was feasible. She could write a brief radio signal for the pilot to take back to Percy: Brian would have it in a couple of hours.
She would also have to change the arrangements for picking up the Jackdaws after the mission. At present, a Hudson was scheduled to land at Chatelle at two a.m. on Sunday, and if the Jackdaws were not there, to return the following night at the same time. If Chatelle had been betrayed to the Gestapo and could no longer be used, she would have to divert the Hudson to another landing field at Laroque, to the west of Reims, code-named Champ d’Or. The mission would take an extra day, because they would have to travel from Chartres to Reims, so the pickup flight would have to come down at two a.m. on Monday, with a fall-back on Tuesday at the same hour.
She weighed consequences. Diverting to Chartres meant the loss of a day. But landing at Chatelle could mean the entire mission failed and all the Jackdaws ended up in Gestapo torture chambers. It was no contest. “Go to Chartres,” she said to the pilot.
“Roger, wilco.”
As the aircraft banked and turned, Flick went back to the cabin. The Jackdaws all looked expectantly at her. “There’s been a change of plan,” she said.
CHAPTER 31
DIETER LAY BENEATH a hedge and watched, bewildered, while the British plane circled over the cow pasture.
Why the delay? The pilot had made two passes over the landing site. The flare path, such as it was, was in place. Had the reception leader flashed the wrong code? Had the Gestapo men done something to arouse suspicion? It was maddening. Felicity Clairet was a few yards away from him. If he fired his pistol at the plane, a lucky shot might hit her.
Then the plane banked, turned, and roared away to the south.
Dieter was mortified. Flick Clairet had evaded him-in front of Walter Goedel, Will Weber, and twenty Gestapo men.
For a moment, he buried his face in his hands.
What had gone wrong? There could be a dozen reasons. As the drone of the plane’s engines receded, Dieter could hear shouts of indignation in French. The Resistance seemed as perplexed as he was. His best guess was that Flick, an experienced team leader, had smelled a rat and aborted the jump.
Walter Goedel, lying in the dirt beside him, said, “What are you going to do now?”
Dieter considered briefly. There were four Resistance people here: Michel the leader, still limping from his bullet wound; Helicopter, the British radio operator; a Frenchman Dieter did not recognize, and a young woman. What should he do with them? His strategy of letting Helicopter run free had been a good one in theory, but it had now led to two humiliating reverses, and he did not have the nerve to continue it. He had to get something out of tonight’s fiasco. He was going to have to revert to traditional methods of interrogation and hope to salvage the operation-and his reputation.
He brought the mouthpiece of the shortwave radio to his lips. “All units, this is Major Franck,” he said softly. “Action, I repeat, action.” Then he got to his feet and drew his automatic pistol.
The searchlights concealed in the trees blazed into life. The four terrorists in the middle of the field were mercilessly lit up, looking suddenly bewildered and vulnerable. Dieter called out in French, “You are surrounded! Raise your hands!”
Beside him, Goedel drew his Luger. The four Gestapo men with Dieter aimed their rifles at the legs of the Resistance people. There was a moment of uncertainty: Would the Resistance open fire? If they did, they would be mowed down. With luck, they might be only wounded. But Dieter had not had much luck tonight. And if these four were killed, he would be left empty-handed.
They hesitated.
Dieter stepped forward, moving into the light, and the four riflemen moved with him. “Twenty guns are aimed at you,” he shouted. “Do not draw your weapons.”
One of them started to run.
Dieter swore. He saw a flash of red hair in the lights: it was Helicopter, stupid boy, heading across the field like a charging bull. “Shoot him,” Dieter said quietly. All four riflemen took careful aim and fired. The shots crashed out in the silent meadow. Helicopter ran another two paces, then fell to the ground.
Dieter looked at the other three, waiting. Slowly, they raised their hands in the air.
Dieter spoke into the shortwave radio. “All teams in the pasture, move in and secure the prisoners.” He put away his pistol.
He walked over to where Helicopter lay. The body was still. The Gestapo riflemen had shot at his legs, but it was hard to hit a moving target in the dark, and one of them had aimed too high, putting a bullet through his neck, severing his spinal cord, or his jugular vein, or both. Dieter knelt beside him and felt for a pulse, but there was none. “You weren’t the cleverest agent I’ve ever met, but you were a brave boy,” he said quietly. “God rest your soul.” He closed the eyes.
He looked over the other three as they were disarmed and fettered. Michel would resist interrogation well: Dieter had seen him in action, and he had courage. His weakness was probably vanity. He was handsome, and a womanizer. The way to torture him would be in front of a mirror: break his nose, knock out his teeth, scar his cheeks, make him understand that with every minute that he continued to resist, he was getting irreversibly uglier.
The other man had the air of a professional, perhaps a lawyer. A Gestapo man searched him and showed Dieter a pass that permitted Dr. Claude Bouler to be out after curfew. Dieter assumed it was a forgery, but when they searched the Resistance cars they found a genuine doctor’s bag, full of instruments and drugs. Under arrest he looked pale but composed: he, too, would be a difficult subject.
The girl was the most promising. She was about nineteen, and pretty, with long dark hair and big eyes, but she had a vacant look. Her papers showed that she was Gilberte Duval. Dieter knew from his interrogation of Gaston that Gilberte was the lover of Michel and the rival of Flick. Handled correctly, she might prove easy to turn.
The German vehicles were brought from the barn at La Maison Grandin. The prisoners went in a truck with the Gestapo men. Dieter gave orders that they should be kept in separate cells and prevented from communicating with one another.
He and Goedel were driven back to Sainte-Cecile in Weber’s Mercedes. “What a damned farce,” Weber said scornfully. “A complete waste of time and manpower.”
“Not quite,” said Dieter. “We have taken four subversive agents out of circulation-which is, after all, what the Gestapo is supposed to do-and, even better, three of them are still alive for interrogation.”
Goedel said, “What do you hope to get from them?”
“The dead man, Helicopter, was a wireless operator,” Dieter explained. “I have a copy of his code book. Unfortunately, he did not have his set with him. If we can find the set, we can impersonate Helicopter.”
“Surely you can use any radio transmitter, so long as you know the frequency assigned to him?”
Dieter shook his head. “Every transmitter sounds different to the experienced ear. And these little suitcase radios are particularly distinctive. All nonessential circuits are omitted, to minimize the size, and the result is poor tone quality. If we had one exactly like his, captured from another agent, it might be similar enough to take the risk.”
“We may have one somewhere.”
“If we do, it will be in Berlin. It’s easier to find Helicopter’s.”
“How will you do that?”
“The girl will tell me where it is.”
For the rest of the journey, Dieter brooded over his interrogation strategy. He could torture the girl in front of the men, but they might resist that. More promising would be to torture the men in front of the girl. But there might be an easier way.
A plan was forming in his mind when they passed the public library in the center of Reims. He had noticed
