Paul was a little surprised. He had expected an older woman. However, that was probably an unwarranted assumption: Flick had never actually described her.

All the same, he was not yet ready to trust her. He got up and left the caf.

He walked along the pavement to the railway station and stood in the entrance, watching the caf. He was not conspicuous: as usual, there were several people hanging around the station waiting to meet friends.

He monitored the caf's clientele. A woman walked by with a child who was demanding pastry and, as they reached the caf, the mother gave in and took the child inside. The two grape experts left. A gendarme went in and came out immediately with a packet of cigarettes in his hand.

Paul began to believe this was not a Gestapo trap. There was no one in sight who looked remotely dangerous. Changing the location of the rendezvous had shaken them off

Only one thing puzzled him. When Brian Standish had been caught at the cathedral, he had been rescued by Bourgeoise's friend Charenton. Where was he today? If he had been keeping an eye on her in the cathedral, why not here, too? But the circumstance was not dangerous in itself And there could be a hundred simple explanations.

The mother and child left the caf. Then, at three thirty, Bourgeoise came out. She walked along the pavement away from the station. Paul followed on the other side of the street. She went up to a small black car of Italian design, the one the French called a Simca Cinq. Paul crossed the street. She got into the car and started the engine.

It was time for Paul to decide. He could not be sure this was safe, but he had gone as far as he could with caution, short of not making the rendezvous at all. At some point, risks had to be taken. Otherwise he might as well have stayed at home.

He went up to the car on the passenger side and opened the door.

She looked coolly at him. "Monsieur?"

"Pray for me," he said.

"I pray for peace."

Paul got into the car. Giving himself a code name, he said, "I am Danton."

She pulled away. "Why didn't you speak to me in the caf?" she said. "I saw you as soon as I walked in. You made me wait there half an hour. It's dangerous."

"I wanted to be sure this wasn't a trap."

She glanced over at him. "You heard what happened to Helicopter."

"Yes. Where's your friend who rescued him, Charenton?"

She headed south, driving fast. "He's working today."

"On Sunday? What does he do?"

"Fireman. He's on duty."

That explained that. Paul moved quickly to the real purpose of his visit. "Where's Helicopter?"

She shook her head. "No idea. My house is a cut-out. I meet people, I pass them on to Monet. I'm not supposed to know anything."

"Is Monet all right?"

"Yes. He phoned me on Thursday afternoon, checking up on Charenton."

"Not since?"

"No. But that's not unusual."

"When did you last see him?"

"In person? I've never seen him."

"Have you heard from Leopardess?"

Paul brooded as the car threaded through the suburbs. Bourgeoise really had no information for him. He would have to move to the next link in the chain.

She pulled into a courtyard alongside a tall house. "Come inside and get cleaned up," she said.

He got out of the car. Everything seemed to be in order: Bourgeoise had been at the right rendezvous and had given all the correct signals, and there had been no one following her. On the other hand, she had given him no useful information, and he still had no notion how deeply the Bollinger circuit had been penetrated, nor how much danger Flick was in. As Bourgeoise led him to the front door and opened it with her key, he touched the wooden toothbrush in his shirt pocket: it was French-made, so he had been permitted to bring it with him. Now an impulse seized him. As Bourgeoise stepped into the house, he slipped the toothbrush from his pocket and dropped it on the ground just in front of the door.

He followed her inside. "Big place," he said. It had dark, old-fashioned wallpaper and heavy furniture, quite out of character with its owner. "Have you been here long?"

"I inherited it three or four years ago. I'd like to redecorate, but you can't get the materials." She opened a door and stood aside for him to go first. "Come into the kitchen."

He stepped inside and saw two men in uniform. Both held automatic pistols. And both guns were pointed at Paul.

CHAPTER 40

DIETER'S CAR SUFFERED a puncture on the RN3 road between Paris and Meaux. A bent nail was stuck in the tire. The delay irritated him, and he paced the roadside restlessly, but Lieutenant Hesse jacked up the car and changed the wheel with calm efficiency, and they were on their way again within a few minutes.

Dieter had slept late, under the influence of the morphine injection Hans had given him in the early hours, and now he watched with impatience as the ugly industrial landscape east of Paris changed gradually to farming country. He wanted be in Reims. He had set a trap for Flick Clairet, and he needed to be there when she fell into it.

The big Hispano-Suiza flew along an arrow-straight road lined with poplars-a road probably built by the Romans. At the start of the war, Dieter had thought the Third Reich would be like the Roman Empire, a pan-European hegemony that would bring unprecedented peace and prosperity to all its subjects. Now he was not so sure.

He worried about his mistress. Stephanie was in danger, and he was responsible. Everyone's life was at risk now, he told himself Modern warfare put the entire population on the front line. The best way to protect Stephanie-and himself, and his family in Germany- was to defeat the invasion. But there were moments when he cursed himself for involving his lover so closely in his mission. He was playing a risky game and using her in an exposed position.

Resistance fighters did not take prisoners. Being in constant peril themselves, they had no scruples about killing French people who collaborated with the enemy.

The thought that Stephanie might be killed made his chest tighten and his breathing difficult. He could hardly contemplate life without her. The prospect seemed dismal, and he realized he must be in love with her. He had always told himself that she was just a beautiful courtesan, and he was using her the way men always used such women. Now he saw that he had been fooling himself And he wished all the more that he was already in Reims at her side.

It was Sunday afternoon, so there was little traffic on the road, and they made good progress.

The second puncture occurred when they were less than an hour from Reims. Dieter wanted to scream with frustration. It was another bent nail. Were wartime tires poor quality? he wondered. Or did French people deliberately drop their old nails on the road, knowing that nine vehicles out of ten were driven by the occupying forces?

The car did not have a second spare wheel, so the tire had to be mended before they could drive on. They left the car and walked. After a mile or so they came to a farmhouse. A large family was sitting around the remains of a substantial Sunday lunch: on the table were cheese and strawberries and several empty wine bottles. Country folk were the only French people who were well fed. Dieter bullied the farmer into hitching up his horse and cart and driving them to the next town.

In the town square was a single gas pump on the pavement outside a wheelwright's shop with a Closed sign in the window. They banged on the door and woke a surly garagisre from his Sunday-afternoon nap. The mechanic fired up an ancient truck and drove off with Hans beside him.

Dieter sat in the living room of the mechanic's house, stared at by three small children in ragged clothes. The mechanic's wife, a tired woman with dirty hair, bustled about in the kitchen but did not offer him so much as a glass of cold water.

Dieter thought of Stephanie again. There was a phone in the hallway. He looked into the kitchen. "May I make a call?" he asked politely. "I will pay you, of course."