CHAPTER 10

FLICK’S HOME WAS a bedsitter in a big old house in Bayswater. Her room was in the attic: if a bomb came through the roof it would land on her bed. She spent little time there, not for fear of bombs but because real life went on elsewhere-in France, at SOE headquarters, or at one of SOE’s training centers around the country. There was little of her in the room: a photo of Michel playing a guitar, a shelf of Flaubert and Moliere in French, a watercolor of Nice she had painted at the age of fifteen. The small chest had three drawers of clothing and one of guns and ammunition.

Feeling weary and depressed, she undressed and lay down on the bed, looking through a copy of Parade magazine. Berlin had been bombed by a force of 1,500 planes last Wednesday, she read. It was hard to imagine. She tried to picture what it must have been like for the ordinary Germans living there, and all she could think of was a medieval painting of Hell, with naked people being burned alive in a hail of fire. She turned the page and read a silly story about second-rate “V-cigarettes” being passed off as Woodbines.

Her mind kept returning to yesterday’s failure. She reran the battle in her mind, imagining a dozen decisions she might have made differently, leading to victory instead of defeat. As well as losing the battle, she feared she might be losing her husband, and she wondered if there was a link. Inadequate as a leader, inadequate as a wife, perhaps there was some flaw deep in her character.

Now that her alternative plan had been rejected, there was no prospect of redeeming herself. All those brave people had died for nothing.

Eventually she drifted into an uneasy sleep. She was awakened by someone banging on the door and calling, “Flick! Telephone!” The voice belonged to one of the girls in the flat below.

The clock on Flick’s bookshelf said six. “Who is it?” she called.

“He just said the office.”

“I’m coming.” She pulled on a dressing gown. Unsure whether it was six in the morning or evening, she glanced out of her little window. The sun was setting over the elegant terraces of Ladbroke Grove. She ran downstairs to the phone in the hail.

Percy Thwaite’s voice said, “Sorry to wake you.”

“That’s all right.” She was always glad to hear Percy’s voice on the other end of the phone. She had become very fond of him, even though he constantly sent her into danger. Running agents was a heartbreaking job, and some senior officers anaesthetized themselves by adopting a hard-hearted attitude toward the death or capture of their people, but Percy never did that. He felt every loss as a bereavement. Consequently, Flick knew he would never take an unnecessary risk with her. She trusted him.

“Can you come to Orchard Court?”

She wondered if the authorities had reconsidered her new plan for taking out the telephone exchange, and her heart leaped with hope. “Has Monty changed his mind?”

“I’m afraid not. But I need you to brief someone.”

She bit her lip, suppressing her disappointment. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She dressed quickly and took the Underground to Baker Street. Percy was waiting for her in the flat in Portman Square. “I’ve found a radio operator. No experience, but he’s done the training. I’m sending him to Reims tomorrow.”

Flick glanced reflexively at the window, to check the weather, as agents always did when a flight was mentioned. Percy’s curtains were drawn, for security, but anyway she knew the weather was fine. “Reims? Why?”

“We’ve heard nothing from Michel today. I need to know how much of the Bollinger circuit is left.”

Flick nodded. Pierre, the radio operator, had been in the attack squad. Presumably he was captured or dead. Michel might have been able to locate Pierre’s radio transceiver, but he had not been trained to operate it, and he certainly did not know the codes. “But what’s the point?”

“We’ve sent them tons of explosives and ammunition in the last few months. I want them to light some fires. The telephone exchange is the most important target, but it’s not the only one. Even if there’s no one left but Michel and a couple of others, they can blow up railway lines, cut telephone wires, and shoot sentries-it all helps. But I can’t direct them if I have no communication.”

Flick shrugged. To her, the chateau was the only target that mattered. Everything else was chicken feed. But what the hell. “I’ll brief him, of course.”

Percy gave her a hard look. He hesitated, then said, “How was Michel-apart from his bullet wound?”

“Fine.” Flick was silent for a moment. Percy stared at her. She could not deceive him, he knew her too well. At last she sighed and said, “There’s a girl.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“I don’t know whether there’s anything left of my marriage,” she said bitterly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It would help if I could tell myself that I’d made a sacrifice for a purpose, struck a magnificent blow for our side, made the invasion more likely to succeed.”

“You’ve done more than most, over the last two years.”

“But there’s no second prize in a war, is there?”

“No.”

She stood up. She was grateful for Percy’s fond sympathy, but it was making her maudlin. “I’d better brief the new radioman.”

“Code name Helicopter. He’s waiting in the study. Not the sharpest knife in the box, I’m afraid, but a brave lad.”

This seemed sloppy to Flick. “If he’s not too bright, why send him? He might endanger others.”

“As you said earlier-this is our big chance. If the invasion fails, we’ve lost Europe. We’ve got to throw everything we have at the enemy now, because we won’t get another chance.”

Flick nodded grimly. He had turned her own argument against her. But he was right. The only difference was that the lives being endangered, in this case, included Michel’s. “Okay,” she said. “I’d better get on with it.”

“He’s eager to see you.”

She frowned. “Eager? Why?”

Percy gave a wry smile. “Go and find out for yourself.”

Flick left the drawing room of the apartment, where Percy had his desk, and went along the corridor. His secretary was typing in the kitchen, and she directed Flick to another room.

Flick paused outside the door. This is how it is, she told herself: you pick yourself up and carry on working, hoping you will eventually forget.

She entered the study, a small room with a square table and a few mismatched chairs. Helicopter was a fair-skinned boy of about twenty-two, wearing a tweed suit in a checked pattern of mustard, orange, and green. You could tell he was English from a distance of a mile. Fortunately, before he got on the plane he would be kitted out in clothing that would look inconspicuous in a French town. SOE employed French tailors and dressmakers who sewed Continental-style clothes for agents (then spent hours making the clothes look worn and shabby so that they would not attract attention by their newness). There was nothing they could do about Helicopter’s pink complexion and red-blond hair, except hope that the Gestapo would think he must have some German blood.

Flick introduced herself, and he said, “Yes, we’ve met before, actually.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“You were at Oxford with my brother, Charles.”

“Charlie Standish-of course!” Flick remembered another fair boy in tweeds, taller and slimmer than Helicopter, but probably no cleverer-he had not taken a degree. Charlie spoke fluent French, she recalled- something they had had in common.

“You came to our house in Gloucestershire once, actually.”

Flick recalled a weekend in a country house in the thirties, and a family with an amiable English father and a chic French mother. Charlie had had a kid brother, Brian, an awkward adolescent in knee shorts, very excited about his new camera. She had talked to him a bit, and he had developed a little crush on her. “So how is Charlie? I haven’t seen him since we graduated.”

“He’s dead, actually.” Brian looked suddenly grief-stricken. “Died in forty-one. Killed in the b-b-bloody desert, actually.”

Flick was afraid he would cry. She took his hand in both of hers and said, “Brian, I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Jolly nice of you.” He swallowed hard. With an effort he brightened. “I’ve seen you since then, just once. You gave a lecture to my SOE training group. I didn’t get a chance to speak to you afterwards.”

“I hope my talk was useful.”

“You spoke about traitors within the Resistance and what to do about them. ‘It’s quite simple,’ you said. ‘You put the barrel of your pistol to the back of the bastard’s head and pull the trigger twice.’ Scared us all to death, actually.”

He was looking at her with something like hero-worship in his eyes, and she began to see what Percy had been hinting at. It looked as if Brian still had a crush on her. She moved away from him, sat at the other side of the table, and said, “Well, we’d better begin. You know you’re going to make contact with a Resistance circuit that has been largely wiped out.”

“Yes, I’m to find out how much of it is left and what it is still capable of doing, if anything.”

“It’s likely that some members were captured during the skirmish yesterday and are under Gestapo interrogation as we speak. So you’ll have to be especially careful. Your contact in Reims is a woman codenamed Bourgeoise. Every day at three in the afternoon she goes to the crypt of the cathedral to pray. She’s generally the only person there but, in case there are others, she’ll be wearing odd shoes, one black and one brown.”

“Easy enough to remember.”

“You say to her, ‘Pray for me.’ She replies, ‘I pray for peace.’ That’s the code.”

He repeated the words.

“She’ll take you to her house, then put you in touch with the head of the Bollinger circuit, whose code name is Monet.” She was talking about her husband, but Brian did not need to know that. “Don’t mention the address or real name of Bourgeoise to other members of the circuit when you meet them, please: for security reasons, it’s better they don’t know.” Flick herself had recruited Bourgeoise and set up the cut-out. Even Michel had not met the woman.

“I understand.”

“Is there anything you want to ask me?”

“I’m sure there are a hundred things, but I can’t think of any.”

She stood up and came around the table to shake his hand. “Well, good luck.”

He kept hold of her hand. “I never forgot that weekend you came to our house,” he said. “I expect I was a frightful bore, but you were very kind to me.”

She smiled and said lightly, “You were a nice kid.”

“I fell in love with you, actually.”

She wanted to jerk her hand out of his and walk away, but he might die tomorrow, and she could not bring herself to be so cruel. “I’m flattered,” she said, trying to maintain an amiably bantering tone.

It was no good: he was in earnest. “I was wondering… would you… just for luck, give me a kiss?”

She hesitated. Oh, hell, she thought. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the lips. She let the kiss linger for a second, then broke away. He looked transfixed by joy. She patted his cheek softly with her hand. “Stay alive, Brian,” she said. Then she went out.

She returned to Percy’s room. He had a pile of books and a scatter of photographs on his desk. “All done?” he said.

She nodded. “But he’s not perfect secret agent material, Percy.”

Percy shrugged. “He’s brave, he speaks French like a Parisian, and he can shoot straight.”

“Two years ago you would have sent him back to the army.”

“True. Now I’m going to send him off to Sandy.” At a large country house in the village of Sandy, near the Tempsford airstrip, Brian would be dressed in French-style clothes and given the forged papers he needed to pass through Gestapo checkpoints and buy food. Percy got up and went to the door. “While I’m seeing him off, have a look at that rogues’ gallery, will you?” He pointed to the photos on the desk. “Those are all the pictures MI6 has of German officers. If the man you saw in the square at Sainte-Cecile should happen to be among them, I’d be interested to know his name.” He went out.

Flick picked up one of the books. It was a graduation yearbook from a military academy, showing postage stamp-sized photos of a couple of hundred fresh-faced young men. There were a dozen or more similar books, and several hundred loose photos.

She did not want to spend all night looking at mug shots, but perhaps she could narrow it down. The man in the square had seemed about forty. He would have graduated at the age of twenty-two, roughly, so the year must have been about 1926. None of the books was that old.

She turned her attention to the loose photographs. As she flicked through, she recalled all she could of the man. He was quite tall and well dressed, but that would not show in a photo. He had thick dark hair, she thought, and although he was clean-shaven, he looked as if he could grow a heavy beard. She remembered dark eyes, clearly marked eyebrows, a straight nose, a square chin… quite the matinee idol, in fact.

The loose photos had been taken in all sorts of different situations. Some were news pictures, showing officers shaking hands with Hitler, inspecting troops, or looking at tanks and airplanes. A few seemed to have been snapped by spies. These were the most candid shots, taken in crowds, from cars, or through windows, showing the officers shopping, talking to children, hailing a taxi, lighting a pipe.

She scanned the photos as fast as she could, tossing them to one side. She hesitated over each dark-haired man. None was as handsome as the one she recalled from the square. She passed over a photo of a man in police uniform, then went back to it. The uniform had at first put her off~ but on careful study she thought this was him.

She turned the photograph over. Pasted to the back was a typewritten sheet. She read:

FRANCK, Dieter Wolfgang, sometimes “Frankie”; born Cologne 3 June 1904; educ. Humboldt University of Berlin Koin Police Academy; mar. 1930 Waltraud Loewe, 1 son 1 dtr; Superintendent, Criminal Investigation Department, Cologne police, to 1940; Major, Intelligence Section, Afrika Korps, to?

A star of Rommel’s intelligence staff this officer is said to be a skilled interrogator and a ruthless torturer.

Flick shuddered to think she had been so near to such a dangerous man. An experienced police detective who had turned his skills to military intelligence was a frightening enemy. The fact that he had a family in Cologne did not prevent his having a mistress in France, it seemed.

Percy returned, and she handed him the picture. “This is the man.”

“Dieter Franck!” said Percy. “We know of him. How interesting. From what you overheard of his conversation in the square, Rommel seems to have given him some kind of counter-Resistance job.” He made a note on his pad. “I’d better let MI6 know, as they loaned us their photos.”

There was a tap at the door, and Percy’s secretary looked in. “There’s someone to see you, Colonel Thwaite.” The girl looked coquettish. The fatherly Percy never inspired that sort of behavior in secretaries, so Flick guessed the visitor must be an attractive man. “An American,” the girl added. That might explain it, Flick thought. Americans were the height of glamour, to secretaries at least.

“How did he find this place?” Percy said. Orchard Court was supposed to be a secret address.

“He went to number sixty-four Baker Street, and they sent him here.”

“They shouldn’t do that. He must be very persuasive. Who is he?”

“Major Chancellor.”

Percy looked at Flick. She did not know anyone called Chancellor. Then she remembered the arrogant major who had been so rude to her this morning at Monty’s headquarters. “Oh, God, him,” she said in disgust. “What does he want?”

“Send him in,” said Percy.

Paul Chancellor came in. He walked with a limp that Flick had not noticed this morning. It probably got worse as the day wore on. He had a pleasant American face, with a big nose and a jutting chin. Any chance he might have had of being handsome was spoiled by his left ear, or what remained of it, which was the lower one-third, mostly lobe. Flick assumed he had been wounded in action.

Chancellor saluted and said, “Good evening, Colonel. Good evening, Major.”

Percy said, “We don’t do a lot of saluting at SOE, Chancellor. Please sit down. What brings you here?”

Chancellor took a chair and removed his uniform cap. “I’m glad I caught you both,” he said. “I’ve spent most of the day thinking about this morning’s conversation.” He gave a self-effacing grin. “Part of the time, I have to confess, I was composing wittily crushing remarks I could have made if only I had thought of them in time.”

Flick could not help smiling. She had done the same. Chancellor went on. “You hinted, Colonel Thwaite, that MI6 might not have told the whole truth about the attack on the telephone exchange, and that played on my mind. The fact that Major Clairet here was so rude to me did not necessarily mean she was lying about the facts.”

Flick had been halfway to forgiving him, but now she bridled. “Rude? Me?”

Percy said, “Shut up, Flick.”

She closed her mouth.

“So I sent for your report, Colonel. Of course the request came from Monty’s office, not me personally, so it was brought to our headquarters by a FANY motorcyclist in double-quick time.”

He was a no-nonsense type who knew how to pull the levers of the military machine, Flick thought. He might be an arrogant pig, but he would make a useful ally.

“When I read it, I realized the main reason for defeat was wrong intelligence.”

“Supplied by MI6!” Flick said indignantly.

“Yes, I noticed that,” Chancellor said with mild sarcasm. “Obviously, MI6 was covering up its own incompetence. I’m not a career soldier myself, but my father is, so I’m familiar with the tricks of military bureaucrats.”

“Oh,” said Percy thoughtfully. “Are you the son of General Chancellor?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“MI6 would never have gotten away with it if your boss had been at the meeting this morning to tell SOE’s side of the story. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he had been called away at the last minute.”

Percy looked dubious. “He was summoned by the Prime Minister. I don’t see how MI6 could have arranged that.”

“The meeting was not attended by Churchill. A Downing Street aide took the chair. And it had been arranged at the instigation of MI6.”

“Well, I’m damned,” Flick said angrily. “They’re such snakes!”

Percy said, “I wish they were as clever about gathering intelligence as they are about deceiving their colleagues.”

Chancellor said, “I also looked in detail at your plan, Major Clairet, for taking the chateau by stealth, with a team disguised as cleaners. It’s risky, of course, but it could work.”

Did that mean it would be reconsidered? Flick hardly dared to ask.

Percy gave Chancellor a level look. “So what are you going to do about all this?”

“By chance, I had dinner with my father tonight. I told him the whole story and asked him what a general’s aide should do in these circumstances. We were at the Savoy.”

“What did he say?” Flick asked impatiently. She did not care which restaurant they had gone to.

“That I should go to Monty and tell him we had made a mistake.” He grimaced. “Not easy with any general. They never like to revisit decisions. But sometimes it has to be done.”

“And will you?” Flick said hopefully.

“I already have.”

THE THIRD DAY Tuesday, May 30,1944