He gave the driver the address of the Moulier place. He found Hans lurking in a warehouse doorway fifty meters along the street. No one had come or gone all night, Hans said, so Michel must still be inside. Dieter told his driver to wait around the next corner, then stood with Hans, sharing the croissants and watching the sun come up over the roofs of the city.
They had a long wait. Dieter fought to control his impatience as the minutes and hours ticked away uselessly. The loss of Stephanie weighed on his heart, but he had recovered from the immediate shock, and he had regained his interest in the war. He thought of the Allied forces massing somewhere in the south or east of England, shiploads of men and tanks eager to turn the quiet seaside towns of northern France into battlefields. He thought of the French saboteurs-armed to the teeth thanks to parachute drops of guns, ammunition, and explosives-ready to attack the German defenders from behind, to stab them in the back and fatally cramp Rommel’s ability to maneuver. He felt foolish and impotent, standing in a doorway in Reims, waiting for an amateur terrorist to finish his breakfast. Today, perhaps, he would be led into the very heart of the Resistance-but all he had was hope.
It was after nine o’clock when the front door opened.
“At last,” Dieter breathed. He moved back from the sidewalk, making himself inconspicuous. Hans put out his cigarette.
Michel came out of the building accompanied by a boy of about seventeen, who, Dieter guessed, might be a son of Moulier. The lad keyed a padlock and opened the gates of the yard. In the yard was a clean black van with white lettering on the side that read Moulier Fils-Viandes. Michel got in.
Dieter was electrified. Michel was borrowing a meat delivery van. It had to be for the Jackdaws. “Let’s go!” he said.
Hans hurried to his motorcycle, which was parked at the curb, and stood with his back to the road, pretending to fiddle with the engine. Dieter ran to the corner, signaled the Gestapo driver to start the car, then watched Michel.
Michel drove out of the yard and headed away.
Hans started his motorcycle and followed. Dieter jumped into the car and ordered the driver to follow Hans.
They headed east. Dieter, in the front passenger seat of the Gestapo’s black Citroen, looked ahead anxiously. Moulier’s van was easy to follow, having a high roof with a vent on top like a chimney. That little vent will lead me to flick, Dieter thought optimistically.
The van slowed in the chemin de La Carriere and pulled into the yard of a champagne house called Laperriere. Hans drove past and turned the next corner, and Dieter’s driver followed. They pulled up and Dieter leaped out.
“I think the Jackdaws hid out there overnight,” Dieter said.
“Shall we raid the place?” Hans said eagerly.
Dieter pondered. This was the dilemma he had faced yesterday, outside the cafe. Flick might be in there. But if he moved too quickly, he might prematurely end Michel’s usefulness as a stalking horse.
“Not yet,” he said. Michel was the only hope he had left. It was too soon to risk losing that weapon. “We’ll wait.”
Dieter and Hans walked to the end of the street and watched the Laperriere place from the corner. There were a tall, elegant house, a courtyard full of empty barrels, and a low industrial building with a flat roof Dieter guessed the cellars ran beneath the flat-roofed building. Moulier’s van was parked in the yard.
Dieter’s pulse was racing. Any moment now, Michel would reappear with Flick and the other Jackdaws, he guessed. They would get into the van, ready to drive to their target-and Dieter and the Gestapo would move in and arrest them.
As they watched, Michel came out of the low building. He wore a frown and he stood indecisively in the yard, looking around him in a perplexed fashion. Hans said, “What’s the matter with him?”
Dieter’s heart sank. “Something he didn’t expect.” Surely Flick had not evaded him again?
After a minute, Michel climbed the short flight of steps to the door of the house and knocked. A maid in a little white cap let him in.
He came out again a few minutes later. He still looked puzzled, but he was no longer indecisive. He walked to the van, got in, and turned it around.
Dieter cursed. It seemed the Jackdaws were not here. Michel appeared just as surprised as Dieter was, but that was small consolation.
Dieter had to find out what had happened here. He said to Hans, “We’ll do the same as last night, only this time you follow Michel and I’ll raid the place.”
Hans started his motorcycle.
Dieter watched Michel drive away in Moulier’s van, followed at a discreet distance by Hans Hesse on his motorcycle. When they were out of sight, he summoned the three Gestapo men with a wave and walked quickly to the Laperriere house.
He pointed at two of the men. “Check the house. Make sure no one leaves.” Nodding at the third man, he said, “You and I will search the winery.” He led the way into the low building.
On the ground floor there was a large grape press and three enormous vats. The press was pristine: the harvest was three or four months away. There was no one present but an old man sweeping the floor. Dieter found the stairs and ran down. In the cool underground chamber there was more activity: racked bottles were being turned by a handful of blue-coated workers. They stopped and stared at the intruders.
Dieter and the Gestapo man searched room after room of bottles of champagne, thousands of them, some stacked against the walls, others racked slantwise with the necks down in special A-shaped frames. But there were no women anywhere.
In an alcove at the far end of the last tunnel, Dieter found crumbs of bread, cigarette ends, and a hair clip. His worst fears were dismally confirmed. The Jackdaws had spent the night here. But they had escaped.
He cast about for a focus for his anger. The workers would probably know nothing about the Jackdaws, but the owner must have given permission for them to hide here. He would suffer for it. Dieter returned to the ground floor, crossed the yard, and went to the house. A Gestapo man opened the door. “They’re all in the front room,” he said.
Dieter entered a large, gracious room with elegant but shabby furnishings: heavy curtains that had not been cleaned for years, a worn carpet, a long dining table and a matching set of twelve chairs. The terrified household staff were standing at the near end of the room: the maid who opened the door, an elderly man who looked like a butler in his threadbare black suit, and a plump woman wearing an apron who must have been the cook. A Gestapo man held a pistol pointed at them. At the far end of the table sat a thin woman of about fifty, with red hair threaded with silver, dressed in a summer frock of pale yellow silk. She had an air of calm superiority.
Dieter turned to the Gestapo man and said in a low voice, “Where’s the husband?”
“He left the house at eight. They don’t know where he went. He’s expected home for lunch.”
Dieter gave the woman a hard look. “Madame Laperriere?”
She nodded gravely but did not deign to speak. Dieter decided to puncture her dignity. Some German officers behaved with deference to upper-class French people, but Dieter thought they were fools. He would not pander to her by walking the length of the room to speak to her. “Bring her to me,” he said.
One of the men spoke to her. Slowly, she got up from her chair and approached Dieter. “What do you want?” she said.
“A group of terrorists from England escaped from me yesterday after killing two German officers and a French woman civilian.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Madame Laperriere.
“They tied the woman up and shot her in the back of the head at point-blank range,” he went on. “Her brains spilled out onto her dress.”
She closed her eyes and turned her head aside. Dieter went on, “Last night your husband sheltered those terrorists in your cellar. Can you think of any reason why he should not be hanged?”
Behind him, the maid began to cry.
Madame Laperriere was shaken. Her face turned pale and she sat down suddenly. “No, please,” she whispered.
