The challenge was to capture agents without letting London know. If the thing was handled right, the Allies would send more people along the same route, wasting vast resources. It had been done in Holland: more than fifty expensively trained saboteurs had parachuted straight into the arms of the Germans.
Ideally, the next agent sent by London would go to the crypt of the cathedral and find Mademoiselle Lemas waiting there. She would take the agent home, and he would send a wireless message to London saying all was well. Then, when he was out of the house, Dieter could get hold of his code books. After that, Dieter could arrest the agent but continue to send messages to London in his name-and read the replies. In effect, he would be running a Resistance circuit that was entirely fictional. It was a thrilling prospect.
Willi Weber walked by. “Well, Major, has the prisoner talked?”
“She has.”
“Not a moment too soon. Did she say anything useful?”
“You may tell your superiors that she has revealed the location of her rendezvous and the passwords used. We can pick up any further agents as they arrive.”
Weber looked interested despite his hostility. “And where is the rendezvous?”
Dieter hesitated. He would have preferred not to tell Weber anything. But it was difficult to refuse without giving offense, and he needed the man’s help. He had to tell him. “The cathedral crypt, afternoons at three.”
“I shall inform Paris.” Weber walked on.
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 chƒteau. 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 caf‚. 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.”