"Is it far?" Helicopter said eagerly.
"Center of town."
Monet, whose real name was Michel Clairet, would not be at home. He was no longer using the house; Dieter had checked. The neighbors claimed to have no idea where he was. Dieter was not surprised. Monet had guessed that his name and address would be given away by one of his comrades under interrogation, and he had gone into hiding.
Helicopter began to close up the radio. Dieter said, "Does that battery need recharging from time to time?"
"Yes-in fact they tell us to plug it in at every opportunity, so that it's always fully charged."
"So why don't you leave it where it is for now? We can come back for it later, by which time it will be charged. If anyone should come in the meantime, Bourgeoise can hide it away in a few seconds."
"Good idea."
"Then let's go." Dieter led the way to the garage and backed the Simca Cinq out. Then he said, "Wait here a minute, I have to tell Bourgeoise something."
He went back into the house. Stephanie was in the kitchen, staring at the suitcase radio on the kitchen table. Dieter took the one-time pad and the silk handkerchief from the accessories compartment. "How long will it take you to copy these?" he said.
She made a face. "All those gibberish letters? At least an hour."
"Do it as fast as you can, but don't make any mistakes. I'll keep him out for an hour and a half."
He returned to the car and drove Helicopter into the city center.
Michel Clairet's home was a small, elegant town house near the cathedral. Dieter waited in the car while Helicopter went to the door. After a few minutes, the agent came back and said, "No answer."
"You can try again in the morning," Dieter said. "Meanwhile, I know a bar used by the Resistance." He knew no such thing. "Let's go there and see if I recognize anyone."
He parked near the station and picked a bar at random. The two of them sat drinking watery beer for an hour, then returned to the rue du Bois.
When they entered the kitchen, Stephanie gave Dieter a slight nod. He took it to mean she had succeeded in copying everything. "Now," Dieter said to Helicopter, "you'd probably like a bath, having spent a night in the open. And you certainly should shave. I'll show you your room, and Bourgeoise will run your bath."
"How kind you are."
Dieter put him in an attic room, the one farthest from the bathroom. As soon as he heard the man splashing in the bath, he went into the room and searched his clothes. Helicopter had a change of underwear and socks, all bearing the labels of French shops. In his jacket pockets were French cigarettes and matches, a handkerchief with a French label, and a wallet. In the wallet was a lot of cash-half a million francs, enough to buy a luxury car, if there had been any new cars for sale. The identity papers seemed impeccable, though they had to be forgeries.
There was also a photograph.
Dieter stared at it in surprise. It showed Flick Clairet. There was no mistake. It was the woman he had seen in the square at Sainte-Cecile. Finding it was a wonderful piece of luck for Dieter-and a disaster for her.
She was wearing a swimsuit that revealed muscular legs and suntanned arms. Beneath the costume she had neat breasts, a small waist, and delightfully rounded hips. There was a glimmer of moisture, either water or perspiration, at her throat, and she was looking into the camera with a faint smile. Behind her and slightly out of focus, two young men in bathing trunks seemed about to dive into a river. The picture had obviously been taken at an innocent swimming party. But her semi nakedness, the wetness at her throat, and the slight smile combined to make a picture that seemed sexually charged. Had it not been for the boys in the background, she might have been about to take the swimsuit off and reveal her body to the person behind the camera. That was how a woman smiled at her man when she wanted him to make love to her, Dieter thought. He could see why a young fellow would treasure the photo.
Agents were not supposed to carry photos with them into enemy territory-for very good reasons. Helicopter's passion for Flick Clairet might destroy her, and much of the French Resistance too.
Dieter slipped the photo into his pocket and left the room. All in all, he thought, he had done a very good day's work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Paul Chancellor spent the day fighting the military bureaucracy-persuading, threatening, pleading, cajoling, and as a last resort using the name of Monty-and, in the end, he got a plane for the team's parachute training tomorrow.
When he caught the train back to Hampshire, he found he was eager to see Flick again. He liked her a lot. She was smart, tough, and a pleasure to look at. He wished to hell she was single.
On the train he read the war news in the paper. The long lull on the eastern front had been broken, yesterday, by a surprisingly powerful German attack in Rumania. The continuing resilience of the Germans was formidable. They were in retreat everywhere, but they kept fighting back.
The train was delayed, and he missed six o'clock dinner at the Finishing School. After dinner there was always another lecture; then at nine the students were free to relax for an hour or so before bed. Paul found most of the team gathered in the drawing room of the house, which had a bookcase, a cupboard full of games, a wireless set, and a half-size billiards table. He sat on the sofa beside Flick and said quietly, "How did it go today?"
"Better than we had a right to expect," she said. "But everything is so compressed. I don't know how much they're going to remember when they're in the field."
"I guess anything is better than nothing."
Percy Thwaite and Jelly were playing poker for pennies. Jelly was a real character, Paul thought. How could a professional safebreaker consider herself a respectable English lady? "How was Jelly?" he asked Flick.
"Not bad. She has more difficulty than the others with the physical training but, my goodness, she just grit her teeth and got on with it, and in the end she did everything the youngsters did." Flick paused and frowned.
Paul said, "What?"
"Her hostility to Greta is a problem."
"It's not surprising that an Englishwoman should hate Germans."
"It's illogical, though-Greta has suffered more from the Nazis than Jelly has."
"Jelly doesn't know that."
"She knows that Greta's prepared to fight against the Nazis."
"People aren't logical about these things."
"Too bloody right."
Greta herself was talking to Denise. Or rather, Paul thought, Denise was talking and Greta was listening. "My stepbrother, Lord Foules, pilots fighter-bombers," he heard her say in her half-swallowed aristocratic accent. "He's been training to fly support missions for the invasion troops."
Paul frowned. "Did you hear that?" he asked Flick.
"Yes. Either she's making it up, or she's being dangerously indiscreet."
He studied Denise. She was a rawboned girl who always looked as if she had just been insulted. He did not think she was fantasizing. "She doesn't seem the imaginative type," he said.
"I agree. I think she's giving away real secrets."
"I'd better arrange a little test tomorrow."
"Okay."
Paul wanted to get Flick to himself so that they could talk more freely. "Let's take a stroll around the garden," he said.
They stepped outside. The air was warm and there was an hour of daylight left. The house had a large garden with several acres of lawn dotted with trees. Maude and Diana were sitting on a bench under a copper beech. Maude had flirted with Paul at first, but he had given her no encouragement, and she seemed to have given up. Now she was listening avidly to something Diana was saying, looking into Diana's face with an attitude almost of adoration. "I wonder what Diana's saying?" Paul said. "She's got Maude fascinated."