Ken Follett - Jackdaws

by Jackdaws [lit]

  Since the occupation began, she had heard that the owners were attempting to run the hotel as normally as possible, even though many of the rooms had been taken over permanently by top Nazis. She had no gloves or stockings today, but she had powdered her face and set her beret at a jaunty angle, and she just had to hope that some of the hotel's wartime patrons would be forced into similar compromises.

  Lines of gray military vehicles and black limousines were lined up outside the hotel in the Place Vend“me. On the facade of the building, six blood red Nazi banners flapped boastfully in the breeze. A commissionaire in top hat and red trousers looked doubtfully at Flick and Ruby. "You can't come in," he said.

  Flick was in a light blue suit, very creased, and Ruby in a navy frock and a man's raincoat. They were not dressed to dine at the Ritz. Flick tried to imitate the hauteur of a French woman dealing with an irritating inferior. Putting her nose in the air, she said, "What is the matter?"

  "This entrance is reserved for the top brass, Madame. Even German colonels can't come in this way. You have to go around to the rue Cambon and use the back door."

  "As you wish," Flick said with an air of weary courtesy, but in truth she was pleased he had not told them they were underdressed. She and Ruby walked quickly around the block and found the rear entrance.

  The lobby was bright with light, and the bars on either side were full of men in evening dress or uniform. The buzz of conversation clicked and whirred with German consonants, not the languid vowels of French. Flick felt as though she were walking into the enemy's stronghold.

  She went up to the desk. A concierge in a coat with brass buttons looked down his nose at her. Judging her to be neither a German nor a wealthy French woman, he said coldly, "What is it?"

  "Check whether Mademoiselle Legrand is in her room," Flick said peremptorily. She assumed that Diana must be using the false name on her papers, Simone Legrand. "I have an appointment."

  He backed off "May I tell her who is inquiring?"

  "Madame Martigny. I am her employee."

  "Very good. In fact, Mademoiselle is in the rear dining room with her companion. Perhaps you would speak to the head waiter."

  Flick and Ruby crossed the lobby and entered the restaurant. It was a picture of elegant living: white tablecloths, silver cutlery, candles, and waiters in black gliding around the room with dishes of food. No one would have guessed that half Paris was starving. Flick smelled real coffee.

  Pausing on the threshold, she immediately saw Diana and Maude. They were at a small table on the far side of the room. As Flick watched, Diana took a bottle of wine out of a gleaming bucket beside the table and poured for Maude and herself. Flick could have throttled her.

  She turned to make for the table, but the head waiter stood in her way. Pointedly looking at her cheap suit, he said, "Yes, Madame?"

  "Good evening," she said. "I must speak with that lady over there."

  He did not move. He was a small man with a worried air, but he was not to be bullied. "Perhaps I can give her a message for you."

  "I'm afraid not, it's too personal."

  "Then I will tell her that you are here. The name?"

  Flick glared in Diana's direction, but Diana did not look up. "I am Madame Martigny," Flick said, giving up. "Tell her I must speak to her immediately."

  "Very well. If Madame would care to wait here."

  Flick ground her teeth with frustration. As the head waiter walked away, she was tempted just to run past him. Then she noticed a young man in the black uniform of an SS major at a nearby table staring at her. She met his eye and looked away, fear rising in her throat. Had he merely taken an idle interest in her altercation with the head waiter? Was he trying to remember where he had seen her before, having seen the poster but not yet made the connection? Or did he simply find her attractive? In any event, Flick realized, it would be dangerous for her to make a fuss.

  Every second she stood here was dangerous. She resisted the temptation to turn and run.

  The head waiter spoke to Diana, then turned and beckoned Flick.

  Flick said to Ruby, "You'd better wait here-one is less conspicuous than two." Then she walked quickly across the room to Diana's table.

  Neither Diana nor Maude had the grace to look guilty, Flick observed angrily. Maude appeared pleased with herself, Diana haughty. Flick put her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward to speak in a low voice. "This is terribly dangerous. Get up, now, and leave with me. We'll pay the bill on the way out."

  She had been as forceful as she knew how, but they were living in a fantasy world. "Be reasonable, flick," Diana said.

  Flick was outraged. How could Diana be such an arrogant idiot? "You stupid cow," she said. "Don't you realize you'll get killed?"

  She saw immediately that it had been a mistake to use abuse. Diana looked superior. "It's my life. I'm entitled to take that risk-"

  "You're endangering us too, and the whole mission. Now get up off that chair!"

  "Look here-" There was a commotion behind Flick. Diana stopped and looked past her.

  Flick turned around and gasped.

  Standing in the entrance was the well-dressed German officer she had last seen in the square at SainteC‚cile. She took him in at a glance: a tall figure in an elegant dark suit with a white handkerchief in the breast pocket.

  She quickly turned her back, heart pounding, and prayed that he had not noticed her. With her dark wig, there was a good chance he would not have recognized her at first glance.

  His name came back to her: Dieter Franck. She had found his photograph in Percy Thwaite's files. He was a former police detective. She recalled the note on the back of his photo: "A star of Rommel's intelligence staff, this officer is said to be a skilled interrogator and a ruthless torturer."

  For the second time in a week, she was close enough to shoot him.

  Flick did not believe in coincidence. There was a reason he was here at the same time as she.

  She soon found out what it was. She looked again and saw him striding across the restaurant toward her, with four Gestapo types trailing him. The head waiter came after them, a look of panic on his face.

  Keeping her face averted, Flick walked away.

  Franck went straight to Diana's table.

  The whole place suddenly became quiet: customers fell silent in midsentence, waiters stopped serving vegetables, the sommelier froze with a decanter of claret in his hand.

  Flick reached the doorway, where Ruby stood waiting. Ruby whispered, "He's going to arrest them." Her hand moved toward her gun.

  Flick again caught the eye of the SS major. "Leave it in your pocket," she murmured. "There's nothing we can do. We might take on him and four Gestapo men, but we're surrounded by German officers. Even if we killed all those five we'd be mowed down by the others."

  Franck was questioning Diana and Maude. Flick could not make out the words. Diana's voice took on the tone of supercilious indifference she used when she was in the wrong. Maude became tearful.

  Franck must have asked for their papers, because the two women simultaneously reached for their handbags, on the floor beside their chairs. Franck shifted his position so that he was to one side of Diana and slightly behind her, looking over her shoulder, and suddenly Flick knew what was going to happen next.

  Maude took out her identity papers, but Diana pulled a gun. A shot rang out, and one of the uniformed Gestapo men doubled over and fell. The restaurant erupted. Women screamed, men dived for cover. There was a second shot, and another Gestapo man cried out. Some diners ran for the exit.

  Diana's gun hand moved toward a third Gestapo man. Flick had a flash of memory: Diana in the woods at Somersholme, sitting on the ground smoking a cigarette with dead rabbits all around her. She remembered what she had said to Diana: "You're a killer." She had been right.

  But Diana did not fire the third shot.

  Dieter Franck kept a cool head. He seized Diana's right forearm with both his hands and bang
ed her wrist on the edge of the table. She screamed with pain and the gun fell from her grasp. He yanked her out of her chair, threw her facedown on the carpet, and fell on her with both knees in the small of her back. He pulled her hands behind her back and handcuffed her, ignoring the screams of pain she gave as he jerked her injured wrist. He stood up.

  Flick said to Ruby, "Let's get out of here."

  There was a crush at the doorway, panicky men and women all trying to pass through at the same time. Before Flick could move, the young SS major who had been staring at her earlier sprang to his feet and grabbed her arm. "Wait a moment," he said in French.

  Flick fought down panic. "Take your hands off me!" He tightened his grip. "You seem to know those women over there," he said.

  "No, I don't!" She tried to move away.

  He pulled her back with a jerk. "You'd better stay here and answer some questions."

  There was another shot. Several women screamed, but no one knew where the shot had come from. The SS officer's face twisted in a grimace of agony. As he slumped to the floor, Flick saw Ruby, behind him, slipping her pistol back into her raincoat pocket.

  They both forced their way through the crowd at the door, shoving ruthlessly, and burst out into the lobby. They were able to run without drawing attention to themselves, because everyone else was running.

  Cars were parked in a line along the curb in the rue Cambon, some of them attended by chauffeurs. Most of the chauffeurs were hurrying toward the hotel to see what was happening. Flick picked a black Mercedes 230 sedan with a spare wheel perched on the running board. She looked into the front: the key was in the dash. "Get in!" she yelled at Ruby. She got behind the wheel and pulled the self-starter. A big engine rumbled into life. She engaged first gear, heaved the steering wheel around, and accelerated away from the Ritz. The car was heavy and sluggish, but stable: at speed, it cornered like a train.

  When she was several blocks away she reviewed her position. She had lost a third of her team, including her best marksman. She considered whether to abandon the mission and immediately decided to carry on. It would be awkward: she would have to explain why only four cleaners had come to the chƒteau instead of the usual six, but she could make up some excuse. It meant they might be questioned more closely, but she would take that risk.

  She dumped the car in the rue de la Chapelle. She and Ruby were out of immediate danger. They walked quickly to the flophouse. Ruby rounded up Greta and Jelly and brought them to Flick's room. She told them what had happened.

  "Diana and Maude will be questioned immediately," she said. "Dieter Franck is a capable and ruthless interrogator, so we have to assume they will tell everything they know-including the address of this hotel. That means the Gestapo could be here at any moment. We have to leave right away."

  Jelly was crying. "Poor Maude," she said. "She was a silly cow, but she didn't deserve to be tortured."

  Greta was more practical. "Where will we go?"

  "We'll hide in the convent next door to the flophouse. They'll take anyone in. I've hidden escaped prisoners of war there before now. They'll let us stay until daybreak."

  "Then what?"

  "We'll go to the station as planned. Diana is going to tell Dieter Franck our real names, our code names, and our false identities. He will put out an alert for anyone traveling under our aliases. Fortunately, I have a spare set of papers for all of us, using the same photographs but different identities. The Gestapo don't have photographs of you three, and I've changed my appearance, so the checkpoint guards will have no way of recognizing us. However, to be safe, we won't go to the station at first light-we'll wait until about ten o'clock when it should be busy."

  Ruby said, "Diana will also tell them what our mission is."

  "She'll tell them we're going to blow up the railway tunnel at Marles. Fortunately, that's not our real mission. It's a cover story I gave out."

  Jelly said admiringly, "Flick, you think of everything."

  "Yes," she said grimly. "That's why I'm still alive."

  CHAPTER 37

  PAUL SAT IN the dismal canteen at Grendon Underwood, brooding anxiously about Flick, for more than an hour. He was beginning to believe that Brian Standish had been compromised. The incident in the cathedral, the fact that Chatelle had been in total darkness, and the unnatural correctness of the third radio message all pointed in the same direction.

  In the original plan, Flick would have been met at Chatelle by a reception committee consisting of Michel and the remnants of the Bollinger circuit. Michel would have taken them to a hideaway for a few hours, then arranged transport to Sainte-C‚cile. After they entered the chƒteau and blew up the telephone exchange he would have driven them back to Chatelle to meet their pickup plane. All that had changed now, but Flick would still need both transport and a hiding place when she got to Reims, and she would be relying on the Bollinger circuit to help. However, if Brian had been compromised, would there be any of the circuit left? Was the safe house safe? Was Michelin Gestapo hands, too?

  At last, Lucy Briggs came into the canteen and said, "Jean asked me to tell you that Helicopter's reply is being decrypted now. Would you like to come with me?"

  He followed her to the tiny room-formerly a boot cupboard, he guessed-that served as Jean Bevins's office. Jean had a sheet of paper in her hand. She looked annoyed. "I can't understand this," she said.

  Paul read it quickly.

  CALLSIGN HLCP (HELICOPTER)

  SECURITY TAG PRESENT

  JUN 3 1944

  MESSAGE READS:

  TWO STENS WITH SIX MAGAZINES

  FOR EACH STOP ONE LEE ENFELD RIFLE

  WITH TEN CLIPS STOP SIX COLT AUTOMATICS WITH APPROXIMATELY ONE HUNDRED ROUNDS STOP NO GRENADES OVER

  Paul stared at the decrypt in dismay, as if hoping the words might change to something less horrifying, but of course they remained the same.

  "I expected him to be furious," Jean said. "He doesn't complain at all, just answers your questions, as nice as pie."

  "Exactly," said Paul. "That's because it's not him." This message did not come from a harassed agent in the field who had been presented with a sudden unreasonable request by his bureaucratic superiors. The reply had been drafted by a Gestapo officer desperate to maintain the smooth appearance of calm normality. The only spelling mistake was "Enfeld" instead of "Enfield," and even that suggested a German, for "feld" was German for "field."

  There was no longer any doubt. Flick was in terrible danger.

  Paul massaged his temples with his right hand. There was now only one thing to do. The operation was falling apart, and he had to save it-and Flick.

  He looked up at Jean, and caught her looking at him with an expression of compassion. "May I use your phone?" he said.

  "Of course."

  He dialed Baker Street. Percy was at his desk. "This is Paul. I'm convinced Brian has been captured. His radio is being operated by the Gestapo." In the background, Jean Bevins gasped.

  "Oh, hell," Percy said. "And without the radio, we have no way to warn Flick."

  "Yes, we do," said Paul.

  "How?"

  "Get me a plane. I'm going to Reims-tonight."

  THE EIGHTH DAY Sunday, June 4, 1944

  CHAPTER 38

  THE AVENUE FOCH seemed to have been built for the richest people in the world. A wide road running from the Arc de Triomphe to the Bois de Boulogne, it had ornamental gardens on both sides flanked by inner roads giving access to the palatial houses. Number 84 was an elegant residence with a broad staircase leading to five stories of charming rooms. The Gestapo had turned it into a house of torture.

  Dieter sat in a perfectly proportioned drawing room, stared at the intricately decorated ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes, preparing himself for the interrogation. He had to sharpen his wits and at the same time numb his feelings.

  Some men enjoyed torturing prisoners. Sergeant Becker in Reims was one. They smiled when their victims screamed, they got erectio
ns as they inflicted wounds, and they experienced orgasms during their victims' death throes. But they were not good interrogators, for they focused on pain rather than information. The best torturers were men such as Dieter who loathed the process from the bottom of their hearts.

  Now he imagined himself closing doors in his soul, shutting his emotions away in cupboards. He thought of the two women as pieces of machinery that would disgorge information as soon as he figured out how to switch them on. He felt a familiar coldness settle over him like a blanket of snow, and he knew he was ready.

  "Bring the older one," he said.

  Lieutenant Hesse went to fetch her.