It was already two o'clock on Sunday morning. Tuesday would be the night of the full moon. The invasion could be hours away. But in those few hours Dieter could break the back of the French Resistance-if he could get Flick in a torture chamber. He only needed the list of names and addresses that she had in her head. The Gestapo in every city in France could be galvanized into action, thousands of trained staff. They were not the brightest of men, but they knew how to arrest people. In a couple of hours they could jail hundreds of Resistance cadres. Instead of the massive uprising that the Allies were no doubt hoping for to aid their invasion, there would be calm and order for the Germans to organize their response and push the invaders back into the sea.

He had sent a Gestapo team to raid the Hotel de la Chapelle, but that was a matter of form: he was certain Flick and the other three would have left within minutes of the arrest of their comrades. Where was Flick now? Reims was the natural jumping-off point for an attack on Marles, which was why the Jackdaws had originally planned to land near the city. Dieter thought it likely Flick would still pass through Reims. It was on the road and rail routes to Marles, and there was probably some kind of help she needed from the remnants of the Bollinger circuit. He was betting she was now on her way from Paris to Reims.

He arranged for every Gestapo checkpoint between the two cities to be given details of the false identities being used by Flick and her team. However that, too, was something of a formality: either they had alternative identities, or they would find ways to avoid the checkpoints.

He called Reims, got Weber out of bed, and explained the situation. For once Weber was not obstructive. He agreed to send two Gestapo men to keep an eye on Michel's town house, two more to watch Gilberte's building, and two to the house in the rue du Bois to guard Stephanie.

Finally, as the headache began, Dieter called Stephanie. "The British terrorists are on their way to Reims," he told her. "I'm sending two men to guard you."

She was as calm as ever. "Thank you."

"But it's important that you continue to go to the rendezvous." With luck, Flick would not suspect the extent to which Dieter had penetrated the Bollinger circuit, and she would walk into his arms. "Remember, we changed the location. It's not the cathedral crypt any more, it's the Caf de la Gare. If anyone shows up, just drive them back to the house, the way you did with Helicopter. Then the Gestapo can take over from that point."

"Okay."

"Are you sure? I've minimized the risk to you, but it's still dangerous."

"I'm sure. You sound as if you have a migraine."

"It's just beginning."

"Do you have the medicine?"

"Hans has it."

"I'm sorry I'm not there to give it to you."

He was, too. "I wanted to drive back to Reims tonight, but I don't think I can make it."

"Don't you dare. I'll be fine. Take a shot and go to bed. Come back here tomorrow."

He knew she was right. It was going to be hard enough getting back to his apartment, less than a kilometer away. He could not travel to Reims until he had recovered from the strain of the interrogation. "Okay," he said. "I'll get a few hours' sleep and leave here in the morning."

"Happy birthday."

"You remembered! I forgot it myself."

"I have something for you."

"A gift?"

"More like... an action."

He grinned, despite his headache. "Oh, boy."

"I'll give it to you tomorrow."

"I can't wait."

"I love you."

The words I love you, too, came to his lips, but he hesitated, reluctant from old habit to say them, and then there was a click as Stephanie hung up.

CHAPTER 39

IN THE EARLY hours of Sunday morning, Paul Chancellor parachuted into a potato field near the village of Laroque, west of Reims, without the benefit-or the risk-of a reception committee.

The landing gave him a tremendous jolt of pain in his wounded knee. He grit his teeth and lay motionless on the ground, waiting for it to ease. The knee would probably hurt him every so often for the rest of his life. When he was an old man he would say a twinge meant rain- if he lived to be an old man.

After five minutes, he felt able to struggle to his feet and get out of his parachute harness. He found the road, oriented himself by the stars, and started walking, but he was limping badly, and progress was slow.

His identity, hastily cobbled together by Percy Thwaite, was that of a schoolteacher from Epernay, a few miles west. He was hitchhiking to Reims to visit his father, who was ill. Percy had got him all the necessary papers, some of them hastily forged last night and rushed to Tempsford by motorcycle. The limp fitted quite well with the cover story: a wounded veteran might well be a schoolteacher, whereas an active young man should have been sent to a labor camp in Germany.

Getting here was the simple part. Now he had to find Flick. His only way of contacting her would be via the Bollinger circuit. He had to hope that part of the circuit was left intact, and Brian was the only member in Gestapo custody. Like every new agent dropping in to Reims, he would contact Mademoiselle Lemas. He would just have to be especially cautious.

Soon after first light he heard a vehicle. He stepped off the road into the field alongside and concealed himself behind a row of vines. As the noise came closer, he realized the vehicle was a tractor. That was safe enough: the Gestapo never traveled by tractor. He returned to the road and thumbed a lift.

The tractor was driven by a boy of about fifteen and was pulling a cartload of artichokes. The driver nodded at Paul's leg and said, "War wound?"

"Yes," Paul said. The likeliest moment for a French soldier to have been hurt was during the Battle of France, so he added: "Sedan, nineteen-forty."

"I was too young," the boy said regretfully.

"Lucky you."

"But wait till the Allies come back. Then you'll see some action." He gave Paul a sideways look. "I can't say any more. But you wait and see."

Paul thought hard. Was this lad a member of the Bollinger circuit? He said, "But do our people have the guns and ammunition they need?" If the boy knew anything at all, he would know that the Allies had dropped tons of weaponry in the past few months.

"We'll use whatever weapons come to hand."

Was he being discreet about what he knew? No, Paul thought. The boy looked vague. He was fantasizing. Paul said no more.

The lad dropped him off on the outskirts, and he limped into town. The rendezvous had changed, from the cathedral crypt to the Caf de la Gare, but the time was the same, three o'clock in the afternoon. He had hours to kill.

He went into the caf to get breakfast and reconnoitre. He asked for black coffee. The elderly waiter raised his eyebrows, and Paul realized he had made a slip. Hastily, he tried to cover up. "No need to say 'black,' I suppose," he said. "You probably don't have any milk anyway."

The waiter smiled, reassured. "Unfortunately not." He went away.

Paul breathed out. It was eight months since he had been undercover in France, and he had forgotten the minute-to-minute strain of pretending to be someone else.

He spent the morning dozing through services in the cathedral, then went back into the caf at one-thirty for lunch. The place emptied out around two-thirty, and he stayed drinking ersatz coffee. Two men came in at two forty-five and ordered beer. Paul looked hard at them. They wore old business suits and talked about grapes in colloquial French. They were eruditely discussing the flowering of the vines, a critical period that had just ended. He did not think they could possibly be agents of the Gestapo.

At exactly three o'clock a tall, attractive woman came in, dressed with unobtrusive elegance in a summer frock of plain green cotton and a straw hat. She wore odd shoes: one black, one brown. This must be Bourgeoise.