Jackdaws (19 page)

"Yes, Major."

"In case she doesn't…
Stéphanie, would you go to the Café des Sports and get me a bottle of beer and
a glass, please?"

"Of course." She seemed
grateful for a reason to leave the room.

Dieter followed the corporal to
Willi Weber's office. It was a grand room at the front of the château, with
three tall windows overlooking the square. Dieter gazed out at the sun setting
over the town. The slanting light picked out the curved arches and buttresses
of the medieval church. He saw Stéphanie crossing the square in her high heels,
walking like a racehorse, dainty and powerful at the same time.

Soldiers were at work in the square,
erecting three stout wooden pillars in a neat row. Dieter frowned. "A
firing squad?"

"For the three terrorists who
survived Sunday's skirmish," Weber answered. "I understand you have
finished interrogating them."

Dieter nodded. "They have told
me all they know."

"They will be shot in public as
a warning to others who may think of joining the Resistance."

"Good idea," Dieter said.
"However, though Gaston is fit, both Bertrand and Geneviève are seriously
injured—I'll be surprised if they can walk."

"Then they will be carried to
their fate. But I did not summon you to discuss them. My superiors in Paris
have been asking me what further progress has been made."

"And what did you tell them,
Willi?"

"That after forty-eight hours
of investigation you have arrested one old woman who may or may not have
sheltered Allied agents in her house, and who has so far told us nothing."

"And what would you wish to
tell them?" Weber banged his desk theatrically. "That we have broken
the back of the French Resistance!"

"That may take longer than
forty-eight hours."

"Why don't you torture this old
cow?"

"I am torturing her."

"By refusing to let her go to
the toilet! What kind of torture is that?"

"In this case, the most
effective one, I believe."

"You think you know best. You
always were arrogant. But this is the new Germany, Major. You are no longer
assumed to have superior judgment just because you are the son of a
professor."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Do you really think you would
have become the youngest-ever head of the Cologne criminal intelligence
department if your father had not been an important man in the
university?"

"I had to pass the same exams
as everyone else."

"How strange that other people,
just as capable as you, never seemed to do quite so well."

Was that the fantasy Weber told
himself? "For God's sake, Willi, you can't believe the entire Cologne
police force conspired to give me better marks than you because my father was
professor of music—it's risible!"

"Such things were commonplace
in the old days." Dieter sighed. Weber was half right. Patronage and
nepotism had existed in Germany. But that was not why Willi had failed to win
promotion. The truth was that he was stupid. He would never get on anywhere
except in an organization where fanaticism was more important than ability.

Dieter had had enough of this stupid
talk. "Don't worry about Mademoiselle Lemas," he said. "She'll
talk soon." He went to the door. "And we will break the back of the
French Resistance, too. Just wait a little longer."

He returned to the main office.
Mademoiselle Lemas was now making low moaning noises. Weber had made Dieter
impatient, and he decided to speed up the process. When Stéphanie returned, he
put the glass on the table, opened the bottle, and poured the beer slowly in
front of the prisoner. Tears of pain squeezed from her eyes and rolled down her
plump cheeks. Dieter took a long drink of beer and put the glass down.
"Your agony is almost over, Mademoiselle," he said. "Relief is
at hand. In a few moments you will answer my questions; then you will find
ease."

She closed her eyes.

"Where do you meet the British
agents?" He paused. "How do you recognize one another?" She said
nothing. "What is the password?"

He waited a moment, then said,
"Have the answers ready, in the forefront of your mind, and make sure they
are clear, so that when the time comes, you can tell me quickly, without
hesitation or explanations; then you can seek rapid release from your
pain."

He took the key to the handcuffs
from his pocket. "Hans, hold her wrist firmly." He bent down and
unlocked the cuffs that fastened her ankle to the table leg. He took her by the
arm. "Come with us, Stéphanie," he said. "We're going to the
ladies' toilet."

They left the room, Stéphanie
leading the way, Dieter and Hans holding the prisoner, who hobbled along with
difficulty, bent at the waist, biting her lip. They went to the end of the
corridor and stopped at a door marked Damen. Mademoiselle Lemas groaned loudly
when she saw it.

Dieter said to Stéphanie, "Open
the door."

She did so. It was a clean,
white-tiled room, with a washbasin, a towel on a rail, and a row of cubicles.
"Now," said Dieter. "The pain is about to end."

"Please," she whispered.
"Let me go."

"Where do you meet the British
agents?"

Mademoiselle Lemas began to cry.

Dieter said gently, "Where do
you meet these people?"

"In the cathedral," she
sobbed. "In the crypt. Please let me go!"

Dieter breathed a long sigh of
satisfaction. She had broken. "When do you meet them?"

"Three o'clock any afternoon, I
go every day."

"And how do you recognize one
another?"

"I wear odd shoes, black and
brown, now can I go?"

"One more question. What is the
password?"

"'Pray for me.'"

She tried to move forward, but
Dieter held her tightly, and Hans did the same. "Pray for me," Dieter
repeated. "Is that what you say, or what the agent says?"

"The agent—oh, I beg you!"

"And your reply?"

"I pray for peace,' that's my
reply."

"Thank you," Dieter said,
and released her.

She rushed inside.

Dieter nodded at Stéphanie, who
followed her in and closed the door.

He could not conceal his
satisfaction. "There, Hans, we make progress."

Hans, too, was pleased. "The
cathedral crypt, three p.m. any day, black and brown shoes, 'Pray for me,' and
the response 'I pray for peace.' Very good!"

"When they come out, put the
prisoner in a cell and turn her over to the Gestapo. They'll arrange for her to
disappear into a camp somewhere."

Hans nodded. "It seems harsh,
sir. Her being an elderly lady, I mean."

"It does—until you think of the
German soldiers and French civilians killed by the terrorists she sheltered.
Then it seems hardly punishment enough."

"That does throw a different
light on it, yes, sir."

"You see how one thing leads to
another," Dieter said reflectively. "Gaston gives us a house, the
house gives us Mademoiselle Lemas, she gives us the crypt, and the crypt will
give us… who knows?" He began to think about the best way to exploit the
new information.

The challenge was to capture agents
without letting London know. If the thing was handled right, the Allies would
send more people along the same route, wasting vast resources. It had been done
in Holland: more than fifty expensively trained saboteurs had parachuted
straight into the arms of the Germans.

Ideally, the next agent sent by
London would go to the crypt of the cathedral and find Mademoiselle Lemas
waiting there. She would take the agent home, and he would send a wireless
message to London saying all was well. Then, when he was out of the house,
Dieter could get hold of his code books. After that, Dieter could arrest the agent
but continue to send messages to London in his name—and read the replies. In
effect, he would be running a Resistance circuit that was entirely fictional.
It was a thrilling prospect.

Willi Weber walked by. "Well,
Major, has the prisoner talked?"

"She has."

"Not a moment too soon. Did she
say anything useful?"

"You may tell your superiors
that she has revealed the location of her rendezvous and the passwords used. We
can pick up any further agents as they arrive."

Weber looked interested despite his
hostility. "And where is the rendezvous?"

Dieter hesitated. He would have
preferred not to tell Weber anything. But it was difficult to refuse without
giving offense, and he needed the man's help. He had to tell him. "The
cathedral crypt, afternoons at three."

"I shall inform Paris."
Weber walked on.

Dieter resumed thinking about his
next step. The house in the rue du Bois was a cut-out. No one in the Bollinger
circuit had met Mademoiselle Lemas. Agents coming in from London did not know
what she looked like—hence the need for recognition signals and passwords. If
he could get someone to impersonate her… but who?

Stéphanie came out of the ladies'
toilet with Mademoiselle Lemas.

She could do it.

She was much younger than
Mademoiselle Lemas, and looked completely different, but the agents would not
know that. She was obviously French. All she had to do was take care of the
agent for a day or so.

He took Stéphanie's arm. "Hans
will deal with the prisoner now. Come, let me buy you a glass of
champagne."

He walked her out of the château. In
the square, the soldiers had done their work, and the three stakes threw long
shadows in the evening light. A handful of local people stood silent and
watchful outside the church door.

Dieter and Stéphanie went into the
café. Dieter ordered a bottle of champagne. "Thank you for helping me
today," he said. "I appreciate it."

"I love you," she said.
"And you love me, I know, even though you never say it."

"But how do you feel about what
we did today? You're French, and you have that grandmother whose race we
mustn't speak of, and as far as I know you're not a Fascist."

She shook her head violently.
"I no longer believe in nationality, or race, or politics," she said
passionately. "When I was arrested by the Gestapo, no French people helped
me. No Jews helped me. No socialists or liberals or communists either. And I
was so cold in that prison." Her face changed. Her lips lost the sexy half
smile she wore most of the time, and the glint of teasing invitation went from
her eyes. She was looking at another scene in another time. She crossed her
arms and shivered, although it was a warm summer evening. "Not just cold
on the outside, not just the skin. I felt cold in my heart and my bowels and my
bones. I felt I would never be warm again, I would just go cold to my
grave." She was silent for a long moment, her face drawn and pale, and
Dieter felt at that instant that war was a terrible thing. Then she said,
"I'll never forget the fire in your apartment. A coal fire. I had
forgotten what it was like to feel that blazing warmth. It made me human
again." She came out of her trance. "You saved me. You gave me food
and wine. You bought me clothes." She smiled her old smile, the one that
said You can, if you dare. "And you loved me, in front of that coal
fire."

He held her hand. "It wasn't
difficult."

"You keep me safe, in a world
where almost no one is safe. So now I believe only in you."

"If you really mean that."

"Of course."

"There's something else you
could do for me."

"Anything."

"I want you to impersonate
Mademoiselle Lemas."

She raised one perfectly plucked
eyebrow.

"Pretend to be her. Go to the
cathedral crypt every afternoon at three o'clock, wearing one black shoe and
one brown. When someone approaches you and says, 'Pray for me,' reply, 'I pray
for peace.' Take the person to the house in the rue du Bois. Then call
me."

"It sounds simple."

The champagne arrived, and he poured
two glasses. He decided to level with her. "It should be simple. But there
is a slight risk. If the agent has met Mademoiselle Lemas before, he will know
you're an impostor. Then you could be in danger. Will you take that
chance?"

"Is it important to you?"

"It's important for the
war."

"I don't care about the
war."

"It's important to me,
too."

"Then I'll do it."

He raised his glass. "Thank
you," he said.

They clinked glasses and drank.

Outside, in the square, there was a
volley of gunfire.

Dieter looked through the window. He
saw three bodies tied to the wooden pillars, slumped in death; a row of
soldiers lowering their rifles; and a crowd of citizens looking on, silent and
still.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

WARTIME AUSTERITY HAD made little
real difference to Soho, the red-light district in the heart of London's West
End. The same groups of young men staggered through the streets, drunk on beer,
though most of them were in uniform. The same painted girls in tight dresses
strolled along the pavements, eyeing potential customers. The illuminated signs
outside clubs and bars were switched off, because of the blackout, but all the
establishments were open.

Mark and Flick arrived at the
Criss-Cross Club at ten o'clock in the evening. The manager, a young man
wearing a dinner jacket with a red bow tie, greeted Mark like a friend. Flick's
spirits were high. Mark knew a female telephone engineer. Flick was about to
meet her, and she felt optimistic. Mark had not said much about her, except that
her name was Greta, like the film star. When Flick tried to question him, he
just said, "You have to see her for yourself."

As Mark paid the entrance fee and
exchanged commonplaces with the manager, Flick saw an alteration come over him.
He grew more extrovert, his voice took on a lilt, and his gestures became
theatrical. Flick wondered if her brother had another persona that he put on
after dark.