World War II Thriller Collection (85 page)

DIETER WAS DESPERATE.
Flick had proved too clever. She had evaded his trap. She was somewhere in the city of Reims, but he had no way of finding her.

He could no longer have members of the Reims Resistance followed, in the hope that she would contact one of them, for they were all now in custody. Dieter had Michel's house and Gilberte's flat under surveillance, but he felt sure that Flick was too wily to let herself be seen by the average Gestapo flatfoot. There were posters of her all over town, but she must have changed her appearance by now, dyed her hair or something, for no one had reported seeing her. She had outwitted him at every stop.

He needed a stroke of genius.

And he had come up with one—he thought.

He sat on the seat of a bicycle at the roadside. He was in the center of town, just outside the theater. He wore a beret, goggles, and a rough cotton sweater, and his trousers were tucked into his socks. He was unrecognizable. No one would suspect him. The Gestapo never went by bicycle.

He stared west along the street, narrowing his eyes to look into the setting sun. He was waiting for a black Citroën. He checked his watch: any minute now.

On the other side of the road, Hans was at the wheel of a wheezy old Peugeot, which had almost come to the end of its useful life. The engine was running: Dieter did not want to take the risk that it might not start when it was needed. Hans was also disguised, in sunglasses and
a cap, and wore a shabby suit and down-at-the-heel shoes, like a French citizen. He had never done anything like this before, but he had accepted his orders with unflappable stoicism.

Dieter, too, had never done this before. He had no idea whether it would work. All kinds of things could go wrong and anything could happen.

What Dieter had planned was desperate, but what did he have to lose? Tuesday was the night of the full moon. He felt sure the Allies were about to invade. Flick was the grand prize. She was worth a great deal of risk.

But winning the war was no longer what most occupied his mind. His future had been wrecked; he hardly cared who ruled Europe. He thought constantly of Flick Clairet. She had ruined his life; she had murdered Stéphanie. He wanted to find Flick, and capture her, and take her to the basement of the château. There he would taste the satisfaction of revenge. He fantasized constantly about how he would torture her: the iron rods that would smash her small bones, the electric shock machine turned up to maximum, the injections that would render her helpless with great wrenching spasms of nausea, the ice bath that would give her shivering convulsions and freeze the blood in her fingers. Destroying the Resistance, and repelling the invaders, had become merely part of his punishment of Flick.

But first he had to find her.

In the distance he saw a black Citroën.

He stared at it. Was this the one? It was a two-door model, the kind always used when transporting a prisoner. He tried to see inside. He thought there were four people altogether. This had to be the car he was waiting for. It drew nearer, and he recognized the handsome face of Michel in the back, guarded by a uniformed Gestapo man. He tensed.

He was glad now that he had given orders that Michel was not to be tortured while Dieter was away. This scheme would not have been possible otherwise.

As the Citroën came level with Dieter, Hans suddenly pulled away from the curb in the old Peugeot. The car swung out into the road, leaped forward, and smashed straight into the front of the Citroën.

There was a clatter of crumpling metal and a medley of breaking glass. The two Gestapo men leaped out of the front of the Citroën and began yelling at Hans in bad French—seeming not to notice that their colleague in the back appeared to have banged his head and was slumped, apparently unconscious, beside his prisoner.

This was the critical moment, Dieter thought, his nerves strung like wire. Would Michel take the bait? He stared at the tableau in the middle of the street.

It took Michel a long moment to realize his opportunity. Dieter almost thought he would fail to seize it. Then he seemed to come to. He reached over the front seats, fumbled at the door catch with bound hands, succeeded in getting the door open, pushed down the seat, and scrambled out.

He glanced at the two Gestapo men still arguing with Hans. They had their backs to him. He turned and walked quickly away. His expression said he could hardly believe his good luck.

Dieter's heart leaped with triumph. His plan was working.

He followed Michel.

Hans followed Dieter on foot.

Dieter rode the bicycle for a few yards; then he found himself catching up with Michel, so he got off and pushed it along the pavement. Michel turned the first corner, limping slightly from his bullet wound but walking fast, holding his bound hands low in front of him to make them less conspicuous. Dieter followed discreetly, sometimes walking, sometimes riding, dropping back out of Michel's sight whenever he could, taking cover behind high-sided vehicles if he got the chance. Michel occasionally glanced back but made no systematic attempt to shake off a tail. He had no notion that he was being tricked.

After a few minutes, Hans overtook Dieter, by arrangement, and Dieter dropped back to follow Hans. Then they switched again.

Where would Michel go? It was essential to Dieter's plan that Michel should lead him to other Resistance members, so that he could once again pick up Flick's trail.

To Dieter's surprise, Michel headed for his house near the cathedral. Surely he must suspect that his home was under surveillance? Nevertheless, he turned into the street. However, he did not go to his own place but entered a bar across the street called Chez Régis.

Dieter leaned his bicycle against the wall of the next building, a vacant store with a faded
Charcuterie
sign. He waited a few minutes, just in case Michel should come out again immediately. When it was clear Michel was staying a while, Dieter went in.

He intended simply to make sure Michel was still there—relying on his goggles and beret to conceal his identity from Michel. He would buy a pack of cigarettes as an excuse and go back outside. But Michel was nowhere in sight. Puzzled, Dieter hesitated.

The barman said, “Yes, sir?”

“Beer,” said Dieter. “Draft.” He hoped that if he kept his conversation to a minimum the barman would not notice his slight German accent and accept him as a cyclist who had stopped to quench his thirst.

“Coming up.”

“Where's the toilet?”

The barman pointed to a door in the corner. Dieter went through it. Michel was not in the men's room. Dieter risked a glance into the ladies': it was empty. He opened what looked like a cupboard door and saw that it led to a staircase. He went up the stairs. At the top was a heavy door with a peephole. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He listened for a moment. He could hear nothing, but the door was thick. He felt sure there was someone on the other side, looking at him through the peephole, realizing he was not a regular
customer. He tried to act as if he had taken a wrong turn on the way to the toilet. He scratched his head, shrugged, and went back down the stairs.

There was no sign of a back entrance to the place. Michel was here, Dieter felt sure, in the locked room upstairs. But what should Dieter do about it?

He took his glass to a table so that the barman would not try to engage him in small talk. The beer was watery and tasteless. Even in Germany, the quality of beer had declined during the war. He forced himself to finish it, then went out.

Hans was on the other side of the street, looking in the window of a bookshop. Dieter went across. “He's in some kind of private room upstairs,” he told Hans. “He may be meeting with other Resistance cadres. On the other hand, it may be a brothel, or something, and I don't want to bust in on him before he's led us to anyone worthwhile.”

Hans nodded, understanding the dilemma.

Dieter made a decision. It was too soon to rearrest Michel. “When he comes out, I'll follow him. As soon as we're out of sight, you can raid the place.”

“On my own?”

Dieter pointed to two Gestapo men in a Citroën keeping watch on Michel's house. “Get them to help you.”

“Okay.”

“Try to make it look like a vice thing—arrest the whores, if there are any. Don't mention the Resistance.”

“Okay.”

“Until then, we wait.”

UNTIL THE MOMENT
when Michel walked in, Flick was feeling pessimistic.

She sat at the bar in the little makeshift casino, making desultory conversation with Yvette, indifferently watching the intent faces of the men as they concentrated on their cards, their dice, and the spinning roulette wheel. No one took much notice of her: they were serious gamblers, not to be distracted by a pretty face.

If she did not find Michel, she was in trouble. The other Jackdaws were in the cathedral, but they could not stay there all night. They could sleep in the open—they would survive the weather, in June—but they could so easily be caught.

They also needed transport. If they could not get a car or van from the Bollinger circuit, they would have to steal one. But then they would be forced to carry out the mission using a vehicle for which the police were searching. It added more dangers to an already perilous enterprise.

There was another reason for her gloom: the image of Stéphanie Vinson kept coming back to her. It was the first time Flick had killed a bound, helpless captive, and the first time she had shot a woman.

Any killing disturbed her profoundly. The Gestapo man she had shot a few minutes before Stéphanie had been a combatant with a gun in his hand, but still it seemed dreadful to her that she had brought his life to an end. So it had been with the other men she had
killed: two Milice cops in Paris, a Gestapo colonel in Lille, and a French traitor in Rouen. But Stéphanie was worse. Flick had put a gun to the back of her head and executed her. It was exactly how she had taught trainees to do it in the SOE course. Stéphanie had deserved it, of course—Flick had no doubt about that. But she wondered about herself. What kind of person was capable of the cold-blooded killing of a helpless prisoner? Had she become some kind of brutish executioner?

She drained her whisky but declined a refill for fear of becoming maudlin. Then Michel came through the door.

Overwhelming relief flooded her. Michel knew everyone in town. He would be able to help her. Suddenly the mission seemed possible again.

She felt a wry affection as she took in the lanky figure in a rumpled jacket, the handsome face with the smiling eyes. She would always be fond of him, she imagined. She suffered a painful stab of regret as she thought of the passionate love she had once had for him. That would never come back, she was sure.

As he came closer, she saw that he was not looking so good. His face seemed to have new lines. Her heart filled with compassion for him. Exhaustion and fear showed in his expression, and he might have been fifty rather than thirty-five, she thought anxiously.

But her greatest anxiety came from the thought of telling him that their marriage was over. She was afraid. It struck her as ironic: she had just shot and killed a Gestapo man and a French traitress, and she was undercover in occupied territory, yet her worst fear was of hurting her husband's feelings.

He was visibly delighted to see her. “Flick!” he cried. “I knew you would get here!” He crossed the room to her, still limping from his bullet wound.

She said quietly, “I was afraid the Gestapo had captured you.”

“They did!” He turned so that his back was to the
room and no one could see, and showed her his hands, bound at the wrists with stout rope.

She drew the little knife from its sheath under her lapel and discreetly cut through his bonds. The gamblers saw nothing. She put the knife away.

Mémé Régis spotted him just as he was stuffing the ropes into his trousers pockets. She embraced and kissed him on both cheeks. Flick watched him flirt with the older woman, talking to her in his come-to-bed voice, giving her the benefit of his sexy grin. Then Mémé resumed her work, serving drinks to the gamblers, and Michel told Flick how he had escaped. She had been afraid he would want to kiss her passionately, and she had not known how she would deal with that but, in the event, he was too full of his own adventures to get romantic with her.

“I was so lucky!” he finished. He sat on a bar stool, rubbing his wrists, and asked for a beer.

Flick nodded. “Too lucky, perhaps,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“It could be some kind of trick.”

He was indignant, no doubt resenting the implication that he was gullible. “I don't think so.”

“Could you have been followed here?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I checked, of course.”

She was uneasy, but she let it go. “So Brian Standish is dead, and three others are in custody—Mademoiselle Lemas, Gilberte, and Dr. Bouler.”

“The rest are dead. The Germans released the bodies of those killed in the skirmish. And the survivors, Gaston, Geneviève, and Bertrand, were shot by a firing squad in the square at Sainte-Cécile.”

“Dear God.”

They were silent for a moment. Flick was weighed down by the thought of the lives lost, and the suffering endured, for the sake of this mission.

Michel's beer came. He drank half in a single draft and wiped his lips. “I presume you've come back for another attempt on the château.”

She nodded. “But the cover story is that we're going to blow up the railway tunnel at Marles.”

“It's a good idea, we should do it anyway.”

“Not now. Two of my team were taken in Paris, and they must have talked. They will have told the cover story—they had no idea of the real mission—and the Germans are sure to have doubled the guard on the railway tunnel. We'll leave that to the RAF and concentrate on Sainte-Cécile.”

“What can I do?”

“We need somewhere to stay the night.”

He thought for a moment. “Joseph Laperrière's cellar.”

Laperrière was a champagne maker. Michel's aunt Antoinette had once been his secretary. “Is he one of us?”

“A sympathizer.” He gave a sour grin. “Everyone is a sympathizer now. They all think the invasion is coming any day.” He looked inquiringly at her. “I imagine they're right about that . . .”

“Yes,” she said. She did not elaborate. “How big is the cellar? There are five of us.”

“It's big, he could hide fifty people down there.”

“Fine. The other thing I need is a vehicle for tomorrow.”

“To drive to Sainte-Cécile?”

“And afterwards, to meet our pickup plane, if we're still alive.”

“You realize that you can't use the usual drop zone at Chatelle, don't you? The Gestapo know about it—it's where I was picked up.”

“Yes. The plane is coming to the other one at Laroque. I gave instructions.”

“The potato field. Good.”

“And the vehicle?”

“Philippe Moulier has a van. He delivers meat to all the German bases. Monday is his day off.”

“I remember him, he's pro-Nazi.”

“He was. And he's been making money out of them
for four years. So now he's terrified that the invasion is going to succeed, and after the Germans have gone he'll be strung up as a collaborator. He's desperate to do something to help us, to prove he's not a traitor. He'll lend us his van.”

“Bring it to the cellar tomorrow at ten o'clock in the morning.”

He touched her cheek. “Can't we spend the night together?” He smiled his old smile and looked as roguishly handsome as ever.

She felt a familiar stirring inside, but it was not as strong as it had been in the old days. Once, that smile would have made her wet. Now, it was like the memory of a desire.

She wanted to tell him the truth, for she hated to be anything less than honest. But it might jeopardize the mission. She needed his cooperation. Or was that just an excuse? Perhaps she just did not have the nerve.

“No,” she said. “We can't spend the night together.”

He looked crestfallen. “Is it because of Gilberte?”

She nodded, but she could not lie, and she found herself saying, “Well, partly.”

“What's the other part?”

“I don't really want to have this discussion in the middle of an important mission.”

He looked vulnerable, almost scared. “Have you got someone else?”

She could not bring herself to hurt him. “No,” she lied.

He looked hard at her. “Good,” he said at last. “I'm glad.”

Flick hated herself.

Michel finished his beer and got off his stool. “Laperrière's place is in the chemin de la Carrière. It will take you thirty minutes to walk there.”

“I know the street.”

“I'd better go and see Moulier about the van.” He put his arms around Flick and kissed her lips.

She felt dreadful. She could hardly refuse the kiss,
having denied that she had someone else, but kissing Michel seemed so disloyal to Paul. She closed her eyes and waited passively until he broke the clinch.

He could not fail to notice her lack of enthusiasm. He looked thoughtfully at her for a moment. “I'll see you at ten,” he said, and he left.

She decided to give him five minutes to get clear before she followed him out. She asked Yvette for another scotch.

While she was sipping it, a red light began to flash over the door.

No one spoke, but everyone in the room moved at once. The croupier stopped the roulette wheel and turned it upside down so that it looked like a normal tabletop. The card players swept up their stakes and put on their jackets. Yvette picked up the glasses from the bar and dumped them in the sink. Mémé Régis turned out the lights, leaving the room illuminated only by the flashing red bulb over the door.

Flick picked up her bag from the floor and put her hand on her gun. “What's happening?” she asked Yvette.

“Police raid,” she said.

Flick cursed. What hellish luck it would be to get arrested for illegal gambling.

“Alexandre downstairs has given us the warning,” Yvette explained. “Get going, quickly!” She pointed across the room.

Flick looked in the direction Yvette indicated and saw Mémé Régis stepping into what looked like a cupboard. As she watched, Mémé shoved aside a couple of old coats hanging from a rail to reveal, at the back of the cupboard, a door, which she hurriedly opened. The gamblers began to leave by the hidden door. Maybe, Flick thought, she could get away.

The flashing red light went out, and a banging began on the main door. Flick crossed the room in the dark and joined the men pushing through the cupboard. She followed the crowd into a bare room. The floor was about a
foot lower than she expected, and she guessed this was the apartment over the shop next door. They all ran down the stairs and, sure enough, she found herself in the disused charcuterie, with a stained marble counter and dusty glass cases. The blind in the front window was drawn down so that no one could see in from the street.

They all went out through the back door. There was a dirty yard surrounded by a high wall. A door in the wall led to an alley, and the alley led to the next street. When they reached the street, the men went in different directions.

Flick walked quickly away and soon found herself alone. Breathing hard, she reoriented herself and headed for the cathedral, where the other Jackdaws were waiting. “My God,” she whispered to herself, “that was close.”

As she got her breath back, she began to see the raid on the gambling club in a different light. It had happened just minutes after Michel had left. Flick did not believe in coincidence.

The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that whoever was banging on the door had been looking for her. She knew that a small group of men had been playing for high stakes in that room since before the war. The local police certainly knew about the place. Why would they suddenly decide to close it down? If not the police, it must have been the Gestapo. And they were not really interested in gamblers. They went after communists, Jews, homosexuals—and spies.

The story of Michel's escape had aroused her suspicions from the start, but she had been partly reassured by his insistence that he had not been followed. Now she thought otherwise. His escape must have been faked, like the “rescue” of Brian Standish. She saw the sly brain of Dieter Franck behind this. Someone had followed Michel to the café, guessed at the existence of the secret upstairs room, and hoped to find her there.

In that case, Michel was still under surveillance. If he continued to be careless, he would be trailed to Philippe
Moulier's house tonight, and in the morning, driving the van, he would be followed to the champagne cellar where the Jackdaws were hiding.

And what the hell, Flick thought, am I going to do about that?