Jackdaws

He was tempted to press her for a reaction, to ask her how she felt about this, and was she sure she was happy about it, but he decided to take her consent at face value. “Thank you,” he said, and he returned to the living room.

Mademoiselle Lemas might be alone but, on the other hand, the house could be crawling with Allied agents, all armed to the teeth. He needed some backup. He consulted his notebook and gave the hotel operator Rommel’s number in La Roche-Guyon.

When the Germans had first occupied the country, the French telephone system had been swamped. Since then, the Germans had improved the equipment, adding thousands of kilometers of cable and installing automatic exchanges. The system was still overloaded, but it was better than it had been.

He asked for Rommel’s aide Major Goedel. A moment later he heard the familiar cold, precise voice:

“Goedel.”

“This is Dieter Franck,” he said. “How are you, Walter?”

“Busy,” Goedel said crisply. “What is it?”

“I’m making rapid progress here. I don’t want to give details, because I’m speaking on a hotel phone, but I’m about to arrest at least one spy, perhaps several. I thought the Field Marshal might like to know that.”

“I shall tell him.”

“But I could use some assistance. I’m doing all this with one lieutenant. I’m so desperate, I’m using my French girlfriend to help me.”

“That seems unwise.”

“Oh, she’s trustworthy. But she won’t be much use against trained terrorists. Can you get me half a dozen good men?”

“Use the Gestapo-that’s what they’re for.”

“They’re unreliable. You know they’re cooperating with us only reluctantly. I need people I can rely on.”

“It’s out of the question,” Goedel said.

“Look, Walter, you know how important Rommel feels this is-he’s given me the job of making sure the Resistance can’t hamper our mobility.”

“Yes. But the Field Marshal expects you to do it without depriving him of combat troops.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“For God’s sake, man!” Goedel raised his voice. “We’re trying to defend the entire Atlantic coastline with a handful of soldiers, and you’re surrounded by able-bodied men who have nothing better to do than track down scared old Jews hiding in barns. Get on with the job and don’t pester me!” There was a click as the phone was hung up.

Dieter was startled. It was uncharacteristic for Goedel to blow his top. No doubt they were all tense about the threat of invasion. But the upshot was clear. Dieter had to do this on his own.

With a sigh, he jiggled the rest and placed a call to the château at Sainte-Cécile.

He reached Willi Weber. “I’m going to raid a Resistance house,” he said. “I may need some of your heavyweights. Will you send four men and a car to the Hotel Frankfort? Or do I need to speak to Rommel again?”

The threat was unnecessary. Weber was keen to have his men along on the operation. That way, the Gestapo could claim the credit for any success. He promised a car in half an hour.

Dieter was worried about working with the Gestapo. He could not control them. But he had no choice.

While shaving, he turned on the radio, which was tuned to a German station. He learned that the first-ever tank battle in the Pacific theater had developed yesterday on the island of Biak. The occupying Japanese had driven the invading American 162d Infantry back to their beachhead. Push them into the sea, Dieter thought.

He dressed in a dark gray worsted suit, a fine cotton shirt with pale gray stripes, and a black tie with small white dots. The dots were woven into the fabric rather than printed on it, a detail that gave him pleasure. He thought for a moment, then removed the jacket and strapped on a shoulder holster. He took his Walther P38 automatic pistol from the bureau and slid it into the holster, then put his jacket back on.

He sat down with a cup of coffee and watched Stephanie dressing. The French made the most beautiful underwear in the world, he thought as she stepped into silk cami-knickers the color of clotted cream. He loved to see her pull on her stockings, smoothing the silk over her thighs. “Why did the old masters not paint this moment?” he said.

“Because Renaissance women didn’t have sheer silk stockings,” said Stephanie.

When she was ready, they left.

Hans Hesse was waiting outside with Dieter’s Hispano-Suiza. The young man gazed at Stephanie with awestruck admiration. To him, she was infinitely desirable and at the same time untouchable. He made Dieter think of a poor woman staring into Cartier’s shop window.

Behind Dieter’s car was a black Citroën Traction Avant containing four Gestapo men in plain clothes. Major Weber had decided to come himself, Dieter saw: he sat in the front passenger seat of the Citroën, wearing a green tweed suit that made him look like a farmer on his way to church. “Follow me,” Dieter told him. “When we get there, please stay in your car until I call you.”

Weber said, “Where the hell did you get a car like that?”

“It was a bribe from a Jew,” Dieter said. “I helped him escape to America.”