The sense of loss was like a wound. He had never known a shock like this sudden knowledge that she was gone. She would not throw him that proud glance again; she would no longer turn heads walking through restaurants; he would never again see her pull silk stockings over her perfect calves. Her style and her wit, her fears and her desires, were all canceled, wiped out, ended. He felt as if he had been shot, and had lost part of himself. He whispered her name: at least he had that.
Then he heard a voice behind him.
He cried out, startled.
It came again: a wordless grunt, but human. He leaped to his feet, turning around and wiping the moisture from his eyes. For the first time he noticed two men on the floor. Both wore uniforms. They were Stephanie’s Gestapo bodyguards. They had failed to protect her, but at least they had given their lives trying.
Or one of them had.
One lay still, but the other was trying to speak. He was a young chap, nineteen or twenty, with black hair and a small mustache. His uniform cap lay on the linoleum floor beside his head.
Dieter stepped across the room and knelt beside him. He noted exit wounds in the chest: the man had been shot from behind. He was lying in a pool of blood. His head jerked and his lips were moving. Dieter put his ear to the man’s mouth.
“Water,” the man whispered.
He was bleeding to death. They always asked for water near the end, Dieter knew-he had seen it in the desert. He found a cup, filled it at the tap, and held it to the man’s lips. He drank it all, the water dribbling down his chin onto his blood-soaked tunic.
Dieter knew he should phone for a doctor, but he had to find out what had happened here. If he delayed, the man might expire without telling what he knew. Dieter hesitated only a moment over the decision. The man was dispensable. Dieter would question him first, then call the doctor. “Who was it?” he said, and he bent his head again to hear the dying man’s whispers.
“Four women,” the man said hoarsely.
“The Jackdaws,” Dieter said bitterly.
“Two at the front… two at the back.”
Dieter nodded. He could visualize the course of events. Stephanie had gone to the front door to answer the knock. The Gestapo men had stood ready, looking toward the hail. The terrorists had sneaked up to the kitchen windows and shot them from behind. And then…
“Who killed Stephanie?”
“Water..
Dieter controlled his sense of urgency with an effort of will. He went to the sink, refilled the cup, and put it to the man’s mouth again. Once again he drank it all, and sighed with relief, a sigh that turned into a dreadful groan.
“Who killed Stephanie?” Dieter repeated.
“The small one,” said the Gestapo man.
“Flick,” said Dieter, and his heart filled with a raging desire for revenge.
The man whispered: “I’m sorry, Major..
“How did it happen?”
“Quick… it was very quick.”
“Tell me.”
“They tied her up… said she was a traitor… gun to the back of the head… then they went away.”
“Traitor?” Dieter said.
The man nodded.
Dieter choked back a sob. “She never shot anyone in the back of the head,” he said in a grief-stricken whisper.
The Gestapo man did not hear him. His lips were still and his breathing had stopped.
Dieter reached out with his right hand and closed the man’s eyelids gently with his fingertips. “Rest in peace,” he said.
Then, keeping his back to the body of the woman he loved, he went to the phone.
CHAPTER 43
IT WAS A struggle to fit five people into the Simca Cinq. Ruby and Jelly sat on the rudimentary backseat.
Paul drove. Greta took the front passenger seat, and
Flick sat on Greta’s lap.
Ordinarily they would have giggled about it, but they were in a somber mood. They had killed three people, and they had come close to’ being captured by the Gestapo. Now they were watchful, hyper alert, ready to react fast to anything that happened. They had nothing on their minds but survival.