Percy nodded. Flick saw that there were tears in his eyes. He put his pipe in his mouth and took it out again. "Good girl," he said, his voice reduced to a whisper. "Good girl."
THE SEVENTH DAY Saturday, June 3,1944
CHAPTER 30
SOE HAD NO planes of its own. It had to borrow them from the RAF, which was like pulling teeth. In 1941, the air force had reluctantly handed over two Lysanders, too slow and heavy for their intended role in battlefield support but ideal for clandestine landings in enemy territory. Later, under pressure from Churchill, two squadrons of obsolete bombers were assigned to SOE, although the head of Bomber Command, Arthur Hams, never stopped scheming to get them back. By the spring of 1944, when dozens of agents were flown into France in preparation for the invasion, SOE had the use of thirty-six aircraft.
The plane the Jackdaws boarded was an American- made twin-engined Hudson light bomber, manufactured in 1939 and since made obsolete by the four-engined Lancaster heavy bomber. A Hudson came with two machine guns in the nose, and the RAF added a rear turret with two more. At the back of the passenger cabin was a slide like a water chute, down which the parachutists would glide into space. There were no seats inside, and the six women and their dispatcher lay down on the metal floor. They were cold and uncomfortable and scared, but Jelly got a fit of the giggles, which cheered them all up.
They shared the cabin with a dozen metal containers, each as tall as a man and equipped with a parachute harness, all containing-Flick presumed-guns and ammunition to enable some other Resistance circuit to run interference behind German lines during the invasion.
After dropping the Jackdaws at Chatelle, the Hudson would fly on to another destination before turning around and heading back to Tempsford.
Takeoff had been delayed by a faulty altimeter, which had to be replaced, so it was one o'clock in the morning when they left the English coastline behind. Over the Channel, the pilot dropped the plane to a few hundred feet above the sea, trying to hide below the level of enemy radar, and Flick silently hoped they would not be shot at by ships of the Royal Navy, but he soon climbed again to eight thousand feet to cross the fortified French coastline. He stayed high to traverse the "Atlantic Wall," the heavily defended coastal strip, then descended again to three hundred feet, to make navigation less difficult.
The navigator was constantly busy with his maps, calculating the plane's position by dead reckoning and trying to confirm it by landmarks. The moon was waxing, and only three days from full, so large towns were easily visible, despite the blackout. However, they generally had antiaircraft batteries, so had to be avoided, as did army camps and military sites, for the same reason. Rivers and lakes were the most useful terrain features, especially when the moon was reflected off the water. Forests showed as dark patches, and the unexpected absence of one was a sure sign that the flight had gone astray. The gleam of railway lines, the glow of a steam engine's fire, and the headlights of the occasional blackout- breaking car were all helpful.
All the way, Flick brooded over the news about Bnan Standish and the newcomer Charenton. The story was probably true. The Gestapo had learned about the cathedral crypt rendezvous from one of the prisoners they had taken last Sunday at the chƒteau, and they had set a trap, which Brian had walked into, but he had escaped, with help from Mademoiselle Lemas's new recruit. It was all perfectly possible. However, Flick hated plausible explanations. She felt safe only when events followed standard procedure and no explanations were required.
As they approached the Champagne region, another navigation aid came into play. It was a recent invention known as EurekalRebecca. A radio beacon broadcast a call sign from a secret location somewhere in Reims. The crew of the Hudson did not know exactly where it was, but Flick did, for Michel had placed it in the tower of the cathedral. This was the Eureka half. On the plane was Rebecca, a radio receiver, shoehorned into the cabin next to the navigator. They were about fifty miles north of Reims when the navigator picked up the signal from the Eureka in the cathedral.
The intention of the inventors was that the Eureka should be in the landing field with the reception committee, but this was impracticable. The equipment weighed more than a hundred pounds, it was too bulky to be transported discreetly, and it could not be explained away to even the most gullible Gestapo officer at a checkpoint. Michel and other Resistance leaders were willing to place a Eureka in a permanent position, but refused to carry them around.
So the navigator had to revert to traditional methods to find Chatelle. However, he was lucky in having Flick beside him, someone who had landed there on several occasions and could recognize the place from the air. In the event, they passed about a mile to the east of the village, but Flick spotted the pond and redirected the pilot.
They circled around and flew over the cow pasture at three hundred feet. Flick could see the flare path, four weak, flickering lights in an L shape, with the light at the toe of the L flashing the prearranged code. The pilot climbed toward six hundred feet, the ideal altitude for a parachute drop: any higher, and the wind could blow the parachutists away from the dropping zone; much lower, and the chute might not have time to open fully before the agent hit the ground.
"Ready when you are," said the pilot.
"I'm not ready," Flick said.
"What's the matter?"
"Something's wrong." Flick's instincts were sounding alarm bells. It was not just her worries about Brian Standish and Charenton. There was something else. She pointed west, to the village. "Look, no lights."
"That surprises you? There's a blackout. And it's after three o'clock in the morning."
Flick shook her head. "This is the countryside, they're careless about the blackout. And there's always someone up: a mother with a new baby, an insomniac, a student cramming for finals. I've never seen it completely dark."
"If you really feel there's something wrong, we should get out of here fast," the pilot said nervously.
Something else was bothering her. She tried to scratch her head and found her helmet in the way. The thought evaded her.
What should she do? She could hardly abort the mission just because the villagers of Chatelle were obeying the blackout rules for once.
The plane overflew the field and banked to turn. The pilot said anxiously, "Remember, each time we over fly in- creases the risk. Everyone in that village can hear our engines, and one of them might call the police."
"Exactly!" she said. "We must have awakened the entire place. Yet no one has switched on a light!"
"I don't know, country folk can be very incurious. They like to keep themselves to themselves, as they always say."
"Nonsense. They're as nosy as anyone. This is peculiar."
The pilot looked more and more worried, but he continued circling
Suddenly it came to her. "The baker should have lit his oven. You can normally see the glow from the air."
"Could he be closed today?"
"What day is it? Saturday. A baker might close on a Monday or a Tuesday but never on a Saturday. What's happened? This is like a ghost town!"
"Then let's get out of here."
It was as if someone had rounded up the villagers, including the baker, and locked them in a barn-which was probably what the Gestapo would have done if they were lying in wait for her.
She could not abort the mission. It was too important. But every instinct told her not to parachute into Chatelle. "A risk is a risk," she said.
The pilot was losing patience. "So what do you want to do?"
Suddenly she remembered the containers of supplies in the passenger cabin. "What's your next destination?"
"I'm not supposed to tell you."
"Not usually, no. But now I really need to know."
"It's a field north of Chartres."
That meant the Vestryman circuit. "I know them," Flick said with mounting excitement. This could be the solution. "You could drop us with the containers. There will be a reception committee waiting, they ca
n take care of us. We could be in Paris this afternoon, Reims by tomorrow morning."
He reached for the joystick. "Is that what you want to do?"
"Is it possible?"
"I can drop you there, no problem. The tactical decision is yours. You're in command of the mission-that was made very clear to me."
Flick considered, worrying. Her suspicions might be unfounded, in which case she would need to get a message to Michel via Brian's radio, saying that although her landing had been aborted, she was still on her way. But in case Brian's radio was in Gestapo hands, she would have to give the minimum of information. However, that was feasible. She could write a brief radio signal for the pilot to take back to Percy: Brian would have it in a couple of hours.
She would also have to change the arrangements for picking up the Jackdaws after the mission. At present, a Hudson was scheduled to land at Chatelle at two a.m. on Sunday, and if the Jackdaws were not there, to return the following night at the same time. If Chatelle had been betrayed to the Gestapo and could no longer be used, she would have to divert the Hudson to another landing field at Laroque, to the west of Reims, code- named Champ d'Or. The mission would take an extra day, because they would have to travel from Chartres to Reims, so the pickup flight would have to come down at two a.m. on Monday, with a fall-back on Tuesday at the same hour.
She weighed consequences. Diverting to Chartres meant the loss of a day. But landing at Chatelle could mean the entire mission failed and all the Jackdaws ended up in Gestapo torture chambers. It was no contest. "Go to Chartres," she said to the pilot.
"Roger, wilco."
As the aircraft banked and turned, Flick went back to the cabin. The Jackdaws all looked expectantly at her. "There's been a change of plan," she said.
CHAPTER 31
D I E T E R LAY B E N EATH a hedge and watched, bewildered, while the British plane circled over the cow pasture.
Why the delay? The pilot had made two passes over the landing site. The flare path, such as it was, was in place. Had the reception leader flashed the wrong code? Had the Gestapo men done something to arouse suspicion? It was maddening. Felicity Clairet was a few yards away from him. If he fired his pistol at the plane, a lucky shot might hit her.
Then the plane banked, turned, and roared away to the south.
Dieter was mortified. Flick Clairet had evaded him- in front of Walter Goedel, Will Weber, and twenty Gestapo men.
For a moment, he buried his face in his hands.
What had gone wrong? There could be a dozen reasons. As the drone of the plane's engines receded, Dieter could hear shouts of indignation in French. The Resistance seemed as perplexed as he was. His best guess was that Flick, an experienced team leader, had smelled a rat and aborted the jump.
Walter Goedel, lying in the dirt beside him, said, "What are you going to do now?"
Dieter considered briefly. There were four Resistance people here: Michel the leader, still limping from his bullet wound; Helicopter, the British radio operator; a Frenchman Dieter did not recognize, and a young woman. What should he do with them? His strategy of letting Helicopter run free had been a good one in theory, but it had now led to two humiliating reverses, and he did not have the nerve to continue it. He had to get something out of tonight's fiasco. He was going to have to revert to traditional methods of interrogation and hope to salvage the operation-and his reputation.
He brought the mouthpiece of the shortwave radio to his lips. "All units, this is Major Franck," he said softly. "Action, I repeat, action." Then he got to his feet and drew his automatic pistol.
The searchlights concealed in the trees blazed into life. The four terrorists in the middle of the field were mercilessly lit up, looking suddenly bewildered and vulnerable. Dieter called out in French, "You are surrounded! Raise your hands!"
Beside him, Goedel drew his Luger. The four Gestapo men with Dieter aimed their rifles at the legs of the Resistance people. There was a moment of uncertainty: Would the Resistance open fire? If they did, they would be mowed down. With luck, they might be only wounded. But Dieter had not had much luck tonight. And if these four were killed, he would be left empty-handed.
They hesitated.
Dieter stepped forward, moving into the light, and the four riflemen moved with him. "Twenty guns are aimed at you," he shouted. "Do not draw your weapons."
One of them started to run.
Dieter swore. He saw a flash of red hair in the lights: it was Helicopter, stupid boy, heading across the field like a charging bull. "Shoot him," Dieter said quietly. All four riflemen took careful aim and fired. The shots crashed out in the silent meadow. Helicopter ran another two paces, then fell to the ground.
Dieter looked at the other three, waiting. Slowly, they raised their hands in the air.
Dieter spoke into the shortwave radio. "All teams in the pasture, move in and secure the prisoners." He put away his pistol.
He walked over to where Helicopter lay. The body was still. The Gestapo riflemen had shot at his legs, but it was hard to hit a moving target in the dark, and one of them had aimed too high, putting a bullet through his neck, severing his spinal cord, or his jugular vein, or both. Dieter knelt beside him and felt for a pulse, but there was none. "You weren't the cleverest agent I've ever met, but you were a brave boy," he said quietly. "God rest your soul." He closed the eyes.
He looked over the other three as they were disarmed and fettered. Michel would resist interrogation well: Dieter had seen him in action, and he had courage. His weakness was probably vanity. He was handsome, and a womanizer. The way to torture him would be in front of a mirror: break his nose, knock out his teeth, scar his cheeks, make him understand that with every minute that he continued to resist, he was getting irreversibly uglier.
The other man had the air of a professional, perhaps a lawyer. A Gestapo man searched him and showed Dieter a pass that permitted Dr. Claude Bouler to be out after curfew. Dieter assumed it was a forgery, but when they searched the Resistance cars they found a genuine doctor's bag, full of instruments and drugs. Under arrest he looked pale but composed: he, too, would be a difficult subject.
The girl was the most promising. She was about nineteen, and pretty, with long dark hair and big eyes, but she had a vacant look. Her papers showed that she was Gilberte Duval. Dieter knew from his interrogation of Gaston that Gilberte was the lover of Michel and the rival of Flick. Handled correctly, she might prove easy to turn.
The German vehicles were brought from the barn at La Maison Grandin. The prisoners went in a truck with the Gestapo men. Dieter gave orders that they should be kept in separate cells and prevented from communicating with one another.
He and Goedel were driven back to Sainte-C‚cile in Weber's Mercedes. "What a damned farce," Weber said scornfully. "A complete waste of time and manpower."
"Not quite," said Dieter. "We have taken four subversive agents out of circulation-which is, after all, what the Gestapo is supposed to do-and, even better, three of them are still alive for interrogation."
Goedel said, "What do you hope to get from them?"
"The dead man, Helicopter, was a wireless operator," Dieter explained. "I have a copy of his code book. Unfortunately, he did not have his set with him. If we can find the set, we can impersonate Helicopter."
"Surely you can use any radio transmitter, so long as you know the frequency assigned to him?"
Dieter shook his head. "Every transmitter sounds different to the experienced ear. And these little suitcase radios are particularly distinctive. All nonessential circuits are omitted, to minimize the size, and the result is poor tone quality. If we had one exactly like his, captured from another agent, it might be similar enough to take the risk."
"We may have one somewhere."
"If we do, it will be in Berlin. It's easier to find Helicopter's."
"How will you do that?"
"The girl will tell me where it is."
For the rest of the journey, Dieter brooded ov
er his interrogation strategy. He could torture the girl in front of the men, but they might resist that. More promising would be to torture the men in front of the girl. But there might be an easier way.
A plan was forming in his mind when they passed the public library in the center of Reims. He had noticed the building before. It was a little jewel, an art deco design in tan stone, standing in a small garden. "Would you mind stopping the car for a moment, please, Major Weber?" he said.
Weber muttered an order to his driver.
"Do you have any tools in the trunk?"
"I have no idea," said Weber. "What is this about?"
The driver said, "Of course, Major, we have the regulation tool kit."
Ken Follett - Jackdaws Page 27
