She ran down the stairs to the cellar. There on the dirt floor she saw the figure of a man, tied up and gagged. The gag covered much of his face, but she could see that half his ear had been shot oft

She pulled the gag from his mouth, bent down, and gave him a long, passionate kiss. "Welcome to France."

He grinned. "Best welcome I ever had."

"I've got your toothbrush."

"It was a last-second thing, because I wasn't perfectly sure of the redhead."

"It made me just that little bit more suspicious."

"Thank God."

She took the sharp little knife from its sheath under her lapel and began to cut the cords that bound him. "How did you get here?"

"Parachuted in last night."

"What the hell for?"

"Brian's radio is definitely being operated by the Gestapo. I wanted to warn you."

She threw her arms around him in a burst of affection. "I'm so glad you're here!"

He hugged and kissed her. "In that case I'm glad I came."

They went upstairs. "Look who I found in the cellar," Flick said.

They were all waiting for instructions. She thought for a moment. Five minutes had passed since the shooting. The neighbors must have heard gunfire, but few French citizens were quick to call the police nowadays: they were afraid they would end up answering questions at the Gestapo office. However, she would not take needless risks. They had to be out of here as soon as possible.

She turned her attention to the fake Mademoiselle Lemas, now tied to a kitchen chair. She knew what had to be done, and her heart sank at the prospect. "What is your name?" she asked her.

"Stephanie Vinson."

"You're the mistress of Dieter Franck."

She was as pale as a sheet but looked defiant, and Flick thought how beautiful she was. "He saved my life."

So that was how Franck had won her loyalty, Flick thought. It made no difference: a traitor was a traitor, whatever the motive. "You brought Helicopter to this house to be captured."

She said nothing.

"Is Helicopter alive or dead?"

"I don't know."

Flick pointed to Paul. "You brought him here, too. You would have helped the Gestapo capture us all." The anger sounded in her voice as she thought of the danger to Paul.

Stephanie lowered her gaze.

Flick walked behind the chair and drew her gun. "You're French, yet you collaborated with the Gestapo. You might have killed us all."

The others, seeing what was coming, stood aside, out of the line of fire.

Stphame could not see the gun, but she sensed what was happening. She whispered, "What are you going to do with me?"

Flick said, "If we leave you here now, you will tell Dieter Franck how many we are, and describe us to him, and help him to capture us so that we can be tortured and killed... won't you?"

She did not answer.

Flick pointed the gun at the back of Stephanie's head. "Do you have any excuse for helping the enemy?"

"I did what I had to. Doesn't everyone?"

"Exactly," Flick said, and she pulled the trigger twice. The gun boomed in the confined space. Blood and something else spurted from the woman's face and splashed on the skirt of her elegant green dress, and she slumped forward soundlessly.

Jelly flinched and Greta turned away. Even Paul went white. Only Ruby remained expressionless.

They were all silent for a moment. Then Flick said, "Let's get out of here."

CHAPTER 42

IT WAS SIX o'clock in the evening when Dieter parked outside the house in the rue du Bois. His sky- blue car was covered with dust and dead insects after the long journey. As he got out, the evening sun slipped behind a cloud, and the suburban street was thrown into shadow. He shivered.

He took off his motoring goggles-he had been driving with the top down-and ran his fingers through his hair to flatten it. "Wait for me here, please, Hans," he said. He wanted to be alone with Stephanie.

Opening the gate and entering the front garden, he noticed that Mademoiselle Lemas's Simca Cinq was gone. The garage door was open and the garage was empty. Was Stephanie using the car? But where would she have gone? She should be waiting here for him, guarded by two Gestapo men.

He strode up the garden path and pulled the bell rope. The ring of the bell died away, leaving the house strangely silent. He looked through the window into the front parlor, but that room was always empty. He rang again. There was no response. He bent down to look through the letter box, but he could not see much: part of the staircase, a painting of a Swiss mountain scene, and the door to the kitchen, half open. There was no movement.

He glanced at the house next door and saw a face hastily withdraw from a window, and a curtain fall back into place.

He walked around the side of the house and through the courtyard to the rear garden. Two windows were broken and the back door stood open. Fear grew in his heart. What had happened here?

"Stephanie?" he called. There was no answer.

He stepped into the kitchen.

At first he did not understand what he was looking at. A bundle was tied to a kitchen chair with ordinary household string. It looked like a woman's body with a disgusting mess on top. After a moment, his police experience told him that the disgusting thing was a human head that had been shot. Then he saw that the dead woman was wearing odd shoes, one black and one brown, and he understood she was Stephanie. He let out a howl of anguish, covered his eyes with his hands, and sank slowly to his knees, sobbing.

After a minute, he dragged his hands from his eyes and forced himself to look again. The detective in him noted the blood on the skirt of her dress and concluded that she had been shot from behind. Perhaps that was merciful; she might not have suffered the terror of knowing she was about to die. There had been two shots, he thought. It was the large exit wounds that had made her lovely face look so dreadful, destroying her eyes and nose, leaving her sensual lips bloodstained but intact. Had it not been for the shoes, he would not have known her. His eyes filled with tears until she became a blur.

The sense of loss was like a wound. He had never known a shock like this sudden knowledge that she was gone. She would not throw him that proud glance again; she would no longer turn heads walking through restaurants; he would never again see her pull silk stockings over her perfect calves. Her style and her wit, her fears and her desires, were all canceled, wiped out, ended. He felt as if he had been shot, and had lost part of himself. He whispered her name: at least he had that.

Then he heard a voice behind him.