Jackdaws (25 page)

In England, the message had to be
transcribed, decoded, and passed to Helicopter's controller, who might have to
consult with others before replying; all of which could take several hours, so
Helicopter would wait until the appointed hour for a response.

Now Dieter had to separate him from
the wireless set and, more importantly, from his coding materials. "I
presume you want to contact the Bollinger circuit now," he said.

"Yes. London needs to know how
much of it is left."

"We'll put you in touch with
Monet, that's the code name of the leader." He looked at his wristwatch
and suffered a moment of sheer panic: it was a standard issue German Army
officer's watch, and if Helicopter recognized it the game would be up. Trying
to keep the tremor out of his voice, Dieter said, "We've got time, I'll
drive you to his house."

"Is it far?" Helicopter
said eagerly.

"Center of town."

Monet, whose real name was Michel Clairet,
would not be at home. He was no longer using the house; Dieter had checked. The
neighbors claimed to have no idea where he was. Dieter was not surprised. Monet
had guessed that his name and address would be given away by one of his
comrades under interrogation, and he had gone into hiding.

Helicopter began to close up the
radio. Dieter said, "Does that battery need recharging from time to
time?"

"Yes—in fact they tell us to
plug it in at every opportunity, so that it's always fully charged."

"So why don't you leave it
where it is for now? We can come back for it later, by which time it will be
charged. If anyone should come in the meantime, Bourgeoise can hide it away in
a few seconds."

"Good idea."

"Then let's go." Dieter
led the way to the garage and backed the Simca Cinq out. Then he said,
"Wait here a minute, I have to tell Bourgeoise something."

He went back into the house.
Stéphanie was in the kitchen, staring at the suitcase radio on the kitchen
table. Dieter took the one-time pad and the silk handkerchief from the
accessories compartment. "How long will it take you to copy these?"
he said.

She made a face. "All those
gibberish letters? At least an hour."

"Do it as fast as you can, but
don't make any mistakes. I'll keep him out for an hour and a half."

He returned to the car and drove
Helicopter into the city center.

Michel Clairet's home was a small,
elegant town house near the cathedral. Dieter waited in the car while
Helicopter went to the door. After a few minutes, the agent came back and said,
"No answer."

"You can try again in the
morning," Dieter said. "Meanwhile, I know a bar used by the
Resistance." He knew no such thing. "Let's go there and see if I
recognize anyone."

He parked near the station and
picked a bar at random. The two of them sat drinking watery beer for an hour,
then returned to the rue du Bois.

When they entered the kitchen,
Stéphanie gave Dieter a slight nod. He took it to mean she had succeeded in
copying everything. "Now," Dieter said to Helicopter, "you'd
probably like a bath, having spent a night in the open. And you certainly
should shave. I'll show you your room, and Bourgeoise will run your bath."

"How kind you are."

Dieter put him in an attic room, the
one farthest from the bathroom. As soon as he heard the man splashing in the
bath, he went into the room and searched his clothes. Helicopter had a change
of underwear and socks, all bearing the labels of French shops. In his jacket
pockets were French cigarettes and matches, a handkerchief with a French label,
and a wallet. In the wallet was a lot of cash-half a million francs, enough to
buy a luxury car, if there had been any new cars for sale. The identity papers
seemed impeccable, though they had to be forgeries.

There was also a photograph.

Dieter stared at it in surprise. It
showed Flick Clairet. There was no mistake. It was the woman he had seen in the
square at Sainte-Cécile. Finding it was a wonderful piece of luck for
Dieter—and a disaster for her.

She was wearing a swimsuit that
revealed muscular legs and suntanned arms. Beneath the costume she had neat
breasts, a small waist, and delightfully rounded hips. There was a glimmer of
moisture, either water or perspiration, at her throat, and she was looking into
the camera with a faint smile. Behind her and slightly out of focus, two young
men in bathing trunks seemed about to dive into a river. The picture had
obviously been taken at an innocent swimming party. But her semi nakedness, the
wetness at her throat, and the slight smile combined to make a picture that
seemed sexually charged. Had it not been for the boys in the background, she
might have been about to take the swimsuit off and reveal her body to the
person behind the camera. That was how a woman smiled at her man when she
wanted him to make love to her, Dieter thought. He could see why a young fellow
would treasure the photo.

Agents were not supposed to carry
photos with them into enemy territory—for very good reasons. Helicopter's passion
for Flick Clairet might destroy her, and much of the French Resistance too.

Dieter slipped the photo into his
pocket and left the room. All in all, he thought, he had done a very good day's
work.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

PAUL CHANCELLOR SPENT the day fighting
the military bureaucracy—persuading, threatening, pleading, cajoling, and as a
last resort using the name of Monty—and, in the end, he got a plane for the
team's parachute training tomorrow.

When he caught the train back to
Hampshire, he found he was eager to see Flick again. He liked her a lot. She
was smart, tough, and a pleasure to look at. He wished to hell she was single.

On the train he read the war news in
the paper. The long lull on the eastern front had been broken, yesterday, by a surprisingly
powerful German attack in Rumania. The continuing resilience of the Germans was
formidable. They were in retreat everywhere, but they kept fighting back.

The train was delayed, and he missed
six o'clock dinner at the Finishing School. After dinner there was always
another lecture; then at nine the students were free to relax for an hour or so
before bed. Paul found most of the team gathered in the drawing room of the
house, which had a bookcase, a cupboard full of games, a wireless set, and a
half-size billiards table. He sat on the sofa beside Flick and said quietly,
"How did it go today?"

"Better than we had a right to
expect," she said. "But everything is so compressed. I don't know how
much they're going to remember when they're in the field."

"I guess anything is better
than nothing."

Percy Thwaite and Jelly were playing
poker for pennies. Jelly was a real character, Paul thought. How could a
professional safebreaker consider herself a respectable English lady? "How
was Jelly?" he asked Flick.

"Not bad. She has more
difficulty than the others with the physical training but, my goodness, she
just grit her teeth and got on with it, and in the end she did everything the
youngsters did." Flick paused and frowned.

Paul said, "What?"

"Her hostility to Greta is a
problem."

"It's not surprising that an
Englishwoman should hate Germans."

"It's illogical, though—Greta
has suffered more from the Nazis than Jelly has."

"Jelly doesn't know that."

"She knows that Greta's
prepared to fight against the Nazis."

"People aren't logical about
these things."

"Too bloody right."

Greta herself was talking to Denise.
Or rather, Paul thought, Denise was talking and Greta was listening. "My
stepbrother, Lord Foules, pilots fighter-bombers," he heard her say in her
half-swallowed aristocratic accent. "He's been training to fly support
missions for the invasion troops."

Paul frowned. "Did you hear
that?" he asked Flick.

"Yes. Either she's making it
up, or she's being dangerously indiscreet."

He studied Denise. She was a
rawboned girl who always looked as if she had just been insulted. He did not
think she was fantasizing. "She doesn't seem the imaginative type,"
he said.

"I agree. I think she's giving
away real secrets."

"I'd better arrange a little
test tomorrow."

"Okay."

Paul wanted to get Flick to himself
so that they could talk more freely. "Let's take a stroll around the
garden," he said.

They stepped outside. The air was
warm and there was an hour of daylight left. The house had a large garden with
several acres of lawn dotted with trees. Maude and Diana were sitting on a
bench under a copper beech. Maude had flirted with Paul at first, but he had
given her no encouragement, and she seemed to have given up. Now she was
listening avidly to something Diana was saying, looking into Diana's face with
an attitude almost of adoration. "I wonder what Diana's saying?" Paul
said. "She's got Maude fascinated."

"Maude likes to hear about the
places she's been," Flick said. "The fashion shows, the balls, the
ocean liners."

Paul recalled that Maude had
surprised him by asking whether the mission would take them to Paris.
"Maybe she wanted to go to America with me," he said.

"I noticed her making a play
for you," Flick said. "She's pretty."

"Not my type, though."

"Why not?"

"Candidly? She's not smart
enough."

"Good," Flick said.
"I'm glad."

He raised an eyebrow at her.
"Why?"

"I would have thought less of
you otherwise."

He thought this was a little
condescending. "I'm glad to have your approval," he said.

"Don't be ironic," she
reprimanded him. "I was paying you a compliment."

He grinned. He could not help liking
her, even when she was being high-handed. "Then I'll quit while I'm
ahead," he said.

They passed close to the two women,
and heard Diana say, "So the contessa said, 'Keep your painted claws off
my husband,' then poured a glass of champagne over Jennifer's head, whereupon
Jennifer pulled the contessa's hair—and it came off in her hand, because it was
a wig!"

Maude laughed. "I wish I'd been
there!"

Paul said to Flick, "They all
seem to be making friends."

"I'm pleased. I need them to
work as a team."

The garden merged gradually with the
forest, and they found themselves walking through woodland. It was only half
light under the canopy of leaves. "Why is it called the New Forest?"
Paul said. "It looks old."

"Do you still expect English
names to be logical?"

He laughed. "I guess I
don't."

They walked in silence for a while.
Paul felt quite romantic. He wanted to kiss her, but she was wearing a wedding
ring.

"When I was four years old, I
met the King," Flick said.

"The present king?"

"No, his father, George V. He
came to Somersholme. I was kept out of his way, of course, but he wandered into
the kitchen garden on Sunday morning and saw me. He said, 'Good morning, little
girl, are you ready for church?' He was a small man, but he had a booming
voice."

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'Who are you?' He
replied, 'I'm the King.' And then, according to family legend, I said, 'You
can't be, you're not big enough.' Fortunately, he laughed."

"Even as a child, you had no
respect for authority."

"So it seems."

Paul heard a low moan. Frowning, he
looked toward the sound and saw Ruby Romam with Jim Cardwell, the firearms
instructor. Ruby had her back to a tree and Jim was embracing her. They were
kissing passionately. Ruby moaned again.

They were not just embracing, Paul
realized, and he felt both embarrassed and aroused. Jim's hands were busy
inside Ruby's blouse. Her skirt was up around her waist. Paul could see all of
one brown leg and a thick patch of dark hair at her groin. The other leg was
raised and bent at the knee, and Ruby's foot rested high on Jim's hip. The
movement they were making together was unmistakable.

Paul looked at Flick. She had seen
the same thing. She stared for a moment, her expression showing shock and
something else. Then she turned quickly away. Paul followed suit, and they went
back the way they had come, walking as quietly as they could.

When they were out of earshot, he
said, "I'm terribly sorry about that."

"Not your fault," she
said.

"Still, I'm sorry I led you
that way."

"I really don't mind. I've
never seen anyone… doing that. It was rather sweet."

"Sweet?" It was not the
word he would have chosen. "You know, you're kind of unpredictable."

"Have you only just
noticed?"

"Don't be ironic, I was paying
you a compliment," he said, repeating her own words.

She laughed. "Then I'll quit
while I'm ahead."

They emerged from the woods.
Daylight was fading fast, and the blackout curtains were drawn in the house.
Maude and Diana had gone from their seat under the copper beech. "Let's
sit here for a minute," Paul said. He was in no hurry to go inside.

Flick complied without speaking.

He sat sideways, looking at her. She
bore his scrutiny without comment, but she was thoughtful. He took her hand and
stroked her fingers. She looked at him, her face unreadable, but she did not
pull away her hand. He said, "I know I shouldn't, but I really want to
kiss you." She made no reply but continued to look at him with that
enigmatic expression, half amused and half sad. He took silence for assent, and
kissed her.

Her mouth was soft and moist. He
closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensation. To his surprise, her lips
parted, and he felt the tip of her tongue. He opened his mouth.

He put his arms around her and
pulled her to him, but she slipped out of his embrace and stood up.
"Enough," she said. She turned away and walked toward the house.