World War II Thriller Collection (92 page)

If he had had a gun in his hand at that moment, he would have mowed her down in blind rage. She would be an incomparable prize if captured alive, but he was so enraged and humiliated by her success and his own failure that he could not have controlled himself.

But she had the gun.

At first she did not see Dieter but stared at the dead body of her comrade. Dieter's hand moved inside his jacket. Then she lifted her gaze and met his eyes. He saw recognition dawn on her face. She knew who he was. She knew whom she had been fighting for the past nine days. There was a light of triumph in her eyes. But he also saw the thirst for revenge in the twist of her mouth, and she raised the Sten gun and fired.

Dieter ducked back into the torture chamber as her bullets chipped fragments of brick off the wall. He drew his Walther P38 automatic pistol, thumbed the safety lever to the fire position, and pointed it at the doorway, waiting for Flick to come through.

She did not appear.

He waited a few seconds, then risked a look.

Flick had gone.

He dashed across the burning Interview Room, threw open the door, and stepped into the corridor. Flick and another woman were running toward the far end. As he raised his gun, they jumped over a group of uniformed bodies on the floor. He aimed at Flick; then a hot pain burned his arm. He cried out and dropped his gun. He saw that his sleeve was on fire. He tore off his jacket.

When he looked up again, the women had gone.

Dieter picked up his pistol and went after them.

As he ran, he smelled fuel. There was a leak—or perhaps the saboteurs had holed a pipe. Any second now, the basement would explode like a giant bomb.

But he might still catch Flick.

He ran out and started up the stairs.

. . . .

IN THE TORTURE
chamber, Sergeant Becker's uniform started to smolder.

The heat and the smoke brought him back to consciousness and he cried for help, but no one heard.

He struggled against the leather straps that bound
him, as so many of his victims had struggled in the past, but, like them, he was helpless.

A few moments later, his clothes burst into flame, and he began to scream.

. . . .

FLICK SAW DIETER
coming up the stairs after her with his gun in his hand. She was afraid that if she stopped and turned to take aim at him, he would be able to shoot first. She decided to run rather than stand and fight.

Someone had activated the fire alarm, and a klaxon blared throughout the château as she and Ruby raced through the switchboard rooms. All the operators left their stations and crowded to the doors, so that Flick found herself in a crush. The crowd would be making it difficult for Dieter to get a shot at her or Ruby, but the other women were slowing them down. Flick punched and kicked ruthlessly to get people out of her way.

They reached the front entrance and ran down the steps. In the square, Flick could see Moulier's meat van, backed up to the château gates with its engine running and its rear doors open. Paul stood beside it, staring anxiously through the iron railings. Flick thought he was the best thing she had ever seen.

However, as the women poured out of the building, two guards were directing them into the vineyard on the west side of the courtyard, away from the parked cars. Flick and Ruby ignored their waved instructions and ran for the gates. When the soldiers saw Flick's submachine gun, they reached for their weapons.

A rifle appeared in Paul's hands. He aimed through the railings. Two shots rang out, and both guards fell.

Paul threw open the gates.

As Flick dashed through the gateway, shots whistled over her head and hit the van: Dieter was firing.

Paul jumped into the front of the van.

Flick and Ruby threw themselves into the back.

As the van pulled away, Flick saw Dieter turn toward the parking lot, where his sky-blue car stood waiting.

At that moment, down in the basement, the fire reached the fuel tanks.

There was a deep underground boom like an earthquake. The parking lot erupted, gravel and earth and slabs of concrete flying into the air. Half the cars parked around the old fountain were overturned. Huge stones and chunks of brickwork rained down on the rest. Dieter was thrown back across the steps. The gas pump soared into the air, and a gout of flame spurted from the ground where it had stood. Several cars caught fire, and their gas tanks began to explode, one by one. Then the van left the square, and Flick could see no more.

Paul drove at top speed out of the village. Flick and Ruby bounced on the metal floor of the van. It dawned slowly on Flick that they had accomplished their mission. She could hardly believe it. She thought of Greta and Jelly, both dead, and of Diana and Maude, dead or dying in some concentration camp, and she could not feel happy. But she felt a savage satisfaction as she saw again in her mind the blazing equipment chamber and the exploding parking lot.

She looked at Ruby.

Ruby grinned at her. “We did it,” she said.

Flick nodded.

Ruby put her arms around Flick and hugged her hard.

“Yes,” Flick said. “We did it.”

. . . .

DIETER PICKED HIMSELF
up off the ground. He felt bruised all over, but he could walk. The château was ablaze, and the parking lot was a shambles. The women were screaming and panicking.

He stared at the carnage all around. The Jackdaws had succeeded in their mission. But it was not over yet.
They were still in France. And if he could capture and interrogate Flick Clairet, he could yet turn defeat into victory. Sometime tonight, she must be planning to meet a small plane, in a field not far from Reims. He had to find out where and when.

And he knew who would tell him.

Her husband.

DIETER SAT ON
the platform at the Reims railway station. French railwaymen and German troops watched with him, standing patiently under the harsh lights. The prison train was late, hours late, but it was coming, he had been assured of that. He had to wait for it. He had no other cards to play.

His heart was full of rage. He had been humiliated and defeated by a girl. Had she been a German girl, he would have been proud of her. He would have called her brilliant and brave. He might even have fallen in love with her. But she belonged to the enemy, and she had outwitted him at every turn. She had killed Stéphanie, she had destroyed the château, and she had escaped. But he would catch her yet. And when he did, she would suffer tortures worse than her most terrifying imaginings—then she would talk.

Everyone talked.

The train rolled in a few minutes after midnight.

He noticed the stink even before it came to a halt. It was like the smell of a farmyard but disgustingly human.

There was an assortment of rail cars, none of them designed for passengers: goods wagons, cattle trucks, even a mail car with its narrow windows broken. Each was crammed with people.

The livestock wagons had high wooden sides pierced by slats to permit observation of the animals. The prisoners nearest put their arms through the slats, hands open with palms upward, begging. They asked to be let out, they pleaded for something to eat, but most of all
they begged for water. The guards looked on impassively: Dieter had given instructions that the prisoners were to have no relief at Reims tonight.

He had two Waffen SS corporals with him, guards from the château, both good marksmen. He had extracted them from the shambles at Sainte-Cécile, trading on his authority as a major. He turned to them now and said, “Bring Michel Clairet.”

Michel was locked in the windowless room where the stationmaster kept the cash. The corporals went away and reappeared with Michel between them. His hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were hobbled so that he could not run. He had not been told what had happened at Sainte-Cécile. All he knew was that he had been captured for the second time in a week. There was little left of his buccaneering persona. He was trying to maintain an air of bravado, to keep his spirits up, but the attempt was a failure. His limp was worse, his clothes were dirty, and his face grim. He looked defeated.

Dieter took Michel's arm and walked him closer to the train. At first, Michel did not understand what he was looking at, and his face showed only mystification and fear. Then, when he made out the begging hands and understood the piteous voices, he staggered, as if he had been struck, and Dieter had to hold him upright.

Dieter said, “I need some information.”

Michel shook his head. “Put me on the train,” he said. “I'd rather be with them than with you.”

Dieter was shocked by the insult and surprised by Michel's courage. He said, “Tell me where the Jackdaws' plane will land—and when.”

Michel stared at him. “You haven't caught them,” he said, and hope came back into his face. “They've blown up the château, haven't they? They succeeded.” He threw back his head and gave a whoop of joy. “Well done, Flick!”

Dieter made Michel walk the length of the train, slowly, showing him the numbers of prisoners and the scale of their suffering. “The plane,” he said again.

Michel said, “The field outside La Chatelle, at three a.m.”

Dieter was almost certain that was false. Flick had been scheduled to arrive at La Chatelle seventy-two hours ago but had aborted the landing, presumably because she suspected a Gestapo trap. Dieter knew there was a backup landing place, because Gaston had told him so; but Gaston had known only its code name, Champ d'Or, not its location. Michel, however, would know the exact place. “You're lying,” Dieter said.

“Then put me on the train,” Michel replied.

Dieter shook his head. “That's not the choice—nothing so easy.”

He saw puzzlement and the shadow of fear in Michel's eyes.

Dieter walked him back and stopped at the women's car. Their feminine voices begged in French and German, some invoking the pity of God, others asking the men to think of their mothers and sisters, a few offering sexual favors. Michel bowed his head, refusing to look.

Dieter beckoned to two figures standing in the shadows.

Michel looked up, and a terrible dread came over his face.

Hans Hesse walked out of the shadows, escorting a young woman. She might have been beautiful, but her face was ghastly white, her hair lay in greasy strands, and she had sores on her lips. She seemed weak, walking with difficulty.

It was Gilberte.

Michel gasped.

Dieter repeated his question. “Where will the plane land, and when?”

Michel said nothing.

Dieter said, “Put her on the train.”

Michel moaned.

A guard opened the gate of a cattle car. While two others kept the women in with bayonets, the guard
pushed Gilberte into the car. “No,” she cried. “No, please!”

The guard was about to close the gate, but Dieter said, “Wait.” He looked at Michel. Tears were pouring down the man's face.

Gilberte said, “Please, Michel, I beg you.”

Michel nodded. “All right,” he said.

“Don't lie again,” Dieter warned.

“Let her out.”

“The time and place.”

“The potato field east of Laroque, at two a.m.”

Dieter looked at his watch. It was twelve-fifteen. “Show me,” he said.

. . . .

FIVE KILOMETERS FROM
Laroque, the village of L'Epine was asleep. Bright moonlight silvered the big church. Behind the church, Moulier's meat van was parked inconspicuously next to a barn. In the deep moon shadow thrown by a buttress, the surviving Jackdaws sat waiting.

“What are you looking forward to?” said Ruby.

Paul said, “A steak.”

Flick said, “A soft bed with clean sheets. How about you?”

“Seeing Jim.”

Flick recalled that Ruby had had a fling with the firearms instructor. “I thought . . .” She stopped.

“You thought it was just a casual shag?” Ruby said.

Flick nodded, embarrassed.

“So did Jim,” Ruby said. “But I've got other plans.”

Paul laughed softly. “I'll bet you get what you want.”

“What about you two?” Ruby asked.

Paul said, “I'm single.” He looked at Flick.

She shook her head. “I intended to ask Michel for a divorce . . . but how could I, in the middle of an operation?”

“So we'll wait until after the war to get married,” Paul said. “I'm patient.”

Typical man, Flick thought. He slips marriage into the conversation like a minor detail, on a level with buying a dog license. So much for romance.

But in truth she was pleased. It was the second time he had mentioned marriage. Who needs romance? she thought.

She looked at her watch. It was one-thirty. “Time to go,” she said.

. . . .

DIETER HAD COMMANDEERED
a Mercedes limousine that had been outside the château grounds and so had survived the explosion. The car was now parked at the edge of the vineyard next to the potato field at Laroque, camouflaged with leafy vines torn from the ground. Michel and Gilberte were in the backseat, bound hand and foot, guarded by Hans.

Dieter also had with him the two corporals, each armed with a rifle. Dieter and the riflemen looked into the potato field. They could see clearly in the moonlight.

Dieter said, “The terrorists will be here in the next few minutes. We have the advantage of surprise. They have no idea that we're here. But remember, I must have them alive—especially the leader, the small woman. You have to shoot to wound, not kill.”

One of the marksmen said, “We can't guarantee that. This field must be three hundred meters wide. Let's say the enemy is a hundred and fifty meters away. At that distance, no one could be sure of hitting the legs of a running man.”

“They won't be running,” Dieter said. “They're meeting a plane. They have to form a line, pointing electric torches at the aircraft to guide the pilot down. That means they'll be standing still for several minutes.”

“In the middle of the field?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded. “Then we can do it.” He looked up. “Unless the moon goes behind a cloud.”

“In that event, we'll turn on the headlights of the car at the crucial moment.” The Mercedes had huge dinner-plate lamps.

The other marksman said, “Listen.”

They fell silent. A motor vehicle was approaching. They all knelt. Despite the moonlight, they would not be visible against the dark mass of the vines, provided they kept their heads down.

A van came along the road from the village with its lights off. It pulled up by the gate to the potato field. A female figure jumped out and swung the gate wide. The van pulled in and its engine was silenced. Two more people got out, another woman and a man.

“Quiet, now,” Dieter whispered.

Suddenly the hush was shattered by the blare of a car horn, incredibly loud.

Dieter jumped and cursed. It came from immediately behind him. “Jesus!” he exploded. It was the Mercedes. He leaped to his feet and ran to the open window of the driver's door. He saw immediately what had happened.

Michel had sprung forward, leaning across the front seat, and before Hans could stop him he had pressed on the horn with his bound hands. Hans, in the front passenger seat, was now trying to aim his gun, but Gilberte had joined in, and she was lying half over Hans, hampering his movements so that he kept having to push her away.

Dieter reached in and shoved Michel, but Michel resisted, and Dieter's position, with his arms extended through the car window, was too awkward for him to exert much force. The horn continued to sound a deafening warning that the Resistance agents could not fail to hear.

Dieter fumbled for his gun.

Michel found the light switch, and the car's headlights came on. Dieter looked up. The riflemen were hideously exposed in the glare of the lights. They both got up off their knees, but before they could throw themselves out of the beam there was a rattle of machine-gun fire from
the field. One rifleman cried out, dropped his gun, clutched his belly, and fell across the hood of the Mercedes; then the other was shot in the head. A sharp pain stung Dieter's left arm, and he let out a yell of shock.

Then there was a shot from within the car, and Michel cried out. Hans had at last flung Gilberte off himself and got his pistol out. He fired again, and Michel slumped, but Michel's hand was still on the horn, and his body now lay over his hand, pressing it down, so the horn continued to blare. Hans fired a third time, uselessly, for his bullet thudded into the body of a dead man. Gilberte screamed and threw herself at Hans again, grabbing at his gun arm with her manacled hands. Dieter had his gun out but could not shoot at Gilberte for fear of hitting Hans.

There was a fourth shot. It was Hans's gun again, but now it was somehow pointing upwards, and he shot himself, the bullet hitting him under the chin. He gave a horrid gurgle, blood came out of his mouth, and he slumped back against the door, his eyes staring lifelessly.

Dieter took careful aim and shot Gilberte in the head.

He reached through the window with his right arm and shoved the corpse of Michel away from the steering wheel.

The horn was silenced.

He found the light switch and killed the headlights.

He looked across the field.

The van was still there, but the Jackdaws had disappeared.

He listened. Nothing moved.

He was alone.

. . . .

FLICK CRAWLED THROUGH
the vineyard on her hands and knees, heading for Dieter Franck's car. The moonlight, so necessary for clandestine flights across
occupied territory, was now her enemy. She wished for a cloud to shade the moon, but for the moment the sky was clear. She kept close to the row of vines, but she threw a conspicuous moon shadow.

She had firmly instructed Paul and Ruby to stay behind, hiding at the edge of the field near the van. Three people made three times the noise, and she did not want a companion to betray her presence.

As she crawled, she listened for the incoming plane. She had to locate any remaining enemies and kill them before the plane arrived. The Jackdaws could not stand in the middle of the field with flashlights while there were armed troops aiming at them from the vineyard. And if they did not hold flashlights, the plane would return to England without touching down. The thought was unbearable.

She was deeper into the vineyard than Dieter Franck's car, which was parked at the edge. She was five rows of vines back. She would approach the enemy from behind. She kept the submachine gun in her right hand, ready to fire, as she crawled.