Jackdaws

"No problem. The Gestapo don't employ many of those." Flick's confidence was faked. She did not want Madame Guillemin to know how worried she was.

The seamstress looked again at Greta. "I'll give you a contrasting skirt and blouse, to reduce your height, and a three-quarter-length coat." She selected clothes and handed them to Greta.

Greta looked at them with disapproval. Her taste ran to more glamorous outfits. However, she did not complain. "I'm going to be shy and lock myself in the anteroom," she said.

Finally Madame gave Flick an apple-green dress with a matching coat. "The color shows off your eyes," she said. "As long as you're not ostentatious, why shouldn't you look pretty? It may help you charm your way out of trouble."

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:OO

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.