Jackdaws

The figure stepped into the light and turned into a man in the uniform shirt of a Gestapo sergeant. He was short and pudgy, with a fleshy face and ash-blond hair cropped so short that he looked bald. “What are you doing here?” he said in a Frankfurt accent.

Dieter recovered his composure. The torture chamber had unnerved him, but he regained his habitual tone of authority and said, “I am Major Franck. Your name?”

The sergeant became deferential at once. “Becker, sir, at your service.”

“Get the prisoners down here as soon as possible, Becker,” said Dieter. “Those who can walk should be brought immediately, the others when they have been seen by a doctor.”

“Very good, Major.”

Becker went away. Dieter returned to the interview room and sat in the hard chair. He wondered how much information he would get out of the prisoners. Their knowledge might be limited to their own town. If his luck was bad, and their security good, each individual might know only a little about what went on in their own circuit. On the other hand, there was no such thing as perfect security A few individuals inevitably amassed a wide knowledge of their own and other Resistance circuits. His dream was that one circuit might lead him to another in a chain, and he might be able to inflict enormous damage on the Resistance in the weeks remaining before the Allied invasion.

He heard footsteps in the corridor and looked out. The prisoners were being brought in. The first was the woman who had concealed a Sten gun beneath her coat.

Dieter was pleased. It was so useful to have a woman among the prisoners. Under interrogation, women could be as tough as men, but often the way to make a man talk was to beat a woman in front of him. This one was tall and sexy, which was all the better. She seemed to be uninjured. Dieter held up a hand to the soldier escorting her and spoke to the woman in French. “What is your name?” he said in a friendly tone.

She looked at him with haughty eyes. “Why should I tell you?”

He shrugged. This level of opposition was easy to overcome. He used an answer that had served him well a hundred times. “Your relatives may inquire whether you are in custody. If we know your name, we may tell them.”

“I am Genevieve Delys.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” He waved her on.

Next came a man in his sixties, bleeding from a head injury and limping too. Dieter said, “You’re a little old for this sort of thing, aren’t you?”

The man looked proud. “I set the charges,” he said defiantly.

“Name?”

“Gaston Lefèvre.”

“Just remember one thing, Gaston,” Dieter said in a kindly voice. “The pain lasts as long as you choose. When you decide to end it, it will stop.”

Fear came into the man’s eyes as he contemplated what faced him.

Dieter nodded, satisfied. “Carry on.”

A youngster was next, no more than seventeen, Dieter guessed, a good-looking boy who was absolutely terrified. “Name?”

He hesitated, seeming dazed by shock. After thinking, he said, “Bertrand Bisset.”

“Good evening, Bertrand,” Dieter said pleasantly. “Welcome to Hell.”

The boy looked as if he had been slapped.

Dieter pushed him on.

Willi Weber appeared, with Becker pacing behind him like a dangerous dog on a chain. “How did you get in here?” Weber said rudely to Dieter.

“I walked in,” Dieter said. “Your security stinks.”

“Ridiculous! You’ve just seen us beat off a major attack!”

“By a dozen men and some girls!”

“We defeated them, that’s all that counts.”

“Think about it, Willi,” Dieter said reasonably. “They were able to assemble close by, quite unnoticed by you, then force their way into the grounds and kill at least six good German soldiers. I suspect the only reason you defeated them was that they had underestimated the numbers against them. And I entered this basement unchallenged because the guard had left his post.”

“He’s a brave German, he wanted to join the fighting.”

“God give me strength,” Dieter said in despair. “A soldier in battle doesn’t leave his post to join the fighting, he follows orders!”

“I don’t need a lecture from you on military discipline.”

Dieter gave up, for now. “And I have no desire to give one.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m going to interview the prisoners.”

“That’s the Gestapo’s job.”

“Don’t be idiotic. Field Marshal Rommel has asked me, not the Gestapo, to limit the capacity of the Resistance to damage his communications in the event of an invasion. These prisoners can give me priceless information. I intend to question them.”

“Not while they’re in my custody,” Weber said stubbornly. “I shall interrogate them myself and send the results to the Field Marshal.”

“The Allies are probably going to invade this summer-isn’t it time to stop fighting turf wars?”

“It is never time to abandon efficient organization.”

Dieter could have screamed. In desperation, he swallowed his pride and tried for a compromise. “Let’s interrogate them together.”

Weber smiled, sensing victory “Absolutely not.”

“This means I’ll have to go over your head.”

“If you can.”

“Of course I can. All you will achieve is a delay.”