World War II Thriller Collection (53 page)

GILBERTE AND FLICK
left the town of Sainte-Cécile behind, heading for the city of Reims on a country back road. Gilberte drove as fast as she could along the narrow lane. Flick's eyes apprehensively raked the road ahead. It rose and fell over low hills and wound through vineyards as it made its leisurely way from village to village. Their progress was slowed by many crossroads, but the number of junctions made it impossible for the Gestapo to block every route away from Sainte-Cécile. All the same, Flick gnawed her lip, worrying about the chance of being stopped at random by a patrol. She could not explain away a man in the backseat bleeding from a bullet wound.

Thinking ahead, she realized she could not take Michel to his home. After France surrendered in 1940, and Michel was demobilized, he had not returned to his lectureship at the Sorbonne but had come back to his hometown, to be deputy head of a high school, and—his real motive—to organize a Resistance circuit. He had moved into the home of his late parents, a charming town house near the cathedral. But, Flick decided, he could not go there now. It was known to too many people. Although Resistance members often did not know one another's addresses—for the sake of security, they revealed them only if necessary for a delivery or rendezvous—Michel was leader, and most people knew where he lived.

Back in Sainte-Cécile, some of the team must have been taken alive. Before long they would be under
interrogation. Unlike British agents, the French Resistance did not carry suicide pills. The only reliable rule of interrogation was that everybody would talk in the long run. Sometimes the Gestapo ran out of patience, and sometimes they killed their subjects by overenthusiasm but, if they were careful and determined, they could make the strongest personality betray his or her dearest comrades. No one could bear agony forever.

So Flick had to treat Michel's house as known to the enemy. Where could she take him instead?

“How is he?” said Gilberte anxiously.

Flick glanced into the backseat. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing normally. He had fallen into a sleep, the best thing for him. She looked at him fondly. He needed someone to take care of him, at least for a day or two. She turned to Gilberte. Young and single, she was probably still with her parents. “Where do you live?” Flick asked her.

“On the outskirts of town, on the Route de Cernay.”

“On your own?”

For some reason, Gilberte looked scared. “Yes, of course on my own.”

“A house, an apartment, a bedsitting room?”

“An apartment, two rooms.”

“We'll go there.”

“No!”

“Why not? Are you scared?”

She looked injured. “No, not scared.”

“What, then?”

“I don't trust the neighbors.”

“Is there a back entrance?”

Reluctantly, Gilberte said, “Yes, an alley that runs along the side of a little factory.”

“It sounds ideal.”

“Okay, you're right, we should go to my place. I just . . . You surprised me, that's all.”

“I'm sorry.”

Flick was scheduled to return to London tonight. She was to rendezvous with a plane in a meadow outside the
village of Chatelle, five miles north of Reims. She wondered if the plane would make it. Navigating by the stars, it was extraordinarily difficult to find a specific field near a small village. Pilots often went astray—in fact, it was a miracle they ever arrived where they were supposed to. She looked at the weather. A clear sky was darkening to the deep blue of evening. There would be moonlight, provided the weather held.

If not tonight, then tomorrow, she thought, as always.

Her mind went to the comrades she had left behind. Was young Bertrand dead or alive? What about Geneviève? They might be better off dead. Alive, they faced the agony of torture. Flick's heart seemed to convulse with grief as she thought again that she had led them to defeat. Bertrand had a crush on her, she guessed. He was young enough to feel guilty about secretly loving the wife of his commander. She wished she had ordered him to stay at home. It would have made no difference to the outcome, and he would have remained a bright, likable youth for a little longer, instead of a corpse, or worse.

No one could succeed every time, and war meant that when leaders failed, people died. It was a hard fact, but still she cast about for consolation. She longed for a way to make sure their suffering was not in vain. Perhaps she could build on their sacrifice and get some kind of victory out of it after all.

She thought about the pass she had stolen from Antoinette and the possibility of getting into the château clandestinely. A team could enter disguised as civilian employees. She swiftly dismissed the idea of having them pose as telephone operators: it was a skilled job that took time to learn. But anyone could use a broom.

Would the Germans notice if the cleaners were strangers? They probably paid no attention to the women who mopped the floor. What about the French telephonists—would they give the game away? It might be a risk worth taking.

SOE had a remarkable forgery department that could copy any kind of document, sometimes even making their own paper to match the original, in a couple of days. They could soon produce counterfeits of Antoinette's pass.

Flick suffered a guilty pang at having stolen it. At this moment, Antoinette might be looking for it frantically, searching under the couch and in all her pockets, going out into the courtyard with a flashlight. When she told the Gestapo she had lost it, she would be in trouble. But in the end they would just give her a replacement. And this way she was not guilty of helping the Resistance. If interrogated, she could steadfastly maintain that she had mislaid it, for she believed that to be the truth. Besides, Flick thought grimly, if she had asked permission to borrow the thing, Antoinette might have said no.

Of course, there was one major snag with this plan. All the cleaners were women. The Resistance team that went in disguised as cleaners would have to be all-female.

But then, Flick thought, why not?

They were entering the suburbs of Reims. It was dark when Gilberte pulled up near a low industrial building surrounded by a high wire fence. She killed the engine. Flick spoke sharply to Michel. “Wake up! We have to get you indoors.” He groaned. “We must be quick,” she added. “We're breaking the curfew.”

The two women got him out of the car. Gilberte pointed to the narrow alley that led along the back of the factory. Michel put his arms over their shoulders, and they helped him along the alley. Gilberte opened a door in a wall that led to the backyard of a small apartment building. They crossed the yard and went in through a back door.

It was a block of cheap flats with five floors and no lift. Unfortunately, Gilberte's rooms were on the attic floor. Flick showed her how to make a carrying chair. Crossing their arms, they linked hands under Michel's
thighs and took his weight. He put an arm around the shoulders of each woman to steady himself. That way they carried him up four flights. Luckily, they met no one on the stairs.

They were blowing hard by the time they reached Gilberte's door. They stood Michel on his feet and he managed to limp inside, where he collapsed into an armchair.

Flick looked around. It was a girl's place, pretty and neat and clean. More importantly, it was not overlooked. That was the advantage of the top floor: no one could see in. Michel should be safe.

Gilberte fussed about Michel, trying to make him comfortable with cushions, wiping his face gently with a towel, offering him aspirins. She was tender but impractical, as Antoinette had been. Michel had that effect on women, though not on Flick—which was partly why he had fallen for her: he could not resist a challenge. “You need a doctor,” Flick said brusquely. “What about Claude Bouler? He used to help us, but last time I spoke to him, he didn't want to know me. I thought he was going to run away, he was so nervous.”

“He's become scared since he got married,” Michel replied. “But he'll come for me.”

Flick nodded. Lots of people would make exceptions for Michel. “Gilberte, go and fetch Dr. Bouler.”

“I'd rather stay with Michel.”

Flick groaned inwardly. Someone like Gilberte was no good for anything but carrying messages, yet she could make difficulties about that. “Please do as I ask,” Flick said firmly. “I need time alone with Michel before I return to London.”

“What about the curfew?”

“If you're stopped, say you're fetching a doctor. It's an accepted excuse. They may accompany you to Claude's house to make sure you're telling the truth. But they won't come here.”

Gilberte looked troubled, but she pulled on a cardigan and went out.

Flick sat on the arm of Michel's chair and kissed him. “That was a catastrophe,” she said.

“I know.” He grunted with disgust. “So much for MI6. There must have been double the number of men they told us.”

“I'll never trust those clowns again.”

“We lost Albert. I'll have to tell his wife.”

“I'm going back tonight. I'll get London to send you another radio operator.”

“Thanks.”

“You'll have to find out who else is dead, and who's alive.”

“If I can.” He sighed.

She held his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Foolish. It's an undignified place for a bullet wound.”

“But physically?”

“A little giddy.”

“You need something to drink. I wonder what she has.”

“Scotch would be nice.” Flick's friends in London had taught Michel to like whisky, before the war.

“That's a little strong.” The kitchen was in a corner of the living room. Flick opened a cupboard. To her surprise, she saw a bottle of Dewar's White Label. Agents from Britain often brought whisky with them, for their own use or for their comrades-in-arms, but it seemed an unlikely drink for a French girl. There was also an opened bottle of red wine, much more suitable for a wounded man. She poured half a glass and topped it up with water from the tap. Michel drank greedily: loss of blood had made him thirsty. He emptied the glass, then leaned back and closed his eyes.

Flick would have liked some of the scotch, but it seemed unkind to deny it to Michel, then drink it herself. Besides, she still needed her wits about her. She would have a drink when she was back on British soil.

She looked around the room. There were a couple of sentimental pictures on the wall, a stack of old fashion
magazines, no books. She poked her nose into the bedroom. Michel said sharply, “Where are you going?”

“Just looking around.”

“Don't you think it's a little rude, when she's not here?”

Flick shrugged. “Not really. Anyway, I need the bathroom.”

“It's outside. Down the stairs and along the corridor to the end. If I remember rightly.”

She followed his instructions. While she was in the bathroom she realized that something was bothering her, something about Gilberte's apartment. She thought hard. She never ignored her instincts: they had saved her life more than once. When she returned, she said to Michel, “Something's wrong here. What is it?”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I don't know.”

“You seem edgy.”

“Perhaps it's because I've just been wounded in a gunfight.”

“No, it's not that. It's the apartment.” It had something to do with Gilberte's unease, something to do with Michel's knowing where the bathroom was, something to do with the whisky. She went into the bedroom, exploring. This time Michel did not reprove her. She looked around. On the bedside table stood a photograph of a man with Gilberte's big eyes and black eyebrows, perhaps her father. There was a doll on the counterpane. In the corner was a washbasin with a mirrored cabinet over. Flick opened the cabinet door. Inside was a man's razor, bowl, and shaving brush. Gilberte was not so innocent: some man stayed overnight often enough to leave his shaving tackle here.

Flick looked more closely. The razor and brush were a set, with polished bone handles. She recognized them. She had given the set to Michel for his thirty-second birthday.

So that was it.

She was so shocked that for a moment she could not move.

She had suspected him of being interested in someone else, but she had not imagined it had gone this far. Yet here was the proof, in front of her eyes.

Shock turned to hurt. How could he cuddle up to another woman when Flick was lying in bed alone in London? She turned and looked at the bed. They had done it right here, in this room. It was unbearable.

Then she became angry. She had been loyal and faithful, she had borne the loneliness—but he had not. He had cheated. She was so furious she felt she would explode.

She strode into the other room and stood in front of him. “You bastard,” she said in English. “You lousy rotten bastard.”

Michel replied in the same language. “Don't angry yourself at me.”