“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-C‚cile. 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 21
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 penflies. 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.”