World War II Thriller Collection (83 page)

“I've captured another enemy agent for you,” she said coolly.

His mouth went dry. “My God . . . well done! How did it happen?”

“I picked him up in the Café de la Gare and brought him here.”

Dieter closed his eyes. If something had gone wrong—if she had done anything to make the agent suspect her—she could be dead by now. “And then?”

“Your men tied him up.”

She had said
him.
That meant the terrorist was not Flick. Dieter was disappointed. All the same, his strategy was working. This man was the second Allied agent to walk into the trap. “What's he like?”

“A young guy with a limp and half his ear shot off.”

“What have you done with him?”

“He's here in the kitchen, on the floor. I was about to call Sainte-Cécile and have him picked up.”

“Don't do that. Lock him in the cellar. I want to talk to him before Weber does.”

“Where are you?”

“Some village. We have a damn puncture.”

“Hurry back.”

“I should be with you in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

Dieter wanted a serious answer. “But really, how do you feel?”

“How do I
feel?
” She paused. “That's a question you don't usually ask.”

Dieter hesitated. “I don't usually involve you in capturing terrorists.”

Her voice softened. “I feel fine. Don't worry about me.”

He found himself saying something he had not planned. “What will we do after the war?”

There was a surprised silence at the other end of the line.

Dieter said, “Of course, the war could go on for ten years, but on the other hand it might be over in two weeks, and then what would we do?”

She recovered her composure somewhat, but there was an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice as she said, “What would you like to do?”

“I don't know,” he said, but that left him dissatisfied, and after a moment he blurted out, “I don't want to lose you.”

“Oh.”

He waited for her to say something else.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

She said nothing. There was an odd sound at the other end, and he realized she was crying. He felt choked up himself. He caught the eye of the mechanic's wife, still timing his phone call. He swallowed hard and turned away, not wanting a stranger to see that he was upset. “I'll be with you soon,” he said. “We'll talk some more.”

“I love you,” she said.

He glanced at the mechanic's wife. She was staring at him. To hell with her, he thought. “I love you, too,” he said. Then he hung up the phone.

IT TOOK THE
Jackdaws most of the day to get from Paris to Reims.

They passed through all the checkpoints without incident. Their new fake identities worked as well as the old, and no one noticed that Flick's photograph had been retouched with eyebrow pencil.

But their train was delayed repeatedly, stopping for an hour at a time in the middle of nowhere. Flick sat in the hot carriage fuming with impatience as the precious minutes leaked away uselessly. She could see the reason for the holdups: half the track had been destroyed by the bombers of the U.S. Army Air Corps and the RAF. When the train chugged into life and moved forward, they looked out of the windows and saw emergency repair crews cutting through twisted rails, picking up smashed sleepers, and laying new track. Her only consolation was that the delays would be even more maddening for Rommel as he attempted to deploy his troops to repel the invasion.

There was a feeling in her chest like a cold, inert lump, and every few minutes her thoughts returned to Diana and Maude. They had certainly been interrogated by now, probably tortured, possibly killed. Flick had known Diana all her life. She was going to have to tell Diana's brother, William, what had happened. Flick's own mother would be almost as upset as William. Ma had helped raise Diana.

They began to see vineyards, then champagne warehouses alongside the track, and at last they arrived in
Reims a few minutes after four on Sunday afternoon. As Flick had feared, it was too late to carry out their mission the same evening. That meant another nerve-racking twenty-four hours in occupied territory. It also gave Flick a more specific problem: Where would the Jackdaws spend the night?

This was not Paris. There was no red-light district with disreputable flophouses whose proprietors asked few questions, and Flick did not know of a convent where the nuns would hide anyone who begged for sanctuary. There were no dark alleys in which down-and-outs slept behind rubbish bins ignored by the police.

Flick knew of three possible hideouts: Michel's town house, Gilberte's apartment, and Mademoiselle Lemas's house in the rue du Bois. Unfortunately, any of them might be under surveillance, depending on how deeply the Gestapo had penetrated the Bollinger circuit. If Dieter Franck was in charge of the investigation, she had to fear the worst.

There was nothing to do but go and look. “We must split up into pairs again,” she told the others. “Four women together is too conspicuous. Ruby and I will go first. Greta and Jelly, follow a hundred meters behind us.”

They walked to Michel's place, not far from the station. It was Flick's marital home, but she always thought of it as his house. There was plenty of room for four women. But the Gestapo almost certainly knew of the place: it would be astonishing if none of the men taken captive last Sunday had revealed the address under torture.

The house was in a busy street with several shops. Walking along the pavement, Flick surreptitiously looked into each parked car while Ruby checked the houses and shops. Michel's property was a high, narrow building in an elegant eighteenth-century row. It had a small front yard with a magnolia tree. The place was still and quiet, with no movement at the windows. The doorstep was dusty.

On their first pass along the street, they saw nothing suspicious: no workmen digging up the road, no watchful loiterers at the pavement tables outside the bar, Chez Régis, no one leaning on a telegraph pole reading a newspaper.

They returned on the opposite side. Outside the baker's shop was a black Citroën Traction Avant with two men in suits sitting in the front, smoking cigarettes and looking bored.

Flick tensed. She was wearing her dark wig, so she felt sure they would not recognize her as the girl on the Wanted poster, but all the same her pulse beat faster and she hurried past them. All along the pavement she listened for a shout behind her, but it did not come, and at last she turned the corner and breathed easier.

She slowed her pace. Her fears had been justified. Michel's house was no use to her. It did not have a rear entrance, being part of a row with no back alley. The Jackdaws could not enter without being seen by the Gestapo.

She considered the other two possibilities. Michel was presumably still living at Gilberte's apartment, unless he had been captured. The building had a useful back entrance. But it was a tiny place, and four overnight guests at a one-room apartment would not only be uncomfortable but also might be noticed by other people in the building.

The obvious place for them to spend the night was the house in the rue du Bois. Flick had been there twice. It was a big house with lots of bedrooms. Mademoiselle Lemas was completely trustworthy and was more than willing to feed unexpected guests. She had been sheltering British agents, downed airmen, and escaping prisoners of war for years. And she might know what had happened to Brian Standish.

It was a mile or two from the center of town. The four women set out to walk there, still in pairs a hundred meters apart.

They arrived half an hour later. The rue du Bois was
a quiet suburban street: a surveillance team would have trouble concealing themselves here. There was only one parked car within sight, an impeccably upright Peugeot 201 that was much too slow for the Gestapo. It was empty.

Flick and Ruby took a preliminary walk past Mademoiselle Lemas's house. It looked the same as always. Her Simca Cinq stood in the courtyard, which was unusual only in that she normally parked it in the garage. Flick slowed her pace and surreptitiously looked in at the window. She saw no one. Mademoiselle Lemas used that room only rarely: it was an old-fashioned front parlor, the piano immaculately dusted, the cushions always plumped, the door kept firmly closed except for formal visits. Her secret guests always sat in the kitchen at the back of the house, where there was no chance they would be seen by passersby.

As Flick passed the door, her eye was caught by something on the ground. It was a wooden toothbrush. Without pausing in her stride, she stooped and picked it up.

Ruby said, “Do you need to clean your teeth?”

“This looks like Paul's.” She almost thought it
was
Paul's, although there must be hundreds like it in France, maybe thousands.

“Do you think he might be here?”

“Maybe.”

“Why would he have come?”

“I don't know. To warn us of danger, perhaps.”

They walked on around the block. Before approaching the house again, she let Greta and Jelly catch up. “This time we'll go together,” she said. “Greta and Jelly, knock on the front door.”

Jelly said, “Thank gordon, my feet are killing me.”

“Ruby and I will go around to the back, just as a precaution. Don't say anything about us, just wait for us to appear.”

They walked along the street again, all together this time. Flick and Ruby went into the courtyard and past the Simca Cinq and crept around to the back. The
kitchen ran almost the whole width of the house at the rear, with two windows and a door between. Flick waited until she heard the metallic ring of the doorbell; then she risked a peep through a window.

Her heart stopped.

There were three people in the kitchen: two men in uniform, and a tall woman with luxuriant red hair who was definitely not the middle-aged Mademoiselle Lemas.

In a frozen fraction of a second, Flick noted that all three were looking away from the windows, reflexively turning in the direction of the front door.

Then she ducked down again.

She thought fast. The men were obviously Gestapo officers. The woman must be a French traitor, posing as Mademoiselle Lemas. She had looked vaguely familiar, even from the back: there was something about the stylish drape of her green summer dress that struck a chord in Flick's memory.

It was dismayingly clear to Flick that the safe house had been betrayed. The place was now a trap for Allied agents. Poor Brian Standish must have fallen straight into it. Flick wondered whether he was still alive.

A feeling of cold determination came over her. She drew her pistol. Ruby did the same.

“Three people,” she told Ruby in a low voice. “Two men and a woman.” She took a deep breath. It was time to be ruthless. “We're going to kill the men,” she said. “Okay?”

Ruby nodded.

Flick thanked heaven for Ruby's cool head. “I'd prefer to keep the woman alive for questioning, but we'll shoot her if she seems likely to escape.”

“Got it.”

“The men are at the left-hand end of the kitchen. The woman will probably go to the door. You take this window, I'll take the far one. Aim at the man nearest to you. Shoot when I shoot.”

She crept across the width of the house and crouched
under the other window. Her breath was coming fast and her heart was beating like a steam hammer, but she was thinking as clearly as if she were playing chess. She had no experience of firing through glass. She decided to shoot three times in rapid succession: once to shatter the window, a second time to kill her man, and a third time to be sure of him. She thumbed the safety catch on her pistol and held it pointing to the sky. Then she straightened up and looked in through the window.

The two men were standing facing the door to the hall. Both had pistols drawn. Flick leveled her gun at the one nearest her.

The woman had gone, but as Flick looked she returned, holding the kitchen door open. Greta and Jelly walked in ahead of her, all unsuspecting; then they saw the Gestapo men. Greta gave a small scream of fear. Something was said—Flick could not hear what—then Greta and Jelly raised their hands in the air.

The fake Mademoiselle Lemas walked into the kitchen behind them. Seeing her full-face, Flick felt a shock of recognition. She had seen her before. An instant later she remembered where. The woman had been in the square at Sainte-Cécile last Sunday with Dieter Franck. Flick had thought she was the officer's mistress. Obviously she was something more than that.

A moment later the woman saw Flick's face at the window. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened, and she lifted her hand to point at what she had seen. The two men began to turn.

Flick pulled the trigger. The bang of the gun seemed simultaneous with the crash of breaking glass. Holding the gun level and steady, she fired twice more.