She tried to move forward, but Dieter held her tightly, and Hans did the same. "Pray for me," Dieter repeated. "Is that what you say, or what the agent says?"

"The agent-oh, I beg you!"

"And your reply?"

"I pray for peace,' that's my reply."

"Thank you," Dieter said, and released her.

She rushed inside.

Dieter nodded at Stephanie, who followed her in and closed the door.

He could not conceal his satisfaction. "There, Hans, we make progress."

Hans, too, was pleased. "The cathedral crypt, three p.m. any day, black and brown shoes, 'Pray for me,' and the response 'I pray for peace.' Very good!"

"When they come out, put the prisoner in a cell and turn her over to the Gestapo. They'll arrange for her to disappear into a camp somewhere."

Hans nodded. "It seems harsh, sir. Her being an elderly lady, I mean."

"It does-until you think of the German soldiers and French civilians killed by the terrorists she sheltered. Then it seems hardly punishment enough."

"That does throw a different light on it, yes, sir."

"You see how one thing leads to another," Dieter said reflectively. "Gaston gives us a house, the house gives us Mademoiselle Lemas, she gives us the crypt, and the crypt will give us... who knows?" He began to think about the best way to exploit the new information.

The challenge was to capture agents without letting London know. If the thing was handled right, the Allies would send more people along the same route, wasting vast resources. It had been done in Holland: more than fifty expensively trained saboteurs had parachuted straight into the arms of the Germans.

Ideally, the next agent sent by London would go to the crypt of the cathedral and find Mademoiselle Lemas waiting there. She would take the agent home, and he would send a wireless message to London saying all was well. Then, when he was out of the house, Dieter could get hold of his code books. After that, Dieter could arrest the agent but continue to send messages to London in his name-and read the replies. In effect, he would be running a Resistance circuit that was entirely fictional. It was a thrilling prospect.

Willi Weber walked by. "Well, Major, has the prisoner talked?"

"She has."

"Not a moment too soon. Did she say anything useful?"

"You may tell your superiors that she has revealed the location of her rendezvous and the passwords used. We can pick up any further agents as they arrive."

Weber looked interested despite his hostility. "And where is the rendezvous?"

Dieter hesitated. He would have preferred not to tell Weber anything. But it was difficult to refuse without giving offense, and he needed the man's help. He had to tell him. "The cathedral crypt, afternoons at three."

"I shall inform Paris." Weber walked on.

Dieter resumed thinking about his next step. The house in the rue du Bois was a cut-out. No one in the Bollinger circuit had met Mademoiselle Lemas. Agents coming in from London did not know what she looked like-hence the need for recognition signals and passwords. If he could get someone to impersonate her... but who?

Stephanie came out of the ladies' toilet with Mademoiselle Lemas.

She could do it.

She was much younger than Mademoiselle Lemas, and looked completely different, but the agents would not know that. She was obviously French. All she had to do was take care of the agent for a day or so.

He took Stephanie's arm. "Hans will deal with the prisoner now. Come, let me buy you a glass of champagne."

He walked her out of the chteau. In the square, the soldiers had done their work, and the three stakes threw long shadows in the evening light. A handful of local people stood silent and watchful outside the church door.

Dieter and Stephanie went into the caf. Dieter ordered a bottle of champagne. "Thank you for helping me today," he said. "I appreciate it."

"I love you," she said. "And you love me, I know, even though you never say it."

"But how do you feel about what we did today? You're French, and you have that grandmother whose race we mustn't speak of, and as far as I know you're not a Fascist."

She shook her head violently. "I no longer believe in nationality, or race, or politics," she said passionately. "When I was arrested by the Gestapo, no French people helped me. No Jews helped me. No socialists or liberals or communists either. And I was so cold in that prison." Her face changed. Her lips lost the sexy half smile she wore most of the time, and the glint of teasing invitation went from her eyes. She was looking at another scene in another time. She crossed her arms and shivered, although it was a warm summer evening. "Not just cold on the outside, not just the skin. I felt cold in my heart and my bowels and my bones. I felt I would never be warm again, I would just go cold to my grave." She was silent for a long moment, her face drawn and pale, and Dieter felt at that instant that war was a terrible thing. Then she said, "I'll never forget the fire in your apartment. A coal fire. I had forgotten what it was like to feel that blazing warmth. It made me human again." She came out of her trance. "You saved me. You gave me food and wine. You bought me clothes." She smiled her old smile, the one that said You can, if you dare. "And you loved me, in front of that coal fire."

He held her hand. "It wasn't difficult."

"You keep me safe, in a world where almost no one is safe. So now I believe only in you."

"If you really mean that..

"Of course."

"There's something else you could do for me."

"Anything."

"I want you to impersonate Mademoiselle Lemas."

She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"Pretend to be her. Go to the cathedral crypt every afternoon at three o'clock, wearing one black shoe and one brown. When someone approaches you and says, 'Pray for me,' reply, 'I pray for peace.' Take the person to the house in the rue du Bois. Then call me."

"It sounds simple."

The champagne arrived, and he poured two glasses. He decided to level with her. "It should be simple. But there is a slight risk. If the agent has met Mademoiselle Lemas before, he will know you're an impostor. Then you could be in danger. Will you take that chance?"

"Is it important to you?"

"It's important for the war."

"I don't care about the war."

"It's important to me, too."

"Then I'll do it."

He raised his glass. "Thank you," he said.