"Take off your chemise," he said.
She pulled it over her head.
He watched her above him, her lovely face drawn into an expression of fierce concentration, her pretty breasts moving delightfully. He felt like the luckiest man in the world. He wanted this to go on forever: no dawn, no tomorrow, no plane, no parachute, no war.
In all of life, he thought, there was nothing better than love.
W H E N I T WA S over, Flick's first thought was: What will I say to Michel?
She did not feel unhappy. She was full of love and desire for Paul. In a short time she had come to feel more intimate with him than she ever had with Michel. She wanted to make love to him every day for the rest of her life. That was the trouble. Her marriage was over. And she would have to tell Michel as soon as she saw him. She could not pretend, even for a few minutes, to feel the same about him.
Michel was the only man she had been intimate with before Paul. She would have told Paul that, but she felt disloyal talking about Michel. It seemed more of a betrayal than simple adultery. One day she would tell Paul he was only her second lover, and she might say he was her best, but she would never talk to him about how sex was with Michel.
However, it was not just sex that was different with Paul, it was herself. She had never asked Michel, the way she had questioned Paul, about his early sexual experiences. She had never said to him You can touch anything you like. She had never put a rubber on him, or climbed on top of him to make love, or told him he felt good inside her.
When she had lain down on the bed beside Paul, another personality had seemed to come out of her, just as a transformation had come over Mark when he walked into the Criss-Cross Club. She suddenly felt she could say anything she liked, do anything that took her fancy, be herself without worrying what would be thought of her.
It had never been like that with Michel. Beginning as his student, wanting to impress him, she had never really got on an even footing with him. She had continued to seek his approval, something he had never done with her. In bed, she tried to please him, not herself
After a while, Paul said, "What are you thinking?"
"About my marriage," she said.
"What about it?"
She wondered how much to confess. He had said, earlier in the evening, that he wanted to marry her, but that was before she came to his bedroom. Men never married girls who slept with them first, according to female folklore. It was not always true, Flick knew from her own experience with Michel. But all the same she decided to tell Paul half the truth. "That it's over."
"A drastic decision."
She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him. "Does that bother you?"
"On the contrary. I hope it means we might see each other again."
"Do you mean that?"
He put his arms around her. "I'm scared to tell you how much I mean it."
"Scared?"
"Of frightening you off I said a foolish thing earlier."
"About marrying me and having children?"
"I meant it, but I said it in an arrogant way."
"That's okay," she said. "When people are perfectly polite, it usually means they don't really care. A little awkwardness is more sincere."
"I guess you're right. I never thought of that."
She stroked his face. She could see the bristles of his beard, and she realized the dawn light was strengthening. She forced herself not to look at her watch: she did not want to keep checking how much time they had left.
She ran her hand over his face, mapping his features with her fingertips: the bushy eyebrows, the deep eye sockets, the big nose, the shot-off ear, the sensual lips, the lantern jaw. "Do you have hot water?" she said suddenly.
"Yes, it's a swanky room. There's a basin in the corner."
She got up.
He said, "What are you doing?"
"Stay there." She padded across the floor in her bare feet, feeling his eyes on her naked body, wishing she were not quite so broad across the hips. On a shelf over the sink was a mug containing toothpaste and a wooden toothbrush that she recognized as French. Next to the glass were a safety razor, a brush, and a bowl of shaving soap. She ran the hot tap, dipped the shaving brush in it, and worked up a lather in his soap bowl.
"Come on," he said. "What is this?"
"I'm going to shave you."
"Why?"
"You'll see."
She covered his face with lather, then got his safety razor and filled the tooth mug with hot water. She straddled him the way she had when they made love and shaved his face with careful, tender strokes.
"How did you learn to do this?" he asked.
"Don't speak," she said. "I watched my mother do it for my father, many times. Dad was a drunk, and toward the end he couldn't hold the razor steady, so Ma had to shave him every day. Lift your chin."
He did so obediently, and she shaved the sensitive skin of his throat. When she had finished she soaked a flannel in hot water and wiped his face with it, then patted him dry with a clean towel. "I should put on some face cream, but I bet you're too masculine to use it."
"It never occurred to me that I should."
"Never mind."
"What next?"
"Do you remember what you were doing to me just before I reached for your wallet?"
"Yes."
"Did you wonder why I didn't let you go on longer?"
"I thought you were impatient for... intercourse."
"No, your bristles were scratching my thighs, right where the skin is most tender."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Well, you can make it up to me."
He frowned. "How?"
She groaned with mock frustration. "Come on, Einstein. Now that your bristles have gone..
"Oh-I see! Is that why you shaved me? Yes, of course it is. You want me to..
She lay on her back, smiling, and parted her legs. "Is this enough of a hint?"
He laughed. "I guess it is," he said, and he bent over her.
She closed her eyes.
CHAPTER 28
THE OLD BALLROOM was in the bombed west wing of the chƒteau at Sainte-Cecile. The room was only partly damaged: one end was a pile of debris, square stones and carved pediments and chunks of painted wall in a dusty heap, but the other remained intact. The effect was picturesque, Dieter thought, with the morning sun shining through a great hole in the ceiling onto a row of broken pillars, like a Victorian painting of classical ruins.
Dieter had decided to hold his briefing in the ballroom. The alternative was to meet in Weber's office, and Dieter did not want to give the men the impression that Will was in charge. There was a small dais, presumably intended for the orchestra, on which he had placed a blackboard. The men had brought chairs from other parts of the building and had placed them in front of the dais in four neat rows of five-very German, Dieter thought with a secret smile; French men would have scattered the chairs any which way. Weber, who had assembled the team, sat on the dais facing the men, to emphasize that he was one of the commanders, not subordinate to Dieter.
The presence of two commanders, equal in rank and hostile to one another, was the greatest threat to the operation, Dieter thought.
On the blackboard he had chalked a neat map of the village of Chatelle. It consisted of three large houses- presumably farms or wineries-plus six cottages and a bakery. The buildings were clustered around a cross- roads, with vineyards to the north, west, and south, and to the east a large cow pasture, a kilometer long, bordered by a broad pond. Dieter guessed that the field was used for grazing because the ground was too wet for grapes.
"The parachutists will aim to land in the pasture," Dieter said. "It must be a regular landing-and-takeoff field: it's level, plenty big enough for a Lysander, and long enough even for a Hudson. The pond next to it would be a useful landmark, visible from the air. There is a cowshed at the southern end of the field where the reception committee probably take shelter while they are waiting for the pla
ne."
He paused. "The most important thing for everyone here to remember is that we want these parachutists to land. We must avoid any action that might betray our presence to the reception committee or the pilot. We have to be silent and invisible. If the plane turns around and returns home with the agents on board, we will have lost a golden opportunity. One of the parachutists is a woman who can give us information on most of the Resistance circuits in northern France-if only we can get our hands on her."
Weber spoke, mainly to remind them that he was here. "Allow me to underline what Major Franck has said. Take no risks! Do nothing ostentatious! Stick to the plan!"
"Thank you, Major," Dieter said. "Lieutenant Hesse has divided you into two-man teams, designated A through L. Each building on the map is marked with a team letter. We will arrive at the village at twenty hundred hours. Very swiftly, we will enter every building. All the residents will be brought to the largest of the three big houses, known as La Maison Grandin, and held there until it is all over."
One of the men raised a hand. Weber barked, "Schuller! You may speak."
"Sir, what if the Resistance people call at a house? They will find it empty and they may become suspicious."
Dieter nodded. "Good question. But I don't think they will. My guess is the reception committee are strangers here. They don't usually have agents parachute in near where sympathizers live-it's an unnecessary security risk. I'm betting they arrive after dark and go straight to the cowshed without bothering the villagers."
Weber spoke again. "This would be normal Resistance procedure," he said with the air of a doctor giving a diagnosis.
"La Maison Grandin will be our headquarters," Dieter continued. "Major Weber will be in command there." This was his scheme for keeping Weber away from the real action. "The prisoners will be locked away in some convenient place, ideally a cellar. They must be kept quiet, so that we can hear the vehicle in which the reception committee arrive, and later the plane."
Weber said, "Any prisoner who persistently makes noise may be shot."
Dieter continued, "As soon as the villagers have been incarcerated, teams A, B, C, and D will take up concealed positions on the roads leading into the village. If any vehicles or personnel enter the village, you will report by shortwave radio, but you will do nothing more. At this point, you will not prevent people entering the village, and you will not do anything that might betray your presence." Looking around the room, Dieter wondered pessimistically whether the Gestapo men had brains enough to follow these orders.
"The enemy needs transport for six parachutists plus the reception committee, so they will arrive in a truck or bus, or possibly several cars. I believe they will enter the pasture by this gate-the ground is quite dry at this time of year, so there is no danger of cars becoming bogged down-and park between the gate and the cowshed, just here." He pointed to the spot on the map.
"Teams E, F, G, and H will be in this cluster of trees beside the pond, each equipped with a large battery searchlight. Teams I and J will remain at La Maison Grandin to guard the prisoners and maintain the command post with Major Weber." Dieter did not want Weber at the scene of the arrest. "Teams K and L will be with me, behind this hedge near the cowshed." Hans had found out which of the men were the best shots and assigned them to work with Dieter.
"I will be in radio contact with all teams and will be in command in the pasture. When we hear the plane- we do nothing! When we see the parachutists-we do nothing! We will watch the parachutists land and wait for the reception committee to round them up and assemble them near where the vehicles are parked." Dieter raised his voice, mainly for the benefit of Weber. "Not until this process has been completed will we arrest anyone!" The men would not jump the gun unless a skittish officer told them to.
"When we are ready, I will give the signal. From this moment on, until the order to stand down is given, teams A, B, C, and D will arrest anyone attempting to enter or leave the village. Teams E, F, G, and H will switch on their searchlights and turn them on the enemy. Teams K and L will approach them with me and arrest them. No one is to fire on the enemy-is that clear?"
Schuller, obviously the thinker among the group, raised his hand again. "What if they fire on us?"
"Do not return their fire. These people are useless to us dead! Lie flat and keep the lights trained on them. Only teams E and F are permitted to use their weapons, and they have orders to shoot to wound. We want to interrogate these parachutists, not kill them."
The phone in the room rang, and Hans Hesse picked it up. "It's for you," he said to Dieter. "Rommel's headquarters."
The timing was lucky, Dieter thought as he took the phone. He had called Walter Goedel at La RocheGuyon earlier and had left a message asking Goedel to call back. Now he said, "Walter, my friend, how is the Field Marshal?"
"Fine, what do you want?" said Goedel, abrupt as ever.
"I thought the Field Marshal might like to know that we expect to carry off a small coup tonight-the arrest of a group of saboteurs as they arrive." Dieter hesitated to give details over the phone, but this was a German military line, and the risk that the Resistance might be listening was very small. And it was crucial to get Goedel's support for the operation. "My information is that one of them could tell us a great deal about several Resistance circuits."
"Excellent," said Goedel. "As it happens, I am calling you from Paris. How long would it take me to drive to Reims-two hours?"
"Three."
"Then I will join you on the raid."
Dieter was delighted. "By all means," he said, "if that is what the Field Marshal would like. Meet us at the chƒteau of Sainte-C‚cile not later than nineteen hundred." He looked at Weber, who had gone slightly pale.
"Very good." Goedel hung up.
Dieter handed the phone back to Hesse. "Field Marshal Rommel's personal aide, Major Goedel, will be joining us tonight," he said triumphantly. "Yet another reason for us to make sure that everything is done with impeccable efficiency." He smiled around the room, bringing his gaze to rest finally on Weber. "Aren't we fortunate?"
CHAPTER 29
ALL MORN INC THE Jackdaws drove north in a small bus. It was a slow journey through leafy woods and fields of green wheat, zigzagging from one sleepy market town to the next, circling London to the west. The countryside seemed oblivious of the war or indeed of the twentieth century, and Flick hoped it would long remain so. As they wound their way through medieval Winchester, she thought of Reims, another cathedral city, with uniformed Nazis strutting on the streets and the Gestapo everywhere in their black cars, and she gave a short prayer of thanks that they had stopped at the English Channel. She sat next to Paul and watched - the countryside for a while; then-having been awake all night making love-she fell into a blissful sleep with her head on his shoulder.
At two in the afternoon they reached the village of Sandy in Bedfordshire. The bus went down a winding country road, turned onto an unpaved lane through a wood, and arrived at a large mansion called Tempsford House. Flick had been here before: it was the assembly point for the nearby Tempsford Airfield. The mood of tranquility left her. Despite the eighteenth-century elegance of the place, to her it symbolized the unbearable tension of the hours immediately before a flight into enemy territory.
They were too late for lunch, but they got ~tea and sandwiches in the dining room. Flick drank her tea but felt too anxious to eat. However, the others tucked in heartily. Afterwards they were shown to their rooms.
A little later the women met in the library. The room looked more like the wardrobe of a film studio. There were racks of coats and dresses, boxes of hats and shoes, cardboard cartons labeled Culotres Chausseue~ and Mouchoirs and a trestle table in the middle of the room with several sewing machines.
In charge of the operation was Madame Guillemin, a slim woman of about fifty in a shirtwaist dress with a chic little matching jacket. She had spectacles on the end of her nose and a measuring tape around her neck, and she spoke to t
hem in perfect French with a Parisian accent. "As you know, French clothes are distinctively different from British clothes. I won't say they are more stylish, but, you know, they are... more stylish." She gave a French shrug, and the girls laughed.
It was not just a question of style, Flick thought somberly: French jackets were normally about ten inches longer than British, and there were numerous differences of detail, any of which could be the fatal clue that betrayed an agent. So all the clothes here had been bought in France, exchanged with refugees for new British clothes, or faithfully copied from French originals, then worn for a while so that they would not look new.
Ken Follett - Jackdaws Page 25
