He followed her to the tiny room-formerly a boot cupboard, he guessed-that served as Jean Bevins’s office. Jean had a sheet of paper in her hand. She looked annoyed. “I can’t understand this,” she said.
Paul read it quickly.
CALLSIGN HLCP (HELICOPTER)
SECURITY TAG PRESENT
JUN 3 1944
MESSAGE READS:
TWO STENS WITH SIX MAGAZINES
FOR EACH STOP ONE LEE ENFELD RIFLE
WITH TEN CLIPS STOP SIX COLT AUTOMATICS WITH APPROXIMATELY ONE HUNDRED ROUNDS STOP NO GRENADES OVER
Paul stared at the decrypt in dismay, as if hoping the words might change to something less horrifying, but of course they remained the same.
“I expected him to be furious,” Jean said. “He doesn’t complain at all, just answers your questions, as nice as pie.”
“Exactly,” said Paul. “That’s because it’s not him.” This message did not come from a harassed agent in the field who had been presented with a sudden unreasonable request by his bureaucratic superiors. The reply had been drafted by a Gestapo officer desperate to maintain the smooth appearance of calm normality. The only spelling mistake was “Enfeld” instead of “Enfield,” and even that suggested a German, for “feld” was German for “field.”
There was no longer any doubt. Flick was in terrible danger.
Paul massaged his temples with his right hand. There was now only one thing to do. The operation was falling apart, and he had to save it-and Flick.
He looked up at Jean, and caught her looking at him with an expression of compassion. “May I use your phone?” he said.
“Of course.”
He dialed Baker Street. Percy was at his desk. “This is Paul. I’m convinced Brian has been captured. His radio is being operated by the Gestapo.” In the background, Jean Bevins gasped.
“Oh, hell,” Percy said. “And without the radio, we have no way to warn Flick.”
“Yes, we do,” said Paul.
“How?”
“Get me a plane. I’m going to Reims-tonight.”
THE EIGHTH DAY Sunday, June 4, 1944
CHAPTER 38
THE AVENUE FOCH seemed to have been built for the richest people in the world. A wide road running from the Arc de Triomphe to the Bois de Boulogne, it had ornamental gardens on both sides flanked by inner roads giving access to the palatial houses. Number 84 was an elegant residence with a broad staircase leading to five stories of charming rooms. The Gestapo had turned it into a house of torture.
Dieter sat in a perfectly proportioned drawing room, stared at the intricately decorated ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes, preparing himself for the interrogation. He had to sharpen his wits and at the same time numb his feelings.
Some men enjoyed torturing prisoners. Sergeant Becker in Reims was one. They smiled when their victims screamed, they got erections as they inflicted wounds, and they experienced orgasms during their victims’ death throes. But they were not good interrogators, for they focused on pain rather than information. The best torturers were men such as Dieter who loathed the process from the bottom of their hearts.
Now he imagined himself closing doors in his soul, shutting his emotions away in cupboards. He thought of the two women as pieces of machinery that would disgorge information as soon as he figured out how to switch them on. He felt a familiar coldness settle over him like a blanket of snow, and he knew he was ready.
“Bring the older one,” he said.
Lieutenant Hesse went to fetch her.
He watched her carefully as she came in and sat in the chair. She had short hair and broad shoulders and wore a man-tailored suit. Her right hand hung limply, and she was supporting the swollen forearm with her left hand: Dieter had broken her wrist. She was obviously in pain, her face pale and gleaming with sweat, but her lips were set in a line of grim determination.
He spoke to her in French. “Everything that happens in this room is under your control,” he said. “The decisions you make, the things you say, will either cause you unbearable pain or bring you relief. It is entirely up to you.”
She said nothing. She was scared, but she did not panic. She was going to be difficult to break, he could tell already.