Dieter began to put himself in the mood. He needed to be completely hard-hearted and calculating. He must not allow himself to be touched by the physical and mental suffering he was about to inflict on human beings. All that mattered was whether it worked. He closed his eyes and felt a profound calm settle over him, a familiar bone-deep chill that he sometimes thought must be like the cold of death itself.
The car pulled into the grounds of the chƒteau. Workmen were repairing the smashed glass in the windows and filling the holes made by grenades. In the ornate hall, the telephonists murmured into their microphones in a perpetual undertone. Dieter marched through the perfectly proportioned rooms of the east wing, with Hans Hesse in tow. They went down the stairs to the fortified basement. The sentry at the door saluted and made no attempt to detain Dieter, who was in uniform. He found the door marked Interrogation Center and went in.
In the outer room, Willi Weber sat at the table. Dieter barked, “Heil Hitler!” and saluted, forcing Weber to stand. Then Dieter pulled out a chair, sat down, and said, “Please be seated, Major.”
Weber was furious at being invited to sit in his own headquarters, but he had no choice.
Dieter said, “How many prisoners do we have?”
“Three.”
Dieter was disappointed. “So few?”
“We killed eight of the enemy in the skirmish. Two more died of their wounds overnight.”
Dieter grunted with dismay. He had ordered that the wounded be kept alive. But there was no point now in questioning Weber about their treatment.
Weber went on, “I believe two escaped-”
“Yes,” Dieter said. “The woman in the square, and the man she carried away.”
“Exactly. So, from a total of fifteen attackers, we have three prisoners.”
“Where are they?”
Weber looked shifty. “Two are in the cells.”
Dieter narrowed his eyes. “And the third?”
Weber inclined his head toward the inner room. “The third is under interrogation at this moment.”
Dieter got up, apprehensive, and opened the door. The hunched figure of Sergeant Becker stood just inside the room, holding in his hand a wooden club like a large policeman’s truncheon. He was sweating and breathing hard, as if he had been taking vigorous exercise. He was staring at a prisoner who was tied to a post.
Dieter looked at the prisoner, and his fears were confirmed. Despite his self-imposed calm, he grimaced with revulsion. The prisoner was the young woman, Genevieve, who had carried a Sten gun under her coat. She was naked, tied to the pillar by a rope that passed under her arms and supported her slumped weight. Her face was so swollen that she could not have opened her eyes. Blood from her mouth covered her chin and most of her chest. Her body was discolored with angry bruises. One arm hung at an odd angle, apparently dislocated at the shoulder. Her pubic hair was matted with blood.
Dieter said to Becker, “What has she told you?”
Becker looked embarrassed. “Nothing.”
Dieter nodded, suppressing his rage. It was as he had expected.
He went close to the woman. “Genevieve, listen to me,” he said in French.
She showed no sign of having heard.
“Would you like to rest now?” he tried.
There was no response.
He turned around. Weber was standing in the doorway, looking defiant. Dieter, coldly furious, said, “You were expressly told that I would conduct the interrogation.”
“We were ordered to give you access,” Weber replied with smug pedantry. “We were not prohibited from questioning the prisoners ourselves.”
“And are you satisfied with the results you have achieved?”
Weber did not answer.
Dieter said, “What about the other two?”
“We have not yet begun their interrogation.”
“Thank God for that.” Dieter was nonetheless dismayed. He had expected half a dozen subjects, not two. “Take me to them.”
Weber nodded at Becker, who put down his club and led the way out of the room. In the bright lights of the corridor, Dieter could see the bloodstains on Becker’s uniform. The sergeant stopped at a door with a judas peephole. Dieter slid back the panel and looked inside.