Jackdaws

Flick’s mind raced. Was this a chance encounter, or part of an organized security sweep directed at the Jackdaws? The Milice were infamous busybodies, reveling in their power to harass their fellow citizens. They would stop people they did not like the look of, examine their papers minutely, and seek a pretext to arrest them. Was the questioning of Ruby such an incident? Flick hoped so. If the police were stopping everyone on the streets of Sainte-Cécile, the Jackdaws might never reach the gates of the château.

The cop started to question Ruby aggressively. Flick could not hear clearly, but she picked up the words “mongrel” and “black,” and she wondered if the man was accusing the dark-skinned Ruby of being a gypsy. Ruby took out her papers. The man examined them, then continued to question her without handing them back.

Paul drew his pistol.

“Put it away,” Flick commanded.

“You’re not going to let him arrest her?”

“Yes, I am,” Flick said coldly. “If we have a shootout now, we’re finished-the mission is blown, whatever happens. Ruby’s life is not as important as disabling the telephone exchange. Put away the damn gun.”

Paul tucked it under the waistband of his trousers.

The conversation between Ruby and the Militian became heated. Flick watched with trepidation as Ruby shifted the three baskets to her left hand and put her right hand into her raincoat pocket. The man grabbed Ruby’s left shoulder in a decisive way, obviously arresting her.

Ruby moved fast. She dropped the baskets. Her right hand came out of her pocket holding a knife. She took a step forward and swung the knife up from hip level with great force, sticking the blade through his uniform shirt just below the ribs, angled up toward the heart.

Flick said, “Oh, shit.”

The man gave a scream that quickly died off into a horrible gurgle. Ruby tugged the knife out and stuck it in again, this time from the side. He threw back his head and opened his mouth in a soundless cry of pain.

Flick was thinking ahead. If she could get the body out of sight quickly, they might get away with this. Had anyone seen the stabbing? Flick’s view from the window was restricted by the shutters. She pushed them wide and leaned out. To her left, the rue du Château was deserted except for a parked truck and a dog asleep on a doorstep. Looking the other way she saw, coming along the pavement, three young people in police-style uniforms, two men and a woman. They had to be Gestapo personnel from the château.

The Militian fell to the pavement, blood coming from his mouth.

Before Flick could shout a warning, the two Gestapo men sprang forward and grabbed Ruby by the arms.

Flick quickly pulled her head back in and drew the shutters together. Ruby was lost.

She continued to watch through a narrow gap between the shutters. One of the Gestapo men banged Ruby’s right hand against the shop wall until she dropped the knife. The girl bent over the bleeding Militian. She lifted his head and spoke to him, then said something to the two men. There was a short exchange of barked words. The girl ran into the shop and came out with a storekeeper in a white apron. He bent over the Militian, then stood up again, his face showing distaste-whether for the man’s ugly wounds or for the hated uniform, Flick could not tell. The girl ran off, back in the direction of the château, presumably to get help; and the two men frog-marched Ruby in the same direction.

Flick said, “Paul-go and get the baskets Ruby dropped.”

Paul did not hesitate. “Yes, ma'am.” He went out.

Flick watched him emerge onto the street and cross the road. What would the storekeeper say? The man looked at Paul and said something. Paul did not reply but bent down, swiftly picked up the three baskets, and came back.

The storekeeper stared at Paul, and Flick could read his thoughts on his face: at first shocked by Paul’s apparent callousness, then puzzled and searching for possible reasons, then beginning to understand.

“Let’s move quickly,” Flick said as Paul came into the kitchen. “Load the bags and out, now! I want us to pass through that checkpoint while the guards are still excited about Ruby.” She quickly stuffed one of the baskets with a powerful flashlight, her disassembled Sten gun, six 32-round magazines, and her share of the plastic explosive. Her pistol and knife were in her pockets. She covered the weapons in the basket with a cloth and put in a slice of vegetable terrine wrapped in baking paper.

Jelly said, “What if the guards at the gate search the baskets?”

“Then we’re dead,” Flick said. “We’ll just try to take as many of the enemy with us as we can. Don’t let the Nazis capture you alive.”

“Oh, my gordon,” said Jelly, but she checked the magazine in her automatic pistol professionally and pushed it home with a decisive click.

The church bell in the town square struck seven.

They were ready.