The dress was loose and looked like a tent on Flick, but she put on a leather belt to give it a waist. “You are so chic, just like a French girl,” said Madame Guillemin. Flick did not tell her that the main purpose of the belt was to hold a gun.
They all put on their new clothes and paraded around the room, preening and giggling. Madame Guillemin had chosen well, and they liked what they had been given, but some of the garments needed adjusting. “While we are making alterations you can choose some accessories,” Madame said.
They rapidly lost their inhibitions, and downed around in their underwear, trying on hats and shoes, scarves and bags. They had momentarily forgotten the dangers ahead, Flick thought, and were taking simple pleasure in their new outfits.
Greta came out of the anteroom looking surprisingly glamorous. Flick studied her with interest. She had turned up the collar of the plain white blouse so that it looked stylish and wore the shapeless coat draped over her shoulders cloak-style. Madame Guillemin raised an eyebrow but made no comment.
Flick’s dress had to be shortened. While that was being done she studied the coat. Working undercover had given her a sharp eye for detail, and she anxiously checked the stitching, the lining, the buttons, and the pockets to make sure they were in the normal French style. She found no fault. The label in the collar said “Galeries Lafayette.”
Flick showed Madame Guillemin her lapel knife. It was only three inches long, with a thin blade, but it was wickedly sharp. It had a small handle and no hilt. It came in a slim leather sheath pierced with holes for thread. “I want you to sew this to the coat under the lapel,” Flick said.
Madame Guiflemin nodded. “I can do this.”
She gave them each a little pile of underwear, two of everything, all with the labels of French shops. With unerring accuracy she had picked not just the right size but the preferred style of each woman: corsets for Jelly, pretty lacy slips for Maude, navy knickers and boned brassieres for Diana, simple chemises and panties for Ruby and flick. “The handkerchiefs bear the laundry marks of different blanchisseries in Reims,” said Madame Guillemin with a touch of pride.
Finally she produced an assortment of bags: a canvas duffel, a gladstone bag, a rucksack, and a selection of cheap fiber suitcases in different colors and sizes. Each woman got one. Inside she found a toothbrush, toothpaste, face powder, shoe polish, cigarettes and matches-all French brands. Even though they were going in only for a short time, Flick had insisted on the full kit for each of them.
“Remember,” Flick said, “you may not take with you anything that you have not been given this afternoon. Your life depends on that.”
The giggling stopped as they remembered the danger they would face in a few hours.
Flick said, “All right, everybody, please go back to your rooms and change into your French outfits, including underwear. Then we’ll meet downstairs for dinner.”
In the main drawing room of the house a bar had been set up. When Flick walked in, it was occupied by a dozen or so men, some in RAF uniform, all of them-Flick knew from previous visits-clestined to make clandestine flights over France. A blackboard bore the names or code names of those who would leave tonight, together with the times they needed to depart from the house. Flick read:
Aristotle — 19:50
Capt. Jenkins, Lieut. Ramsey — 20:05
All Jackdaws — 20:30
Colgate Bunter — 21:00
Mr. Blister, Paradox, Saxophone — 22:05
She looked at her watch. It was six-thirty. Two hours to go.
She sat at the bar and looked around, wondering which of them would come back and which would die in the field. Some were terribly young, smoking and telling jokes, looking as if they had no cares. The older ones looked hardened, and savored their whisky and gin in the grim knowledge it might be their last. She thought about their parents, their wives or girlfriends, their babies and children. Tonight’s work would leave some of them with a grief that would never entirely go away.
Her somber reflections were interrupted by a sight that astonished her. Simon Fortescue, the slippery bureaucrat from MI6, walked into the bar in a pinstriped suit-accompanied by Denise Bowyer.
Flick’s jaw dropped.
“Felicity, I’m so glad I caught you,” said Simon. Without waiting for an invitation he pulled up a stool for Denise. “Gin and tonic, please, barman. What would you like, Lady Denise?”
“A martini, very dry.”
“And for you, Felicity?”
Flick did not answer the question. “She’s supposed to be in Scotland!” she said.
“Look, there seems to have been some misunderstanding. Denise has told me all about this policeman fellow—”
“No misunderstanding,” Flick said abruptly. “Denise failed the course. That’s all there is to it.”
Denise made a disgusted sound.
Fortescue said, “I really don’t see how a perfectly intelligent girl from a good family could fail—”
“She’s a blabbermouth.”
“What?”
“She can’t keep her damn mouth shut. She’s not trustworthy. She shouldn’t be walking around free!”
Denise said, “You insolent cat.”
Fortescue controlled his temper with an effort and lowered his voice. “Look, her brother is the Marquess of Inverlocky, who’s very close to the Prime Minister. Inverlocky himself asked me to make sure Denise got a chance to do her bit. So, you see, it would be dreadfully tactless to turn her down.”
Flick raised her voice. “Let me get this straight.” One or two of the men nearby looked up. “As a favor to your upper-class friend, you’re asking me to take someone untrustworthy on a dangerous mission behind enemy lines. Is that it?”
As she was speaking, Percy and Paul walked in. Percy glared at Fortescue with undisguised malevolence. Paul said, “Did I hear right?”
Fortescue said, “I’ve brought Denise with me because it would be, frankly, an embarrassment to the government if she were left behind—”
“And a danger to me if she were to come!” Flick interrupted. “You’re wasting your breath. She’s off the team.”
“Look, I don’t want to have to pull rank—”
“What rank?” said Flick.
“I resigned from the Guards as a colonel—”
“Retired!”
“-and I’m the civil service equivalent of a brigadier.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Flick said. “You’re not even in the army.”
“I’m ordering you to take Denise with you.”
“Then I’ll have to consider my response,” said Flick.
“That’s better. I’m sure you won’t regret it.”
“All right, here is my response. Fuck off”
Fortescue went red. He had probably never been told to flick off by a girl. He was uncharacteristically speechless.
“Well!” said Denise. “We’ve certainly found out what type of person we’re dealing with.”
Paul said, “You’re dealing with me.” He turned to
Fortescue. “I’m in command of this operation, and I won’t have Denise on the team at any price. If you want to argue, call Monty.”
“Well said, my boy,” Percy added.
Fortescue found his voice at last. He wagged a finger at Flick. “The time will come, Mrs. Clairet, when you will regret saying that to me.” He got off his stool. “I’m sorry about this, Lady Denise, but I think we’ve done all we
