Dieter, too, had never done this before. He had no idea whether it would work. All kinds of things could go wrong and anything could happen.
What Dieter had planned was desperate, but what did he have to lose? Tuesday was the night of the full moon. He felt sure the Allies were about to invade. Flick was the grand prize. She was worth a great deal of risk.
But winning the war was no longer what most occupied his mind. His future had been wrecked; he hardly cared who ruled Europe. He thought constantly of Flick Clairet. She had ruined his life; she had murdered Stephanie. He wanted to find Flick, and capture her, and take her to the basement of the chƒteau. There he would taste the satisfaction of revenge. He fantasized constantly about how he would torture her: the iron rods that would smash her small bones, the electric shock machine turned up to maximum, the injections that would render her helpless with great wrenching spasms of nausea, the ice bath that would give her shivering convulsions and freeze the blood in her fingers. Destroying the Resistance, and repelling the invaders, had become merely part of his punishment of Flick.
But first he had to find her.
In the distance he saw a black Citro‰n.
He stared at it. Was this the one? It was a two-door model, the kind always used when transporting a prisoner. He tried to see inside. He thought there were four people altogether. This had to be the car he was waiting for. It drew nearer, and he recognized the handsome face of Michelin the back, guarded by a uniformed Gestapo man. He tensed.
He was glad now that he had given orders that Michel was not to be tortured while Dieter was away. This scheme would not have been possible otherwise.
As the Citro‰n came level with Dieter, Hans suddenly pulled away from the curb in the old Peugeot. The car swung out into the road, leaped forward, and smashed straight into the front of the Citro‰n.
There was a clatter of crumpling metal and a medley of breaking glass. The two Gestapo men leaped out of the front of the Citro‰n and began yelling at Hans in bad French-seeming not to notice that their colleague in the back appeared to have banged his head and was slumped, apparently unconscious, beside his prisoner.
This was the critical moment, Dieter thought, his nerves strung like wire. Would Michel take the bait? He stared at the tableau in the middle of the street.
It took Michel a long moment to realize his opportunity. Dieter almost thought he would fail to seize it. Then he seemed to come to. He reached over the front seats, fumbled at the door catch with bound hands, succeeded in getting the door open, pushed down the seat, and scrambled out.
He glanced at the two Gestapo men still arguing with Hans. They had their backs to him. He turned and walked quickly away. His expression said he could hardly believe his good luck.
Dieter’s heart leaped with triumph. His plan was working.
He followed Michel.
Hans followed Dieter on foot.
Dieter rode the bicycle for a few yards; then he found himself catching up with Michel, so he got off and pushed it along the pavement. Michel turned the first Corner, limping slightly from his bullet wound but walking fast, holding his bound hands low in front of him to make them less conspicuous. Dieter followed discreetly, sometimes walking, sometimes riding, dropping back out of Michel’s sight whenever he could, taking cover behind high-sided vehicles if he got the chance. Michel occasionally glanced back but made no systematic attempt to shake off a tail. He had no notion that he was being tricked.
After a few minutes, Hans overtook Dieter, by arrangement, and Dieter dropped back to follow Hans. Then they switched again.
Where would Michel go? It was essential to Dieter’s plan that Michel should lead him to other Resistance members, so that he could once again pick up Flick’s trail.
To Dieter’s surprise, Michel headed for his house near the cathedral. Surely he must suspect that his home was under surveillance? Nevertheless, he turned into the street. However, he did not go to his own place but entered a bar across the street called Chez Regis.