Getting here was the simple part. Now he had to find Flick. His only way of contacting her would be via the Bollinger circuit. He had to hope that part of the circuit was left intact, and Brian was the only member in Gestapo custody. Like every new agent dropping in to Reims, he would contact Mademoiselle Lemas. He would just have to be especially cautious.
Soon after first light he heard a vehicle. He stepped off the road into the field alongside and concealed himself behind a row of vines. As the noise came closer, he realized the vehicle was a tractor. That was safe enough: the Gestapo never traveled by tractor. He returned to the road and thumbed a lift.
The tractor was driven by a boy of about fifteen and was pulling a cartload of artichokes. The driver nodded at Paul’s leg and said, “War wound?”
“Yes,” Paul said. The likeliest moment for a French soldier to have been hurt was during the Battle of France, so he added: “Sedan, nineteen-forty.”
“I was too young,” the boy said regretfully.
“Lucky you.”
“But wait till the Allies come back. Then you’ll see some action.” He gave Paul a sideways look. “I can’t say any more. But you wait and see.”
Paul thought hard. Was this lad a member of the Bollinger circuit? He said, “But do our people have the guns and ammunition they need?” If the boy knew anything at all, he would know that the Allies had dropped tons of weaponry in the past few months.
“We’ll use whatever weapons come to hand.”
Was he being discreet about what he knew? No, Paul thought. The boy looked vague. He was fantasizing. Paul said no more.
The lad dropped him off on the outskirts, and he limped into town. The rendezvous had changed, from the cathedral crypt to the Caf‚ de la Gare, but the time was the same, three o’clock in the afternoon. He had hours to kill.
He went into the caf‚ to get breakfast and reconnoitre. He asked for black coffee. The elderly waiter raised his eyebrows, and Paul realized he had made a slip. Hastily, he tried to cover up. “No need to say ‘black,’ I suppose,” he said. “You probably don’t have any milk anyway.”
The waiter smiled, reassured. “Unfortunately not.” He went away.
Paul breathed out. It was eight months since he had been undercover in France, and he had forgotten the minute-to-minute strain of pretending to be someone else.
He spent the morning dozing through services in the cathedral, then went back into the caf‚ at one-thirty for lunch. The place emptied out around two-thirty, and he stayed drinking ersatz coffee. Two men came in at two forty-five and ordered beer. Paul looked hard at them. They wore old business suits and talked about grapes in colloquial French. They were eruditely discussing the flowering of the vines, a critical period that had just ended. He did not think they could possibly be agents of the Gestapo.
At exactly three o’clock a tall, attractive woman came in, dressed with unobtrusive elegance in a summer frock of plain green cotton and a straw hat. She wore odd shoes: one black, one brown. This must be Bourgeoise.
Paul was a little surprised. He had expected an older woman. However, that was probably an unwarranted assumption: Flick had never actually described her.
All the same, he was not yet ready to trust her. He got up and left the caf‚.
He walked along the pavement to the railway station and stood in the entrance, watching the caf‚. He was not conspicuous: as usual, there were several people hanging around the station waiting to meet friends.
He monitored the caf‚’s clientele. A woman walked by with a child who was demanding pastry and, as they reached the caf‚, the mother gave in and took the child inside. The two grape experts left. A gendarme went in and came out immediately with a packet of cigarettes in his hand.
Paul began to believe this was not a Gestapo trap. There was no one in sight who looked remotely dangerous. Changing the location of the rendezvous had shaken them off