World War II Thriller Collection (67 page)

Jelly said, “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

Flick interposed quickly. “Greta's an engineer. She's going to tell you where to place the charges.”

“Why do we need a German engineer?”

“I'm English,” Greta said. “My father was born in Liverpool.”

Jelly snorted skeptically. “If that's a Liverpool accent, I'm the Duchess of Devonshire.”

“Save your aggression for the next session,” Flick said. “We're about to do hand-to-hand combat.” This bickering bothered her. She needed them to trust one another.

They returned to the garden of the house, where Bill Griffiths was waiting. He had changed into shorts and tennis shoes, and was doing push-ups on the grass with his shirt off. When he stood up, Flick got the feeling he wanted them to admire his physique.

Bill liked to teach self-defense by giving the student a weapon and saying, “Attack me.” Then he would
demonstrate how an unarmed man could repel an attacker. It was a dramatic and memorable lesson. Bill was sometimes unnecessarily violent but, Flick always thought, the agents might as well get used to that.

Today he had a selection of weapons laid out on the old pine table: a wicked-looking knife that he claimed was SS equipment, a Walther P38 automatic pistol of the kind Flick had seen German officers carrying, a French policeman's truncheon, a length of black-and-yellow electrical cord that he called a garotte, and a beer bottle with the neck snapped to leave a rough circle of sharp glass.

He put his shirt back on for the training session. “How to escape from a man who is pointing a gun at you,” he began. He picked up the Walther, thumbed the safety catch up to the firing position, and handed the gun to Maude. She pointed it at him. “Sooner or later, your captor is going to want you to go somewhere.” He turned and put his hands in the air. “Chances are, he'll follow close behind you, poking the gun in your back.” He walked around in a wide circle, with Maude behind. “Now, Maude, I want you to pull the trigger the moment you think I'm trying to escape.” He quickened his pace slightly, forcing Maude to step out a little faster to keep up with him, and as she did so he moved sideways and back. He caught her right wrist under his arm and hit her hand with a sharp, downward-chopping motion. She cried out and dropped the gun.

“This is where you can make a bad mistake,” he said as Maude rubbed her wrist. “Do
not
run away at this point. Otherwise your Kraut copper will just pick up his gun and shoot you in the back. What you have to do is . . .” He picked up the Walther, pointed it at Maude, and pulled the trigger. There was a bang. Maude screamed, and so did Greta. “This gun is loaded with blanks, of course,” Bill said.

Sometimes Flick wished Bill would not be quite so dramatic in his demonstrations.

“We'll practice all these techniques on one another in
a few minutes,” he went on. He picked up the electrical cord and turned to Greta. “Put that around my neck. When I give the word, pull it as tight as you can.” He handed her the cord. “Your Gestapo man, or your traitorous collaborationist French gendarme, could kill you with the cord, but he can't hold your weight with it. All right, Greta, strangle me.” Greta hesitated, then pulled the cord tight. It dug into Bill's muscular neck. He kicked out forward with both feet and fell to the ground, landing on his back. Greta lost her grip on the cord.

“Unfortunately,” Bill said, “this leaves you lying on the ground with your enemy standing over you, which is an unfavorable situation.” He got up. “We'll do it again. But this time, before I drop to the ground, I'm going to take hold of my captor by one wrist.” They resumed the position, and Greta pulled the cord tight. Bill grabbed her wrist, fell to the ground, pulling her forward and down. As she fell on top of him, he bent one leg and kneed her viciously in the stomach.

She rolled off him and curled up, gasping for breath and retching. Flick said, “For Christ's sake, Bill, that's a bit rough!”

He looked pleased. “The Gestapo are a lot worse than me,” he said.

She went to Greta and helped her up. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“He's a bloody fucking Nazi,” Greta gasped.

Flick helped Greta into the house and sat her down in the kitchen. The cook, who was peeling potatoes for lunch, offered her a cup of tea, and Greta accepted gratefully.

When Flick returned to the garden, Bill had picked his next victim, Ruby, and handed her the policeman's truncheon. There was a cunning look on Ruby's face, and Flick thought: If I were Bill I'd be careful with her.

Flick had seen Bill demonstrate this technique before. When Ruby raised her right hand to hit him with the truncheon, Bill was going to grab her arm, turn, and
throw her over his shoulder. She would land flat on her back with a painful thump.

“Right, gypsy girl,” Bill said. “Hit me with the truncheon, as hard as you like.”

Ruby lifted her arm, and Bill moved toward her, but the action did not follow the usual pattern. When Bill reached for Ruby's arm, it was not there. The truncheon fell to the ground. Ruby moved close to Bill and brought her knee up hard into his groin. He gave a sharp cry of pain. She grabbed his shirtfront, pulled him toward her sharply, and butted his nose. Then, with her sturdy black laced shoe, she kicked his shin, and he fell to the ground, blood pouring from his nose.

“You bitch, you weren't supposed to do that!” he yelled.

“The Gestapo are a lot worse than me,” said Ruby.

IT WAS A
minute before three when Dieter parked outside the Hotel Frankfort. He hurried across the cobbled square to the cathedral under the stony gaze of the carved angels in the buttresses. It was almost too much to hope that an Allied agent would show up at the rendezvous the first day. On the other hand, if the invasion really were imminent, the Allies would be throwing in every last asset.

He saw Mademoiselle Lemas's Simca Cinq parked to one side of the square, which meant that Stéphanie was already here. He was relieved to have arrived in time. If anything should go wrong, he would not want her to have to deal with it alone.

He passed through the great west door into the cool gloom of the interior. He looked for Hans Hesse and saw him sitting in the back row of pews. They nodded briefly to one another but did not speak.

Right away Dieter felt like a violator. The business he was engaged upon should not take place in this atmosphere. He was not very devout—less so than the average German, he thought—but he was certainly no unbeliever. He felt uncomfortable catching spies in a place that had been a holy sanctuary for hundreds of years.

He shook off the feeling as superstitious.

He crossed to the north side of the building and walked up the long north aisle, his footsteps ringing on the stone floor. When he reached the transept, he saw the gate, railing, and steps leading down to the crypt, which was below the high altar. Stéphanie was down
there, he assumed, wearing one black shoe and one brown. From here he could see in both directions: back the way he had come the length of the north aisle, and forward around the curved ambulatory at the other end of the building. He knelt down and folded his hands in prayer.

He said, “O Lord, forgive me for the suffering I inflict on my prisoners. You know I'm trying my best to do my duty. And forgive me for my sin with Stéphanie. I know it's wrong, but You made her so lovely that I can't resist the temptation. Watch over my dear Waltraud, and help her to care for Rudi and little Mausi, and protect them from the bombs of the RAF. And be with Field Marshal Rommel when the invasion comes, and give him the power to push the Allied invaders back into the sea. It's a short prayer to have so much in it, but You know that I have a lot to do right now. Amen.”

He looked around. There was no service going on, but a handful of people were scattered around the pews in the side chapels, praying or just sitting quietly in the sacred stillness. A few tourists walked around the aisles, talking in hushed voices about the medieval architecture, bending their necks to peer up into the vastness of the vaulting.

If an Allied agent showed up today, Dieter planned simply to watch and make sure nothing went wrong. Ideally he would not have to do anything. Stéphanie would talk to the agent, exchange passwords, and take him home to the rue du Bois.

After that, his plans were vaguer. Somehow, the agent would lead him to others. At some point, there would be a breakthrough: an unwise person would be found to have a written list of names and addresses; a wireless set and a code book would fall into Dieter's hands; or he would capture someone like Flick Clairet, who would, under torture, betray half the French Resistance.

He checked his watch. It was five past three. Probably no one would come today. He looked up. To his horror, he saw Willi Weber.

What the hell was he doing here?

Weber was in plain clothes, wearing his green tweed suit. With him was a younger Gestapo man in a check jacket. They were coming from the east end of the church, walking around the ambulatory toward Dieter, though they had not seen him. They drew level with the crypt door and stopped.

Dieter cursed under his breath. This could ruin everything. He almost hoped that no British agent would come today.

Looking along the north aisle, he saw a young man carrying a small suitcase. Dieter narrowed his eyes: most of the people in the church were older. The man was wearing a shabby blue suit of French cut, but he looked like a Viking, with red hair, blue eyes, and pale pink skin. It was a very English combination, but could also be German. At first glance, the young man might be an officer in mufti, seeing the sights or even intending to pray.

However, his behavior gave him away. He walked purposefully along the aisle, neither looking at the pillars like a tourist nor taking a seat like a worshiper. Dieter's heart beat faster. An agent on the first day! And the bag he carried was almost certainly a suitcase radio. That meant he had a code book, too. This was more than Dieter had dared to hope for.

But Weber was here to mess everything up.

The agent passed Dieter and slowed his walk, obviously looking for the crypt.

Weber saw the man, gave him a hard look, then turned and pretended to study the fluting on a column.

Maybe it was going to be all right, Dieter thought. Weber had done a stupid thing in coming here, but perhaps he was just planning to observe. Surely he was not such an imbecile as to interfere? He could ruin a unique opportunity.

The agent found the crypt gate and disappeared down the stone steps.

Weber looked across the north transept and gave a
nod. Following his gaze, Dieter saw two more Gestapo men lurking beneath the organ loft. That was a bad sign. Weber did not need four men just to observe. Dieter wondered if he had time to speak to Weber, get him to call his men off. But Weber would argue, and there would be a row, and then—

As it turned out, there was no time. Almost immediately, Stéphanie came up from the crypt with the agent right behind her.

When she reached the top of the steps she saw Weber. A look of shock came over her face. She was disoriented by his unexpected presence, as if she had walked on stage and found herself in the wrong play. She stumbled, and the young agent caught her elbow and steadied her. She recovered her composure with characteristic speed and gave him a grateful smile. Well done, my girl, Dieter thought.

Then Weber stepped forward.

“No!” Dieter said involuntarily. No one heard him.

Weber took the agent by the arm and said something. Dieter's heart sank as he realized Weber was making an arrest. Stéphanie backed away from the little tableau, looking bewildered.

Dieter got up and walked quickly toward the group. He could only think that Weber had decided to grab the glory by capturing an agent. It was insane but possible.

Before Dieter got close, the agent shook off Weber's hand and bolted.

Weber's young companion in the check jacket reacted fast. He took two big strides after the agent, flung himself forward in a flying tackle, and threw his arms around the agent's knees. The agent stumbled, but he was moving strongly, and the Gestapo man could not hold him. The agent recovered his balance, straightened up, and ran on, still clutching his suitcase.

The sudden running steps, and the grunts made by both men, sounded loud in the hushed cathedral, and everyone looked. The agent ran toward Dieter. Dieter saw what was going to happen and groaned. The second
pair of Gestapo men stepped out of the north transept. The agent saw them and seemed to guess what they were, for he swerved left, but he was too late. One of the men stuck out a foot and tripped him. He fell headlong, his chunky body hitting the stone floor with a thwack. The suitcase went flying. Both Gestapo men jumped on him. Weber came running up, looking pleased.

“Shit,” Dieter said aloud, forgetting where he was. The mad fools were ruining everything.

Maybe he could still save the situation.

He reached into his jacket, drew his Walther P38, thumbed the safety catch, and pointed it at the Gestapo men who were holding the agent down. Speaking French, he yelled at the top of his voice, “Get off him now, or I shoot!”

Weber said, “Major, I—”

Dieter fired into the air. The report of the pistol crashed around the cathedral vaults, drowning Weber's giveaway words. “Silence!” Dieter shouted in German. Weber looked scared and shut up.

Dieter poked the nose of the pistol hard into the face of one of the Gestapo men. Reverting to French, he screamed, “Off! Off! Get off him!”

With terrified faces the two men stood up and backed away.

Dieter looked at Stéphanie. Calling her by Mademoiselle Lemas's name, he shouted, “Jeanne! Go! Get away!” Stéphanie began to run. She circled widely around the Gestapo men and dashed for the west door.

The agent was scrambling to his feet. “Go with her! Go with her!” Dieter shouted at him, pointing. The man grabbed his suitcase and ran, vaulting over the backs of the wooden choir stalls and haring down the middle of the nave.

Weber and his three associates looked bemused. “Lie facedown!” Dieter ordered them. As they obeyed, he backed away, still threatening them with the gun. Then he turned and ran after Stéphanie and the agent.

As the other two fled through the doorway, Dieter stopped and spoke to Hans, who stood near the back of the church, looking stolid. “Talk to those damn fools,” Dieter said breathlessly. “Explain what we're doing and make sure they don't follow us.” He holstered the pistol and ran outside.

The engine of the Simca was turning over. Dieter pushed the agent into the cramped backseat and got into the front passenger seat. Stéphanie stamped on the pedal and the little car shot out of the square like a champagne cork.

As they raced along the street, Dieter turned and looked through the back window. “No one following,” he said. “Slow down. We don't want to get stopped by a gendarme.”

The agent said in French, “I'm Helicopter. What the hell happened in there?”

Dieter realized that “Helicopter” must be a code name. He recalled that Gaston had told him Mademoiselle Lemas's code name. “This is Bourgeoise,” he said, indicating Stéphanie. “And I'm Charenton,” he improvised, thinking for some reason of the prison where the Marquis de Sade had been incarcerated. “Bourgeoise has become suspicious, in the last few days, that the cathedral rendezvous might be watched, so she asked me to come with her. I'm not part of the Bollinger circuit—Bourgeoise is a cut-out.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

“Anyway, we now know the Gestapo had set a trap, and it's just fortunate that she had asked me to be there as backup for her.”

“You were brilliant!” Helicopter said enthusiastically. “God, I was so scared, I thought I'd blown it on my first day.”

You have, Dieter thought silently.

It seemed to Dieter that he might have saved the situation. Helicopter now firmly believed that Dieter was a member of the Resistance. Helicopter's French sounded perfect, but obviously he was not quite good
enough to identify Dieter's slight accent. Was there anything else that might cause him to be suspicious, perhaps later when he thought things over? Dieter had stood up and said “No!” right at the start of the rumpus, but a plain “No” did not mean much, and anyway he did not think anyone had heard him. Willi Weber had shouted “Major” in German at Dieter, and Dieter had fired his weapon to drown out any further indiscretion. Had Helicopter heard that one word, did he know what it meant, and would he remember it later and puzzle over it? No, Dieter decided. If Helicopter had understood the word, he would have assumed Weber was addressing one of the other Gestapo men: they were all in plain clothes so could be any rank.

Helicopter would now trust Dieter in all things, being convinced Dieter had snatched him from the clutches of the Gestapo.

Others might not be quite so easy to fool. The existence of a new Resistance member codenamed Charenton and recruited by Mademoiselle Lemas would have to be plausibly explained, both to London and to the leader of the Bollinger circuit, Michel Clairet. Both might ask questions and run checks. Dieter would just have to deal with them in due course. It was not possible to anticipate everything.

He allowed himself a moment of triumph. He was one step closer to his goal of crippling the Resistance in northern France. He had pulled it off despite the stupidity of the Gestapo. And it had been exhilarating.

The challenge now was to make maximum use of Helicopter's trust. The agent must continue to operate, believing himself unsuspected. That way he could lead Dieter to more agents, perhaps dozens more. But it was a subtle trick to pull off.

They arrived at the rue du Bois and Stéphanie drove into Mademoiselle Lemas's garage. They entered the house by the back door and sat in the kitchen. Stéphanie got a bottle of scotch from the cellar and poured them all a drink.

Dieter was desperately anxious to confirm that Helicopter had a radio. He said, “You'd better send a message to London right away.”

“I'm supposed to broadcast at eight p.m. and receive at eleven.”

Dieter made a mental note. “But you need to tell them as soon as possible that the cathedral rendezvous is compromised. We don't want them to send any more men there. And there could be someone else on his way tonight.”

“Oh, my God, yes,” the young man said. “I'll use the emergency frequency.”

“You can set up your wireless right here in the kitchen.”

Helicopter lifted the heavy case onto the table and opened it.

Dieter hid a sigh of profound satisfaction. There it was.