World War II Thriller Collection (81 page)

PAUL SAT IN
the dismal canteen at Grendon Underwood, brooding anxiously about Flick, for more than an hour. He was beginning to believe that Brian Standish had been compromised. The incident in the cathedral, the fact that Chatelle had been in total darkness, and the unnatural correctness of the third radio message all pointed in the same direction.

In the original plan, Flick would have been met at Chatelle by a reception committee consisting of Michel and the remnants of the Bollinger circuit. Michel would have taken them to a hideaway for a few hours, then arranged transport to Sainte-Cécile. After they entered the château and blew up the telephone exchange he would have driven them back to Chatelle to meet their pickup plane. All that had changed now, but Flick would still need both transport and a hiding place when she got to Reims, and she would be relying on the Bollinger circuit to help. However, if Brian had been compromised, would there be any of the circuit left? Was the safe house safe? Was Michel in Gestapo hands, too?

At last, Lucy Briggs came into the canteen and said, “Jean asked me to tell you that Helicopter's reply is being decrypted now. Would you like to come with me?”

He followed her to the tiny room—formerly a boot cupboard, he guessed—that served as Jean Bevins's office. Jean had a sheet of paper in her hand. She looked annoyed. “I can't understand this,” she said.

Paul read it quickly.

 

CALLSIGN HLCP (HELICOPTER)
SECURITY TAG PRESENT
JUN 3 1944
MESSAGE READS:
TWO STENS WITH SIX MAGAZINES FOR EACH STOP ONE LEE ENFELD RIFLE WITH TEN CLIPS STOP SIX COLT AUTOMATICS WITH APPROXIMATELY ONE HUNDRED ROUNDS STOP NO GRENADES OVER

 

Paul stared at the decrypt in dismay, as if hoping the words might change to something less horrifying, but of course they remained the same.

“I expected him to be furious,” Jean said. “He doesn't complain at all, just answers your questions, as nice as pie.”

“Exactly,” said Paul. “That's because it's not him.” This message did not come from a harassed agent in the field who had been presented with a sudden unreasonable request by his bureaucratic superiors. The reply had been drafted by a Gestapo officer desperate to maintain the smooth appearance of calm normality. The only spelling mistake was “Enfeld” instead of “Enfield,” and even that suggested a German, for
“feld”
was German for “field.”

There was no longer any doubt. Flick was in terrible danger.

Paul massaged his temples with his right hand. There was now only one thing to do. The operation was falling apart, and he had to save it—and Flick.

He looked up at Jean, and caught her looking at him with an expression of compassion. “May I use your phone?” he said.

“Of course.”

He dialed Baker Street. Percy was at his desk. “This is Paul. I'm convinced Brian has been captured. His radio is being operated by the Gestapo.” In the background, Jean Bevins gasped.

“Oh, hell,” Percy said. “And without the radio, we have no way to warn Flick.”

“Yes, we do,” said Paul.

“How?”

“Get me a plane. I'm going to Reims—tonight.”

THE AVENUE FOCH
seemed to have been built for the richest people in the world. A wide road running from the Arc de Triomphe to the Bois de Boulogne, it had ornamental gardens on both sides flanked by inner roads giving access to the palatial houses. Number 84 was an elegant residence with a broad staircase leading to five stories of charming rooms. The Gestapo had turned it into a house of torture.

Dieter sat in a perfectly proportioned drawing room, stared at the intricately decorated ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes, preparing himself for the interrogation. He had to sharpen his wits and at the same time numb his feelings.

Some men enjoyed torturing prisoners. Sergeant Becker in Reims was one. They smiled when their victims screamed, they got erections as they inflicted wounds, and they experienced orgasms during their victims' death throes. But they were not good interrogators, for they focused on pain rather than information. The best torturers were men such as Dieter who loathed the process from the bottom of their hearts.

Now he imagined himself closing doors in his soul, shutting his emotions away in cupboards. He thought of the two women as pieces of machinery that would disgorge information as soon as he figured out how to switch them on. He felt a familiar coldness settle over him like a blanket of snow, and he knew he was ready.

“Bring the older one,” he said.

Lieutenant Hesse went to fetch her.

He watched her carefully as she came in and sat in the chair. She had short hair and broad shoulders and wore a man-tailored suit. Her right hand hung limply, and she was supporting the swollen forearm with her left hand: Dieter had broken her wrist. She was obviously in pain, her face pale and gleaming with sweat, but her lips were set in a line of grim determination.

He spoke to her in French. “Everything that happens in this room is under your control,” he said. “The decisions you make, the things you say, will either cause you unbearable pain or bring you relief. It is entirely up to you.”

She said nothing. She was scared, but she did not panic. She was going to be difficult to break, he could tell already.

He said, “To begin with, tell me where the London headquarters of the Special Operations Executive is located.”

“Eighty-one Regent Street,” she said.

He nodded. “Let me explain something. I realize that SOE teaches its agents not to remain silent under questioning but to give false answers that will be difficult to check. Because I know this, I will ask you many questions to which I already know the answers. This way I will know whether you are lying to me. Where is the London headquarters?”

“Carlton House Terrace.”

He walked across to her and slapped her face as hard as he could. She cried out in pain. Her cheek turned an angry red. It was often useful to begin with a slap in the face. The pain was minimal, but the blow was a humiliating demonstration of the helplessness of the prisoner, and it quickly sapped their initial bravery.

But she looked defiantly at him. “Is that how German officers treat ladies?”

She had a haughty manner, and she spoke French with the accent of the upper classes. She was some kind of aristocrat, he guessed. “Ladies?” he said scornfully. “You have just shot and killed two policemen who were
going about their lawful business. Specht's young wife is now a widow, and Rolfe's parents have lost their only child. You're not a soldier in uniform, you have no excuse. In answer to your question—no, this is not how we treat ladies, it's how we treat murderers.”

She looked away. He had scored a hit with that remark. He was beginning to undermine her moral foundation.

“Tell me something else,” he said. “How well do you know Flick Clairet?”

Her eyes widened in an involuntary expression of surprise. That told him he had guessed correctly. These two were part of Major Clairet's team. He had shaken her again.

But she recovered her composure and said, “I don't know anyone of that name.”

He reached down and knocked her left hand away. She cried out in pain as her broken wrist lost its support and sagged. He took her right hand and jerked it. She screamed.

“Why were you having dinner at the Ritz, for God's sake?” he said. He released her hand.

She stopped screaming. He repeated the question. She caught her breath and said, “I like the food there.”

She was even tougher than he had thought. “Take her away,” he said. “Bring the other one.”

The younger girl was quite pretty. She had put up no resistance when arrested, so she still looked presentable, her dress unruffled and her makeup intact. She appeared much more frightened than her colleague. He asked her the question he had asked the older one: “Why were you having dinner at the Ritz?”

“I've always wanted to go there,” she replied.

He could hardly believe his ears. “Weren't you afraid it might be dangerous?”

“I thought Diana would look after me.”

So the other one's name was Diana. “What's your name?”

“Maude.”

This was suspiciously easy. “And what are you doing in France, Maude?”

“We were supposed to blow something up.”

“What?”

“I don't remember. Would it have something to do with railways?”

Dieter began to wonder whether he was being led up the garden path. “How long have you known Felicity Clairet?” he tried.

“Do you mean Flick? Only a few days. She's awfully bossy.” A thought crossed her mind. “She was right, though—we shouldn't have gone to the Ritz.” She began to cry. “I never meant to do anything wrong. I just wanted to have a good time and see places, that's all I've ever wanted.”

“What's your team's code name?”

“The Blackbirds,” she said in English.

He frowned. The radio message to Helicopter had referred to them as Jackdaws. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It's because of some poem, ‘The Blackbird of Reims,' I think. No, ‘The Jackdaw of Reims,' that's it.”

If she was not completely stupid, she was doing a very good imitation. “Where do you think Flick is now?”

Maude thought for a long moment, then said, “I really don't know.”

Dieter sighed in frustration. One prisoner was too tough to talk, the other too stupid to know anything useful. This was going to take longer than he had hoped.

There might be a way of shortening the process. He was curious about the relationship between these two. Why had the dominant, mannish older woman risked her life to take the pretty, empty-headed girl to dinner at the Ritz? Perhaps I've got a dirty mind, he said to himself. But still . . .

“Take her away,” he said in German. “Put her in with the other one. Make sure the room has a judas.”

When they had been locked away, Lieutenant Hesse showed Dieter to a small room in the attic. He looked through a peephole into the room next door. The two
women were sitting side by side on the edge of the narrow bed. Maude was crying and Diana was comforting her. Dieter watched carefully. Diana's broken right wrist rested in her lap. With her left hand she stroked Maude's hair. She was talking in a low voice, but Dieter could not hear the words.

How close a relationship was this? Were they comrades in arms, bosom friends . . . or more? Diana leaned forward and kissed Maude's forehead. That did not mean much. Then Diana put a forefinger on Maude's chin, turned the girl's face to her own, and kissed her lips. It was a gesture of comfort, but surely too intimate for a mere friend?

Finally Diana poked out the tip of her tongue and licked Maude's tears. That made up Dieter's mind. It was not foreplay—no one could have sex in such circumstances—but it was the kind of comfort that would be offered only by a lover, not by a mere friend. Diana and Maude were lesbians. And that solved the problem.

“Bring the older one again,” he said, and he returned to the interview room.

When Diana was brought in the second time, he had her tied to the chair. Then he said, “Prepare the electrical machinery.” He waited impatiently while the electric shock machine was rolled in on its trolley and plugged to a socket in the wall. Every minute that passed was taking Flick Clairet farther away from him.

When everything was ready, he seized Diana by the hair with his left hand. Holding her head still, he attached two crocodile clips to her lower lip.

He turned the power on. Diana screamed. He left it on for ten seconds, then switched off.

When her sobbing began to ease he said, “That was less than half power.” It was true. He had rarely used full power. Only when the torture had gone on a long time, and the prisoner kept passing out, was full power used in an effort to penetrate the subject's fading consciousness. And by then it was generally too late, for madness was setting in.

But Diana did not know that.

“Not again,” she begged. “Please, please, not again.”

“Are you willing to answer my questions?”

She groaned, but she did not say yes.

Dieter said, “Bring the other one.”

Diana gasped.

Lieutenant Hesse brought Maude in and tied her to a chair.

“What do you want?” Maude cried.

Diana said, “Don't say anything—it's better.”

Maude was wearing a light summer blouse. She had a neat, trim figure with full breasts. Dieter tore her blouse open, sending the buttons flying.

“Please!” Maude said. “I'll tell you anything!”

Under her blouse she wore a cotton chemise with a lacy trim. He took hold of the neckline and ripped it off. Maude screamed.

He stood back and looked. Maude's breasts were round and firm. A part of his mind noticed how pretty they were. Diana must love them, he thought.

He took the crocodile clips from Diana's mouth and carefully fastened one to each of Maude's small pink nipples. Then he returned to the machine and put his hand on the control.

“All right,” Diana said quietly. “I'll tell you everything.”

. . . .

DIETER ARRANGED FOR
the railway tunnel at Marles to be heavily guarded. If the Jackdaws got that far, they would find it almost impossible to enter the tunnel. He felt confident that Flick would not now achieve her objective. But that was secondary. His burning ambition was to capture her and interrogate her.

It was already two o'clock on Sunday morning. Tuesday would be the night of the full moon. The invasion could be hours away. But in those few hours Dieter could break the back of the French Resistance—if he
could get Flick in a torture chamber. He only needed the list of names and addresses that she had in her head. The Gestapo in every city in France could be galvanized into action, thousands of trained staff. They were not the brightest of men, but they knew how to arrest people. In a couple of hours they could jail hundreds of Resistance cadres. Instead of the massive uprising that the Allies were no doubt hoping for to aid their invasion, there would be calm and order for the Germans to organize their response and push the invaders back into the sea.

He had sent a Gestapo team to raid the Hôtel de la Chapelle, but that was a matter of form: he was certain Flick and the other three would have left within minutes of the arrest of their comrades. Where was Flick now? Reims was the natural jumping-off point for an attack on Marles, which was why the Jackdaws had originally planned to land near the city. Dieter thought it likely Flick would still pass through Reims. It was on the road and rail routes to Marles, and there was probably some kind of help she needed from the remnants of the Bollinger circuit. He was betting she was now on her way from Paris to Reims.

He arranged for every Gestapo checkpoint between the two cities to be given details of the false identities being used by Flick and her team. However that, too, was something of a formality: either they had alternative identities, or they would find ways to avoid the checkpoints.

He called Reims, got Weber out of bed, and explained the situation. For once Weber was not obstructive. He agreed to send two Gestapo men to keep an eye on Michel's town house, two more to watch Gilberte's building, and two to the house in the rue du Bois to guard Stéphanie.

Finally, as the headache began, Dieter called Stéphanie. “The British terrorists are on their way to Reims,” he told her. “I'm sending two men to guard you.”

She was as calm as ever. “Thank you.”

“But it's important that you continue to go to the rendezvous.” With luck, Flick would not suspect the extent to which Dieter had penetrated the Bollinger circuit, and she would walk into his arms. “Remember, we changed the location. It's not the cathedral crypt any more, it's the Café de la Gare. If anyone shows up, just drive them back to the house, the way you did with Helicopter. Then the Gestapo can take over from that point.”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure? I've minimized the risk to you, but it's still dangerous.”