World War II Thriller Collection (58 page)

The loose photos had been taken in all sorts of different situations. Some were news pictures, showing officers shaking hands with Hitler, inspecting troops, or looking at tanks and airplanes. A few seemed to have been snapped by spies. These were the most candid shots, taken in crowds, from cars, or through windows, showing the officers shopping, talking to children, hailing a taxi, lighting a pipe.

She scanned the photos as fast as she could, tossing them to one side. She hesitated over each dark-haired man. None was as handsome as the one she recalled from the square. She passed over a photo of a man in police uniform, then went back to it. The uniform had at first put her off, but on careful study she thought this was him.

She turned the photograph over. Pasted to the back was a typewritten sheet. She read:

 

FRANCK, Dieter Wolfgang, sometimes “Frankie”; born Cologne 3 June 1904; educ. Humboldt University of Berlin & Koln Police Academy; mar. 1930 Waltraud Loewe, 1 son 1 dtr; Superintendent, Criminal Investigation Department, Cologne police, to 1940; Major, Intelligence Section, Afrika Korps, to?

A star of Rommel's intelligence staff, this officer is said to be a skilled interrogator and a ruthless torturer.

 

Flick shuddered to think she had been so near to such a dangerous man. An experienced police detective who
had turned his skills to military intelligence was a frightening enemy. The fact that he had a family in Cologne did not prevent his having a mistress in France, it seemed.

Percy returned, and she handed him the picture. “This is the man.”

“Dieter Franck!” said Percy. “We know of him. How interesting. From what you overheard of his conversation in the square, Rommel seems to have given him some kind of counter-Resistance job.” He made a note on his pad. “I'd better let MI6 know, as they loaned us their photos.”

There was a tap at the door, and Percy's secretary looked in. “There's someone to see you, Colonel Thwaite.” The girl looked coquettish. The fatherly Percy never inspired that sort of behavior in secretaries, so Flick guessed the visitor must be an attractive man. “An American,” the girl added. That might explain it, Flick thought. Americans were the height of glamour, to secretaries at least.

“How did he find this place?” Percy said. Orchard Court was supposed to be a secret address.

“He went to number sixty-four Baker Street, and they sent him here.”

“They shouldn't do that. He must be very persuasive. Who is he?”

“Major Chancellor.”

Percy looked at Flick. She did not know anyone called Chancellor. Then she remembered the arrogant major who had been so rude to her this morning at Monty's headquarters. “Oh, God, him,” she said in disgust. “What does he want?”

“Send him in,” said Percy.

Paul Chancellor came in. He walked with a limp that Flick had not noticed this morning. It probably got worse as the day wore on. He had a pleasant American face, with a big nose and a jutting chin. Any chance he might have had of being handsome was spoiled by his left ear, or what remained of it, which was the lower
one-third, mostly lobe. Flick assumed he had been wounded in action.

Chancellor saluted and said, “Good evening, Colonel. Good evening, Major.”

Percy said, “We don't do a lot of saluting at SOE, Chancellor. Please sit down. What brings you here?”

Chancellor took a chair and removed his uniform cap. “I'm glad I caught you both,” he said. “I've spent most of the day thinking about this morning's conversation.” He gave a self-effacing grin. “Part of the time, I have to confess, I was composing wittily crushing remarks I could have made if only I had thought of them in time.”

Flick could not help smiling. She had done the same.

Chancellor went on. “You hinted, Colonel Thwaite, that MI6 might not have told the whole truth about the attack on the telephone exchange, and that played on my mind. The fact that Major Clairet here was so rude to me did not necessarily mean she was lying about the facts.”

Flick had been halfway to forgiving him, but now she bridled. “Rude? Me?”

Percy said, “Shut up, Flick.”

She closed her mouth.

“So I sent for your report, Colonel. Of course the request came from Monty's office, not me personally, so it was brought to our headquarters by a FANY motorcyclist in double-quick time.”

He was a no-nonsense type who knew how to pull the levers of the military machine, Flick thought. He might be an arrogant pig, but he would make a useful ally.

“When I read it, I realized the main reason for defeat was wrong intelligence.”

“Supplied by MI6!” Flick said indignantly.

“Yes, I noticed that,” Chancellor said with mild sarcasm. “Obviously, MI6 was covering up its own incompetence. I'm not a career soldier myself, but my father is, so I'm familiar with the tricks of military bureaucrats.”

“Oh,” said Percy thoughtfully. “Are you the son of General Chancellor?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“MI6 would never have gotten away with it if your boss had been at the meeting this morning to tell SOE's side of the story. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he had been called away at the last minute.”

Percy looked dubious. “He was summoned by the Prime Minister. I don't see how MI6 could have arranged that.”

“The meeting was not attended by Churchill. A Downing Street aide took the chair. And it
had
been arranged at the instigation of MI6.”

“Well, I'm damned,” Flick said angrily. “They're such snakes!”

Percy said, “I wish they were as clever about gathering intelligence as they are about deceiving their colleagues.”

Chancellor said, “I also looked in detail at your plan, Major Clairet, for taking the château by stealth, with a team disguised as cleaners. It's risky, of course, but it could work.”

Did that mean it would be reconsidered? Flick hardly dared to ask.

Percy gave Chancellor a level look. “So what are you going to do about all this?”

“By chance, I had dinner with my father tonight. I told him the whole story and asked him what a general's aide should do in these circumstances. We were at the Savoy.”

“What did he say?” Flick asked impatiently. She did not care which restaurant they had gone to.

“That I should go to Monty and tell him we had made a mistake.” He grimaced. “Not easy with any general. They never like to revisit decisions. But sometimes it has to be done.”

“And will you?” Flick said hopefully.

“I already have.”

Percy said in surprise, “You don't waste time, do you!”

Flick held her breath. It hardly seemed possible, after a day of despair, that she might be given the second chance she longed for.

Chancellor said, “Monty was remarkably good about it, in the end.”

Flick could not contain her agitation. “For God's sake, what did he say about my plan?”

“He's authorized it.”

“Thank God!” She jumped up, unable to sit still. “Another chance!”

Percy said, “Splendid!”

Chancellor held up a warning hand. “Two more things. The first one you may not like. He's put me in charge of the operation.”

“You!” Flick said.

“Why?” said Percy.

“You don't cross-examine the general when he gives an order. I'm sorry you seem dismayed. Monty has faith in me, even if you don't.”

Percy shrugged.

Flick said, “What's the other stipulation?”

“There's a time constraint. I can't tell you when the invasion will be, and in fact the date has not been finally decided. But I can tell you that we have to accomplish our mission very quickly. If you haven't achieved the objective by midnight next Monday, it will probably be too late.”

“Next Monday!” said Flick.

“Yes,” said Paul Chancellor. “We have exactly one week.”

FLICK LEFT LONDON
at dawn, driving a Vincent Comet motorcycle with a powerful 500cc engine. The roads were deserted. Gas was severely rationed, and drivers could be jailed for making “unnecessary” journeys. She drove very fast. It was dangerous but exciting. The thrill was worth the risk.

She felt the same about the mission, scared but eager. She had stayed up late last night with Percy and Paul, drinking tea and planning. There must be six women in the team, they had decided, as it was the unvarying number of cleaners on a shift. One had to be an explosives expert; another, a telephone engineer, to decide exactly where the charges should be placed to ensure the exchange was crippled. She wanted one good marksman and two tough soldiers. With herself, that would make six.

She had one day to find them. The team would need a minimum of two days' training—they had to learn to parachute, if nothing else. That would take up Wednesday and Thursday. They would be dropped near Reims on Friday night, and enter the château on Saturday evening or Sunday. That left one spare day as a margin for error.

She crossed the river at London Bridge. Her motorbike roared through the bomb-ravaged wharves and tenements of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe; then she took the Old Kent Road, traditional route of pilgrims, toward Canterbury. As she left the suburbs behind, she opened the throttle and gave the bike its head. For a while she let the wind blow the worries out of her hair.

It was not yet six o'clock when she reached Somersholme, the country house of the barons of Colefield. The baron himself, William, was in Italy, fighting his way toward Rome with the Eighth Army, Flick knew. His sister, the Honorable Diana Colefield, was the only member of the family living here now. The vast house, with its dozens of bedrooms for houseguests and their servants, was being used as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers.

Flick slowed the bike to walking speed and drove up the avenue of hundred-year-old lime trees, gazing at the great pile of pink granite ahead, with its bays, balconies, gables, and roofs, acres of windows and scores of chimneys. She parked on the gravel forecourt next to an ambulance and a scatter of jeeps.

In the hall, nurses bustled about with cups of tea. The soldiers might be here to convalesce, but they still had to be wakened at daybreak. Flick asked for Mrs. Riley, the housekeeper, and was directed to the basement. She found her staring worriedly at the furnace in the company of two men in overalls.

“Hello, Ma,” said Flick.

Her mother hugged her hard. She was even shorter than her daughter and just as thin, but like Flick she was stronger than she looked. The hug squeezed the breath out of Flick. Gasping and laughing, she extricated herself. “Ma, you'll crush me!”

“I never know if you're alive until I see you,” her mother said. In her voice there was still a trace of the Irish accent: she had left Cork with her parents forty-five years ago.

“What's the matter with the furnace?”

“It was never designed to produce so much hot water. These nurses are mad for cleanliness, they force the poor soldiers to bathe every day. Come to my kitchen and I'll make you some breakfast.”

Flick was in a hurry, but she told herself she had time for her mother. Anyway, she had to eat. She followed Ma up the stairs and into the servants' quarters.

Flick had grown up in this house. She had played in the servants' hall, run wild in the woods, attended the village school a mile away, and returned here from boarding school and university for the vacations. She had been extraordinarily privileged. Most women in her mother's position were forced to give up their jobs when they had a child. Ma had been allowed to stay, partly because the old baron had been somewhat unconventional, but mainly because she was such a good housekeeper that he had dreaded losing her. Flick's father had been butler, but he had died when she was six years old. Every February, Flick and her ma had accompanied the family to their villa in Nice, which was where Flick had learned French.

The old baron, father of William and Diana, had been fond of Flick and had encouraged her to study, even paying her school fees. He had been very proud when she had won a scholarship to Oxford University. When he died, soon after the start of the war, Flick had been as heartbroken as if he had been her real father.

The family now occupied only a small corner of the house. The old butler's pantry had become the kitchen. Flick's mother put the kettle on. “Just a piece of toast will be fine, Ma,” said Flick.

Her mother ignored her and started frying bacon. “Well, I can see you're all right,” she said. “How is that handsome husband?”

“Michel's alive,” Flick said. She sat at the kitchen table. The smell of bacon made her mouth water.

“Alive, is he? But not well, evidently. Wounded?”

“He got a bullet in his bum. It won't kill him.”

“You've seen him, then.”

Flick laughed. “Ma, stop it! I'm not supposed to say.”

“Of course not. Is he keeping his hands off other women? If
that's
not a military secret.”

Flick never ceased to be startled by the accuracy of her mother's intuition. It was quite eerie. “I hope he is.”

“Hmm. Anyone in particular that you hope he's keeping his hands off?”

Flick did not answer the question directly. “Have you noticed, Ma, that men sometimes don't seem to realize when a girl is really stupid?”

Ma made a disgusted noise. “So that's the way of it. She's pretty, I suppose.”

“Mmm.”

“Young?”

“Nineteen.”

“Have you had it out with him?”

“Yes. He promised to stop.”

“He might keep his promise—if you're not away too long.”

“I'm hopeful.”

Ma looked crestfallen. “So you're going back.”

“I can't say.”

“Have you not done enough?”

“We haven't won the war yet, so no, I suppose I haven't.”

Ma put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Flick. It probably represented a week's rations. But Flick suppressed the protest that came to her lips. Better to accept the gift gracefully. Besides, she was suddenly ravenous. “Thanks, Ma,” she said. “You spoil me.”

Her mother smiled, satisfied, and Flick tucked in hungrily. As she ate, she reflected wryly that Ma had effortlessly got out of her everything she wanted to know, despite Flick's attempts to avoid answering questions. “You should work for military intelligence,” she said through a mouthful of fried egg. “They could use you as an interrogator. You've made me tell you everything.”

“I'm your mother, I've a right to know.”

It didn't much matter. Ma would not repeat any of it.

She sipped a cup of tea as she watched Flick eat. “You've got to win the war all on your own, of course,” she said with fond sarcasm. “You were that way from a child—independent to a fault.”

“I don't know why. I was always looked after. When you were busy there were half a dozen housemaids doting on me.”

“I think I encouraged you to be self-sufficient because you didn't have a father. Whenever you wanted me to do something for you, like fix a bicycle chain, or sew on a button, I used to say, ‘Try it yourself, and if you can't manage I'll help you.' Nine times out of ten I heard no more about it.”

Flick finished the bacon and wiped her plate with a slice of bread. “A lot of the time, Mark used to help me.” Mark was Flick's brother, a year older.

Her mother's face froze. “Is that right,” she said.

Flick suppressed a sigh. Ma had quarreled with Mark two years ago. He worked in the theater as a stage manager, and lived with an actor called Steve. Ma had long known that Mark was “not the marrying kind,” as she put it. But in a burst of excessive honesty Mark had been foolish enough to tell Ma that he loved Steve, and they were like husband and wife. She had been mortally offended and had not spoken to her son since.

Flick said, “Mark loves you, Ma.”

“Does he, now.”

“I wish you'd see him.”

“No doubt.” Ma picked up Flick's empty plate and washed it in the sink.

Flick shook her head in exasperation. “You're a bit stubborn, Ma.”

“I daresay that's where you get it from, then.”

Flick had to smile. She had often been accused of stubbornness. “Mulish” was Percy's word. She made an effort to be conciliatory. “Well, I suppose you can't help the way you feel. Anyway, I'm not going to argue with you, especially after such a wonderful breakfast.” All the same, it was her ambition to get the two of them to make up.

But not today. She stood up.

Ma smiled. “It's lovely to see you. I worry about you.”

“I've got another reason for coming. I need to talk to Diana.”

“Whatever for?”

“Can't say.”

“I hope you're not thinking of taking her to France with you.”

“Ma, hush! Who said anything about going to France?”

“I suppose it's because she's so handy with a gun.”

“I can't say.”

“She'll get you killed! She doesn't know what discipline is, why should she? She wasn't brought up that way. Not her fault, of course. But you'd be a fool to rely on her.”

“Yes, I know,” Flick said impatiently. She had made a decision and she was not going to review it with Ma.

“She's had several war jobs, and been sacked from every one.”

“I know.” But Diana was a crack shot, and Flick did not have time to be fussy. She had to take what she could get. Her main worry was that Diana might refuse. No one could be forced to do undercover work. It was strictly for volunteers. “Where is Diana now, do you know?”

“I believe she's in the woods,” Ma said. “She went out early, after rabbits.”

“Of course.” Diana loved all the blood sports: foxhunting, deerstalking, hare coursing, grouse shooting, even fishing. If there was nothing else to do, she would shoot rabbits.

“Just follow the sound of gunfire.”

Flick kissed her mother's cheek. “Thanks for breakfast.” She went to the door.

“And don't get on the wrong side of her gun,” Ma called after her.

Flick left by the staff door, crossed the kitchen garden, and entered the woods at the rear of the house. The trees were bright with new leaves, and the nettles grew waist-high. Flick tramped through the undergrowth in her heavy motorcycle boots and leather trousers. The best way to attract Diana, she thought, would be by issuing a challenge.

When she had gone a quarter of a mile into the woods, she heard the report of a shotgun. She stopped, listened, and shouted, “Diana!” There was no reply.

She walked toward the sound, calling out every minute or so. Eventually she heard, “Over here, you noisy idiot, whoever you are!”

“Coming, just put down the gun.”

She came upon Diana in a clearing, sitting on the ground with her back against an oak tree, smoking a cigarette. A shotgun lay across her knees, broken open for reloading, and there were half a dozen dead rabbits beside her. “Oh, it's you!” she said. “You scared all the game away.”

“They'll come back tomorrow.” Flick studied her childhood companion. Diana was pretty in a boyish way, with dark hair cut short and freckles across her nose. She wore a shooting jacket and corduroy trousers. “How are you, Diana?”

“Bored. Frustrated. Depressed. Otherwise fine.”

Flick sat on the grass beside her. This might be easier than she had thought. “What's the matter?”

“I'm rotting away in the English countryside while my brother's conquering Italy.”

“How is William?”

“He's all right, he's part of the war effort, but no one will give me a proper job.”

“I might be able to help you there.”

“You're in the FANYs.” Diana drew on her cigarette and blew out smoke. “Darling, I can't be a
chauffeuse.
”

Flick nodded. Diana was too grand to do the menial war work that most women were offered. “Well, I'm here to propose something more interesting.”

“What?”

“You might not like it. It's very difficult, and dangerous.”

Diana looked skeptical. “What does it involve, driving in the blackout?”

“I can't tell you much about it, because it's secret.”

“Flick, darling, don't tell me you're involved in cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

“I didn't get promoted to major by driving generals to meetings.”

Diana looked hard at her. “Do you mean this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good Lord.” Against her will, Diana was impressed.

Flick had to get her positive agreement to volunteer. “So—are you willing to do something very dangerous? I mean it, you really are quite likely to get killed.”