The flashing red light went out, and a banging began on the main door. Flick crossed the room in the dark and joined the men pushing through the cupboard. She followed the crowd into a bare room. The floor was about a foot lower than she expected, and she guessed this was the apartment over the shop next door. They all ran down the stairs and, sure enough, she found herself in the disused charcuterie, with a stained marble counter and dusty glass cases. The blind in the front window was drawn down so that no one could see in from the street.
They all went out through the back door. There was a dirty yard surrounded by a high wall. A door in the wall led to an alley, and the alley led to the next street. When they reached the street, the men went in different directions.
Flick walked quickly away and soon found herself alone. Breathing hard, she reoriented herself and headed for the cathedral, where the other Jackdaws were waiting. “My God,” she whispered to herself, “that was close.”
As she got her breath back, she began to see the raid on the gambling club in a different light. It had happened just minutes after Michel had left. Flick did not believe in coincidence.
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that whoever was banging on the door had been looking for her. She knew that a small group of men had been playing for high stakes in that room since before the war. The local police certainly knew about the place. Why would they suddenly decide to close it down? If not the police, it must have been the Gestapo. And they were not really interested in gamblers. They went after communists, Jews, homosexuals-and spies.
The story of Michel’s escape had aroused her suspicions from the start, but she had been partly reassured by his insistence that he had not been followed. Now she thought otherwise. His escape must have been faked, like the “rescue” of Brian Standish. She saw the sly brain of Dieter Franck behind this. Someone had followed Michel to the caf‚, guessed at the existence of the secret upstairs room, and hoped to find her there.
In that case, Michel was still under surveillance. If he continued to be careless, he would be trailed to Philippe Moulier’s house tonight, and in the morning, driving the van, he would be followed to the champagne cellar where the Jackdaws were hiding.
And what the hell, Flick thought, am I going to do about that?
THE NINTH DAY Monday, June 5, 1944
CHAPTER 46
DIETER’S MIGRAINE BEGAN shortly after midnight, as he stood in his room at the Hotel Frankfort, looking at the bed he would never again share with Stephanie. He felt that if he could weep, the pain would fade, but no tears came, and he injected himself with morphine and collapsed on the counterpane.
The phone woke him before daylight. It was Walter Goedel, Rommel’s aide. Groggily, Dieter said, “Has the invasion begun?”
“Not today,” Goedel replied. “The weather is bad in the English Channel.”
Dieter sat upright and shook his head to clear it. “What, then?”
“The Resistance were clearly expecting something. Overnight, there has been an eruption of sabotage throughout northern France.” Goedel’s voice, already cool, descended to an arctic chill. “It was supposed to be your job to prevent that. What are you doing in bed?”
Caught off guard, Dieter struggled to regain his usual poise. “I’m right on the tail of the most important of all Resistance leaders,” he said, trying hard not to sound as if he was making excuses for failure. “I almost caught her last night. I’ll arrest her today. Don’t worry-by tomorrow morning we’ll be rounding up terrorists by the hundreds. I promise you.” He immediately regretted the pleading tone of the last three words.
Goedel was unmoved. “After tomorrow, it will probably be too late.”
“I know-” Dieter stopped. The line was dead. Goedel had hung up.
Dieter cradled the phone and looked at his wristwatch. It was four o’clock. He got up.
His migraine had gone, but he felt queasy, either from the morphine or the unpleasant phone call. He drank a glass of water and swallowed three aspirins, then began to shave. As he lathered his face, he nervously ran over the events of the previous evening, asking himself if he had done everything possible.