Jackdaws

Dieter knew he should phone for a doctor, but he had to find out what had happened here. If he delayed, the man might expire without telling what he knew. Dieter hesitated only a moment over the decision. The man was dispensable. Dieter would question him first, then call the doctor. “Who was it?” he said, and he bent his head again to hear the dying man’s whispers.

“Four women,” the man said hoarsely.

“The Jackdaws,” Dieter said bitterly.

“Two at the front… two at the back.”

Dieter nodded. He could visualize the course of events. Stephanie had gone to the front door to answer the knock. The Gestapo men had stood ready, looking toward the hail. The terrorists had sneaked up to the kitchen windows and shot them from behind. And then…

“Who killed Stéphanie?”

“Water…”

Dieter controlled his sense of urgency with an effort of will. He went to the sink, refilled the cup, and put it to the man’s mouth again. Once again he drank it all, and sighed with relief, a sigh that turned into a dreadful groan.

“Who killed Stephanie?” Dieter repeated.

“The small one,” said the Gestapo man.

“Flick,” said Dieter, and his heart filled with a raging desire for revenge.

The man whispered: “I’m sorry, Major..

“How did it happen?”

“Quick… it was very quick.”

“Tell me.”

“They tied her up… said she was a traitor… gun to the back of the head… then they went away.”

“Traitor?” Dieter said.

The man nodded.

Dieter choked back a sob. “She never shot anyone in the back of the head,” he said in a grief-stricken whisper.

The Gestapo man did not hear him. His lips were still and his breathing had stopped.

Dieter reached out with his right hand and closed the man’s eyelids gently with his fingertips. “Rest in peace,” he said.

Then, keeping his back to the body of the woman he loved, he went to the phone.

CHAPTER 43

IT WAS A struggle to fit five people into the Simca Cinq. Ruby and Jelly sat on the rudimentary backseat.

Paul drove. Greta took the front passenger seat, and

Flick sat on Greta’s lap.

Ordinarily they would have giggled about it, but they were in a somber mood. They had killed three people, and they had come close to’ being captured by the Gestapo. Now they were watchful, hyper alert, ready to react fast to anything that happened. They had nothing on their minds but survival.

Flick guided Paul to the street parallel with Gilberte’s. Flick remembered coming here with her wounded husband exactly seven days ago. She directed Paul to park near the end of the alley. “Wait here,” Flick said. “I’ll check the place.”

Jelly said, “Be quick, for God’s sake.”

“Quick as I can.” Flick got out and ran down the alley, past the back of the factory to the door in the wall. She crossed the garden quickly and slipped through the back entrance into the building. The hallway was empty and the place was quiet. She went softly up the stairs to the attic floor.

She stopped outside Gilberte’s apartment. What she saw filled her with dismay. The door stood open. It had been broken in and was leaning drunkenly from one hinge. She listened but heard nothing, and something told her the break-in had happened days ago. Cautiously, she stepped inside.

There had been a perfunctory search. In the little living room, the cushions on the seats were disarranged, and in the kitchen corner the cupboard doors stood open. Flick looked into the bedroom and saw a similar scene. The drawers had been pulled out of the chest, the wardrobe was open, and someone had stood on the bed with dirty boots.

She went to the window and looked down into the street. Parked opposite the building was a black Citroën Traction Avant with two men sitting in the front.

This was all bad news, Flick thought despairingly. Someone had talked, and Dieter Franck had made the most of it. He had painstakingly followed a trail that had led him first to Mademoiselle Lemas, then to Brian Standish, and finally to Gilberte. And Michel? Was he in custody? It seemed all too probable.

She thought about Dieter Franck. She had felt a shiver of fear the first time she had looked at the short MI6 biography of him on the back of his file photo. She had not been scared enough, she now knew. He was clever and persistent. He had almost caught her at La Chatelle, he had scattered posters of her face all over Paris, he had captured and interrogated her comrades one after another.

She had set eyes on him just twice, both times for a few moments only. She brought his face to mind. There was intelligence and energy in his look, she thought, plus a determination that could easily become ruthlessness. She was quite sure that he was still on her trail. She resolved to be ever more vigilant.

She looked at the sky. She had about three hours until dark.

She hurried down the stairs and out through the garden back to the Simca Cinq parked in the next street. “No good,” she said as she squeezed into the car. “The place has been searched and the Gestapo are watching the front.”

“Hell,” Paul said. “Where do we go now?”