Ken Follett - Jackdaws

by Jackdaws [lit]

  Flick guided Paul to the street parallel with Gilberte's. Flick remembered coming here with her wounded husband exactly seven days ago. She directed Paul to park near the end of the alley. "Wait here," Flick said. "I'll check the place."

  Jelly said, "Be quick, for God's sake."

  "Quick as I can." Flick got out and ran down the alley, past the back of the factory to the door in the wall. She crossed the garden quickly and slipped through the back entrance into the building. The hallway was empty and the place was quiet. She went softly up the stairs to the attic floor.

  She stopped outside Gilberte's apartment. What she saw filled her with dismay. The door stood open. It had been broken in and was leaning drunkenly from one hinge. She listened but heard nothing, and something told her the break-in had happened days ago. Cautiously, she stepped inside.

  There had been a perfunctory search. In the little living room, the cushions on the seats were disarranged, and in the kitchen corner the cupboard doors stood open. Flick looked into the bedroom and saw a similar scene. The drawers had been pulled out of the chest, the wardrobe was open, and someone had stood on the bed with dirty boots.

  She went to the window and looked down into the street. Parked opposite the building was a black Citro‰n Traction Avant with two men sitting in the front.

  This was all bad news, Flick thought despairingly. Someone had talked, and Dieter Franck had made the most of it. He had painstakingly followed a trail that had led him first to Mademoiselle Lemas, then to Brian Standish, and finally to Gilberte. And Michel? Was he in custody? It seemed all too probable.

  She thought about Dieter Franck. She had felt a shiver of fear the first time she had looked at the short MI6 biography of him on the back of his file photo. She had not been scared enough, she now knew. He was clever and persistent. He had almost caught her at La Chatelle, he had scattered posters of her face all over Paris, he had captured and interrogated her comrades one after another.

  She had set eyes on him just twice, both times for a few moments only. She brought his face to mind. There was intelligence and energy in his look, she thought, plus a determination that could easily become ruthlessness. She was quite sure that he was still on her trail. She resolved to be ever more vigilant.

  She looked at the sky. She had about three hours until dark.

  She hurried down the stairs and out through the garden back to the Simca Cinq parked in the next street. "No good," she said as she squeezed into the car. "The place has been searched and the Gestapo are watching the front."

  "Hell," Paul said. "Where do we go now?"

  "I know of one more place to try," said Flick. "Drive into town."

  She wondered how long they could continue to use the Simca Cinq, as the tiny 500cc engine struggled to power the overloaded car. Assuming the bodies at the house in the rue du Bois had been discovered within an hour, how long would it be before police and Gestapo men in Reims were alerted to look out for Mademoiselle Lemas's car? Dieter had no way of contacting men who were already out on the streets, but at the next change of shift they would all be briefed. And Flick did not know when the night crews came on duty. She concluded that she had almost no time left. "Drive to the station," she said. "We'll dump the car there."

  "Good idea," Paul said. "Maybe they'll think we've left town."

  Flick scanned the streets for military Mercedes cars or black Gestapo Citro‰ns. She held her breath as they passed a pair of gendarmes patrolling. But they reached the center of the city without incident. Paul parked near the railway station, and they all got out and hurried away from the incriminating vehicle.

  "I'll have to do this alone," Flick said. "The rest of you had better go to the cathedral and wait for me there."

  "All my sins have been forgiven several times over, I've spent so much time in church today," Paul said.

  "You can pray for a place to spend the night," Flick told him, and she hurried away.

  She returned to the street where Michel lived. A hundred meters from his house was the bar Chez Regis. Flick went in. The proprietor, Alexandre Regis, sat behind the counter smoking. He gave her a nod of recognition but said nothing.

  She went through the door marked Toilettes. She walked along a short passage, then opened what looked like a cupboard door. It led to a steep staircase going up. At the top of the stairs was a heavy door with a peephole. Flick banged on it and stood where her face could be seen through the judas. A moment later the door was opened by M‚m‚ Regis, the mother of the proprietor.

  Flick entered a large room whose windows were blacked out. It was crudely decorated with matting on the floor, brown-painted walls, and several naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. At one end of the room was a roulette wheel. Around a large circular table a group of men were playing cards. There was a bar in one corner. This was an illegal gambling club.

  Michel liked to play poker for high stakes, and he enjoyed louche company, so he occasionally came here for an evening. Flick never played, but she sometimes sat and watched the game for an hour. Michel said she brought him luck. It was a good place to hide from the Gestapo, and Flick had been hoping she might find him here, but as she looked from face to face around the room she was disappointed.

  "Thank you, M‚m‚," she said to Alexandre's mother.

  "It's good to see you. How are you?"

  "Fine, have you seen my husband?"

  "Ah, the charming Michel. Not tonight, I regret." The people here did not know Michel was in the Resistance.

  Flick went to the bar and sat on a stool, smiling at the barmaid, a middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick. She was Yvette Regis, the wife of Alexandre. "Have you any scotch?"

  "Of course," said Yvette. "For those who can afford it." She produced a bottle of Dewar's White Label and poured a measure.

  Flick said, "I'm looking for Michel."

  "I haven't seen him for a week or so," Yvette said.

  "Damn." Flick sipped her drink. "I'll wait awhile, in case he shows up."

  CHAPTER 44

  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 Citroen. 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 longe
r 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 Stephanie. He wanted to find Flick, and capture her, and take her to the basement of the chƒteau. 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 Citro‰n.

  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 Michelin 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 Citro‰n 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 Citro‰n.

  There was a clatter of crumpling metal and a medley of breaking glass. The two Gestapo men leaped out of the front of the Citro‰n 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 Regis.

  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 Citro‰n 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."

  CHAPTER 45

  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 Stephanie 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 Stephanie 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 Stephanie 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. Stephanie 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.