Ken Follett - Jackdaws

by Jackdaws [lit]

  Stephanie thought for a minute. When she spoke, her voice was lower, and her high-class Paris accent had been replaced by the tones of provincial gentility. "Hello, yes, this is Mademoiselle Lemas, who is calling, please?"

  "Very good," said Dieter. The impersonation might not fool a close friend or relative, but a casual caller would notice nothing wrong, especially with the distortion of a telephone line.

  They explored the house. There were four more bedrooms, each ready to receive a guest, the beds made up, a clean towel on each washstand. In the kitchen, where there should have been a selection of small saucepans and a one-cup coffee pot, they found large casserole dishes and a sack of rice that would have fed Mademoiselle Lemas for a year. The wine in the cellar was cheap viii ordinaire, but there was half a case of good scotch whisky. The garage at the side of the house contained a little prewar Simca Cinq, the French version of the Fiat the Italians called the Topolino. It was in good condition with a tank full of petrol. He cranked the starting handle, and the engine turned over immediately. There was no way the authorities would have allowed Mademoiselle Lemas to buy scarce petrol and spare parts for a car to take her shopping. The vehicle must have been fueled and maintained by the Resistance. He wondered what cover story she had used to explain her ability to drive around. Perhaps she pretended to be a midwife. "The old cow was well organized," Dieter remarked.

  St‚phame made lunch. They had shopped on the way. There was no meat or fish in the shops, but they had bought some mushrooms and a lettuce, and a loaf of pain noir, the bread the French bakers made with the poor flour and bran, which was all they could get. Stephanie prepared a salad, and used the mushrooms to make a risotto, and they found some cheese in the larder to finish off With crumbs on the dining room table and dirty pans in the kitchen sink, the house began to look more lived in.

  "The war must have been the best thing that ever happened to her," Dieter said as they drank coffee.

  "How can you say that? She's on her way to a prison camp."

  "Think of the life she led before. A woman alone, no husband, no family, her parents dead. Then into her life come all these young people, brave boys and girls on daredevil missions. They probably tell her all about their loves and their fears. She hides them in her house, gives them whisky and cigarettes, and sends them on their way, wishing them luck. It was probably the most exciting time of her life. I bet she's never been so happy."

  "Perhaps she would have preferred a peaceful life, shopping for hats with a woman friend, arranging the flowers for the cathedral, going to Paris once a year for a concert."

  "Nobody really prefers a peaceful life." Dieter glanced out of the dining room window. "Damn!" A young woman was coming up the path, pushing a bicycle with a large basket over its front wheel. "Who the hell is this?"

  Stephanie stared at the approaching visitor. "What shall I do?"

  Dieter did not answer for a moment. The intruder was a plain, fit-looking girl in muddy trousers and a work shirt with big sweat patches under the armpits. She did not ring the doorbell but pushed her bicycle into the courtyard. He was dismayed. Was his charade to be exposed so soon? "She's coming to the back door. She must be a friend or relation. You'll just have to improvise. Go and meet her, I'll stay here and listen."

  They heard the kitchen door open and close, and the girl called out in French, "Good morning, it's me."

  Stephanie went into the kitchen. Dieter stood by the dining room door. He could hear everything clearly. The girl's startled voice said, "Who are you?"

  "I'm Stephanie, the niece of Mademoiselle Lemas."

  The visitor did not bother to conceal her suspicion."! didn't know she had a niece."

  "She didn't tell me about you, either." Dieter heard the note of amiable amusement in Stephanie's voice, and realized she was being charming. "Would you like to sit down? What's in that basket?"

  "Some provisions. I'm Marie. I live in the country. I'm able to get extra food and I bring some for... for Mademoiselle."

  "Ah," said Stephanie. "For her... guests." There was a rustling sound, and Dieter guessed Stephanie was looking through the paper-wrapped food in the basket. "This is wonderful! Eggs... pork... strawberries..

  This explained how Mademoiselle Lemas managed to remain plump, Dieter thought.

  "You know, then," said Marie.

  "I know about Auntie's secret life, yes." Hearing her say "Auntie," Dieter realized that neither he nor Stephanie had ever asked Mademoiselle Lernas's first name. The pretense would be over if Marie found out that Stephanie did not even know the name of her "aunt."

  "Where is she?"

  "She went to Aix. Do you remember Charles Men- ton, who used to be dean at the cathedral?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Perhaps you're too young. He was the best friend of Auntie's father, until he retired and went to live in Provence." St‚phame was improvising brilliantly, Dieter thought with admiration. She had cool nerves and she was imaginative. "He has suffered a heart attack, and she has gone to nurse him. She asked me to take care of any guests while she's away."

  "When will she come back?"

  "Charles is not expected to live long. On the other hand, the war may be over soon."

  "She didn't tell anyone about this Charles."

  "She told me."

  It looked as if Stephanie might get away with it, Dieter thought. If she could keep this up a little longer, Marie would go away convinced. She would report what had happened, to someone or other, but Stephanie's story was plausible, and exactly the kind of thing that happened in Resistance movements. It was not like the army: someone like Mademoiselle Lemas could easily make a unilateral decision to leave her post and put someone else in charge. It drove Resistance leaders mad, but there was nothing they could do: all their troops were volunteers.

  He began to feel hopeful.

  "Where are you from?" said Marie.

  "I live in Paris."

  "Does your aunt Valerie have any other nieces hidden away?"

  So, Dieter thought, Mademoiselle Lemas's name is Valerie.

  "I don't think so-none that I know."

  "You're a liar."

  Marie's tone had changed. Something had gone wrong. Dieter sighed and drew the automatic pistol from beneath his jacket.

  Stephanie said, "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "You're lying. You don't even know her name. It's not Valerie, it's Jeanne."

  Dieter thumbed the safety lever on the left of the slide up to the fire position.

  Stephanie carried on gamely. "I always call her Auntie. You're being very rude."

  Marie said scornfully, "I knew from the start. Jeanne would never trust someone like you, with your high heels and perfume."

  Dieter stepped into the kitchen. "What a shame, Marie," he said. "If you had been more trusting, or less clever, you might have got away. As it is, you're under arrest."

  Marie looked at Stephanie and said, "You're a Gestapo whore."

  It was a wounding gibe, and Stephanie blushed. Dieter was so infuriated that he almost pistol- whipped Marie. "You'll regret that remark when you're in the hands of the Gestapo," he said coldly. "There's a man called Sergeant Becker who is going to question you. When you're screaming and bleeding and begging for mercy, remember that careless insult."

  Marie looked poised to flee. Dieter almost hoped she would. Then he could shoot her and the problem would be solved. But she did not run. After a long moment, her shoulders slumped and she began to cry.

  Her tears did not move him. "Lie facedown on the floor with your hands behind your back."

  She obeyed.

  He put away the gun. "I think I saw a rope in the cellar," he said to Stephanie.

  "I'll get it."

  She returned with a length of washing line. Dieter tied Marie's hands and feet. "I'll have to take her to Sainte-C‚cile," he said. "We can't have her here in case a British agent comes in today." He looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. He had time to
take her to the chƒteau and be back by three. "You'll have to go to the crypt on your own," he told Stephanie. "Use the little car in the garage. I'll be in the cathedral, though you may not see me." He kissed her. Almost like a husband going to the office, he thought with grim amusement. He picked Marie up and slung her over his shoulder. "I'll have to hurry," he said, and went to the back door.

  He stepped outside, then turned back. "Hide the bicycle."

  "Don't worry," Stephanie replied.

  He carried the bound girl through the courtyard and into the street. He opened the trunk of his car and put her inside. Had it not been for the "whore" comment, he would have put her on the backseat.

  He slammed the lid and looked around. He saw no one, but there were always watchers in a street such as this, peering through their shutters. They would have seen Mademoiselle Lemas being taken away yesterday and would have remarked the big sky-blue car. As soon as he drove away, they would be talking about the man who had put a girl into the trunk of his car. In normal times, they would have called the police, but no one in occupied territory would talk to the police unless they had to, especially where the Gestapo might be involved.

  The key question for Dieter was: Would the Resistance hear of the arrest of Mademoiselle Lemas? Reims was a city, not a village. People were arrested every day: thieves, murderers, smugglers, black marketeers, communists, Jews. There was a good chance that no report of the events in the rue du Bois would reach the ears of Michel Clairet.

  But there was no guarantee.

  Dieter got into the car and headed for Sainte-C‚cile.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE TEAM HAD got through the morning's instruction reasonably well, to Flick's relief Everyone had learned the falling technique, which was the hardest part of parachuting. The map-reading session had been less successful. Ruby had never been to school and could barely read: a map was like a page of Chinese to her. Maude was baffled by directions such as north-northeast, and fluttered her eyelids prettily at the instructor. Denise, despite her expensive education, proved completely incapable of understanding coordinates. If the group got split up in France, Flick thought worriedly, she would not be able to rely on them finding their own way.

  In the afternoon they moved on to the rough stuff The weapons instructor was Captain Jim Cardwell, a character quite different from Bill Griffiths. Jim was an easygoing man with a craggy face and a thick black mustache. He grinned amiably when the girls discovered how difficult it was to hit a tree at six paces with a.45-caliber Colt automatic pistol.

  Ruby was comfortable with an automatic in her hand and could shoot accurately: Flick suspected she had used handguns before. Ruby was even more comfortable when Jim put his arms around her to show her how to hold the Lee-Enfield "Canadian" rifle. He murmured something in her ear, and she smiled up at him with a wicked gleam in her black eyes. She had been in a women's prison for three months, Flick reflected: no doubt she was enjoying being touched by a man.

  Jelly, too, handled the firearms with relaxed familiarity. But Diana was the star of the session. Using the rifle, she hit the center of the target with every shot, emptying the magazine of both its five-round clips in a steady burst of deadly fire. "Very good!" Jim said in surprise. "You can have my job."

  Diana looked triumphantly at Flick. "There are some things you're not best at," she said.

  What the heck did I do to deserve that? Flick asked herself Was Diana thinking of their schooldays, when Flick had always done so much better? Did that childhood rivalry still rankle?

  Greta was the only failure. Once again, she was more feminine than the real women. She put her hands over her ears, jumped nervously at every bang, and closed her eyes in terror as she pulled the trigger. Jim worked with her patiently, giving her earplugs to muffle the noise, holding her hand to teach her how to squeeze the trigger gently, but it was no good: she was too skittish ever to be a good shot. "I'm just not cut out for this kind of thing!" she said in despair.

  Jelly said, "Then what the hell are you doing here?"

  Flick interposed quickly. "Greta's an engineer. She's going to tell you where to place the charges."

  "Why do we need a German engineer?"

  "I'm English," Greta said. "My father was born in Liverpool."

  Jelly snorted skeptically. "If that's a Liverpool accent, I'm the Duchess of Devonshire."

  "Save your aggression for the next session," Flick said. "We're about to do hand-to-hand combat." This bickering bothered her. She needed them to trust one another.

  They returned to the garden of the house, where Bill Griffiths was waiting. He had changed into shorts and tennis shoes, and was doing push-ups on the grass with his shirt off When he stood up, Flick got the feeling he wanted them to admire his physique.

  Bill liked to teach self-defense by giving the student a weapon and saying, "Attack me." Then he would demonstrate how an unarmed man could repel an attacker. It was a dramatic and memorable lesson. Bill was sometimes unnecessarily violent but, Flick always thought, the agents might as well get used to that.

  Today he had a selection of weapons laid out on the old pine table: a wicked-looking knife that he claimed was SS equipment, a Walther P38 automatic pistol of the kind Flick had seen German officers carrying, a French policeman's truncheon, a length of black-and- yellow electrical cord that he called a garotte, and a beer bottle with the neck snapped to leave a rough circle of sharp glass.

  He put his shirt back on for the training session. "How to escape from a man who is pointing a gun at you," he began. He picked up the Waither, thumbed the safety catch up to the firing position, and handed the gun to Maude. She pointed it at him. "Sooner or later, your captor is going to want you to go somewhere." He turned and put his hands in the air. "Chances are, he'll follow close behind you, poking the gun in your back." He walked around in a wide circle, with Maude behind. "Now, Maude, I want you to pull the trigger the moment you think I'm trying to escape." He quickened his pace slightly, forcing Maude to step out a little faster to keep up with him, and as she did so he moved sideways and back. He caught her right wrist under his arm and hit her hand with a sharp, downward-chopping motion. She cried out and dropped the gun.

  "This is where you can make a bad mistake," he said as Maude rubbed her wrist. "Do not run away at this point. Otherwise your Kraut copper will just pick up his gun and shoot you in the back. What you have to do is..." He picked up the Walther, pointed it at Maude, and pulled the trigger. There was a bang. Maude screamed, and so did Greta. "This gun is loaded with blanks, of course," Bill said.

  Sometimes Flick wished Bill would not be quite so dramatic in his demonstrations.

  "We'll practice all these techniques on one another in a few minutes," he went on. He picked up the electrical cord and turned to Greta. "Put that around my neck. When I give the word, pull it as tight as you can." He handed her the cord. "Your Gestapo man, or your traitorous collaborationist French gendarme, could kill you with the cord, but he can't hold your weight with it. All right, Greta, strangle me." Greta hesitated, then pulled the cord tight. It dug into Bill's muscular neck. He kicked out forward with both feet and fell to the ground, landing on his back. Greta lost her grip on the cord.

  "Unfortunately," Bill said, "this leaves you lying on the ground with your enemy standing over you, which is an unfavorable situation." He got up. "We'll do it again. But this time, before I drop to the ground, I'm going to take hold of my captor by one wrist." They resumed the position, and Greta pulled the cord tight. Bill grabbed her wrist, fell to the ground, pulling her forward and down. As she fell on top of him, he bent one leg and kneed her viciously in the stomach.

  She rolled off him and curled up, gasping for breath and retching. Flick said, "For Christ's sake, Bill, that's a bit rough!"

  He looked pleased. "The Gestapo are a lot worse than me," he said.

  She went to Greta and helped her up. "I'm sorry," she said.

  "He's a bloody fucking Nazi," Greta gasped.
<
br />   Flick helped Greta into the house and sat her down in the kitchen. The cook, who was peeling potatoes for lunch, offered her a cup of tea, and Greta accepted gratefully.

  When Flick returned to the garden, Bill had picked his next victim, Ruby, and handed her the policeman's truncheon. There was a cunning look on Ruby's face, and Flick thought: If I were Bill I'd be careful with her.

  Flick had seen Bill demonstrate this technique before. When Ruby raised her right hand to hit him with the truncheon, Bill was going to grab her arm, turn, and throw her over his shoulder. She would land flat on her back with a painful thump.

  "Right, gypsy girl," Bill said. "Hit me with the truncheon, as hard as you like."

  Ruby lifted her arm, and Bill moved toward her, but the action did not follow the usual pattern. When Bill reached for Ruby's arm, it was not there. The truncheon fell to the ground. Ruby moved close to Bill and brought her knee up hard into his groin. He gave a sharp cry of pain. She grabbed his shirtfront, pulled him toward her sharply, and butted his nose. Then, with her sturdy black laced shoe, she kicked his shin, and he fell to the ground, blood pouring from his nose.