She quickly turned her back, heart pounding, and prayed that he had not noticed her. With her dark wig, there was a good chance he would not have recognized her at first glance.
His name came back to her: Dieter Franck. She had found his photograph in Percy Thwaite’s files. He was a former police detective. She recalled the note on the back of his photo: “A star of Rommel’s intelligence staff, this officer is said to be a skilled interrogator and a ruthless torturer.”
For the second time in a week, she was close enough to shoot him.
Flick did not believe in coincidence. There was a reason he was here at the same time as she.
She soon found out what it was. She looked again and saw him striding across the restaurant toward her, with four Gestapo types trailing him. The head waiter came after them, a look of panic on his face.
Keeping her face averted, Flick walked away.
Franck went straight to Diana’s table.
The whole place suddenly became quiet: customers fell silent in midsentence, waiters stopped serving vegetables, the sommelier froze with a decanter of claret in his hand.
Flick reached the doorway, where Ruby stood waiting. Ruby whispered, “He’s going to arrest them.” Her hand moved toward her gun.
Flick again caught the eye of the SS major. “Leave it in your pocket,” she murmured. “There’s nothing we can do. We might take on him and four Gestapo men, but we’re surrounded by German officers. Even if we killed all those five we’d be mowed down by the others.”
Franck was questioning Diana and Maude. Flick could not make out the words. Diana’s voice took on the tone of supercilious indifference she used when she was in the wrong. Maude became tearful.
Franck must have asked for their papers, because the two women simultaneously reached for their handbags, on the floor beside their chairs. Franck shifted his position so that he was to one side of Diana and slightly behind her, looking over her shoulder, and suddenly Flick knew what was going to happen next.
Maude took out her identity papers, but Diana pulled a gun. A shot rang out, and one of the uniformed Gestapo men doubled over and fell. The restaurant erupted. Women screamed, men dived for cover. There was a second shot, and another Gestapo man cried out. Some diners ran for the exit.
Diana’s gun hand moved toward a third Gestapo man. Flick had a flash of memory: Diana in the woods at Somersholme, sitting on the ground smoking a cigarette with dead rabbits all around her. She remembered what she had said to Diana: “You’re a killer.” She had been right.
But Diana did not fire the third shot.
Dieter Franck kept a cool head. He seized Diana’s right forearm with both his hands and banged her wrist on the edge of the table. She screamed with pain and the gun fell from her grasp. He yanked her out of her chair, threw her facedown on the carpet, and fell on her with both knees in the small of her back. He pulled her hands behind her back and handcuffed her, ignoring the screams of pain she gave as he jerked her injured wrist. He stood up.
Flick said to Ruby, “Let’s get out of here.”
There was a crush at the doorway, panicky men and women all trying to pass through at the same time. Before Flick could move, the young SS major who had been staring at her earlier sprang to his feet and grabbed her arm. “Wait a moment,” he said in French.
Flick fought down panic. “Take your hands off me!” He tightened his grip. “You seem to know those women over there,” he said.
“No, I don’t!” She tried to move away.
He pulled her back with a jerk. “You’d better stay here and answer some questions.”
There was another shot. Several women screamed, but no one knew where the shot had come from. The SS officer’s face twisted in a grimace of agony. As he slumped to the floor, Flick saw Ruby, behind him, slipping her pistol back into her raincoat pocket.
They both forced their way through the crowd at the door, shoving ruthlessly, and burst out into the lobby. They were able to run without drawing attention to themselves, because everyone else was running.