CHAPTER 6

DIETER FRANCK DROVE through the night in the big Hispano-Suiza, accompanied by his young assistant, Lieutenant Hans Hesse. The car was ten years old, but its massive eleven-liter engine was tireless. Yesterday evening, Dieter had found a neat row of bullet holes stitched in the generous curve of its offside fender, a souvenir of the skirmish in the square at Sainte-Cecile , but there was no mechanical damage, and he felt the holes added to the car’s glamour, like a dueling scar on the cheek of a Prussian officer.

Lieutenant Hesse masked the headlights to drive through the blacked-out streets of Paris, then removed the covers when they got on the road to Normandy. They took turns at the wheel, two hours each, though Hesse, who adored the car and hero-worshiped its owner, would gladly have driven the whole way.

Half asleep in the passenger seat, mesmerized by the country roads unwinding in the headlights, Dieter tried to picture his future. Would the Allies reconquer France, driving the occupying forces out? The thought of Germany defeated was dismal. Perhaps there would be some kind of peace settlement, with Germany surrendering France and Poland but keeping Austria and Czechoslovakia. That seemed not much better. He found it hard to imagine everyday life back in Cologne, with his wife and family, after the excitement and sensual indulgence of Paris and Stephanie. The only happy ending, for Dieter and for Germany, would be for Rommel’s army to push the invaders back into the sea.

Before dawn on a damp morning Hesse drove into the small medieval village of La Roche-Guyon, on the Seine river between Paris and Rouen. He stopped at the roadblock at the edge of the village, but they were expected, and were quickly waved on. They went past silent, shuttered houses to another checkpoint at the gates of the ancient castle. At last they parked in the great cobbled courtyard. Dieter left Hesse with the car and went into the building.

The German commander in chief [West] was Field Marshal Gerd von Runstedt, a reliable senior general from the old officer class. Under him, charged with the defense of the French coast, was Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. The castle of La Roche-Guyon was Rommel’s headquarters.

Dieter Franck felt an affinity with Rommel. Both were the sons of teachers-Rommel’s father had been a headmaster-and consequently both had felt the icy breath of German military snobbery from such men as von Runstedt. But otherwise they were very different. Dieter was a sybarite, enjoying all the cultural and sensual pleasures France had to offer. Rommel was an obsessive worker who did not smoke or drink and often forgot to eat. He had married the only girlfriend he had ever had, and he wrote to her three times a day.

In the hall, Dieter met Rommel’s aide-de-camp, Major Walter Goedel, a cold personality with a formidable brain. Dieter respected him but could never like him. They had spoken on the phone late last night. Dieter had outlined the problem he was having with the Gestapo and said he wanted to see Rommel as soon as possible. “Be here at four a.m.,” Goedel had said. Rommel was always at his desk by four o’clock in the morning.

Now Dieter wondered if he had done the right thing. Rommel might say, “How dare you bother me with trivial details?” Dieter thought not. Commanders liked to feel they were on top of the details. Rommel would almost certainly give Dieter the support he was asking for. But you could never be sure, especially when the commander was under strain.

Goedel nodded a curt greeting and said, “He wants to see you right now. Come this way.”

As they walked along the hallway, Dieter said, “What do you hear from Italy?”

“Nothing but bad news,” Goedel said. “We’re withdrawing from Arce.”

Dieter gave a resigned nod. The Germans were fighting fiercely, but they had been depressingly unable to halt the northward advance of the enemy.

A moment later Dieter entered Rommels office. It was a grand room on the ground floor. Dieter noticed with envy a priceless seventeenth-century Gobelin tapestry on one wall. There was little furniture but for a few chairs and a huge antique desk that looked, to Dieter, as if it might be the same age as the tapestry. On the desk stood a single lamp. Behind the desk sat a small man with receding sandy hair.

Goedel said, “Major Franck is here, Field Marshal.”

Dieter waited nervously. Rommel continued reading for a few seconds, then made a mark on the sheet of paper. He might have been a bank manager reviewing the accounts of his more important customers-until he looked up. Dieter had seen the face before, but it never failed to make him feel threatened. It was a boxer’s face, with a flat nose and a broad chin and close-set eyes, and it was suffused with the naked aggression that had made Rommel a legendary commander. Dieter recalled the story of Rommel’s first military engagement, during the First World War. Leading an advance guard of three men, Rommel had come upon a group of twenty French troops. Instead of retreating and calling for reinforcements, Rommel had opened fire and dashed at the enemy. He had been lucky to survive-but Dieter recalled Napoleon’s dictum: “Send me lucky generals.” Since then, Rommel had always favored the sudden bold assault over the cautious planned advance. In that he was the polar opposite of his desert opponent, Montgomery, whose philosophy was never to attack until you were certain of victory.

“Sit down, Franck,” said Rommel briskly. “What’s on your mind?”

Dieter had rehearsed this. “On your instructions, I’ve been visiting key installations that might be vulnerable to attack by the Resistance and upgrading their security.”

“I’ve also been trying to assess the potential of the Resistance to inflict serious damage. Can they really hamper our response to an invasion?”

“And your conclusion?”

“The situation is worse than we imagined.”

Rommel grunted with distaste, as if an unpleasant suspicion had been confirmed. “Reasons?”

Rommel was not going to bite his head off Dieter relaxed a little. He recounted yesterday’s attack at Sainte-Cecile : the imaginative planning, the plentiful weaponry, and most of all the bravery of the fighters. The only detail he left out was the beauty of the blonde girl.

Rommel stood up and walked across to the tapestry. He stared at it, but Dieter was sure he did not see it. “I was afraid of this,” Rommel said. He spoke quietly, almost to himself “I can beat off an invasion, even with the few troops I have, if only I can remain mobile and flexible-but if my communications fail, I’m lost.”

Goedel nodded agreement.

Dieter said, “I believe we can turn the attack on the telephone exchange into an opportunity.”

Rommel turned to him with a wry smile. “By God, I wish all my officers were like you. Go on, how will you do this?”

Dieter began to feel the meeting was going his way. “If I can interrogate the captured prisoners, they may lead me to other groups. With luck, we might inflict a lot of damage on the Resistance before the invasion.”

Rominel looked skeptical. “That sounds like bragging.” Dieter’s heart sank. Then Rommel went on. “If anyone else said it, I might send him packing. But I remember your work in the desert. You got men to tell you things they hardly realized they knew.”

Dieter was pleased. Seizing his advantage, he said, “Unfortunately, the Gestapo is refusing me access to the prisoners.”

“They are such imbeciles.”

“I need you to intervene.”

“Of course.” Rommel looked at Goedel. “Call avenue Foch.” The Gestapo’s French headquarters was at 84 avenue Foch in Paris. “Tell them that Major Franck will interrogate the prisoners today, or their next phone call will come from Berchtesgaden.” He was referring to Hitler’s Bavarian fortress. Rommel never hesitated to use the Field Marshal’s privilege of direct access to Hitler.

“Very good,” said Goedel.

Rommel walked around his seventeenth-century desk and sat down again. “Keep me informed, please, Franck,” he said, and returned his attention to his papers.

Dieter and Goedel left the room.

Goedel walked Dieter to the main door of the castle.

Outside, it was still dark.