There was another reason for her gloom: the image of Stephanie Vinson kept coming back to her. It was the first time Flick had killed a bound, helpless captive, and the first time she had shot a woman.
Any killing disturbed her profoundly. The Gestapo man she had shot a few minutes before Stephanie had been a combatant with a gun in his hand, but still it seemed dreadful to her that she had brought his life to an end. So it had been with the other men she had killed: two Milice cops in Paris, a Gestapo colonel in Lille, and a French traitor in Rouen. But Stephanie was worse. Flick had put a gun to the back of her head and executed her. It was exactly how she had taught trainees to do it in the SOE course. Stephanie had deserved it, of course-Flick had no doubt about that. But she wondered about herself. What kind of person was capable of the cold-blooded killing of a helpless prisoner? Had she become some kind of brutish executioner?
She drained her whisky but declined a refill for fear of becoming maudlin. Then Michel came through the door.
Overwhelming relief flooded her. Michel knew everyone in town. He would be able to help her. Suddenly the mission seemed possible again.
She felt a wry affection as she took in the lanky figure in a rumpled jacket, the handsome face with the smiling eyes. She would always be fond of him, she imagined. She suffered a painful stab of regret as she thought of the passionate love she had once had for him. That would never come back, she was sure.
As he came closer, she saw that he was not looking so good. His face seemed to have new lines. Her heart filled with compassion for him. Exhaustion and fear showed in his expression, and he might have been fifty rather than thirty-five, she thought anxiously.
But her greatest anxiety came from the thought of telling him that their marriage was over. She was afraid. It struck her as ironic: she had just shot and killed a Gestapo man and a French traitress, and she was undercover in occupied territory, yet her worst fear was of hurting her husband’s feelings.
He was visibly delighted to see her. “Flick!” he cried. “I knew you would get here!” He crossed the room to her, still limping from his bullet wound.
She said quietly, “I was afraid the Gestapo had captured you.”
“They did!” He turned so that his back was to the room and no one could see, and showed her his hands, bound at the wrists with stout rope.
She drew the little knife from its sheath under her lapel and discreetly cut through his bonds. The gamblers saw nothing. She put the knife away.
M‚m‚ Regis spotted him just as he was stuffing the ropes into his trousers pockets. She embraced and kissed him on both cheeks. Flick watched him flirt with the older woman, talking to her in his come-to-bed voice, giving her the benefit of his sexy grin. Then M‚m‚ resumed her work, serving drinks to the gamblers, and Michel told Flick how he had escaped. She had been afraid he would want to kiss her passionately, and she had not known how she would deal with that but, in the event, he was too full of his own adventures to get romantic with her.
“I was so lucky!” he finished. He sat on a bar stool, rubbing his wrists, and asked for a beer.
Flick nodded. “Too lucky, perhaps,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“It could be some kind of trick.”
He was indignant, no doubt resenting the implication that he was gullible. “I don’t think so.”
“Could you have been followed here?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I checked, of course.”
She was uneasy, but she let it go. “So Brian Standish is dead, and three others are in custody—Mademoiselle Lemas, Gilberte, and Dr. Bouler.”
“The rest are dead. The Germans released the bodies of those killed in the skirmish. And the survivors, Gaston, Genevieve, and Bertrand, were shot by a firing squad in the square at Sainte-Cecile.”
“Dear God.”
They were silent for a moment. Flick was weighed down by the thought of the lives lost, and the suffering endured, for the sake of this mission.
Michel’s beer came. He drank half in a single draft and wiped his lips. “I presume you’ve come back for another attempt on the chateau.”
She nodded. “But the cover story is that we’re going to blow up the railway tunnel at Manes.”
“It’s a good idea, we should do it anyway.”
“Not now. Two of my team were taken in Paris, and they must have talked. They will have told the cover story-they had no idea of the real mission-and the Germans are sure to have doubled the guard on the railway tunnel. We’ll leave that to the RAF and concentrate on Sainte-Cecile.”
“What can I do?”
“We need somewhere to stay the night.”
He thought for a moment. “Joseph Laperriere’s cellar.”
Laperriere was a champagne maker. Michel’s aunt Antoinette had once been his secretary. “Is he one of us?”
“A sympathizer.” He gave a sour grin. “Everyone is a sympathizer now. They all think the invasion is coming any day.” He looked inquiringly at her. “I imagine they’re right about that..
“Yes,” she said. She did not elaborate. “How big is the cellar? There are five of us.”
“It’s big, he could hide fifty people down there.”
“Fine. The other thing I need is a vehicle for tomorrow.”
“To drive to Sainte-Cecile?”
“And afterwards, to meet our pickup plane, if we’re still alive.”
“You realize that you can’t use the usual drop zone at Chatelle, don’t you? The Gestapo know about it-it’s where I was picked up.”
“Yes. The plane is coming to the other one at Laroque. I gave instructions.”
“The potato field. Good.”
“And the vehicle?”
“Philippe Moulierhas a van. He delivers meat to all the German bases. Monday is his day off.”
“I remember him, he’s pro-Nazi.”
“He was. And he’s been making money out of them for four years. So now he’s terrified that the invasion is going to succeed, and after the Germans have gone he’ll be strung up as a collaborator. He’s desperate to do something to help us, to prove he’s not a traitor. He’ll lend us his van.”
“Bring it to the cellar tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning.”
He touched her cheek. “Can’t we spend the night together?” He smiled his old smile and looked as roguishly handsome as ever.
She felt a familiar stirring inside, but it was not as strong as it had been in the old days. Once, that smile would have made her wet. Now, it was like the memory of a desire.
She wanted to tell him the truth, for she hated to be anything less than honest. But it might jeopardize the mission. She needed his cooperation. Or was that just an excuse? Perhaps she just did not have the nerve.
“No,” she said. “We can’t spend the night together.”
He looked crestfallen. “Is it because of Gilberte?”
She nodded, but she could not lie, and she found herself saying, “Well, partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
“I don’t really want to have this discussion in the middle of an important mission.”
He looked vulnerable, almost scared. “Have you got someone else?”
She could not bring herself to hurt him. “No,” she lied.
He looked hard at her. “Good,” he said at last. “I’m glad.”
Flick hated herself.
Michel finished his beer and got off his stool. “Laperriere’s place is in the chemin de La Carriere. It will take you thirty minutes to walk there.”
“I know the street.”
“I’d better go and see Moulier about the van.” He put his arms around Flick and kissed her lips.
She felt dreadful. She could hardly refuse the kiss, having denied that she had someone else, but kissing Michel seemed so disloyal to Paul. She closed her eyes and waited passively until he broke the clinch.
