“What the hell do you mean by that?”
Paul felt himself flush. “Maybe General Montgomery was misinformed, but wasn’t this the first time you had commanded an action of this kind, Major?”
“Is that what you’ve been told? That it was my lack of experience?”
She was beautiful, he saw now. Anger made her eyes wide and her cheeks pink. But she was being very rude, so he decided to give it to her with both barrels. “That and poor planning—”
“There was nothing wrong with the damn plan!”
“-and the fact that trained troops were defending the place against an undisciplined force.”
“You arrogant pig!”
Paul took an involuntary step back. He had never been spoken to this way by a woman. She may be five feet nothing, he thought, but I bet she scares the damn Nazis. Looking at her furious face, he realized that she was most angry with herself “You think it’s your fault,” he said. “No one gets this mad about other people’s mistakes.”
It was her turn to be taken aback. Her mouth dropped open, and she was speechless.
Colonel Thwaite spoke for the first time. “Calm down, Flick, for God’s sake,” he said. Turning to Paul, he went on, “Let me guess-this account was given to you by Simon Fortescue of MI6, was it not?”
“That’s correct,” Paul said stiffly.
“Did he mention that the attack plan was based on intelligence supplied by his organization?”
“I don’t believe he did.”
“I thought not,” said Thwaite. “Thank you, Major, I don’t need to trouble you any further.”
Paul did not feel the conversation was really over, but he had been dismissed by a senior officer, and he had no choice but to walk away.
He had obviously got caught in the crossfire of a turf war between MI6 and SOE. He felt most angry with Fortescue, who had used the meeting to score points. Had Monty made the right decision in choosing to bomb the telephone exchange rather than let SOE have another go at it? Paul was not sure.
As he turned into his own office he glanced back. Major Clairet was still arguing with Colonel Thwaite, her voice low but her face animated, expressing outrage with large gestures. She stood like a man, hand on hip, leaning forward, making her point with a belligerent forefinger, but all the same there was something enchanting about her. Paul wondered what it would be like to hold her in his arms and run his hands over her lithe body. Although she’s tough, he thought, she’s all woman.
But was she right? Was bombing futile?
He decided to ask some more questions.
CHAPTER 9
THE VAST, SOOTY bulk of the cathedral loomed over the center of Reims like a divine reproach. Dieter Franck’s sky-blue Hispano-Suiza pulled up at midday outside the Hotel Frankfort, taken over by the German occupiers. Dieter got out and glanced up at the stubby twin towers of the great church. The original medieval design had featured elegant pointed spires, which had never been built for lack of money. So mundane obstacles frustrated the holiest of aspirations.
Dieter told Lieutenant Hesse to drive to the chateau at Sainte-Cecile and make sure the Gestapo were ready to cooperate. He did not want to risk being repulsed a second time by Major Weber. Hesse drove off, and Dieter went up to the suite where he had left Stephanie last night.
She got up from her chair as he walked in. He drank in the welcome sight. Her red hair fell on bare shoulders, and she wore a chestnut silk negligee and high-heeled slippers. He kissed her hungrily and ran his hands over her slim body, grateful for the gift of her beauty.
“How nice that you’re so pleased to see me,” she said with a smile. They spoke French together, as always.
Dieter inhaled the scent of her. “Well, you smell better than Hans Hesse, especially when he’s been up all night.”
She brushed his hair back with a soft hand. “You always make fun. But you wouldn’t have protected Hans with your own body.”
“True.” He sighed and let her go. “Christ, I’m tired.”
“Come to bed.”
He shook his head. “I have to interrogate the prisoners. Hesse’s coming back for me in an hour.” He slumped on the couch.
“I’ll get you something to eat.” She pressed the bell, and a minute later an elderly French waiter tapped at the door. Stephanie knew Dieter well enough to order for him. She asked for a plate of ham with warm rolls and potato salad. “Some wine?” she asked him.
“No-it’ll send me to sleep.”
“A pot of coffee, then,” she told the waiter. When the man had gone, she sat on the couch beside Dieter and took his hand. “Did everything go according to plan?”
“Yes. Rommel was quite complimentary to me.” He frowned anxiously. “I just hope I can live up to the promises I made him.”
“I’m sure you will.” She did not ask for details. She knew he would tell her as much as he wanted to and no more.
He looked fondly at her, wondering whether to say what was on his mind. It might spoil the pleasant atmosphere-but it needed to be said. He sighed again. “If the invasion is successful, and the Allies win back France, it will be the end for you and me. You know that.”
She winced, as if at a sudden pain, and let go of his hand. “Do I?”
He knew that her husband had been killed early in the war, and they had had no children. “Do you have any family at all?” he asked her.
“My parents died years ago. I have a sister in Montreal.”
“Maybe we should be thinking about how to send you over there.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Why?”
She would not meet his eye. “I just wish the war would be over,” she muttered.
“No, you don’t.”
She showed a rare flash of irritation. “Of course I do.”
“How uncharacteristically conventional of you,” he said with a hint of scorn.
“You can’t possibly think war is a good thing!”
“You and I would not be together, were it not for the war.”
“But what about all the suffering?”
“I’m an existentialist. War enables people to be what they really are: the sadists become torturers, the psychopaths make brave front-line troops, the bullies and the victims alike have scope to play their roles to the hilt, and the whores are always busy.”
She looked angry. “That tells me pretty clearly what part I play.”
He stroked her soft cheek and touched her lips with the tip of his finger. “You’re a courtesan-and very good at it.”
She moved her head away. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re improvising on a tune, the way you do when you sit at the piano.”
He smiled and nodded: he could play a little jazz, much to his father’s dismay. The analogy was apt. He was trying out ideas, rather than expressing a firm conviction. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Her anger evaporated, and she looked sad. “Did you mean the part about us separating, if the Germans leave France?”
He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. She relaxed and laid her head on his chest. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair. “It’s not going to happen,” he said.
