"Good idea," Paul said. "Maybe they'll think we've left town."

Flick scanned the streets for military Mercedes cars or black Gestapo Citrons. She held her breath as they passed a pair of gendarmes patrolling. But they reached the center of the city without incident. Paul parked near the railway station, and they all got out and hurried away from the incriminating vehicle.

"I'll have to do this alone," Flick said. "The rest of you had better go to the cathedral and wait for me there."

"All my sins have been forgiven several times over, I've spent so much time in church today," Paul said.

"You can pray for a place to spend the night," Flick told him, and she hurried away.

She returned to the street where Michel lived. A hundred meters from his house was the bar Chez Regis. Flick went in. The proprietor, Alexandre Regis, sat behind the counter smoking. He gave her a nod of recognition but said nothing.

She went through the door marked Toilettes. She walked along a short passage, then opened what looked like a cupboard door. It led to a steep staircase going up. At the top of the stairs was a heavy door with a peephole. Flick banged on it and stood where her face could be seen through the judas. A moment later the door was opened by Mm Regis, the mother of the proprietor.

Flick entered a large room whose windows were blacked out. It was crudely decorated with matting on the floor, brown-painted walls, and several naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. At one end of the room was a roulette wheel. Around a large circular table a group of men were playing cards. There was a bar in one corner. This was an illegal gambling club.

Michel liked to play poker for high stakes, and he enjoyed louche company, so he occasionally came here for an evening. Flick never played, but she sometimes sat and watched the game for an hour. Michel said she brought him luck. It was a good place to hide from the Gestapo, and Flick had been hoping she might find him here, but as she looked from face to face around the room she was disappointed.

"Thank you, Mm," she said to Alexandre's mother.

"It's good to see you. How are you?"

"Fine, have you seen my husband?"

"Ah, the charming Michel. Not tonight, I regret." The people here did not know Michel was in the Resistance.

Flick went to the bar and sat on a stool, smiling at the barmaid, a middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick. She was Yvette Regis, the wife of Alexandre. "Have you any scotch?"

"Of course," said Yvette. "For those who can afford it." She produced a bottle of Dewar's White Label and poured a measure.

Flick said, "I'm looking for Michel."

"I haven't seen him for a week or so," Yvette said.

"Damn." Flick sipped her drink. "I'll wait awhile, in case he shows up."

CHAPTER 44

DIETER WAS DESPERATE. Flick had proved too clever. She had evaded his trap. She was somewhere in the city of Reims, but he had no way of finding her.

He could no longer have members of the Reims Resistance followed, in the hope that she would contact one of them, for they were all now in custody. Dieter had Michel's house and Gilberte's flat under surveillance, but he felt sure that Flick was too wily to let herself be seen by the average Gestapo flatfoot. There were posters of her all over town, but she must have changed her appearance by now, dyed her hair or something, for no one had reported seeing her. She had outwitted him at every stop.

He needed a stroke of genius.

And he had come up with one-he thought.

He sat on the seat of a bicycle at the roadside. He was in the center of town, just outside the theater. He wore a beret, goggles, and a rough cotton sweater, and his trousers were tucked into his socks. He was unrecognizable. No one would suspect him. The Gestapo never went by bicycle.

He stared west along the street, narrowing his eyes to look into the setting sun. He was waiting for a black Citroen. He checked his watch: any minute now.

On the other side of the road, Hans was at the wheel of a wheezy old Peugeot, which had almost come to the end of its useful life. The engine was running: Dieter did not want to take the risk that it might not start when it was needed. Hans was also disguised, in sunglasses and a cap, and wore a shabby suit and down-at-the-heel shoes, like a French citizen. He had never done anything like this before, but he had accepted his orders with unflappable stoicism.

Dieter, too, had never done this before. He had no idea whether it would work. All kinds of things could go wrong and anything could happen.

What Dieter had planned was desperate, but what did he have to lose? Tuesday was the night of the full moon. He felt sure the Allies were about to invade. Flick was the grand prize. She was worth a great deal of risk.

But winning the war was no longer what most occupied his mind. His future had been wrecked; he hardly cared who ruled Europe. He thought constantly of Flick Clairet. She had ruined his life; she had murdered Stephanie. He wanted to find Flick, and capture her, and take her to the basement of the chteau. There he would taste the satisfaction of revenge. He fantasized constantly about how he would torture her: the iron rods that would smash her small bones, the electric shock machine turned up to maximum, the injections that would render her helpless with great wrenching spasms of nausea, the ice bath that would give her shivering convulsions and freeze the blood in her fingers. Destroying the Resistance, and repelling the invaders, had become merely part of his punishment of Flick.

But first he had to find her.

In the distance he saw a black Citron.

He stared at it. Was this the one? It was a two-door model, the kind always used when transporting a prisoner. He tried to see inside. He thought there were four people altogether. This had to be the car he was waiting for. It drew nearer, and he recognized the handsome face of Michelin the back, guarded by a uniformed Gestapo man. He tensed.

He was glad now that he had given orders that Michel was not to be tortured while Dieter was away. This scheme would not have been possible otherwise.

As the Citron came level with Dieter, Hans suddenly pulled away from the curb in the old Peugeot. The car swung out into the road, leaped forward, and smashed straight into the front of the Citron.

There was a clatter of crumpling metal and a medley of breaking glass. The two Gestapo men leaped out of the front of the Citron and began yelling at Hans in bad French-seeming not to notice that their colleague in the back appeared to have banged his head and was slumped, apparently unconscious, beside his prisoner.

This was the critical moment, Dieter thought, his nerves strung like wire. Would Michel take the bait? He stared at the tableau in the middle of the street.

It took Michel a long moment to realize his opportunity. Dieter almost thought he would fail to seize it. Then he seemed to come to. He reached over the front seats, fumbled at the door catch with bound hands, succeeded in getting the door open, pushed down the seat, and scrambled out.

He glanced at the two Gestapo men still arguing with Hans. They had their backs to him. He turned and walked quickly away. His expression said he could hardly believe his good luck.

Dieter's heart leaped with triumph. His plan was working.

He followed Michel.

Hans followed Dieter on foot.

Dieter rode the bicycle for a few yards; then he found himself catching up with Michel, so he got off and pushed it along the pavement. Michel turned the first Corner, limping slightly from his bullet wound but walking fast, holding his bound hands low in front of him to make them less conspicuous. Dieter followed discreetly, sometimes walking, sometimes riding, dropping back out of Michel's sight whenever he could, taking cover behind high-sided vehicles if he got the chance. Michel occasionally glanced back but made no systematic attempt to shake off a tail. He had no notion that he was being tricked.

After a few minutes, Hans overtook Dieter, by arrangement, and Dieter dropped back to follow Hans. Then they switched again.

Where would Michel go? It was essential to Dieter's plan that Michel should lead him to other Resistance members, so that he could once again pick up Flick's trail.

To Dieter's surprise, Michel headed for his house near the cathedral. Surely he must suspect that his home was under surveillance? Nevertheless, he turned into the street. However, he did not go to his own place but entered a bar across the street called Chez Regis.

Dieter leaned his bicycle against the wall of the next building, a vacant store with a faded Charcuterie sign. He waited a few minutes, just in case Michel should come out again immediately. When it was clear Michel was staying a while, Dieter went in.

He intended simply to make sure Michel was still there-relying on his goggles and beret to conceal his identity from Michel. He would buy a pack of cigarettes as an excuse and go back outside. But Michel was nowhere in sight. Puzzled, Dieter hesitated.

The barman said, "Yes, sir?"