World War II Thriller Collection (59 page)

Diana looked excited rather than discouraged. “Of course I'm willing. William's risking his life, why shouldn't I?”

“You mean it?”

“I'm very serious.”

Flick concealed her relief. She had recruited her first team member.

Diana was so keen that Flick decided to press her advantage. “There's a condition, and you may find it worse than the danger.”

“What?”

“You're two years older than I, and all our lives you've been my social superior. You're the baron's daughter, and I'm the housekeeper's brat. Nothing wrong with that, and I'm not complaining. Ma would say that's how it should be.”

“Yes, dear, so what's your point?”

“I'm in charge of the operation. You'll have to defer to me.”

Diana shrugged. “That's fine.”

“It will be a problem,” Flick insisted. “You'll find it strange. But I'll be hard on you until you get used to it. This is a warning.”

“Yes, sir!”

“We don't bother too much about the formalities in my department, so you won't need to call me sir, or ma'am. But we do enforce military discipline, especially once an operation has begun. If you forget that, my anger will be the least of your worries. Disobeying orders can get you killed in my line of work.”

“Darling, how dramatic! But of course I understand.”

Flick was not at all sure Diana did understand, but she had done her best. She took a scratch pad from her blouse and wrote down an address in Hampshire. “Pack a case for three days. This is where you need to go. You get the train from Waterloo to Brockenhurst.”

Diana looked at the address. “Why, this is Lord Montagu's estate.”

“Most of it is occupied by my department now.”

“What
is
your department?”

“The Inter Services Research Bureau,” Flick said, using the usual cover name.

“I trust it's more exciting than it sounds.”

“You can bet on that.”

“When do I start?”

“You need to get there today.” Flick got to her feet. “Your training starts at dawn tomorrow.”

“I'll come back to the house with you and start packing.” Diana stood up. “Tell me something?”

“If I can.”

Diana fiddled with her shotgun, seeming embarrassed. When she looked at Flick, her face showed an expression of frankness for the first time. “Why me?” she said. “You must know I've been turned down by everyone.”

Flick nodded. “I'll be blunt.” She looked at the bloodstained rabbit corpses on the ground, then lifted her gaze to Diana's pretty face. “You're a killer,” she said. “And that's what I need.”

DIETER SLEPT UNTIL
ten. He woke with a headache from the morphine, but otherwise he felt good: excited, optimistic, confident. Yesterday's bloody interrogation had given him a hot lead. The woman codenamed Bourgeoise, with her house in the rue du Bois, could be his way into the heart of the French Resistance.

Or it might go nowhere.

He drank a liter of water and took three aspirins to get rid of the morphine hangover; then he picked up the phone.

First he called Lieutenant Hesse, who was staying in a less grand room at the same hotel. “Good morning, Hans, did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you, Major. Sir, I went to the town hall to check out the address in the rue du Bois.”

“Good lad,” Dieter said. “What did you find out?”

“The house is owned and occupied by one person, a Mademoiselle Jeanne Lemas.”

“But there may be other people staying there.”

“I also drove past, just to have a look, and the place seemed quiet.”

“Be ready to leave, with my car, in an hour.”

“Very good.”

“And, Hans—well done for using your initiative.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dieter hung up. He wondered what Mademoiselle Lemas was like. Gaston said no one in the Bollinger circuit had ever met her, and Dieter believed him: the house was a security cut-out. Incoming agents knew
nothing more than where to contact the woman: if caught, they could not reveal any information about the Resistance. At least, that was the theory. There was no such thing as perfect security.

Presumably Mademoiselle Lemas was unmarried. She could be a young woman who had inherited the house from her parents, a middle-aged spinster looking for a husband, or an old maid. It might help to take a woman with him, he decided.

He returned to the bedroom. Stéphanie had brushed her abundant red hair and was sitting up in bed, with her breasts showing over the top of the sheet. She really knew how to look tempting. But he resisted the impulse to get back into bed. “Would you do something for me?” he said.

“I would do anything for you.”

“Anything?” He sat on the bed and touched her bare shoulder. “Would you watch me with another woman?”

“Of course,” she said. “I would lick her nipples while you made love to her.”

“You would, I know.” He laughed with pleasure. He had had mistresses before, but none like her. “It's not that, though. I want you to come with me while I arrest a woman in the Resistance.”

Her face showed no emotion. “Very well,” she said calmly.

He was tempted to press her for a reaction, to ask her how she felt about this, and was she sure she was happy about it, but he decided to take her consent at face value. “Thank you,” he said, and he returned to the living room.

Mademoiselle Lemas might be alone but, on the other hand, the house could be crawling with Allied agents, all armed to the teeth. He needed some backup. He consulted his notebook and gave the hotel operator Rommel's number in La Roche-Guyon.

When the Germans had first occupied the country, the French telephone system had been swamped. Since then, the Germans had improved the equipment, adding
thousands of kilometers of cable and installing automatic exchanges. The system was still overloaded, but it was better than it had been.

He asked for Rommel's aide Major Goedel. A moment later he heard the familiar cold, precise voice: “Goedel.”

“This is Dieter Franck,” he said. “How are you, Walter?”

“Busy,” Goedel said crisply. “What is it?”

“I'm making rapid progress here. I don't want to give details, because I'm speaking on a hotel phone, but I'm about to arrest at least one spy, perhaps several. I thought the Field Marshal might like to know that.”

“I shall tell him.”

“But I could use some assistance. I'm doing all this with one lieutenant. I'm so desperate, I'm using my French girlfriend to help me.”

“That seems unwise.”

“Oh, she's trustworthy. But she won't be much use against trained terrorists. Can you get me half a dozen good men?”

“Use the Gestapo—that's what they're for.”

“They're unreliable. You know they're cooperating with us only reluctantly. I need people I can rely on.”

“It's out of the question,” Goedel said.

“Look, Walter, you know how important Rommel feels this is—he's given me the job of making sure the Resistance can't hamper our mobility.”

“Yes. But the Field Marshal expects you to do it without depriving him of combat troops.”

“I'm not sure I can.”

“For God's sake, man!” Goedel raised his voice. “We're trying to defend the entire Atlantic coastline with a handful of soldiers, and you're surrounded by able-bodied men who have nothing better to do than track down scared old Jews hiding in barns. Get on with the job and don't pester me!” There was a click as the phone was hung up.

Dieter was startled. It was uncharacteristic for Goedel to blow his top. No doubt they were all tense
about the threat of invasion. But the upshot was clear. Dieter had to do this on his own.

With a sigh, he jiggled the rest and placed a call to the château at Sainte-Cécile.

He reached Willi Weber. “I'm going to raid a Resistance house,” he said. “I may need some of your heavyweights. Will you send four men and a car to the Hotel Frankfort? Or do I need to speak to Rommel again?”

The threat was unnecessary. Weber was keen to have his men along on the operation. That way, the Gestapo could claim the credit for any success. He promised a car in half an hour.

Dieter was worried about working with the Gestapo. He could not control them. But he had no choice.

While shaving, he turned on the radio, which was tuned to a German station. He learned that the first-ever tank battle in the Pacific theater had developed yesterday on the island of Biak. The occupying Japanese had driven the invading American 162d Infantry back to their beachhead. Push them into the sea, Dieter thought.

He dressed in a dark gray worsted suit, a fine cotton shirt with pale gray stripes, and a black tie with small white dots. The dots were woven into the fabric rather than printed on it, a detail that gave him pleasure. He thought for a moment, then removed the jacket and strapped on a shoulder holster. He took his Walther P38 automatic pistol from the bureau and slid it into the holster, then put his jacket back on.

He sat down with a cup of coffee and watched Stéphanie dressing. The French made the most beautiful underwear in the world, he thought as she stepped into silk cami-knickers the color of clotted cream. He loved to see her pull on her stockings, smoothing the silk over her thighs. “Why did the old masters not paint this moment?” he said.

“Because Renaissance women didn't have sheer silk stockings,” said Stéphanie.

When she was ready, they left.

Hans Hesse was waiting outside with Dieter's Hispano-Suiza. The young man gazed at Stéphanie with awestruck admiration. To him, she was infinitely desirable and at the same time untouchable. He made Dieter think of a poor woman staring into Cartier's shop window.

Behind Dieter's car was a black Citroën Traction Avant containing four Gestapo men in plain clothes. Major Weber had decided to come himself, Dieter saw: he sat in the front passenger seat of the Citroën, wearing a green tweed suit that made him look like a farmer on his way to church. “Follow me,” Dieter told him. “When we get there, please stay in your car until I call you.”

Weber said, “Where the hell did you get a car like that?”

“It was a bribe from a Jew,” Dieter said. “I helped him escape to America.”

Weber grunted in disbelief, but in fact the story was true.

Bravado was the best attitude to take with men such as Weber. If Dieter had tried to keep Stéphanie hidden away, Weber would immediately have suspected that she was Jewish and might have started an investigation. But because Dieter flaunted her, the thought never crossed Weber's mind.

Hans took the wheel, and they headed for the rue du Bois.

Reims was a substantial country town with a population of more than 100,000, but there were few motor vehicles on the streets. Cars were used only by those on official business: the police, doctors, firemen, and, of course, the Germans. The citizens went about by bicycle or on foot. Petrol was available for deliveries of food and other essential supplies, but many goods were transported by horse-drawn cart. Champagne was the main industry here. Dieter loved champagne in all its forms: the nutty older vintages, the fresh, light,
nonvintage cuvées, the refined blanc de blancs, the demi-sec dessert varieties, even the playful pink beloved of Paris courtesans.

The rue du Bois was a pleasant tree-lined street on the outskirts of town. Hans pulled up outside a tall house at the end of a row, with a little courtyard to one side. This was the home of Mademoiselle Lemas. Would Dieter be able to break her spirit? Women were more difficult than men. They cried and screamed, but held out longer. He had sometimes failed with a woman, though never with a man. If this one defeated him, his investigation was dead.

“Come if I wave to you,” he said to Stéphanie as he got out of the car. Weber's Citroën drew up behind, but the Gestapo men stayed in the car, as instructed.

Dieter glanced into the courtyard beside the house. There was a garage. Beyond that, he saw a small garden with clipped hedges, rectangular flower beds, and a raked gravel path. The owner had a tidy mind.

Beside the front door was an old-fashioned red-and-yellow rope. He pulled it and heard from inside the metallic ring of a mechanical bell.

The woman who opened the door was about sixty. She had white hair tied up at the back with a tortoise-shell clasp. She wore a blue dress with a pattern of small white flowers. Over it she had a crisp white apron. “Good morning, monsieur,” she said politely.

Dieter smiled. She was an irreproachably genteel provincial lady. Already he had thought of a way to torture her. His spirits lifted with hope.

He said, “Good morning . . . Mademoiselle Lemas?”

She took in his suit, noticed the car at the curb, and perhaps heard the trace of a German accent, and fear came into her eyes. There was a tremor in her voice as she said, “How may I help you?”

“Are you alone, Mademoiselle?” He watched her face carefully.

“Yes,” she said. “Quite alone.”

She was telling the truth. He was sure. A woman such
as this could not lie without betraying herself with her eyes.

He turned and beckoned Stéphanie. “My colleague will join us.” He was not going to need Weber's men. “I have some questions to ask you.”

“Questions? About what?”

“May I come in?”

“Very well.”

The front parlor was furnished with dark wood, highly polished. There was a piano under a dust cover and an engraving of Reims cathedral on the wall. The mantelpiece bore a selection of ornaments: a spun-glass swan, a china flower girl, a transparent globe containing a model of the palace at Versailles, and three wooden camels.

Dieter sat on a plush upholstered couch. Stéphanie sat beside him, and Mademoiselle Lemas took an upright chair opposite. She was plump, Dieter observed. Not many French people were plump after four years of occupation. Food was her vice.

On a low table was a cigarette box and a heavy lighter. Dieter flipped the lid and saw that the box was full. “Please feel free to smoke,” he said.

She looked mildly offended: women of her generation did not use tobacco. “I don't smoke.”

“Then who are these for?”

She touched her chin, a sign of dishonesty. “Visitors.”

“And what kind of visitors do you get?”

“Friends . . . neighbors . . .” She looked uncomfortable.

“And British spies.”

“That is absurd.”

Dieter gave her his most charming smile. “You are obviously a respectable lady who has become mixed up in criminal activities from misguided motives,” he said in a tone of friendly candor. “I'm not going to toy with you, and I hope you will not be so foolish as to lie to me.”

“I shall tell you nothing,” she said.

Dieter feigned disappointment, but he was pleased to be making such rapid progress. She had already abandoned the pretense that she did not know what he was talking about. That was as good as a confession. “I'm going to ask you some questions,” he said. “If you don't answer them, I shall ask you again at Gestapo headquarters.”

She gave him a defiant look.

He said, “Where do you meet the British agents?”

She said nothing.

“How do they recognize you?”

Her eyes met his in a steady gaze. She was no longer flustered, but resigned. A brave woman, he thought. She would be a challenge.