“Sit down, Franck,” said Rommel briskly. “What’s on your mind?”
Dieter had rehearsed this. “On your instructions, I’ve been visiting key installations that might be vulnerable to attack by the Resistance and upgrading their security.”
“I’ve also been trying to assess the potential of the Resistance to inflict serious damage. Can they really hamper our response to an invasion?”
“And your conclusion?”
“The situation is worse than we imagined.”
Rommel grunted with distaste, as if an unpleasant suspicion had been confirmed. “Reasons?”
Rommel was not going to bite his head off Dieter relaxed a little. He recounted yesterday’s attack at Sainte-C‚cile: the imaginative planning, the plentiful weaponry, and most of all the bravery of the fighters. The only detail he left out was the beauty of the blonde girl.
Rommel stood up and walked across to the tapestry. He stared at it, but Dieter was sure he did not see it. “I was afraid of this,” Rommel said. He spoke quietly, almost to himself “I can beat off an invasion, even with the few troops I have, if only I can remain mobile and flexible-but if my communications fail, I’m lost.”
Goedel nodded agreement.
Dieter said, “I believe we can turn the attack on the telephone exchange into an opportunity.”
Rommel turned to him with a wry smile. “By God, I wish all my officers were like you. Go on, how will you do this?”
Dieter began to feel the meeting was going his way. “If I can interrogate the captured prisoners, they may lead me to other groups. With luck, we might inflict a lot of damage on the Resistance before the invasion.”
Rominel looked skeptical. “That sounds like bragging.” Dieter’s heart sank. Then Rommel went on. “If anyone else said it, I might send him packing. But I remember your work in the desert. You got men to tell you things they hardly realized they knew.”
Dieter was pleased. Seizing his advantage, he said, “Unfortunately, the Gestapo is refusing me access to the prisoners.”
“They are such imbeciles.”
“I need you to intervene.”
“Of course.” Rommel looked at Goedel. “Call avenue Foch.” The Gestapo’s French headquarters was at 84 avenue Foch in Paris. “Tell them that Major Franck will interrogate the prisoners today, or their next phone call will come from Berchtesgaden.” He was referring to Hitler’s Bavarian fortress. Rommel never hesitated to use the Field Marshal’s privilege of direct access to Hitler.
“Very good,” said Goedel.
Rommel walked around his seventeenth-century desk and sat down again. “Keep me informed, please, Franck,” he said, and returned his attention to his papers.
Dieter and Goedel left the room.
Goedel walked Dieter to the main door of the castle.
Outside, it was still dark.
CHAPTER 7
FLICK LANDED AT RAF Tempsford, an airstrip fifty miles north of London, near the village of Sandy in Bedfordshire. She would have known, just from the cool, damp taste of the night air in her mouth, that she was back in England. She loved France, but this was home.
Walking across the airfield, she remembered coming back from holidays as a child. Her mother would always say the same thing as the house came into view: “It’s nice to go away, but it’s nice to come home.” The things her mother said came back to her at the oddest moments.
A young woman in the uniform of a FANY corporal was waiting with a powerful Jaguar to drive her to London. “This is luxurious,” Flick said as she settled into the leather seat.
“I’m to take you directly to Orchard Court,” the driver said. “They’re waiting to debrief you.”
Flick rubbed her eyes. “Christ,” she said feelingly. “Do they think we don’t need sleep?”
The driver did not respond to that. Instead she said, “I hope the mission went well, Major.”
“It was a snafu.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Snafu,” Flick repeated. “It’s an acronym. It stands for Situation Normal All Fucked Up.”
The woman fell silent. Flick guessed she was embarrassed. It was nice, she thought ruefully, that there were still girls to whom the language of the barracks was shocking.
Dawn broke as the fast car sped through the Hertfordshire villages of Stevenage and Knebworth. Flick looked out at the modest houses with vegetables growing in the front gardens, the country post offices where grumpy postmistresses resentfully doled out penny stamps, and the assorted pubs with their warm beer and battered pianos, and she felt profoundly grateful that the Nazis had not got this far.