Ken Follett - Jackdaws

by Jackdaws [lit]

  But her greatest anxiety came from the thought of telling him that their marriage was over. She was afraid. It struck her as ironic: she had just shot and killed a Gestapo man and a French traitress, and she was undercover in occupied territory, yet her worst fear was of hurting her husband's feelings.

  He was visibly delighted to see her. "Flick!" he cried. "I knew you would get here!" He crossed the room to her, still limping from his bullet wound.

  She said quietly, "I was afraid the Gestapo had captured you."

  "They did!" He turned so that his back was to the room and no one could see, and showed her his hands, bound at the wrists with stout rope.

  She drew the little knife from its sheath under her lapel and discreetly cut through his bonds. The gamblers saw nothing. She put the knife away.

  M‚m‚ Regis spotted him just as he was stuffing the ropes into his trousers pockets. She embraced and kissed him on both cheeks. Flick watched him flirt with the older woman, talking to her in his come-to-bed voice, giving her the benefit of his sexy grin. Then M‚m‚ resumed her work, serving drinks to the gamblers, and Michel told Flick how he had escaped. She had been afraid he would want to kiss her passionately, and she had not known how she would deal with that but, in the event, he was too full of his own adventures to get romantic with her.

  "I was so lucky!" he finished. He sat on a bar stool, rubbing his wrists, and asked for a beer.

  Flick nodded. "Too lucky, perhaps," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "It could be some kind of trick."

  He was indignant, no doubt resenting the implication that he was gullible. "I don't think so."

  "Could you have been followed here?"

  "No," he said firmly. "I checked, of course."

  She was uneasy, but she let it go. "So Brian Standish is dead, and three others are in custody-Mademoiselle Lemas, Gilberte, and Dr. Bouler."

  "The rest are dead. The Germans released the bodies of those killed in the skirmish. And the survivors, Gaston, Genevieve, and Bertrand, were shot by a firing squad in the square at Sainte-Cecile."

  "Dear God."

  They were silent for a moment. Flick was weighed down by the thought of the lives lost, and the suffering endured, for the sake of this mission.

  Michel's beer came. He drank half in a single draft and wiped his lips. "I presume you've come back for another attempt on the chƒteau."

  She nodded. "But the cover story is that we're going to blow up the railway tunnel at Manes."

  "It's a good idea, we should do it anyway."

  "Not now. Two of my team were taken in Paris, and they must have talked. They will have told the cover story-they had no idea of the real mission-and the Germans are sure to have doubled the guard on the railway tunnel. We'll leave that to the RAF and concentrate on Sainte-C‚cile."

  "What can I do?"

  "We need somewhere to stay the night."

  He thought for a moment. "Joseph LaperriŠre's cellar."

  LaperriŠre was a champagne maker. Michel's aunt Antoinette had once been his secretary. "Is he one of us?"

  "A sympathizer." He gave a sour grin. "Everyone is a sympathizer now. They all think the invasion is coming any day." He looked inquiringly at her. "I imagine they're right about that..

  "Yes," she said. She did not elaborate. "How big is the cellar? There are five of us."

  "It's big, he could hide fifty people down there."

  "Fine. The other thing I need is a vehicle for tomorrow."

  "To drive to Sainte-C‚cile?"

  "And afterwards, to meet our pickup plane, if we're still alive."

  "You realize that you can't use the usual drop zone at Chatelle, don't you? The Gestapo know about it-it's where I was picked up."

  "Yes. The plane is coming to the other one at Laroque. I gave instructions."

  "The potato field. Good."

  "And the vehicle?"

  "Philippe Moulierhas a van. He delivers meat to all the German bases. Monday is his day off."

  "I remember him, he's pro-Nazi."

  "He was. And he's been making money out of them for four years. So now he's terrified that the invasion is going to succeed, and after the Germans have gone he'll be strung up as a collaborator. He's desperate to do something to help us, to prove he's not a traitor. He'll lend us his van."

  "Bring it to the cellar tomorrow at ten o'clock in the morning."

  He touched her cheek. "Can't we spend the night together?" He smiled his old smile and looked as roguishly handsome as ever.

  She felt a familiar stirring inside, but it was not as strong as it had been in the old days. Once, that smile would have made her wet. Now, it was like the memory of a desire.

  She wanted to tell him the truth, for she hated to be anything less than honest. But it might jeopardize the mission. She needed his cooperation. Or was that just an excuse? Perhaps she just did not have the nerve.

  "No," she said. "We can't spend the night together."

  He looked crestfallen. "Is it because of Gilberte?"

  She nodded, but she could not lie, and she found herself saying, "Well, partly."

  "What's the other part?"

  "I don't really want to have this discussion in the middle of an important mission."

  He looked vulnerable, almost scared. "Have you got someone else?"

  She could not bring herself to hurt him. "No," she lied.

  He looked hard at her. "Good," he said at last. "I'm glad."

  Flick hated herself.

  Michel finished his beer and got off his stool. "LaperriŠre's place is in the chemin de La CarriŠre. It will take you thirty minutes to walk there."

  "I know the street."

  "I'd better go and see Moulier about the van." He put his arms around Flick and kissed her lips.

  She felt dreadful. She could hardly refuse the kiss, having denied that she had someone else, but kissing Michel seemed so disloyal to Paul. She closed her eyes and waited passively until he broke the clinch.

  He could not fail to notice her lack of enthusiasm. He looked thoughtfully at her for a moment. "I'll see you at ten," he said, and he left.

  She decided to give him five minutes to get clear be- fore she followed him out. She asked Yvette for another scotch.

  While she was sipping it, a red light began to flash over the door.

  No one spoke, but everyone in the room moved at once. The croupier stopped the roulette wheel and turned it upside down so that it looked like a normal tabletop. The card players swept up their stakes and put on their jackets. Yvette picked up the glasses from the bar and dumped them in the sink. M‚m‚ Regis turned out the lights, leaving the room illuminated only by the flashing red bulb over the door.

  Flick picked up her bag from the floor and put her hand on her gun. "What's happening?" she asked Yvette.

  "Police raid," she said.

  Flick cursed. What hellish luck it would be to get arrested for illegal gambling.

  "Alexandre downstairs has given us the warning," Yvette explained. "Get going, quickly!" She pointed across the room.

  Flick looked in the direction Yvette indicated and saw Meme Regis stepping into what looked like a cupboard. As she watched, M‚m‚ shoved aside a couple of old coats hanging from a rail to reveal, at the back of the cupboard, a door, which she hurriedly opened. The gamblers began to leave by the hidden door. Maybe, Flick thought, she could get away.

  The flashing red light went out, and a banging began on the main door. Flick crossed the room in the dark and joined the men pushing through the cupboard. She followed the crowd into a bare room. The floor was about a foot lower than she expected, and she guessed this was the apartment over the shop next door. They all ran down the stairs and, sure enough, she found herself in the disused charcuterie, with a stained marble counter and dusty glass cases. The blind in the front window was drawn down so that no one could see in from the street.

  They all went out through the back door. There wa
s a dirty yard surrounded by a high wall. A door in the wall led to an alley, and the alley led to the next street. When they reached the street, the men went in different directions.

  Flick walked quickly away and soon found herself alone. Breathing hard, she reoriented herself and headed for the cathedral, where the other Jackdaws were waiting. "My God," she whispered to herself, "that was close."

  As she got her breath back, she began to see the raid on the gambling club in a different light. It had happened just minutes after Michel had left. Flick did not believe in coincidence.

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that whoever was banging on the door had been looking for her. She knew that a small group of men had been playing for high stakes in that room since before the war. The local police certainly knew about the place. Why would they suddenly decide to close it down? If not the police, it must have been the Gestapo. And they were not really interested in gamblers. They went after communists, Jews, homosexuals-and spies.

  The story of Michel's escape had aroused her suspicions from the start, but she had been partly reassured by his insistence that he had not been followed. Now she thought otherwise. His escape must have been faked, like the "rescue" of Brian Standish. She saw the sly brain of Dieter Franck behind this. Someone had followed Michel to the caf‚, guessed at the existence of the secret upstairs room, and hoped to find her there.

  In that case, Michel was still under surveillance. If he continued to be careless, he would be trailed to Philippe Moulier's house tonight, and in the morning, driving the van, he would be followed to the champagne cellar where the Jackdaws were hiding.

  And what the hell, Flick thought, am I going to do about that?

  THE NINTH DAY Monday, June 5, 1944

  CHAPTER 46

  DIETER'S MIGRAINE BEGAN shortly after midnight, as he stood in his room at the Hotel Frankfort, looking at the bed he would never again share with Stephanie. He felt that if he could weep, the pain would fade, but no tears came, and he injected himself with morphine and collapsed on the counterpane.

  The phone woke him before daylight. It was Walter Goedel, Rommel's aide. Groggily, Dieter said, "Has the invasion begun?"

  "Not today," Goedel replied. "The weather is bad in the English Channel."

  Dieter sat upright and shook his head to clear it. "What, then?"

  "The Resistance were clearly expecting something. Overnight, there has been an eruption of sabotage throughout northern France." Goedel's voice, already cool, descended to an arctic chill. "It was supposed to be your job to prevent that. What are you doing in bed?"

  Caught off guard, Dieter struggled to regain his usual poise. "I'm right on the tail of the most important of all Resistance leaders," he said, trying hard not to sound as if he was making excuses for failure. "I almost caught her last night. I'll arrest her today. Don't worry-by tomorrow morning we'll be rounding up terrorists by the hundreds. I promise you." He immediately regretted the pleading tone of the last three words.

  Goedel was unmoved. "After tomorrow, it will probably be too late."

  "I know-" Dieter stopped. The line was dead. Goedel had hung up.

  Dieter cradled the phone and looked at his wristwatch. It was four o'clock. He got up.

  His migraine had gone, but he felt queasy, either from the morphine or the unpleasant phone call. He drank a glass of water and swallowed three aspirins, then began to shave. As he lathered his face, he nervously ran over the events of the previous evening, asking himself if he had done everything possible.

  Leaving Lieutenant Hesse outside Chez Regis, he had followed Michel Clairet to the premises of Philippe Moulier, a supplier of fresh meat to restaurants and military kitchens. It was a storefront property with living quarters above and a yard at the side. Dieter bad watched the place for an hour, but no one had come out.

  Deciding that Michel intended to spend the night there, Dieter had found a bar and phoned Hans Hesse. Hans had got on a motorcycle and joined him outside the Moulier place at ten. The lieutenant told Dieter the story of the inexplicably empty room above Chez Regis. "There's some early-warning system," Dieter speculated. "The barman downstairs is ready to sound the alarm if anyone comes looking."

  "You think the Resistance were using the place?"

  "Probably. I'd guess the Communist Party used to hold meetings there, and the Resistance took over the system."

  "But how did they get away last night?"

  "A trapdoor under the carpet, something like that- the communists would have been prepared for trouble. Did you arrest the barman?"

  "I arrested everyone in the place. They're at the chƒteau now."

  Dieter had left Hans watching the Moulier property and had driven to Sainte-C‚cile. There he questioned the terrified proprietor, Alexandre Regis, and learned within minutes that his speculation had been off target. The place was neither a Resistance hideout nor a communist meeting place, but an illegal gambling club. Nevertheless, Alexandre confirmed that Michel Clairet had gone there last night. And, he said, Michel had met his wife there.

  It was another maddeningly near miss for Dieter. He had captured one Resistance member after another, but Flick always eluded him.

  Now he finished shaving, wiped his face, and phoned the chƒteau to order a car with a driver and two Gestapo men to pick him up. He got dressed and went to the hotel kitchen to beg half a dozen warm croissants, which he wrapped in a linen napkin. Then he went out into the cool of the early morning. The towers of the cathedral were silvered by the breaking dawn. One of the fast Citro‰ns favored by the Gestapo was waiting.

  He gave the driver the address of the Moulier place. He found Hans lurking in a warehouse doorway fifty meters along the street. No one had come or gone all night, Hans said, so Michel must still be inside. Dieter told his driver to wait around the next corner, then stood with Hans, sharing the croissants and watching the sun come up over the roofs of the city.

  They had a long wait. Dieter fought to control his impatience as the minutes and hours ticked away uselessly. The loss of Stephanie weighed on his heart, but he had recovered from the immediate shock, and he had regained his interest in the war. He thought of the Allied forces massing somewhere in the south or east of England, shiploads of men and tanks eager to turn the quiet seaside towns of northern France into battlefields. He thought of the French saboteurs- armed to the teeth thanks to parachute drops of guns, ammunition, and explosives-ready to attack the German defenders from behind, to stab them in the back and fatally cramp Rommel's ability to maneuver. He felt foolish and impotent, standing in a doorway in Reims, waiting for an amateur terrorist to finish his breakfast. Today, perhaps, he would be led into the very heart of the Resistance-but all he had was hope.

  It was after nine o'clock when the front door opened.

  "At last," Dieter breathed. He moved back from the sidewalk, making himself inconspicuous. Hans put out his cigarette.

  Michel came out of the building accompanied by a boy of about seventeen, who, Dieter guessed, might be a son of Moulier. The lad keyed a padlock and opened the gates of the yard. In the yard was a clean black van with white lettering on the side that read Moulier Fils-Viandes. Michel got in.

  Dieter was electrified. Michel was borrowing a meat delivery van. It had to be for the Jackdaws. "Let's go!" he said.

  Hans hurried to his motorcycle, which was parked at the curb, and stood with his back to the road, pretending to fiddle with the engine. Dieter ran to the corner, signaled the Gestapo driver to start the car, then watched Michel.

  Michel drove out of the yard and headed away.

  Hans started his motorcycle and followed. Dieter jumped into the car and ordered the driver to follow Hans.

  They headed east. Dieter, in the front passenger seat of the Gestapo's black Citro‰n, looked ahead anxiously. Moulier's van was easy to follow, having a high roof with a vent on top like a chimney. That little vent will lead me to flick, Dieter thought optimistically.

>   The van slowed in the chemin de La CarriŠre and pulled into the yard of a champagne house called LaperriŠre. Hans drove past and turned the next corner, and Dieter's driver followed. They pulled up and Dieter leaped out.

  "I think the Jackdaws hid out there overnight," Dieter said.

  "Shall we raid the place?" Hans said eagerly.

  Dieter pondered. This was the dilemma he had faced yesterday, outside the caf‚. Flick might be in there. But if he moved too quickly, he might prematurely end Michel's usefulness as a stalking horse.