Jackdaws

DIETER SLEPT UNTIL ten.



He woke with a headache from the morphine, but otherwise he felt good: excited, optimistic, confident.



Yesterday's bloody interrogation had given him a hot lead.



The woman codenamed Bourgeolse, with her house in the rue du Bois, could be his way into the heart of the French Resistance.



Or it might go nowhere.



He drank a liter of water and took three aspirins to get rid of the morphine hangover; then he picked up the phone.



First he called Lieutenant Hesse, who was staying in a less grand room at the same hotel.



"Good morning, Hans, did you sleep well?" "Yes, thank you, Major.



Sir, I went to the town hall to check out the address in the rue du Bois." "Good lad," Dieter said.



"What did you find out?" "The house is owned and occupied by one person, a Mademoiselle Jeanne Lemas." "But there may be other people staying there." "I also drove past, just to have a look, and the place seemed quiet." "Be ready to leave, with my car, in an hour." "Very good." "And, Hans-well done for using your initiative." "Thank you, sir." Dieter hung up.



He wondered what Mademoiselle Lemas was like.



Gaston said no one in the Bollinger circuit had ever met her, and Dieter believed him: the house was a security cut-out.



Incoming agents knew nothing more than where to contact the woman: if caught, they could not reveal any information about the Resistance.



At least, that was the theory.



There was no such thing as perfect security.



Presumably Mademoiselle Lemas was unmarried.



She could be a young woman who had inherited the house from her parents, a middle-aged spinster looking for a husband, or an old maid.



It might help to take a woman with him, he decided.



He returned to the bedroom.



Stephanie had brushed her abundant red hair and was sitting up in bed, with her breasts showing over the top of the sheet.



She really knew how to look tempting.



But he resisted the impulse to get back into bed.



"Would you do something for me?" he said.



"I would do anything for you." "Anything?" He sat on the bed and touched her bare shoulder.



"Would you watch me with another woman?" "Of course," she said.



"I would lick her nipples while you made love to her." "You would, I know." He laughed with pleasure.



He had had mistresses before, but none like her.



"It's not that, though.



I want you to come with me while I arrest a woman in the Resistance." Her face showed no emotion.



"Very well," she said calmly.



He was tempted to press her for a reaction, to ask her how she felt about this, and was she sure she was happy about it, but he decided to take her consent at face value.



"Thank you," he said, and he returned to the living room.



Mademoiselle Lemas might be alone but, on the other hand, the house could be crawling with Allied agents, all armed to the teeth.



He needed some backup.



He consulted his notebook and gave the hotel operator Rommel's number in La Roche-Guyon.



When the Germans had first occupied the country, the French telephone system had been swamped.



Since then, the Germans had improved the equipment, adding thousands of kilometers of cable and installing automatic exchanges.



The system was still overloaded, but it was better than it had been.



He asked for Rommel's aide Major Goedel.



A moment later he heard the familiar cold, precise voice: "Goedel." "This is Dieter Franck," he said.



"How are you, Walter?" "Busy," Goedel said crisply.



"What is it?" "I'm making rapid progress here.



I don't want to give details, because I'm speaking on a hotel phone, but I'm about to arrest at least one spy, perhaps several.



I thought the Field Marshal might like to know that." "I shall tell him." "But I could use some assistance.



I'm doing all this with one lieutenant.



I'm so desperate, I'm using my French girlfriend to help me." "That seems unwise." "Oh, she's trustworthy.



But she won't be much use against trained terrorists.



Can you get me half a dozen good men?" "Use the Gestapo-that's what they're for." "They're unreliable.



You know they're cooperating with us only reluctantly.



I need people I can rely on." "It's out of the question," Goedel said.



"Look, Walter, you know how important Rommel feels this is-he's given me the job of making sure the Resistance can't hamper our mobility." "Yes.



But the Field Marshal expects you to do it without depriving him of combat troops." "I'm not sure I can." "For God's sake, man!" Goedel raised his voice.



"We're trying to defend the entire Atlantic coastline with a handful of soldiers, and you're surrounded by able-bodied men who have nothing better to do than track down scared old Jews hiding in barns.



Get on with the job and don't pester me!" There was a click as the phone was hung up.



Dieter was startled.



It was uncharacteristic for Goedel to blow his top.



No doubt they were all tense about the threat of invasion.



But the upshot was clear.



Dieter had to do this on his own.



With a sigh, he jiggled the rest and placed a call to the chateau at Sainte-Cecile.



He reached Willi Weber.



"I'm going to raid a Resistance house," he said.



"I may need some of your heavyweights.



Will you send four men and a car to the Hotel Frankfort? Or do I need to speak to Rommel again?" The threat was unnecessary.



Weber was keen to have his men along on the operation.



That way, the Gestapo could claim the credit for any success.



He promised a car in half an hour.



Dieter was worried about working with the Gestapo.



He could not control them.



But he had no choice.



While shaving, he turned on the radio, which was tuned to a German station.



He learned that the first-ever tank battle in the Pacific theater had developed yesterday on the island of Biak.



The occupying Japanese had driven the invading American 162d Infantry back to their beachhead.



Push them into the sea, Dieter thought.



He dressed in a dark gray worsted suit, a fine cotton shirt with pale gray stripes, and a black tie with small white dots.



The dots were woven into the fabric rather than printed on it, a detail that gave him pleasure.



He thought for a moment, then removed the jacket and strapped on a shoulder holster.



He took his Walther P38 automatic pistol from the bureau and slid it into the holster, then put his jacket back on.



He sat down with a cup of coffee and watched Stephanie dressing.



The French made the most beautiful underwear in the world, he thought as she stepped into silk cami-knickers the color of clotted cream.



He loved to see her pull on her stockings, smoothing the silk over her thighs.



"Why did the old masters not paint this moment?" he said.



"Because Renaissance women didn't have sheer silk stockings," said Stephanie.



When she was ready, they left.



Hans Hesse was waiting outside with Dieter's Hispano-Suiza.



The young man gazed at Stephanie with awestruck admiration.



To him, she was infinitely desirable and at the same time untouchable.



He made Dieter think of a poor woman staring into Cartier's shop window.



Behind Dieter's car was a black CitroensTraction Avant containing four Gestapo men in plain clothes.



Major Weber had decided to come himself, Dieter saw: he sat in the front passenger seat of the Citroens wearing a green tweed suit that made him look like a farmer on his way to church.



"Follow me," Dieter told him.



"When we get there, please stay in your car until I call you." Weber said, "Where the hell did you get a car like that?" "It was a bribe from a Jew," Dieter said.



"I helped him escape to America." Weber grunted in disbelief, but in fact the story was true.



Bravado was the best attitude to take with men such as Weber.



If Dieter had tried to keep Stephanie hidden away, Weber would immediately have suspected that she was Jewish and might have started an investigation.



But because Dieter flaunted her, the thought never crossed Weber's mind.



Hans took the wheel, and they headed for the rue du Bois.



Reims was a substantial country town with a population of more than 100,000, but there were few motor vehicles on the streets.



Cars were used only by those on official business: the police, doctors, firemen, and, of course, the Germans.



The citizens went about by bicycle or on foot.



Petrol was available for deliveries of food and other essential supplies, but many goods were transported by horse-drawn cart.



Champagne was the main industry here.



Dieter loved champagne in all its forms: the nutty older vintages, the fresh, light, nonvintage cuvees, the refined blanc de blancs, the demi-sec dessert varieties, even the playful pink beloved of Paris courtesans.



The rue du Bois was a pleasant tree-lined street on the outskirts of town.



Hans pulled up outside a tall house at the end of a row, with a little courtyard to one side.



This was the home of Mademoiselle Lemas.



Would Dieter be able to break her spirit? Women were more difficult than men.



They cried and screamed, but held out longer.



He had sometimes failed with a woman, though never with a man.



If this one defeated him, his investigation was dead.



"Come if I wave to you," he said to Stephanie as he got out of the car.



Weber's Citroensdrew up behind, but the Gestapo men stayed in the car, as instructed.



Dieter glanced into the courtyard beside the house.



There was a garage.



Beyond that, he saw a small garden with clipped hedges, rectangular flower beds, and a raked gravel path.



The owner had a tidy mind.



Beside the front door was an old-fashioned red-and-yellow rope.



He pulled it and heard from inside the metallic ring of a mechanical bell.



The woman who opened the door was about sixty.



She had white hair tied up at the back with a tortoiseshell clasp.



She wore a blue dress with a pattern of small white flowers.



Over it she had a crisp white apron.



"Good morning, monsieur," she said politely.



Dieter smiled.



She was an irreproachably genteel provincial lady.



Already he had thought of a way to torture her.



His spirits lifted with hope.



He said, "Good morning.



.



.



Mademoiselle Lemas?" She took in his suit, noticed the car at the curb, and perhaps heard the trace of a German accent, and fear came into her eyes.



There was a tremor in her voice as she said, "How may I help you?" "Are you alone, Mademoiselle?" He watched her face carefully.



"Yes," she said.



"Quite alone." She was telling the truth.



He was sure.



A woman such as this could not lie without betraying herself with her eyes.



He turned and beckoned Stephanie.



"My colleague will join us." He was not going to need Weber's men.



"I have some questions to ask you." "Questions? About what?" "May I come in?" "Very well." The front parlor was furnished with dark wood, highly polished.



There was a piano under a dust cover and an engraving of Reims cathedral on the wall.



The mantelpiece bore a selection of ornaments: a spun-glass swan, a china flower girl, a transparent globe containing a model of the palace at Versailles, and three wooden camels.



Dieter sat on a plush upholstered couch.



Stephanie sat beside him, and Mademoiselle Lemas took an upright chair opposite.



She was plump, Dieter observed.



Not many French people were plump after four years of occupation.



Food was her vice.



On a low table was a cigarette box and a heavy lighter.



Dieter flipped the lid and saw that the box was full.



"Please feel free to smoke," he said.



She looked mildly offended: women of her generation did not use tobacco.



"I don't smoke." "Then who are these for?" She touched her chin, a sign of dishonesty.



"Visitors." "And what kind of visitors do you get?" "Friends..



.



neighbors.



.



." She looked uncomfortable.



"And British spies." "That is absurd." Dieter gave her his most charming smile.



"You are obviously a respectable lady who has become mixed up in criminal activities from misguided motives," he said in a tone of friendly candor.



"I'm not going to toy with you, and I hope you will not be so foolish as to lie to me." "I shall tell you nothing," she said.



Dieter feigned disappointment, but he was pleased to be making such rapid progress.



She had already abandoned the pretense that she did not know what he was talking about.



That was as good as a confession.



"I'm going to ask you some questions," he said.



"If you don't answer them, I shall ask you again at Gestapo headquarters." She gave him a defiant look.



He said.



"Where do you meet the British agents?" She said nothing.



"How do they recognize you?" Her eyes met his in a steady gaze.



She was no longer flustered, but resigned.



A brave woman, he thought.



She would be a challenge.



"What is the password?" She did not answer.



"Who do you pass the agents on to? How do you contact the Resistance? Who is in charge of it?" Silence.



Dieter stood up.



"Come with me, please." "Very well," she said staunchly.



"Perhaps you will permit me to put on my hat." "Of course." He nodded to Stephanie.



"Go with Mademoiselle, please.



Make sure she does not use the telephone or write anything down." He did not want her to leave any kind of message.



He waited in the hail.



When they returned, Mademoiselle Lemas had taken off her apron and wore a light coat and a cloche hat that had gone out of fashion long before the outbreak of war.



She carried a sturdy tan leather handbag.



As the three of them were heading for the front door, Mademoiselle Lemas said, "Oh! I forgot my key." "You don't need it," Dieter said.



"The door locks itself," she said.



"I need a key to get back in." Dieter looked her in the eye.



"Don't you understand?" he said.



"You've been sheltering British terrorists in your house, you have been caught, and you are in the hands of the Gestapo." He shook his head in an expression of sorrow that was not entirely fake.



"Whatever happens, Mademoiselle, you're never coming home again." She realized the full horror of what was happening to her.



Her face turned white, and she staggered.



She steadied herself by grabbing the edge of a kidney-shaped table.



A Chinese vase containing a spray of dried grasses wobbled dangerously but did not fall.



Then Mademoiselle Lemas recovered her poise.



She straightened up and let go of the table.



She gave him that defiant look again, then walked out of her house with her head held high.



Dieter asked Stephanie to take the front passenger seat, while he sat in the back of the car with the prisoner.



As Hans drove them to Sainte-Cecile, Dieter made polite conversation.



"Were you born in Reims, Mademoiselle?" "Yes.



My father was choirmaster at the cathedral." A religious background.



This was good news for the plan that was forming in Dieter's mind.



"Is he retired?" "He died five years ago, after a long illness." "And your mother?" "Died when I was quite young." "So, I imagine you nursed your father through his illness?" "For twenty years." "Au." That explained why she was single.



She had spent her life caring for an invalid father.



"And he left you the house." She nodded.



"Small reward, some might think, for a life of dedicated service," Dieter said sympathetically.



She gave him a haughty look.



"One does not do such things for reward." "Indeed not." He did not mind the implied rebuke.



It would help his plan if she could convince herself that she was somehow Dieter's superior, morally and socially.



"Do you have brothers and sisters?" "None." Dieter saw the picture vividly.



The agents she sheltered, all young men and women, must have been like her children.



She had fed them, done their laundry, talked to them, and probably kept an eye on the relationships between the sexes, making sure there was no immorality, at least not under her root And now she would die for it.



But first, he hoped, she would tell him everything.



The Gestapo Citroensfollowed Dieter's car to SainteCecile.



When they had parked in the grounds of the chateau, Dieter spoke to Weber.



"I'm going to take her upstairs and put her in an office," he said.



"Why? There are cells in the basement." "You'll see." Dieter led the prisoner up the stairs to the Gestapo offices.



Dieter looked into all the rooms and picked the busiest, a combination typing pool and post room.



It was occupied by young men and women in smart shirts and ties.



Leaving Mademoiselle Lemas in the corridor, he closed the door and clapped his hands for attention.



In a quiet voice he said, "I'm going to bring a French woman in here.



She is a prisoner, but I want you all to be friendly and polite to her, is that understood? Treat her as a guest.



It's important that she feels respected." He brought her in, sat her at a table and, with a murmured apology, handcuffed her ankle to the table leg.



He left Stephanie with her and took Hesse outside.



"Go to the canteen and ask them to prepare lunch on a tray.



Soup, a main course, a little wine, a bottle of mineral water, and plenty of coffee.



Bring cutlery, glasses, a napkin.



Make it look nice." The lieutenant grinned admiringly.



He had no idea what his boss was up to, but he felt sure it would be something clever.



A few minutes later he returned with a tray.



Dieter took it from him and carried it into the office.



He set it in front of Mademoiselle Lemas.



"Please," he said.



"It's lunchtime." "I couldn't eat anything, thank you." "Perhaps just a little soup." He poured wine into her glass.



She added water to the wine and sipped it, then tried a mouthful of soup.



"How is it?" "Very good," she admitted.



"French food is so refined.



We Germans cannot imitate it." Dieter talked nonsense to her, trying to relax her, and she drank most of the soup.



He poured her a glass of water.



Major Weber came in and stared incredulously at the tray in front of the prisoner.



Speaking German, he said, "Are we now rewarding people for harboring terrorists?" Dieter said, "Mademoiselle is a lady.



We must treat her correctly." "God in heaven," Weber said, and he turned on his heel.



She refused the main course but drank all the coffee.



Dieter was pleased.



Everything was going according to plan.



When she had finished, he asked her all the questions again.



"Where do you meet the Allied agents? How do they recognize you? What is the password?" She looked worried, but she still refused to answer.



He looked sadly at her.



"I am very sorry that you refuse to cooperate with me, after I have treated you kindly." She looked somewhat bewildered.



"I appreciate your kindness, but I cannot tell you anything~" Stephanie, sitting beside Dieter, also looked puzzled.



He guessed that she was thinking: Did you really imagine that a nice meal would be sufficient to make this woman talk? "Very well," he said.



He stood up as if to go.



"And now, Monsieur," said Mademoiselle Lemas.



She looked embarrassed.



"I must ask to.



.



.



ah.



.



.



visit the ladies' powder room." In a harsh voice, Dieter said, "You want to go to the toilet?" She reddened.



"In a word, yes." "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," Dieter said.



"That will not be possible."