"Now, remember, the object is to inflict unbearable agony without endangering the subject's life or his ability to tell us what we need to know. Avoid vital organs. Concentrate on the bony parts: ankles, shins, kneecaps, fingers, elbows, shoulders, ribs."
A crafty look came over Becker's face. He walked around the pillar, then, taking careful aim, struck hard at Bertrand's elbow with the steel bar. The boy gave a scream of real agony, a sound Dieter recognized.
Becker looked pleased. God forgive me, Dieter thought, for teaching this brute how to inflict pain more efficiently.
On Dieter's orders, Becker struck at Bertrand's bony shoulder, then his hand, then his ankle. Dieter made Becker pause between blows, allowing just enough time for the pain to ease slightly and for the subject to begin to dread the next stroke.
Bertrand began to appeal for mercy. "No more, please," he implored, hysterical with pain and fear. Becker raised the crowbar, but Dieter stopped him. He wanted the begging to go on. "Please don't hit me again," Bertrand cried. "Please, please."
Dieter said to Becker, "It is often a good idea to break a leg early in the interview. The pain is quite excruciating, especially when the broken bone is struck again." He selected a sledgehammer from the umbrella stand. "Just below the knee," he said, handing it to Becker. "As hard as you can."
Becker took careful aim and swung mightily. The crack as the shin broke was loud enough to hear. Bertrand screamed and fainted. Becker picked up a bucket of water that stood in a corner and threw the water in Bertrand's face. The young man came to and screamed again.
Eventually, the screams subsided to heartrending groans. "What do you want?" Bertrand implored. "Please, tell me what you want from me!" Dieter did not ask him any questions. Instead, he handed the steel crowbar to Becker and pointed to the broken leg where a jagged white edge of bone stuck through the flesh. Becker struck the leg at that point. Bertrand screamed and passed out again.
Dieter thought that might be enough.
He went into the next room. Gaston sat where Dieter had left him, but he was a different man. He was bent over in his chair, face in his hands, crying with great sobs, moaning and praying to God. Dieter knelt in front of him and prized his hands away from his wet face. Gaston looked at him through tears. Dieter said softly, "Only you can make it stop."
"Please, stop it, please," Gaston moaned.
"Will you answer my questions?"
There was a pause. Bertrand screamed again. "Yes!" Gaston yelled. "Yes, yes, I'll tell you everything, if you just stop!"
Dieter raised his voice. "Sergeant Becker!"
"Yes, Major?"
"No more for now."
"Yes, Major." Becker sounded disappointed.
Dieter reverted to French. "Now, Gaston, let's begin with the leader of the circuit. Name and code name. Who is he?"
Gaston hesitated. Dieter looked toward the open door of the torture chamber. Gaston quickly said, "Michel Clairet. Code name Monet."
It was the breakthrough. The first name was the hardest. The rest would follow effortlessly. Concealing his satisfaction, Dieter gave Gaston a cigarette and held a match. "Where does he live?"
"In Reims." Gaston blew out smoke and his shaking began to subside. He gave an address near the cathedral.
Dieter nodded to Lieutenant Hesse, who took out a notebook and began to record Gaston's responses. Patiently, Dieter took Gaston through each member of the attack team. In a few cases Gaston knew only the code names, and there were two men he claimed never to have seen before Sunday. Dieter believed him. There had been two getaway drivers waiting a short distance away, Gaston said: a young woman called Gilberte and a man codenamed Marechal. There were others in the group, which was known as the Bollinger circuit.
Dieter asked about relationships between Resistance members. Were there any love affairs? Were any of them homosexual? Was anyone sleeping with someone else's wife?
Although the torture had stopped, Bertrand continued to groan and sometimes scream with the agony of his wounds, and now Gaston said, "Is he going to be looked after?"
Dieter shrugged.
"Please, get a doctor for him."
"Very well… when we have finished our talk."
Gaston told Dieter that Michel and Gilberte were lovers, even though Michel was married to Flick, the blond girl in the square.
So far, Gaston had been talking about a circuit that was mostly destroyed, so his information had been mainly of academic interest. Now Dieter moved on to more important questions. "When Allied agents come to this district, how do they make contact?"
No one was supposed to know how that was handled, Gaston said. There was a cut-out. However, he knew part of the story. The agents were met by a woman code-named Bourgeoise. Gaston did not know where she met them, but she took them to her home; then she passed them on to Michel.
No one had ever met Bourgeoise, not even Michel.
Dieter was disappointed that Gaston knew so little about the woman. But that was the idea of a cut-out.
"Do you know where she lives?"
Gaston nodded. "One of the agents gave it away. She has a house in the rue du Bois. Number eleven."
Dieter tried not to look jubilant. This was a key fact. The enemy would probably send more agents in an attempt to rebuild the Bollinger circuit. Dieter might be able to catch them at the safe house.
"And when they leave?"
They were picked up by plane in a field codenamed Champ de Pierre, actually a pasture near the village of Chatelle, Gaston revealed. There was an alternative landing field, codenamed Champ d'Or, but he did not know where it was.
Dieter asked Gaston about liaison with London. Who had ordered the attack on the telephone exchange? Gaston explained that Flick-Major Clairet-was the circuit's commanding officer, and she had brought orders from London. Dieter was intrigued. A woman in command. But he had seen her courage under fire. She would make a good leader.
In the next room, Bertrand began to pray aloud for death to come. "Please," Gaston said. "A doctor."
"Just tell me about Major Clairet." Dieter said. "Then I'll get someone to give Bertrand an injection."
"She is a very important person," Gaston said, eager now to give Dieter information that would satisfy him. "They say she has survived longer than anyone else undercover. She has been all over northern France."
Dieter was spellbound. "She has contact with different circuits?"
"So I believe."
That was unusual-and it meant she could be a fountain of information about the French Resistance. Dieter said, "She got away yesterday after the skirmish. Where do you think she went?"
"Back to London, I'm sure," Gaston said. "To report on the raid."
Dieter cursed silently. He wanted her in France, where he could catch her and interrogate her. If he got his hands on her, he could destroy half the French Resistance-as he had promised Rommel. But she was out of reach.
He stood up. "That's all for now," he said. "Hans, get a doctor for the prisoners. I don't want any of them to die today-they may have more to tell us. Then type up your notes and bring them to me in the morning."
"Very good, Major."
"Make a copy for Major Weber-but don't give it to him until I say so."
"Understood."
"I'll drive myself back to the hotel." Dieter went out.
The headache began as he stepped into the open air. Rubbing his forehead with his hand, he made his way to the car and drove out of the village, heading for Reims. The afternoon sun seemed to reflect off the road surface straight into his eyes. These migraines often struck him after an interrogation. In an hour he would be blind and helpless. He had to get back to the hotel before the attack reached its peak. Reluctant to brake, he sounded his horn constantly. Vineyard workers making their slow way home scattered out of his path. Horses reared and a cart was driven into the ditch. His eyes watered with the pain, and he felt nauseous.