Jackdaws

Dieter resumed thinking about his next step. The house in the rue du Bois was a cut-out. No one in the Bollinger circuit had met Mademoiselle Lemas. Agents coming in from London did not know what she looked like-hence the need for recognition signals and passwords. If he could get someone to impersonate her… but who?

Stephanie came out of the ladies’ toilet with Mademoiselle Lemas.

She could do it.

She was much younger than Mademoiselle Lemas, and looked completely different, but the agents would not know that. She was obviously French. All she had to do was take care of the agent for a day or so.

He took Stephanie’s arm. “Hans will deal with the prisoner now. Come, let me buy you a glass of champagne.”

He walked her out of the château. In the square, the soldiers had done their work, and the three stakes threw long shadows in the evening light. A handful of local people stood silent and watchful outside the church door.

Dieter and Stephanie went into the café. Dieter ordered a bottle of champagne. “Thank you for helping me today,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“I love you,” she said. “And you love me, I know, even though you never say it.”

“But how do you feel about what we did today? You’re French, and you have that grandmother whose race we mustn’t speak of, and as far as I know you’re not a Fascist.”

She shook her head violently. “I no longer believe in nationality, or race, or politics,” she said passionately. “When I was arrested by the Gestapo, no French people helped me. No Jews helped me. No socialists or liberals or communists either. And I was so cold in that prison.” Her face changed. Her lips lost the sexy half smile she wore most of the time, and the glint of teasing invitation went from her eyes. She was looking at another scene in another time. She crossed her arms and shivered, although it was a warm summer evening. “Not just cold on the outside, not just the skin. I felt cold in my heart and my bowels and my bones. I felt I would never be warm again, I would just go cold to my grave.” She was silent for a long moment, her face drawn and pale, and Dieter felt at that instant that war was a terrible thing. Then she said, “I’ll never forget the fire in your apartment. A coal fire. I had forgotten what it was like to feel that blazing warmth. It made me human again.” She came out of her trance. “You saved me. You gave me food and wine. You bought me clothes.” She smiled her old smile, the one that said You can, if you dare. “And you loved me, in front of that coal fire.”

He held her hand. “It wasn’t difficult.”

“You keep me safe, in a world where almost no one is safe. So now I believe only in you.”

“If you really mean that..

“Of course.”

“There’s something else you could do for me.”

“Anything.”

“I want you to impersonate Mademoiselle Lemas.”

She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Pretend to be her. Go to the cathedral crypt every afternoon at three o’clock, wearing one black shoe and one brown. When someone approaches you and says, ‘Pray for me,’ reply, ‘I pray for peace.’ Take the person to the house in the rue du Bois. Then call me.”

“It sounds simple.”

The champagne arrived, and he poured two glasses. He decided to level with her. “It should be simple. But there is a slight risk. If the agent has met Mademoiselle Lemas before, he will know you’re an impostor. Then you could be in danger. Will you take that chance?”

“Is it important to you?”

“It’s important for the war.”

“I don’t care about the war.”

“It’s important to me, too.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

He raised his glass. “Thank you,” he said.

They clinked glasses and drank.

Outside, in the square, there was a volley of gunfire.

Dieter looked through the window. He saw three bodies tied to the wooden pillars, slumped in death; a row of soldiers lowering their rifles; and a crowd of citizens looking on, silent and still.

CHAPTER 16

WARTIME AUSTERITY HAD made little real difference to Soho, the red-light district in the heart of London’s West End. The same groups of young men staggered through the streets, drunk on beer, though most of them were in uniform. The same painted girls in tight dresses strolled along the pavements, eyeing potential customers. The illuminated signs outside clubs and bars were switched off, because of the blackout, but all the establishments were open.

Mark and Flick arrived at the Criss-Cross Club at ten o’clock in the evening. The manager, a young man wearing a dinner jacket with a red bow tie, greeted Mark like a friend. Flick’s spirits were high. Mark knew a female telephone engineer. Flick was about to meet her, and she felt optimistic. Mark had not said much about her, except that her name was Greta, like the film star. When Flick tried to question him, he just said, “You have to see her for yourself.”