“I’m not sure I can.”
“For God’s sake, man!” Goedel raised his voice. “We’re trying to defend the entire Atlantic coastline with a handful of soldiers, and you’re surrounded by able-bodied men who have nothing better to do than track down scared old Jews hiding in barns. Get on with the job and don’t pester me!” There was a click as the phone was hung up.
Dieter was startled. It was uncharacteristic for Goedel to blow his top. No doubt they were all tense about the threat of invasion. But the upshot was clear. Dieter had to do this on his own.
With a sigh, he jiggled the rest and placed a call to the chƒteau at Sainte-C‚cile.
He reached Willi Weber. “I’m going to raid a Resistance house,” he said. “I may need some of your heavyweights. Will you send four men and a car to the Hotel Frankfort? Or do I need to speak to Rommel again?”
The threat was unnecessary. Weber was keen to have his men along on the operation. That way, the Gestapo could claim the credit for any success. He promised a car in half an hour.
Dieter was worried about working with the Gestapo. He could not control them. But he had no choice.
While shaving, he turned on the radio, which was tuned to a German station. He learned that the first-ever tank battle in the Pacific theater had developed yesterday on the island of Biak. The occupying Japanese had driven the invading American 162d Infantry back to their beachhead. Push them into the sea, Dieter thought.
He dressed in a dark gray worsted suit, a fine cotton shirt with pale gray stripes, and a black tie with small white dots. The dots were woven into the fabric rather than printed on it, a detail that gave him pleasure. He thought for a moment, then removed the jacket and strapped on a shoulder holster. He took his Walther P38 automatic pistol from the bureau and slid it into the holster, then put his jacket back on.
He sat down with a cup of coffee and watched Stephanie dressing. The French made the most beautiful underwear in the world, he thought as she stepped into silk cami-knickers the color of clotted cream. He loved to see her pull on her stockings, smoothing the silk over her thighs. “Why did the old masters not paint this moment?” he said.
“Because Renaissance women didn’t have sheer silk stockings,” said Stephanie.
When she was ready, they left.
Hans Hesse was waiting outside with Dieter’s Hispano-Suiza. The young man gazed at Stephanie with awestruck admiration. To him, she was infinitely desirable and at the same time untouchable. He made Dieter think of a poor woman staring into Cartier’s shop window.
Behind Dieter’s car was a black Citro‰n Traction Avant containing four Gestapo men in plain clothes. Major Weber had decided to come himself, Dieter saw: he sat in the front passenger seat of the Citro‰n, wearing a green tweed suit that made him look like a farmer on his way to church. “Follow me,” Dieter told him. “When we get there, please stay in your car until I call you.”
Weber said, “Where the hell did you get a car like that?”
“It was a bribe from a Jew,” Dieter said. “I helped him escape to America.”
Weber grunted in disbelief, but in fact the story was true.
Bravado was the best attitude to take with men such as Weber. If Dieter had tried to keep Stephanie hidden away, Weber would immediately have suspected that she was Jewish and might have started an investigation. But because Dieter flaunted her, the thought never crossed Weber’s mind.
Hans took the wheel, and they headed for the rue du Bois.
Reims was a substantial country town with a population of more than 100,000, but there were few motor vehicles on the streets. Cars were used only by those on official business: the police, doctors, firemen, and, of course, the Germans. The citizens went about by bicycle or on foot. Petrol was available for deliveries of food and other essential supplies, but many goods were transported by horse-drawn cart. Champagne was the main industry here. Dieter loved champagne in all its forms: the nutty older vintages, the fresh, light, nonvintage cuv‚es, the refined blanc de blancs, the demi-sec dessert varieties, even the playful pink beloved of Paris courtesans.