Jackdaws

Hans reemerged from the alley and looked up and down the street with a worried frown. There were not many people on the pavements, just a few travelers walking to and from the station and the last of the city center workers heading for home. Hans mouthed a curse and turned back into the alley.

Dieter groaned aloud. Hans had lost Michel.

This was the worst foul-up Dieter had been involved in since the battle of Alam Haifa, when wrong intelligence had led Rommel to defeat. That had been the turning point of the North African war. Dieter prayed this was not to be the turning point in Europe.

As he stared despondently at the mouth of the alley, Michel emerged from the front entrance of the café.

Dieter’s spirits leaped. Michel had shaken off Hans but did not realize he had a second shadow. All was not yet lost.

Michel crossed the road, breaking into a run, and headed back the way he had come-toward Dieter in the car.

Dieter thought fast. If he tried to follow Michel, maintaining the surveillance, then he, too, would have to run, and that would make it obvious that he was tailing the man. It was no good: the surveillance was over. It was time to seize Michel.

Michel pounded along the pavement, shoving other pedestrians aside. He ran awkwardly, because of his bullet wound, but he moved fast and rapidly approached Dieter’s car.

Dieter made a decision.

He opened the car door.

As Michel drew level, Dieter got out, narrowing the available pavement by holding the door wide. Michel swerved to dodge around the obstacle. Dieter stuck out his leg. Michel tripped over his outstretched foot and went flying. A big man, he fell heavily on the paved sidewalk.

Dieter drew his pistol and thumbed the safety catch. Michel lay prone for a second, stunned. Then, groggily, he tried to get to his knees.

Dieter touched the barrel of the gun to Michel’s temple. “Don’t get up,” he said in French.

The driver got a pair of handcuffs from the trunk, secured Michel’s wrists, and bundled him into the back of the car.

Hans reappeared, looking dismayed. “What happened?”

“He went in through the back door of the Café de la Gare and came out of the front,” Dieter explained.

Hans was relieved. “What now?”

“Come with me to the station.” Dieter turned to the driver. “Do you have a gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep a close watch on this man. If he tries to escape, shoot him in the legs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dieter and Hans walked briskly into the station. Dieter buttonholed a uniformed railway man and said, “I want to see the stationmaster right away.”

The man looked surly, but he said, “I’ll take you to his office.”

The stationmaster was dressed in a black jacket and waistcoat with striped trousers, an elegant old-fashioned uniform, worn thin at the elbows and knees. He kept his bowler hat on even in his office. He was frightened by this visit from a high-powered German. “What can I do for you?” he said with a nervous smile.

“Are you expecting a train from Paris with prisoners tonight?”

“Yes, at eight o’clock, as usual.”

“When it comes, hold it here until you hear from me. I have a special prisoner I want to board.”

“Very good. If I could have written authorization..

“Of course. I will arrange it. Do you do anything with the prisoners while the train is here?”

“Sometimes we hose out the cars. Cattle trucks are used, you see, so there are no lavatory facilities, and frankly it becomes extremely unpleasant, without wishing to criticize—”

“Do not clean the trucks tonight, you understand?”

“Of course.”

“Do you do anything else?”

The man hesitated. “Not really.”

He was guilty about something, Dieter could tell. “Come on, man, out with it, I’m not going to punish you.”

“Sometimes the railway men take pity on the prisoners, and give them water. It’s not allowed, strictly speaking, but—”

“No water will be given tonight.”

“Understood.”

Dieter turned to Hans. “I want you to take Michel Clairet to the police station and lock him in a cell, then return here to the station and make sure my orders are carried out.”

“Of course, Major.”

Dieter picked up the phone on the stationmaster’s desk. “Get me the château of Sainte-Cécile.” When he got through he asked for Weber. “There’s a woman in the cells called Gilberte.”

“I know,” said Weber. “Pretty girl.”

Dieter wondered why Weber sounded so pleased with himself “Would you please send her in a car to the railway station in Reims. Lieutenant Hesse is here, he will take charge of her.”

“Very well,” said Weber. “Hold the line a moment, will you?” He moved the phone away from his mouth and spoke to someone in the room, giving orders for Gilberte to be moved. Dieter waited impatiently. Weber came back on the line. “I’ve arranged that.”

“Thank you—”

“Don’t hang up. I have some news for you.”

This would be why he was sounding pleased. “Go on,” Dieter said.

“I have captured an Allied agent myself”

“What?” Dieter said. This was a lucky break. “When?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“Where, for God’s sake?”

“Right here in Sainte-Cécile.”

“How did that happen?”