Jackdaws

MADEMOISELLE LEMAS WAS in agony.



She sat rigid on the hard upright chair behind the little table, her face frozen into a mask of self-control.



She did not dare to move.



She still wore her cloche hat and clutched her sturdy leather handbag on her lap.



Her fat little hands squeezed the handle of the bag rhythmically.



Her fingers bore no rings; in fact she wore only one piece of jewelry, a small silver cross on a chain.



Around her, late-working clerks and secretaries in their well-pressed uniforms carried on typing and filing.



Following Dieter's instructions, they smiled politely when they caught her eye, and every now and again one of the girls would speak a word to her, offering her water or coffee.



Dieter sat watching her, with Lieutenant Hesse on one side of him and Stephanie on the other.



Hans Hesse was the best type of sturdy, unflappable working-class German.



He looked on stoically: he had seen many tortures.



Stephanie was more excitable, but she was exercising self-control.



She looked unhappy, but said nothing: her aim in life was to please Dieter.



Mademoiselle Lemas's pain was not just physical, Dieter knew.



Even worse than her bursting bladder was the tenor of soiling herself in a room full of polite, well-dressed people going about their normal business.



For a respectable elderly lady, that was the worst of nightmares.



He admired her fortitude and wondered if she would break, and tell him everything, or hold out.



A young corporal clicked his heels beside Dieter and said, "Pardon me, Major, I have been sent to ask you to step into Major Weber's office." Dieter considered sending a reply saying If you want to talk to me, come and see me, but he decided there was nothing to be gained by being combative before it was strictly necessary.



Weber might even become a little more cooperative if he was allowed to score a few points.



"Very well." He turned to Hesse.



"Hans, you know what to ask her if she breaks." "Yes, Major." "In case she doesn't.



.



.



Stephanie, would you go to the Cafe des Sports and get me a bottle of beer and a glass, please?" "Of course." She seemed grateful for a reason to leave the room.



Dieter followed the corporal to Willi Weber's office.



It was a grand room at the front of the chateau, with three tall windows overlooking the square.



Dieter gazed out at the sun setting over the town.



The slanting light picked out the curved arches and buttresses of the medieval church.



He saw Stephanie crossing the square in her high heels, walking like a racehorse, dainty and powerful at the same time.



Soldiers were at work in the square, erecting three stout wooden pillars in a neat row.



Dieter frowned.



"A firing squad?" "For the three terrorists who survived Sunday's skirmish," Weber answered.



"I understand you have finished interrogating them." Dieter nodded.



"They have told me all they know." "They will be shot in public as a warning to others who may think of joining the Resistance." "Good idea," Dieter said.



"However, though Gaston is fit, both Bertrand and Genevieve are seriously injured-I'll be surprised if they can walk." "Then they will be carried to their fate.



But I did not summon you to discuss them.



My superiors in Paris have been asking me what further progress has been made." "And what did you tell them, Willi?" "That after forty-eight hours of investigation you have arrested one old woman who may or may not have sheltered Allied agents in her house, and who has so far told us nothing." "And what would you wish to tell them?" Weber banged his desk theatrically.



"That we have broken the back of the French Resistance!" "That may take longer than forty-eight hours." "Why don't you torture this old cow?" "I am torturing her." "By refusing to let her go to the toilet! What kind of torture is that?" "In this case, the most effective one, I believe." "You think you know best.



You always were arrogant.



But this is the new Germany, Major.



You are no longer assumed to have superior judgment just because you are the son of a professor." "Don't be ridiculous." "Do you really think you would have become the youngest-ever head of the Cologne criminal intelligence department if your father had not been an important man in the university?" "I had to pass the same exams as everyone else." "How strange that other people, just as capable as you, never seemed to do quite so well." Was that the fantasy Weber told himself? "For God's sake, Willi, you can't believe the entire Cologne police force conspired to give me better marks than you because my father was professor of music-it's risible!" "Such things were commonplace in the old days." Dieter sighed.



Weber was half right.



Patronage and nepotism had existed in Germany.



But that was not why Willi had failed to win promotion.



The truth was that he was stupid.



He would never get on anywhere except in an organization where fanaticism was more important than ability.



Dieter had had enough of this stupid talk.



"Don't worry about Mademoiselle Lemas," he said.



"She'll talk soon." He went to the door.



"And we will break the back of the French Resistance, too.



Just wait a little longer." He returned to the main office.



Mademoiselle Lemas was now making low moaning noises.



Weber had made Dieter impatient, and he decided to speed up the process.



When Stephanie returned, he put the glass on the table, opened the bottle, and poured the beer slowly in front of the prisoner.



Tears of pain squeezed from her eyes and rolled down her plump cheeks.



Dieter took a long drink of beer and put the glass down.



"Your agony is almost over, Mademoiselle," he said.



"Relief is at hand.



In a few moments you will answer my questions; then you will find ease." She closed her eyes.



"Where do you meet the British agents?" He paused.



"How do you recognize one another?" She said nothing.



"What is the password?" He waited a moment, then said, "Have the answers ready, in the forefront of your mind, and make sure they are clear, so that when the time comes, you can tell me quickly, without hesitation or explanations; then you can seek rapid release from your pain." He took the key to the handcuffs from his pocket.



"Hans, hold her wrist firmly." He bent down and unlocked the cuffs that fastened her ankle to the table leg.



He took her by the arm.



"Come with us, Stephanie," he said.



"We're going to the ladies' toilet." They left the room, Stephanie leading the way, Dieter and Hans holding the prisoner, who hobbled along with difficulty, bent at the waist, biting her lip.



They went to the end of the corridor and stopped at a door marked Damen.



Mademoiselle Lemas groaned loudly when she saw it.



Dieter said to Stephanie, "Open the door." She did so.



It was a clean, white-tiled room, with a washbasin, a towel on a rail, and a row of cubicles.



"Now," said Dieter.



"The pain is about to end." "Please," she whispered.



"Let me go." "Where do you meet the British agents?" Mademoiselle Lemas began to cry.



Dieter said gently, "Where do you meet these people?" "In the cathedral," she sobbed.



"In the crypt.



Please let me go!" Dieter breathed a long sigh of satisfaction.



She had broken.



"When do you meet them?" "Three o'clock any afternoon, I go every day." "And how do you recognize one another?" "I wear odd shoes, black and brown, now can I go?" "One more question.



What is the password?" "'Pray for me.'" She tried to move forward, but Dieter held her tightly, and Hans did the same.



"Pray for me," Dieter repeated.



"Is that what you say, or what the agent says?" "The agent-oh, I beg you!" "And your reply?" "I pray for peace,' that's my reply." "Thank you," Dieter said, and released her.



She rushed inside.



Dieter nodded at Stephanie, who followed her in and closed the door.



He could not conceal his satisfaction.



"There, Hans, we make progress." Hans, too, was pleased.



"The cathedral crypt, three p.m.



any day, black and brown shoes, 'Pray for me,' and the response 'I pray for peace.' Very good!" "When they come out, put the prisoner in a cell and turn her over to the Gestapo.



They'll arrange for her to disappear into a camp somewhere." Hans nodded.



"It seems harsh, sir.



Her being an elderly lady, I mean." "It does-until you think of the German soldiers and French civilians killed by the terrorists she sheltered.



Then it seems hardly punishment enough." "That does throw a different light on it, yes, sir." "You see how one thing leads to another," Dieter said reflectively.



"Gaston gives us a house, the house gives us Mademoiselle Lemas, she gives us the crypt, and the crypt will give us..



.



who knows?" He began to think about the best way to exploit the new information.



The challenge was to capture agents without letting London know.



If the thing was handled right, the Allies would send more people along the same route, wasting vast resources.



It had been done in Holland: more than fifty expensively trained saboteurs had parachuted straight into the arms of the Germans.



Ideally, the next agent sent by London would go to the crypt of the cathedral and find Mademoiselle Lemas waiting there.



She would take the agent home, and he would send a wireless message to London saying all was well.



Then, when he was out of the house, Dieter could get hold of his code books.



After that, Dieter could arrest the agent but continue to send messages to London in his name-and read the replies.



In effect, he would be running a Resistance circuit that was entirely fictional.



It was a thrilling prospect.



Willi Weber walked by.



"Well, Major, has the prisoner talked?" "She has." "Not a moment too soon.



Did she say anything useful?" "You may tell your superiors that she has revealed the location of her rendezvous and the passwords used.



We can pick up any further agents as they arrive." Weber looked interested despite his hostility.



"And where is the rendezvous?" Dieter hesitated.



He would have preferred not to tell Weber anything.



But it was difficult to refuse without giving offense, and he needed the man's help.



He had to tell him.



"The cathedral crypt, afternoons at three." "I shall inform Paris." Weber walked on.



Dieter resumed thinking about his next step.



The house in the rue du Bois was a cut-out.



No one in the Bollinger circuit had met Mademoiselle Lemas.



Agents coming in from London did not know what she looked like-hence the need for recognition signals and pass- words.



If he could get someone to impersonate her...



but who? Stephanie came out of the ladies' toilet with Mademoiselle Lemas.



She could do it.



She was much younger than Mademoiselle Lemas, and looked completely different, but the agents would not know that.



She was obviously French.



All she had to do was take care of the agent for a day or so.



He took Stephanie's arm.



"Hans will deal with the prisoner now.



Come, let me buy you a glass of champagne." He walked her out of the chateau.



In the square, the soldiers had done their work, and the three stakes threw long shadows in the evening light.



A handful of local people stood silent and watchful outside the church door.



Dieter and Stephanie went into the cafeDieter ordered a bottle of champagne.



"Thank you for helping me today," he said.



"I appreciate it." "I love you," she said.



"And you love me, I know, even though you never say it." "But how do you feel about what we did today? You're French, and you have that grandmother whose race we mustn't speak of, and as far as I know you're not a Fascist." She shook her head violently.



"I no longer believe in nationality, or race, or politics," she said passionately.



"When I was arrested by the Gestapo, no French people helped me.



No Jews helped me.



No socialists or liberals or communists either.



And I was so cold in that prison." Her face changed.



Her lips lost the sexy half smile she wore most of the time, and the glint of teasing invitation went from her eyes.



She was looking at another scene in another time.



She crossed her arms and shivered, although it was a warm summer evening.



"Not just cold on the outside, not just the skin.



I felt cold in my heart and my bowels and my bones.



I felt I would never be warm again, I would just go cold to my grave." She was silent for a long moment, her face drawn and pale, and Dieter felt at that instant that war was a terrible thing.



Then she said, "I'll never forget the fire in your apartment.



A coal fire.



I had forgotten what it was like to feel that blazing warmth.



It made me human again." She came out of her trance.



"You saved me.



You gave me food and wine.



You bought me clothes." She smiled her old smile, the one that said You can, if you dare.



"And you loved me, in front of that coal fire." He held her hand.



"It wasn't difficult." "You keep me safe, in a world where almost no one is safe.



So now I believe only in you." "If you really mean that.



.



"Of course." "There's something else you could do for me." "Anything." "I want you to impersonate Mademoiselle Lemas." She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.



"Pretend to be her.



Go to the cathedral crypt every afternoon at three o'clock, wearing one black shoe and one brown.



When someone approaches you and says, 'Pray for me,' reply, 'I pray for peace.' Take the person to the house in the rue du Bois.



Then call me." "It sounds simple." The champagne arrived, and he poured two glasses.



He decided to level with her.



"It should be simple.



But there is a slight risk.



If the agent has met Mademoiselle Lemas before, he will know you're an impostor.



Then you could be in danger.



Will you take that chance?" "Is it important to you?" "It's important for the war." "I don't care about the war." "It's important to me, too." "Then I'll do it." He raised his glass.



"Thank you," he said.



They clinked glasses and drank.



Outside, in the square, there was a volley of gunfire.



Dieter looked through the window.



He saw three bodies tied to the wooden pillars, slumped in death; a row of soldiers lowering their rifles; and a crowd of citizens looking on, silent and still.