"We need somewhere to stay the night."

He thought for a moment. "Joseph Laperrire's cellar."

Laperrire was a champagne maker. Michel's aunt Antoinette had once been his secretary. "Is he one of us?"

"A sympathizer." He gave a sour grin. "Everyone is a sympathizer now. They all think the invasion is coming any day." He looked inquiringly at her. "I imagine they're right about that..

"Yes," she said. She did not elaborate. "How big is the cellar? There are five of us."

"It's big, he could hide fifty people down there."

"Fine. The other thing I need is a vehicle for tomorrow."

"To drive to Sainte-Ccile?"

"And afterwards, to meet our pickup plane, if we're still alive."

"You realize that you can't use the usual drop zone at Chatelle, don't you? The Gestapo know about it-it's where I was picked up."

"Yes. The plane is coming to the other one at Laroque. I gave instructions."

"The potato field. Good."

"And the vehicle?"

"Philippe Moulierhas a van. He delivers meat to all the German bases. Monday is his day off."

"I remember him, he's pro-Nazi."

"He was. And he's been making money out of them for four years. So now he's terrified that the invasion is going to succeed, and after the Germans have gone he'll be strung up as a collaborator. He's desperate to do something to help us, to prove he's not a traitor. He'll lend us his van."

"Bring it to the cellar tomorrow at ten o'clock in the morning."

He touched her cheek. "Can't we spend the night together?" He smiled his old smile and looked as roguishly handsome as ever.

She felt a familiar stirring inside, but it was not as strong as it had been in the old days. Once, that smile would have made her wet. Now, it was like the memory of a desire.

She wanted to tell him the truth, for she hated to be anything less than honest. But it might jeopardize the mission. She needed his cooperation. Or was that just an excuse? Perhaps she just did not have the nerve.

"No," she said. "We can't spend the night together."

He looked crestfallen. "Is it because of Gilberte?"

She nodded, but she could not lie, and she found herself saying, "Well, partly."

"What's the other part?"

"I don't really want to have this discussion in the middle of an important mission."

He looked vulnerable, almost scared. "Have you got someone else?"

She could not bring herself to hurt him. "No," she lied.

He looked hard at her. "Good," he said at last. "I'm glad."

Flick hated herself.

Michel finished his beer and got off his stool. "Laperrire's place is in the chemin de La Carrire. It will take you thirty minutes to walk there."

"I know the street."

"I'd better go and see Moulier about the van." He put his arms around Flick and kissed her lips.

She felt dreadful. She could hardly refuse the kiss, having denied that she had someone else, but kissing Michel seemed so disloyal to Paul. She closed her eyes and waited passively until he broke the clinch.

He could not fail to notice her lack of enthusiasm. He looked thoughtfully at her for a moment. "I'll see you at ten," he said, and he left.

She decided to give him five minutes to get clear be- fore she followed him out. She asked Yvette for another scotch.

While she was sipping it, a red light began to flash over the door.

No one spoke, but everyone in the room moved at once. The croupier stopped the roulette wheel and turned it upside down so that it looked like a normal tabletop. The card players swept up their stakes and put on their jackets. Yvette picked up the glasses from the bar and dumped them in the sink. Mm Regis turned out the lights, leaving the room illuminated only by the flashing red bulb over the door.

Flick picked up her bag from the floor and put her hand on her gun. "What's happening?" she asked Yvette.

"Police raid," she said.

Flick cursed. What hellish luck it would be to get arrested for illegal gambling.

"Alexandre downstairs has given us the warning," Yvette explained. "Get going, quickly!" She pointed across the room.

Flick looked in the direction Yvette indicated and saw Meme Regis stepping into what looked like a cupboard. As she watched, Mm shoved aside a couple of old coats hanging from a rail to reveal, at the back of the cupboard, a door, which she hurriedly opened. The gamblers began to leave by the hidden door. Maybe, Flick thought, she could get away.

The flashing red light went out, and a banging began on the main door. Flick crossed the room in the dark and joined the men pushing through the cupboard. She followed the crowd into a bare room. The floor was about a foot lower than she expected, and she guessed this was the apartment over the shop next door. They all ran down the stairs and, sure enough, she found herself in the disused charcuterie, with a stained marble counter and dusty glass cases. The blind in the front window was drawn down so that no one could see in from the street.

They all went out through the back door. There was a dirty yard surrounded by a high wall. A door in the wall led to an alley, and the alley led to the next street. When they reached the street, the men went in different directions.

Flick walked quickly away and soon found herself alone. Breathing hard, she reoriented herself and headed for the cathedral, where the other Jackdaws were waiting. "My God," she whispered to herself, "that was close."

As she got her breath back, she began to see the raid on the gambling club in a different light. It had happened just minutes after Michel had left. Flick did not believe in coincidence.

The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that whoever was banging on the door had been looking for her. She knew that a small group of men had been playing for high stakes in that room since before the war. The local police certainly knew about the place. Why would they suddenly decide to close it down? If not the police, it must have been the Gestapo. And they were not really interested in gamblers. They went after communists, Jews, homosexuals-and spies.

The story of Michel's escape had aroused her suspicions from the start, but she had been partly reassured by his insistence that he had not been followed. Now she thought otherwise. His escape must have been faked, like the "rescue" of Brian Standish. She saw the sly brain of Dieter Franck behind this. Someone had followed Michel to the caf, guessed at the existence of the secret upstairs room, and hoped to find her there.

In that case, Michel was still under surveillance. If he continued to be careless, he would be trailed to Philippe Moulier's house tonight, and in the morning, driving the van, he would be followed to the champagne cellar where the Jackdaws were hiding.

And what the hell, Flick thought, am I going to do about that?