He watched her carefully as she came in and sat in the chair. She had short hair and broad shoulders and wore a man-tailored suit. Her right hand hung limply, and she was supporting the swollen forearm with her left hand: Dieter had broken her wrist. She was obviously in pain, her face pale and gleaming with sweat, but her lips were set in a line of grim determination.
He spoke to her in French. "Everything that happens in this room is under your control," he said. "The decisions you make, the things you say, will either cause you unbearable pain or bring you relief. It is entirely up to you."
She said nothing. She was scared, but she did not panic. She was going to be difficult to break, he could tell already.
He said, "To begin with, tell me where the London headquarters of the Special Operations Executive is located."
"Eighty-one Regent Street," she said.
He nodded. "Let me explain something. I realize that SOE teaches its agents not to remain silent under questioning but to give false answers that will be difficult to check. Because I know this, I will ask you many questions to which I already know the answers. This way I will know whether you are lying to me. Where is the London headquarters?"
"Carlton House Terrace."
He walked across to her and slapped her face as hard as he could. She cried out in pain. Her cheek turned an angry red. It was often useful to begin with a slap in the face. The pain was minimal, but the blow was a humiliating demonstration of the helplessness of the prisoner, and it quickly sapped their initial bravery.
But she looked defiantly at him. "Is that how German officers treat ladies?"
She had a haughty manner, and she spoke French with the accent of the upper classes. She was some kind of aristocrat, he guessed, "Ladies?" he said scornfully. "You have just shot and killed two policemen who were going about their lawful business. Specht's young wife is now a widow, and Rolfe's parents have lost their only child. You're not a soldier in uniform, you have no excuse. In answer to your question-no, this is not how we treat ladies, it's how we treat murderers."
She looked away. He had scored a hit with that remark. He was beginning to undermine her moral foundation.
"Tell me something else," he said. "How well do you know Flick Clairet?"
Her eyes widened in an involuntary expression of surprise. That told him he had guessed correctly. These two were part of Major Clairet's team. He had shaken her again.
But she recovered her composure and said, "I don't know anyone of that name."
He reached down and knocked her left hand away. She cried out in pain as her broken wrist lost its support and sagged. He took her right hand and jerked it. She screamed.
"Why were you having dinner at the Ritz, for God's sake?" he said. He released her hand.
She stopped screaming. He repeated the question. She caught her breath and said, "I like the food there."
She was even tougher than he had thought. "Take her away," he said. "Bring the other one."
The younger girl was quite pretty. She had put up no resistance when arrested, so she still looked presentable, her dress unruffled and her makeup intact. She appeared much more frightened than her colleague. He asked her the question he had asked the older one:
"Why were you having dinner at the Ritz?"
"I've always wanted to go there," she replied.
He could hardly believe his ears. "Weren't you afraid it might be dangerous?"
"I thought Diana would look after me."
So the other one's name was Diana. "What's your name?"
"Maude."
This was suspiciously easy. "And what are you doing in France, Maude?"
"We were supposed to blow something up."
"What?"
"I don't remember. Would it have something to do with railways?"
Dieter began to wonder whether he was being led up the garden path. "How long have you known Felicity Clairet?" he tried.
"Do you mean flick? Only a few days. She's awfully bossy." A thought crossed her mind. "She was right, though-we shouldn't have gone to the Ritz." She began to cry. "I never meant to do anything wrong. I just wanted to have a good time and see places, that's all I've ever wanted."
"What's your team's code name?"
"The Blackbirds," she said in English.
He frowned. The radio message to Helicopter had referred to them as Jackdaws. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. It's because of some poem, 'The Blackbird of Reims,' I think. No, 'The Jackdaw of Reims,' that's it."
If she was not completely stupid, she was doing a very good imitation. "Where do you think Flick is now?"
Maude thought for a long moment, then said, "I really don't know."
Dieter sighed in frustration. One prisoner was too tough to talk, the other too stupid to know anything useful. This was going to take longer than he had hoped.
There might be a way of shortening the process. He was curious about the relationship between these two. Why had the dominant, mannish older woman risked her life to take the pretty, empty-headed girl to dinner at the Ritz? Perhaps I've got a dirty mind, he said to himself But still...
"Take her away," he said in German. "Put her in with the other one. Make sure the room has a judas."
When they had been locked away, Lieutenant Hesse showed Dieter to a small room in the attic. He looked through a peephole into the room next door. The two women were sitting side by side on the edge of the narrow bed. Maude was crying and Diana was comforting her. Dieter watched carefully. Diana's broken right wrist rested in her lap. With her left hand she stroked Maude's hair. She was talking in a low voice, but Dieter could not hear the words.
How close a relationship was this? Were they comrades in arms, bosom friends... or more? Diana leaned forward and kissed Maude's forehead. That did not mean much. Then Diana put a forefinger on Maude's chin, turned the girl's face to her own, and kissed her lips. It was a gesture of comfort, but surely too intimate for a mere friend?
Finally Diana poked out the tip of her tongue and licked Maude's tears. That made up Dieter's mind. It was not foreplay-no one could have sex in such circumstances-but it was the kind of comfort that would be offered only by a lover, not by a mere friend. Diana and Maude were lesbians. And that solved the problem.
"Bring the older one again," he said, and he returned to the interview room.
When Diana was brought in the second time, he had her tied to the chair. Then he said, "Prepare the electrical machinery." He waited impatiently while the electric shock machine was rolled in on its trolley and plugged to a socket in the wall. Every minute that passed was taking Flick Clairet farther away from him.
When everything was ready, he seized Diana by the hair with his left hand. Holding her head still, he attached two crocodile clips to her lower lip.
He turned the power on. Diana screamed. He left it on for ten seconds, then switched off.
When her sobbing began to ease he said, "That was less than half power." It was true. He had rarely used full power. Only when the torture had gone on a long time, and the prisoner kept passing out, was full power used in an effort to penetrate the subject's fading consciousness. And by then it was generally too late, for madness was setting in.
But Diana did not know that.
"Not again," she begged. "Please, please, not again."
"Are you willing to answer my questions?"
She groaned, but she did not say yes.
Dieter said, "Bring the other one."
Diana gasped.
Lieutenant Hesse brought Maude in and tied her to a chair.
"What do you want?" Maude cried.
Diana said, "Don't say anything-it's better." Maude was wearing a light summer blouse. She had a neat, trim figure with full breasts. Dieter tore her blouse open, sending the buttons flying.
"Please!" Maude said. "I'll tell you anything!" Under her blouse she wore a cotton chemise with a lacy trim. He took hold of the neckline and ripped it off. Maude screamed.
H
e stood back and looked. Maude's breasts were round and firm. A part of his mind noticed how pretty they were. Diana must love them, he thought.
He took the crocodile clips from Diana's mouth and carefully fastened one to each of Maude's small pink nipples. Then he returned to the machine and put his hand on the control.
"Au right," Diana said quietly. "I'll tell you everything."
DIETER ARRANGED FOR the railway tunnel at Manes to be heavily guarded. If the Jackdaws got that far, they would find it almost impossible to enter the tunnel. He felt confident that Flick would not now achieve her objective. But that was secondary. His burning ambition was to capture her and interrogate her.
It was already two o'clock on Sunday morning. Tuesday would be the night of the full moon. The invasion could be hours away. But in those few hours Dieter could break the back of the French Resistance-if he could get Flick in a torture chamber. He only needed the list of names and addresses that she had in her head. The Gestapo in every city in France could be galvanized into action, thousands of trained staff. They were not the brightest of men, but they knew how to arrest people. In a couple of hours they could jail hundreds of Resistance cadres. Instead of the massive uprising that the Allies were no doubt hoping for to aid their invasion, there would be calm and order for the Germans to organize their response and push the invaders back into the sea.
He had sent a Gestapo team to raid the Hotel de la Chapelle, but that was a matter of form: he was certain Flick and the other three would have left within minutes of the arrest of their comrades. Where was Flick now? Reims was the natural jumping-off point for an attack on Marles, which was why the Jackdaws had originally planned to land near the city. Dieter thought it likely Flick would still pass through Reims. It was on the road and rail routes to Marles, and there was probably some kind of help she needed from the remnants of the Bollinger circuit. He was betting she was now on her way from Paris to Reims.
He arranged for every Gestapo checkpoint between the two cities to be given details of the false identities being used by Flick and her team. However that, too, was something of a formality: either they had alternative identities, or they would find ways to avoid the checkpoints.
He called Reims, got Weber out of bed, and explained the situation. For once Weber was not obstructive. He agreed to send two Gestapo men to keep an eye on Michel's town house, two more to watch Gilberte's building, and two to the house in the rue du Bois to guard Stephanie.
Finally, as the headache began, Dieter called Stephanie. "The British terrorists are on their way to Reims," he told her. "I'm sending two men to guard you."
She was as calm as ever. "Thank you."
"But it's important that you continue to go to the rendezvous." With luck, Flick would not suspect the extent to which Dieter had penetrated the Bollinger circuit, and she would walk into his arms. "Remember, we changed the location. It's not the cathedral crypt any more, it's the Caf‚ de la Gare. If anyone shows up, just drive them back to the house, the way you did with Helicopter. Then the Gestapo can take over from that point."
"Okay."
"Are you sure? I've minimized the risk to you, but it's still dangerous."
"I'm sure. You sound as if you have a migraine."
"It's just beginning."
"Do you have the medicine?"
"Hans has it."
"I'm sorry I'm not there to give it to you."
He was, too. "I wanted to drive back to Reims tonight, but I don't think I can make it."
"Don't you dare. I'll be fine. Take a shot and go to bed. Come back here tomorrow."
He knew she was right. It was going to be hard enough getting back to his apartment, less than a kilometer away. He could not travel to Reims until he had recovered from the strain of the interrogation. "Okay," he said. "I'll get a few hours' sleep and leave here in the morning."
"Happy birthday."
"You remembered! I forgot it myself."
"I have something for you."
"A gift?"
"More like... an action."
He grinned, despite his headache. "Oh, boy."
"I'll give it to you tomorrow."
"I can't wait."
"I love you."
The words I love you, too, came to his lips, but he hesitated, reluctant from old habit to say them, and then there was a click as Stephanie hung up.
CHAPTER 39
IN THE EARLY hours of Sunday morning, Paul Chancellor parachuted into a potato field near the village of Laroque, west of Reims, without the benefit-or the risk-of a reception committee.
The landing gave him a tremendous jolt of pain in his wounded knee. He grit his teeth and lay motionless on the ground, waiting for it to ease. The knee would probably hurt him every so often for the rest of his life. When he was an old man he would say a twinge meant rain- if he lived to be an old man.
After five minutes, he felt able to struggle to his feet and get out of his parachute harness. He found the road, oriented himself by the stars, and started walking, but he was limping badly, and progress was slow.
His identity, hastily cobbled together by Percy Thwaite, was that of a schoolteacher from Epernay, a few miles west. He was hitchhiking to Reims to visit his father, who was ill. Percy had got him all the necessary papers, some of them hastily forged last night and rushed to Tempsford by motorcycle. The limp fitted quite well with the cover story: a wounded veteran might well be a schoolteacher, whereas an active young man should have been sent to a labor camp in Germany.
Getting here was the simple part. Now he had to find Flick. His only way of contacting her would be via the Bollinger circuit. He had to hope that part of the circuit was left intact, and Brian was the only member in Gestapo custody. Like every new agent dropping in to Reims, he would contact Mademoiselle Lemas. He would just have to be especially cautious.
Soon after first light he heard a vehicle. He stepped off the road into the field alongside and concealed himself behind a row of vines. As the noise came closer, he realized the vehicle was a tractor. That was safe enough: the Gestapo never traveled by tractor. He returned to the road and thumbed a lift.
The tractor was driven by a boy of about fifteen and was pulling a cartload of artichokes. The driver nodded at Paul's leg and said, "War wound?"
"Yes," Paul said. The likeliest moment for a French soldier to have been hurt was during the Battle of France, so he added: "Sedan, nineteen-forty."
"I was too young," the boy said regretfully.
"Lucky you."
"But wait till the Allies come back. Then you'll see some action." He gave Paul a sideways look. "I can't say any more. But you wait and see."
Paul thought hard. Was this lad a member of the Bollinger circuit? He said, "But do our people have the guns and ammunition they need?" If the boy knew anything at all, he would know that the Allies had dropped tons of weaponry in the past few months.
"We'll use whatever weapons come to hand."
Was he being discreet about what he knew? No, Paul thought. The boy looked vague. He was fantasizing. Paul said no more.
The lad dropped him off on the outskirts, and he limped into town. The rendezvous had changed, from the cathedral crypt to the Caf‚ de la Gare, but the time was the same, three o'clock in the afternoon. He had hours to kill.
He went into the caf‚ to get breakfast and reconnoitre. He asked for black coffee. The elderly waiter raised his eyebrows, and Paul realized he had made a slip. Hastily, he tried to cover up. "No need to say 'black,' I suppose," he said. "You probably don't have any milk anyway."
The waiter smiled, reassured. "Unfortunately not." He went away.
Paul breathed out. It was eight months since he had been undercover in France, and he had forgotten the minute-to-minute strain of pretending to be someone else.
He spent the morning dozing through services in the cathedral, then went back into the caf‚ at one-thirty for lunch. The place emptied out around two-thirty, and he stayed drinking ersatz coffee.
Two men came in at two forty-five and ordered beer. Paul looked hard at them. They wore old business suits and talked about grapes in colloquial French. They were eruditely discussing the flowering of the vines, a critical period that had just ended. He did not think they could possibly be agents of the Gestapo.
At exactly three o'clock a tall, attractive woman came in, dressed with unobtrusive elegance in a summer frock of plain green cotton and a straw hat. She wore odd shoes: one black, one brown. This must be Bourgeoise.
Paul was a little surprised. He had expected an older woman. However, that was probably an unwarranted assumption: Flick had never actually described her.
Ken Follett - Jackdaws Page 33