CHAPTER 52
Dieter sat on the platform at the Reims railway station. French railway men and German troops watched with him, standing patiently under the harsh lights. The prison train was late, hours late, but it was coming, he had been assured of that. He had to wait for it. He had no other cards to play.
His heart was full of rage. He had been humiliated and defeated by a girl. Had she been a German girl, he would have been proud of her. He would have called her brilliant and brave. He might even have fallen in love with her. But she belonged to the enemy, and she had outwitted him at every turn. She had killed Stephanie, she had destroyed the chateau, and she had escaped. But he would catch her yet. And when he did, she would suffer tortures worse than her most terrifying imaginings-then she would talk.
Everyone talked.
The train rolled in a few minutes after midnight.
He noticed the stink even before it came to a halt. It was like the smell of a farmyard but disgustingly human.
There was an assortment of rail cars, none of them designed for passengers: goods wagons, cattle trucks, even a mail car with its narrow windows broken. Each was crammed with people.
The livestock wagons had high wooden sides pierced by slats to permit observation of the animals. The prisoners nearest put their arms through the slats, hands open with palms upward, begging. They asked to be let out, they pleaded for something to eat, but most of all they begged for water. The guards looked on impassively: Dieter had given instructions that the prisoners were to have no relief at Reims tonight.
He had two Waffen SS corporals with him, guards from the chateau, both good marksmen. He had extracted them from the shambles at Sainte-Cecile, trading on his authority as a major. He turned to them now and said, “Bring Michel Clairet.”
Michel was locked in the windowless room where the stationmaster kept the cash. The corporals went away and reappeared with Michel between them. His hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were hobbled so that he could not run. He had not been told what had happened at Sainte-Cecile. All he knew was that he had been captured for the second time in a week. There was little left of his buccaneering persona. He was trying to maintain an air of bravado, to keep his spirits up, but the attempt was a failure. His limp was worse, his clothes were dirty, and his face grim. He looked defeated.
Dieter took Michel’s arm and walked him closer to the train. At first, Michel did not understand what he was looking at, and his face showed only mystification and fear. Then, when he made out the begging hands and understood the piteous voices, he staggered, as if he had been struck, and Dieter had to hold him upright.
Dieter said, “I need some information.”
Michel shook his head. “Put me on the train,” he said. “I’d rather be with them than with you.”
Dieter was shocked by the insult and surprised by Michel’s courage. He said, “Tell me where the Jackdaws’ plane will land-and when.”
Michel stared at him. “You haven’t caught them,” he said, and hope came back into his face. “They’ve blown up the chateau, haven’t they? They succeeded.” He threw back his head and gave a whoop of joy. “Well done, Flick!”
Dieter made Michel walk the length of the train, slowly, showing him the numbers of prisoners and the scale of their suffering. “The plane,” he said again.
Michel said, “The field outside La Chatelle, at three a.m.”
Dieter was almost certain that was false. Flick had been scheduled to arrive at La Chatelle seventy-two hours ago but had aborted the landing, presumably because she suspected a Gestapo trap. Dieter knew there was a backup landing place, because Gaston had told him so; but Gaston had known only its code name, Champ d’Or, not its location. Michel, however, would know the exact place. “You’re lying,” Dieter said.
“Then put me on the train,” Michel replied.
Dieter shook his head. “That’s not the choice-nothing so easy.”
He saw puzzlement and the shadow of fear in Michel’s eyes.
Dieter walked him back and stopped at the women’s car. Their feminine voices begged in French and German, some invoking the pity of God, others asking the men to think of their mothers and sisters, a few offering sexual favors. Michel bowed his head, refusing to look.
Dieter beckoned to two figures standing in the shadows.
Michel looked up, and a terrible dread came over his face.
Hans Hesse walked out of the shadows, escorting a young woman. She might have been beautiful, but her face was ghastly white, her hair lay in greasy strands, and she had sores on her lips. She seemed weak, walking with difficulty.
It was Gilberte.
Michel gasped.
Dieter repeated his question. “Where will the plane land, and when?”
Michel said nothing.
Dieter said, “Put her on the train.”
Michel moaned.
A guard opened the gate of a cattle car. While two others kept the women in with bayonets, the guard pushed Gilberte into the car. “No,” she cried. “No, please!”
The guard was about to close the gate, but Dieter said, “Wait.” He looked at Michel. Tears were pouring down the man’s face.
Gilberte said, “Please, Michel, I beg you.” Michel nodded. “All right,” he said.
“Don’t lie again,” Dieter warned.
“Let her out.”
“The time and place.”
“The potato field east of Laroque, at two a.m.”
Dieter looked at his watch. It was twelve-fifteen. “Show me,” he said.
Paul said, “I’m single.” He looked at Flick.
She shook her head. “I intended to ask Michel for a divorce… but how could I, in the middle of an operation?”
“So we’ll wait until after the war to get married,” Paul said. “I’m patient.”
’typical man, Flick thought. He slips marriage into the conversation like a minor detail, on a level with buying a dog license. So much for romance.
But in truth she was pleased. It was the second time he had mentioned marriage. Who needs romance? she thought.
She looked at her watch. It was one-thirty. “lime to go,” she said.
Dieter had commandeered a Mercedes limousine that had been outside the chateau grounds and so had survived the explosion. The car was now parked at the edge of the vineyard next to the potato field at Laroque, camouflaged with leafy vines torn from the ground. Michel and Gilberte were in the backseat, bound hand and foot, guarded by Hans.
Dieter also had with him the two corporals, each armed with a rifle. Dieter and the riflemen looked into the potato field. They could see clearly in the moonlight.
Dieter said, “The terrorists will be here in the next few minutes. We have the advantage of surprise. They have no idea that we’re here. But remember, I must have them alive-especially the leader, the small woman. You have to shoot to wound, not kill.”
One of the marksmen said, “We can’t guarantee that. This field must be three hundred meters wide. Let’s say the enemy is a hundred and fifty meters away. At that distance, no one could be sure of hitting the legs of a running man.”
“They won’t be running,” Dieter said. “They’re meeting a plane. They have to form a line, pointing electric torches at the aircraft to guide the pilot down. That means they’ll be standing still for several minutes.”
“In the middle of the field?”
“Yes.”
The man nodded. “Then we can do it.” He looked up. “Unless the moon goes behind a cloud.”
