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addresses—for the sake of security, they
revealed them only if necessary for a delivery or rendezvous—Michel was leader,
and most people knew where he lived.
    Back in Sainte-Cécile, some of the
team must have been taken alive. Before long they would be under interrogation.
Unlike British agents, the French Resistance did not carry suicide pills. The
only reliable rule of interrogation was that everybody would talk in the long
run. Sometimes the Gestapo ran out of patience, and sometimes they killed their
subjects by over enthusiasm but, if they were careful and determined, they
could make the strongest personality betray his or her dearest comrades. No one
could bear agony forever.
    So Flick had to treat Michel's house
as known to the enemy. Where could she take him instead?
    "How is he?" said Gilberte
anxiously.
    Flick glanced into the backseat. His
eyes were closed, but he was breathing normally. He had fallen into a sleep,
the best thing for him. She looked at him fondly. He needed someone to take
care of him, at least for a day or two. She turned to Gilberte. Young and
single, she was probably still with her parents. "Where do you live?"
Flick asked her.
    "On the outskirts of town, on
the Route de Cernay."
    "On your own?"
    For some reason, Gilberte looked
scared. "Yes, of course on my own."
    "A house, an apartment, a
bedsitting room?"
    "An apartment, two rooms."
    "We'll go there."
    "No!"
    "Why not? Are you scared?"
    She looked injured. "No, not
scared."
    "What, then?"
    "I don't trust the
neighbors."
    "Is there a back
entrance?"
    Reluctantly, Gilberte said,
"Yes, an alley that runs along the side of a little factory."
    "It sounds ideal."
    "Okay, you're right, we should
go to my place. I just… You surprised me, that's all."
    "I'm sorry."
    Flick was scheduled to return to
London tonight. She was to rendezvous with a plane in a meadow outside the
village of Chatelle, five miles north of Reims. She wondered if the plane would
make it. Navigating by the stars, it was extraordinarily difficult to find a
specific field near a small village. Pilots often went astray—in fact, it was a
miracle they ever arrived where they were supposed to. She looked at the
weather. A clear sky was darkening to the deep blue of evening. There would be
moonlight, provided the weather held.
    If not tonight, then tomorrow, she
thought, as always.
    Her mind went to the comrades she
had left behind. Was young Bertrand dead or alive? What about Geneviève? They
might be better off dead. Alive, they faced the agony of torture. Flick's heart
seemed to convulse with grief as she thought again that she had led them to
defeat. Bertrand had a crush on her, she guessed. He was young enough to feel
guilty about secretly loving the wife of his commander. She wished she had
ordered him to stay at home. It would have made no difference to the outcome,
and he would have remained a bright, likable youth for a little longer, instead
of a corpse, or worse.
    No one could succeed every time, and
war meant that when leaders failed, people died. It was a hard fact, but still
she cast about for consolation. She longed for a way to make sure their
suffering was not in vain. Perhaps she could build on their sacrifice and get
some kind of victory out of it after all.
    She thought about the pass she had
stolen from Antoinette and the possibility of getting into the château
clandestinely. A team could enter disguised as civilian employees. She swiftly
dismissed the idea of having them pose as telephone operators: it was a skilled
job that took time to learn. But anyone could use a broom.
    Would the Germans notice if the
cleaners were strangers? They probably paid no attention to the women who
mopped the floor. What about the French telephonists—would they give the game
away? it might be a risk worth taking.
    SOE had a remarkable forgery
department that could copy any kind of document, sometimes even making their
own paper to match the original, in a couple of days.