Jackdaws

Flick was more worried about Jelly. She was a key member of the team, the only one who knew about explosives. But she had lost her girlish suppleness some years ago. Parachuting was going to be difficult for her. However, she was game. Falling from the standing position, she hit the ground with a grunt and cursed as she got up, but she was ready to try again.

To Flick's surprise, the worst student was Greta. "I can't do this," she said to Flick. "I told you I'm no good at rough stuff."

It was the first time Greta had spoken more than a couple of words, and Jelly frowned and muttered, "Funny accent."

"Let me help you," Bill said to Greta. "Stand still. Just relax." He took her by the shoulders. Then, with a sudden strong motion, he threw her to the ground. She landed heavily and gave a gasp of pain. She struggled to her feet and, to Flick's dismay, she began to cry. "For God's sake," Bill said disgustedly. "What kind of people are they sending us?"

Flick glared at him. She did not want to lose her telephone engineer through Bill's brutishness. "Just go easy," she snapped at him.

He was unrepentant. "The Gestapo are a lot worse than me!"

Flick would have to mend the damage herself. She took Greta by the hand. "We'll do a little special training on our own." They went around the house to another part of the garden.

"I'm sorry," Greta said. "I just hate that little man."

"I know. Now, let's do this together. Kneel down." They knelt facing one another and held hands. "Just do what I do." Flick leaned slowly sideways. Greta mirrored her action. Together, they fell to the ground, still holding hands. "There," Flick said. "That was all right, wasn't it?"

Greta smiled. "Why can't he be like you?"

Flick shrugged. "Men," she said with a grin. "Now, are you ready to try faffing from a standing position? We'll do it the same way, holding hands."

She took Greta through all the exercises Bill was doing with the others. Greta quickly gained confidence. They returned to the group. The others were jumping off the table. Greta joined in and landed perfectly, and they gave her a round of applause.

They progressed to jumping from the top of the wardrobe, then finally the stepladder. When Jelly jumped off the ladder, rolled perfectly, and stood upright, Flick hugged her. "I'm proud of you," she said. "Well done."

Bill looked disgusted. He turned to Percy. "What the hell kind of army is it when you get a hug for doing what you're bloody well told?"

"Get used to it, Bill," said Percy.

CHAPTER 18

AT THE TALL house in the rue du Bois, Dieter carried Stephanie's suitcase up the stairs and into Mademoiselle Lemas's bedroom. He looked at the tightly made single bed, the old-fashioned walnut chest of drawers, and the prayer stool with the rosary on its lectern. "It's not going to be easy to pretend this is your house," he said anxiously, putting the case on the bed.

"I'll say I've inherited it from a maiden aunt, and I've been too lazy to fix it up to my taste," she said.

"Clever. All the same, you'll need to mess it up a little."

She opened the case, took out a black negligee, and draped it carelessly over the prayer stool.

"Better already," Dieter said. "What will you do if the phone rings?"

Stephanie thought for a minute. When she spoke, her voice was lower, and her high-class Paris accent had been replaced by the tones of provincial gentility. "Hello, yes, this is Mademoiselle Lemas, who is calling, please?"

"Very good," said Dieter. The impersonation might not fool a close friend or relative, but a casual caller would notice nothing wrong, especially with the distortion of a telephone line.

They explored the house. There were four more bedrooms, each ready to receive a guest, the beds made up, a clean towel on each washstand. In the kitchen, where there should have been a selection of small saucepans and a one-cup coffee pot, they found large casserole dishes and a sack of rice that would have fed Mademoiselle Lemas for a year. The wine in the cellar was cheap viii ordinaire, but there was half a case of good scotch whisky. The garage at the side of the house contained a little prewar Simca Cinq, the French version of the Fiat the Italians called the Topolino. It was in good condition with a tank full of petrol. He cranked the starting handle, and the engine turned over immediately. There was no way the authorities would have allowed Mademoiselle Lemas to buy scarce petrol and spare parts for a car to take her shopping. The vehicle must have been fueled and maintained by the Resistance. He wondered what cover story she had used to explain her ability to drive around. Perhaps she pretended to be a midwife. "The old cow was well organized," Dieter remarked.