. “Christ, I'm tired.”

“Come to bed.”

He shook his head. “I have to interrogate the prisoners. Hesse's coming back for me in an hour.” He slumped on the couch.

“I'll get you something to eat.” She pressed the bell, and a minute later an elderly French waiter tapped at the door. Stéphanie knew Dieter well enough to order for him. She asked for a plate of ham with warm rolls and potato salad. “Some wine?” she asked him.

“No—it'll send me to sleep.”

“A pot of coffee, then,” she told the waiter. When the man had gone, she sat on the couch beside Dieter and took his hand. “Did everything go according to plan?”

“Yes. Rommel was quite complimentary to me.” He frowned anxiously. “I just hope I can live up to the promises I made him.”

“I'm sure you will.” She did not ask for details. She knew he would tell her as much as he wanted to and no more.

He looked fondly at her, wondering whether to say what was on his mind. It might spoil the pleasant atmosphere—but it needed to be said. He sighed again. “If the invasion is successful, and the Allies win back France, it will be the end for you and me. You know that.”

She winced, as if at a sudden pain, and let go of his hand. “Do I?”

He knew that her husband had been killed early in the war, and they had had no children. “Do you have any family at all?” he asked her.

“My parents died years ago. I have a sister in Montreal.”

“Maybe we should be thinking about how to send you over there.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why?”

She would not meet his eye. “I just wish the war would be over,” she muttered.

“No, you don't.”

She showed a rare flash of irritation. “Of course I do.”

“How uncharacteristically conventional of you,” he said with a hint of scorn.

“You can't possibly think war is a good thing!”

“You and I would not be together, were it not for the war.”

“But what about all the suffering?”

“I'm an existentialist. War enables people to be what they really are: the sadists become torturers, the psychopaths make brave front-line troops, the bullies and the victims alike have scope to play their roles to the hilt, and the whores are always busy.”

She looked angry. “That tells me pretty clearly what part I play.”

He stroked her soft cheek and touched her lips with the tip of his finger. “You're a courtesan—and very good at it.”

She moved her head away. “You don't mean any of this. You're improvising on a tune, the way you do when you sit at the piano.”

He smiled and nodded: he could play a little jazz, much to his father's dismay. The analogy was apt. He was trying out ideas, rather than expressing a firm conviction. “Perhaps you're right.”

Her anger evaporated, and she looked sad. “Did you mean the part about us separating, if the Germans leave France?”

He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. She relaxed and laid her head on his chest. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair. “It's not going to happen,” he said.

“Are you certain?”

“I guarantee it.”

It was the second time today he had made a promise he might not be able to keep.

The waiter returned with his lunch, and the spell was broken. Dieter was almost too tired to be hungry, but he ate a few mouthfuls and drank all the coffee. Afterwards
he washed and shaved, and then he felt better. As he was buttoning a clean uniform shirt, Lieutenant Hesse tapped at the door. Dieter kissed Stéphanie and went out.

The car was diverted around a blocked street: there had been another bombing raid overnight, and a whole row of houses near the railway station had been destroyed. They got out of town and headed for Sainte-Cécile.

Dieter had told Rommel that the interrogation of the prisoners
might
enable him to cripple the Resistance before the invasion—but Rommel, like any military commander, took a maybe for a promise and would now expect results. Unfortunately, there was nothing guaranteed about an interrogation. Clever prisoners told lies that were impossible to check. Some found ingenious ways to kill themselves before the torture became unbearable. If security was really tight in their particular Resistance circuit, each would know only the minimum about the others, and have little information of value. Worst of all, they might have been fed false information by the perfidious Allies, so that when they finally broke under torture, what they said was part of a deception plan.

Dieter began to put himself in the mood. He needed to be completely hard-hearted and calculating. He must not allow himself to be touched by the physical and mental suffering he was about to inflict on human beings. All that mattered was whether it worked. He closed his eyes and felt a profound calm settle over him, a familiar bone-deep chill that he sometimes thought must be like the cold of death itself.

The car pulled into the grounds of the château. Workmen were repairing the smashed glass in the windows and filling the holes made by grenades. In the ornate hall, the telephonists murmured into their microphones in a perpetual undertone. Dieter marched through the perfectly proportioned rooms of the east wing, with Hans Hesse in tow. They went down the stairs to the fortified basement. The sentry at the door saluted and
made no attempt to detain Dieter, who was in uniform. He found the door marked Interrogation Center and went in.

In the outer room, Willi Weber sat at the table. Dieter barked, “Heil Hitler!” and saluted, forcing Weber to stand. Then Dieter pulled out a chair, sat down, and said, “Please be seated, Major.”

Weber was furious at being invited to sit in his own headquarters, but he had no choice.

Dieter said, “How many prisoners do we have?”

“Three.”

Dieter was disappointed. “So few?”

“We killed eight of the enemy in the skirmish. Two more died of their wounds overnight.”

Dieter grunted with dismay. He had ordered that the wounded be kept alive. But there was no point now in questioning Weber about their treatment.

Weber went on, “I believe two escaped—”

“Yes,” Dieter said. “The woman in the square, and the man she carried away.”

“Exactly. So, from a total of fifteen attackers, we have three prisoners.”

“Where are they?”

Weber looked shifty. “Two are in the cells.”

Dieter narrowed his eyes. “And the third?”

Weber inclined his head toward the inner room. “The third is under interrogation at this moment.”

Dieter got up, apprehensive, and opened the door. The hunched figure of Sergeant Becker stood just inside the room, holding in his hand a wooden club like a large policeman's truncheon. He was sweating and breathing hard, as if he had been taking vigorous exercise. He was staring at a prisoner who was tied to a post.

Dieter looked at the prisoner, and his fears were confirmed. Despite his self-imposed calm, he grimaced with revulsion. The prisoner was the young woman, Geneviève, who had carried a Sten gun under her coat. She was naked, tied to the pillar by a rope that passed under her arms and supported her slumped weight. Her face was so swollen
that she could not have opened her eyes. Blood from her mouth covered her chin and most of her chest. Her body was discolored with angry bruises. One arm hung at an odd angle, apparently dislocated at the shoulder. Her pubic hair was matted with blood.

Dieter said to Becker, “What has she told you?”

Becker looked embarrassed. “Nothing.”

Dieter nodded, suppressing his rage. It was as he had expected.

He went close to the woman. “Geneviève, listen to me,” he said in French.

She showed no sign of having heard.

“Would you like to rest now?” he tried.

There was no response.

He turned around. Weber was standing in the doorway, looking defiant. Dieter, coldly furious, said, “You were expressly told that I would conduct the interrogation.”

“We were ordered to give you access,” Weber replied with smug pedantry. “We were not prohibited from questioning the prisoners ourselves.”

“And are you satisfied with the results you have achieved?”

Weber did not answer.

Dieter said, “What about the other two?”

“We have not yet begun their interrogation.”

“Thank God for that.” Dieter was nonetheless dismayed. He had expected half a dozen subjects, not two. “Take me to them.”

Weber nodded at Becker, who put down his club and led the way out of the room. In the bright lights of the corridor, Dieter could see the bloodstains on Becker's uniform. The sergeant stopped at a door with a judas peephole. Dieter slid back the panel and looked inside.

It was a bare room with a dirt floor. The only item of furniture was a bucket in the corner. Two men sat on the ground, not talking, staring into space. Dieter studied them carefully. He had seen both yesterday. The older one was Gaston, who had set the charges. He had a
large piece of sticking-plaster covering a scalp wound that looked superficial. The other was very young, about seventeen, and Dieter recalled that his name was Bertrand. He had no visible injuries, but Dieter, recalling the skirmish, thought he might have been stunned by the explosion of a hand grenade.

Dieter watched them for a while, taking time to think. He had to do this right. He could not afford to waste another captive: these two were the only assets left. The kid would be scared, he foresaw, but might withstand a lot of pain. The other was too old for serious torture—he might die before he cracked—but he would be softhearted. Dieter began to see a strategy for interrogating them.

He closed the judas and returned to the interview room. Becker followed, reminding him again of a stupid but dangerous dog. Dieter said, “Sergeant Becker, untie the woman and put her in the cell with the other two.”

Weber protested, “A woman in a man's cell?”

Dieter stared at him incredulously. “Do you think she will feel the indignity?”

Becker went into the torture chamber and reemerged carrying the broken body of Geneviève. Dieter said, “Make sure the old man gets a good look at her, then bring him here.”

Becker went out.

Dieter decided he would prefer to get rid of Weber. However, he knew that if he gave a direct order, Weber would resist. So he said, “I think you should remain here to witness the interrogation. You could learn a lot from my techniques.”

As Dieter had expected, Weber did the opposite. “I don't think so,” he said. “Becker can keep me informed.” Dieter faked an indignant expression, and Weber went out.

Dieter caught the eye of Lieutenant Hesse, who had quietly taken a seat in the corner. Hesse understood how Dieter had manipulated Weber and was looking admiringly at Dieter. Dieter shrugged. “Sometimes it's too easy,” he said.

Becker returned with Gaston. The older man was pale. No doubt he had been badly shocked by the sight of Geneviève. Dieter said in German, “Please have a seat. Do you like to smoke?”

Gaston looked blank.

That established that he did not understand German, which was worth knowing.

Dieter motioned him to a seat and offered him cigarettes and matches. Gaston took a cigarette and lit it with shaking hands.

Some prisoners broke at this stage, before torture, just from fear of what would happen. Dieter hoped that might be the case today. He had shown Gaston the alternatives: on one hand, the dreadful sight of Geneviève; on the other, cigarettes and kindness.