Dieter said, “Weber, listen to me. I think she is part of a team of saboteurs intending to attack the chateau.”
“They tried that before,” Weber said. “We gave them a hiding.”
Dieter controlled his impatience with an effort. “Indeed you did, so they may be more sly this time. May I suggest a security alert? Double the guards, search the chateau, and question all non-German personnel in the building.”
“I have given orders to that effect.”
Dieter was not sure he believed that Weber had already thought of a security alert, but it did not matter, so long as he did so now.
Dieter briefly considered rescinding his instructions about Gilberte and Michel but decided not to. He might well need to interrogate Michel before the night was over.
“I will return to Sainte-Cecile immediately,” he told Weber.
“As you wish,” Weber said casually, implying he could manage perfectly well without Dieter’s assistance.
“I need to interrogate the new prisoner.”
“I have already begun. Sergeant Becker is softening her up.”
“For God’s sake! I want her sane and able to speak.”
“Of course.”
“Please, Weber, this is too important for mistakes. I beg you to keep Becker under control until I get there.”
“Very well, Franck. I will make sure he doesn’t overdo it.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” Dieter hung up.
CHAPTER 51
FLICK PAUSED AT the entrance to the great hall of the chateau. Her pulse was racing and there was a cold sensation of fear in her chest. She was in the lions’ den. If she were captured, nothing could save her.
She surveyed the room rapidly. Telephone switchboards had been installed in precise parade-ground rows, incongruously modern against the faded grandeur of the pink-and-green walls and the pudgy cherubs painted on the ceiling. Bundled cables twisted across the checkerboard marble floor like uncoiled ropes on the deck of a ship.
There was a hubbub of chatter from forty operators. Those nearest glanced at the new arrivals. Flick saw one girl speak to her neighbor and point to them. The operators were all from Reims and the surrounding district, many from Sainte-Cecile itself, so they would know the regular cleaners and would realize the Jackdaws were strangers. But Flick was gambling that they would say nothing to the Germans.
She oriented herself quickly, bringing to mind the plan Antoinette had drawn. The bombed west wing, to her left, was disused. She turned right and led Greta and Jelly through a pair of tall paneled doors into the east wing.
One room led to another, all palatial reception rooms full of switchboards and equipment racks that buzzed and clicked as numbers were dialed. Flick did not know whether the cleaners normally greeted the operators or passed them in silence: the French were great people for saying good morning, but this place was run by the German military. She contented herself with smiling vaguely and avoiding eye contact.
In the third room, a supervisor in German uniform sat at a desk. Flick ignored her, but the woman called out, “Where is Antoinette?”
Flick answered without pausing in her stride. “She’s coming.” She heard the tremor of fear in her own voice and hoped the supervisor had not noticed.
The woman glanced up at the clock, which said five past seven. “You’re late.”
“Very sorry, Madame, we’ll get started right away.” Flick hurried into the next room. For a moment she listened, heart in her mouth, for an angry shout calling her back, but none came, and she breathed easier and walked on, with Greta and Jelly close behind.
At the end of the east wing was a stairwell, leading up to the offices or down to the basement. The Jackdaws were headed for the basement, eventually, but first they had preparations to make.
They turned left and moved into the service wing. Following Antoinette’s directions, they found a small room where cleaning materials were stored: mops, buckets, brooms, and garbage bins, plus the brown cotton overall coats the cleaners had to wear on duty Flick closed the door.
“So far, so good,” said Jelly.
Greta said, “I’m so scared!” She was pale and trembling. “I don’t think I can go on.”
Flick gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine,” she said. “Let’s get on with it. Put your ordnance into these cleaning buckets.”
Jelly began to transfer her explosives into a bucket, and after a moment’s hesitation Greta followed suit. Flick assembled her submachine gun without its rifle butt, reducing the length by a foot, to make it easier to conceal. She fitted the noise suppressor and flicked the switch for single-shot firing. When using the silencer, the chamber had to be reloaded manually before each shot.
She pushed the weapon under her leather belt. Then she put on an overall coat. It covered the gun. She left the buttons undone for quick access. The other two also put on overalls, concealing the guns and ammunition stuffed into their pockets.
They were almost ready for the basement. However, it was a high-security area, with a guard at the door, and French personnel were not allowed down there-the Germans cleaned it themselves. Before entering, the Jackdaws were going to create a little confusion.
They were about to leave the room when the door opened and a German officer looked in. “Passes!” he barked.
Flick tensed. She had been expecting some kind of security alert. The Gestapo must have guessed that Ruby was an Allied agent-no one else would be carrying an automatic pistol and a lethal knife-and it made sense for them to take extra precautions at the chateau. However, she had hoped that the Gestapo would move too slowly to interfere with her mission. That wish had not been granted. Probably they were double-checking all French personnel in the building.
“Quickly!” the man said impatiently. He was a Gestapo lieutenant, Flick saw from the badge on his uniform shirt. She took out her pass. He looked at it carefully, comparing the picture with her face, and handed it back. He did the same with Jelly and Greta. “I must search you,” he said. He looked into Jelly’s bucket.
Behind his back, Flick drew the Sten gun from under her overall.
The officer frowned in puzzlement and took from Jelly’s bucket the shockproof canister.
Flick disengaged the cocking lever of her gun from the safety slot.
The officer unscrewed the lid of the canister. Amazement dawned on his face as he saw the detonators.
Flick shot him in the back.
The gun was not really silent-the noise suppressor was not perfectly effective-and the shot made a soft bang like a book being dropped on the floor.
The Gestapo lieutenant jerked and fell.
Flick ejected the cartridge and pulled back the bolt, then shot him again in the head to make sure of him.
She reloaded the chamber and put the gun back under her overall.
Jelly dragged the body to the wall and shoved it behind the door, where it would not be seen by anyone glancing casually into the room.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Flick.
Jelly went out. Greta stood frozen and pale, staring at the dead officer.
Flick said, “Greta. We have a job to do. Let’s go.”
At last Greta nodded, picked up her mop and bucket, and walked through the door, moving like a robot.
They went from the cleaning store into the canteen. It was empty but for two girls in uniform drinking coffee
