Jackdaws

Dieter sat in a perfectly proportioned drawing room, stared at the intricately decorated ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes, preparing himself for the interrogation. He had to sharpen his wits and at the same time numb his feelings.

Some men enjoyed torturing prisoners. Sergeant Becker in Reims was one. They smiled when their victims screamed, they got erections as they inflicted wounds, and they experienced orgasms during their victims’ death throes. But they were not good interrogators, for they focused on pain rather than information. The best torturers were men such as Dieter who loathed the process from the bottom of their hearts.

Now he imagined himself closing doors in his soul, shutting his emotions away in cupboards. He thought of the two women as pieces of machinery that would disgorge information as soon as he figured out how to switch them on. He felt a familiar coldness settle over him like a blanket of snow, and he knew he was ready.

“Bring the older one,” he said.

Lieutenant Hesse went to fetch her.

He watched her carefully as she came in and sat in the chair. She had short hair and broad shoulders and wore a man-tailored suit. Her right hand hung limply, and she was supporting the swollen forearm with her left hand: Dieter had broken her wrist. She was obviously in pain, her face pale and gleaming with sweat, but her lips were set in a line of grim determination.

He spoke to her in French. “Everything that happens in this room is under your control,” he said. “The decisions you make, the things you say, will either cause you unbearable pain or bring you relief. It is entirely up to you.”

She said nothing. She was scared, but she did not panic. She was going to be difficult to break, he could tell already.

He said, “To begin with, tell me where the London headquarters of the Special Operations Executive is located.”

“Eighty-one Regent Street,” she said.

He nodded. “Let me explain something. I realize that SOE teaches its agents not to remain silent under questioning but to give false answers that will be difficult to check. Because I know this, I will ask you many questions to which I already know the answers. This way I will know whether you are lying to me. Where is the London headquarters?”

“Carlton House Terrace.”

He walked across to her and slapped her face as hard as he could. She cried out in pain. Her cheek turned an angry red. It was often useful to begin with a slap in the face. The pain was minimal, but the blow was a humiliating demonstration of the helplessness of the prisoner, and it quickly sapped their initial bravery.

But she looked defiantly at him. “Is that how German officers treat ladies?”

She had a haughty manner, and she spoke French with the accent of the upper classes. She was some kind of aristocrat, he guessed, “Ladies?” he said scornfully. “You have just shot and killed two policemen who were going about their lawful business. Specht’s young wife is now a widow, and Rolfe’s parents have lost their only child. You’re not a soldier in uniform, you have no excuse. In answer to your question-no, this is not how we treat ladies, it’s how we treat murderers.”

She looked away. He had scored a hit with that remark. He was beginning to undermine her moral foundation.

“Tell me something else,” he said. “How well do you know Flick Clairet?”

Her eyes widened in an involuntary expression of surprise. That told him he had guessed correctly. These two were part of Major Clairet’s team. He had shaken her again.

But she recovered her composure and said, “I don’t know anyone of that name.”

He reached down and knocked her left hand away. She cried out in pain as her broken wrist lost its support and sagged. He took her right hand and jerked it. She screamed.

“Why were you having dinner at the Ritz, for God’s sake?” he said. He released her hand.

She stopped screaming. He repeated the question. She caught her breath and said, “I like the food there.”

She was even tougher than he had thought. “Take her away,” he said. “Bring the other one.”

The younger girl was quite pretty. She had put up no resistance when arrested, so she still looked presentable, her dress unruffled and her makeup intact. She appeared much more frightened than her colleague. He asked her the question he had asked the older one:

“Why were you having dinner at the Ritz?”

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” she replied.

He could hardly believe his ears. “Weren’t you afraid it might be dangerous?”

“I thought Diana would look after me.”

So the other one’s name was Diana. “What’s your name?”

“Maude.”

This was suspiciously easy. “And what are you doing in France, Maude?”

“We were supposed to blow something up.”

“What?”

“I don’t remember. Would it have something to do with railways?”

Dieter began to wonder whether he was being led up the garden path. “How long have you known Felicity Clairet?” he tried.