Ken Follett - Jackdaws

"You're quite right," Monty said. "But Sainte-Cecile has been made an exception. It's an access node for the new cable route to Germany. Most of the telephone and telex traffic between the High Command in Berlin and German forces in France passes through that building. Knocking it out wouldn't do us much harm-we won't be calling Germany-but would wreak havoc with the enemy's communications."

Pickford said, "They'll switch to wireless communication."

"Exactly," said Monty. "Then we'll be able to read their signals."

Fortescue put in. "Thanks to our code breakers at Bletchley."

Paul knew, though not many other people did, that British intelligence had cracked the codes used by the Germans and therefore could read much of the enemy's radio traffic. MI6 was proud of this, although in truth they deserved little credit: the work had been done not by intelligence staff but by an irregular group of mathematicians and crossword-puzzle enthusiasts, many of whom would have been arrested if they had entered an MI6 office in normal times. Sir Stewart Menzies, the foxhunting head of MI6, hated intellectuals, communists, and homosexuals, but Alan Turing, the mathematical genius who led the code breakers, was all three.

However, Pickford was right: if the Germans could not use the phone lines, they would have to use radio, and then the Allies would know what they were saying. Destroying the telephone exchange at Sainte-Cecile would give the Allies a crucial advantage.

But the mission had gone wrong. "Who was in charge?" Monty asked.

Graves said, "I haven't seen a full report-"

"I can tell you," Fortescue interjected. "Major Clairet." He paused. "A girl."

Paul had heard of Felicity Clairet. She was something of a legend among the small group who knew the secret of the Allies' clandestine war. She had survived under cover in France longer than anyone. Her code name was Leopardess, and people said she moved around the streets of occupied France with the silent footsteps of a dangerous cat. They also said she was a pretty girl with a heart of stone. She had killed more than once.

"And what happened?" Monty said.

"Poor planning, an inexperienced commander, and a lack of discipline among the men all played their part," Fortescue replied. "The building was not heavily guarded, but the Germans there are trained troops, and they simply wiped out the Resistance force."

Monty looked angry. Pickford said, "Looks like we shouldn't rely too heavily on the French Resistance to disrupt Rommel's supply lines."

Fortescue nodded. "Bombing is the more reliable means to that end."

"I'm not sure that's quite fair," Graves protested feebly. "Bomber Command has its successes and failures, too. And SOE is a good deal cheaper."

"We're not here to be fair to people, for God's sake," Monty growled. "We just want to win the war." He stood up. "I think we've heard enough," he said to General Pickford.

Graves said, "But what shall we do about the telephone exchange? SOE has come up with a new plan-"

"Good God," Fortescue interrupted. "We don't want another balls-up, do we?"

"Bomb it," said Monty.

"We've tried that," Graves said. "They hit the building, but the damage was not sufficient to put the telephone exchange out of action for longer than a few hours."

"Then bomb it again," said Monty, and he walked out.

Graves threw a look of petulant fury at the man from MI6. "Really, Fortescue," he said. "I mean to say.. really."

Fortescue did not respond.

They all left the room. In the hallway outside, two people were waiting: a man of about fifty in a tweed jacket, and a short blonde woman wearing a worn blue cardigan over a faded cotton dress. Standing in front of a display of sporting trophies, they looked almost like a head teacher chatting to a schoolgirl, except that the girl wore a bright yellow scarf tied with a touch of style that looked, to Paul, distinctly French. Fortescue hurried past them, but Graves stopped. "They turned you down," he said. "They're going to bomb it again."

Paul guessed that the woman was the Leopardess, and he looked at her with interest. She was small and slim, with curly blonde hair cut short, and-Paul noticed-rather lovely green eyes. He would not have called her pretty: her face was too grown-up for that. The initial schoolgirl impression was fleeting. There was an aggressive look to her straight nose and chisel-shaped chin. And there was something sexy about her, something that made Paul think about the slight body under the shabby dress.

She reacted with indignation to Grave's statement. "There's no point in bombing the place from the air, the basement is reinforced. For God's sake, why did they make that decision?"

"Perhaps you should ask this gentleman," Graves said, turning to Paul. "Major Chancellor, meet Major Clairet and Colonel Thwaite."

Paul was annoyed at being put in the position of defending someone else's decision. Caught off guard, he replied with undiplomatic frankness, "I don't see that there's much to explain," he said brusquely. "You screwed up and you're not being given a second chance."

The woman glared up at him-she was a foot shorter than he-and spoke angrily. "Screwed up?" she said. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

Paul felt himself flush. "Maybe General Montgomery was misinformed, but wasn't this the first time you had commanded an action of this kind, Major?"

"Is that what you've been told? That it was my lack of experience?"

She was beautiful, he saw now. Anger made her eyes wide and her cheeks pink. But she was being very rude, so he decided to give it to her with both barrels. "That and poor planning-"

"There was nothing wrong with the damn plan!"

"-and the fact that trained troops were defending the place against an undisciplined force."

"You arrogant pig!"

Paul took an involuntary step back. He had never been spoken to this way by a woman. She may be five feet nothing, he thought, but I bet she scares the damn Nazis. Looking at her furious face, he realized that she was most angry with herself "You think it's your fault," he said. "No one gets this mad about other people's mistakes."

It was her turn to be taken aback. Her mouth dropped open, and she was speechless.

Colonel Thwaite spoke for the first time. "Calm down, Flick, for God's sake," he said. Turning to Paul, he went on, "Let me guess-this account was given to you by Simon Fortescue of MI6, was it not?"

"That's correct," Paul said stiffly.

"Did he mention that the attack plan was based on intelligence supplied by his organization?"

"I don't believe he did."

"I thought not," said Thwaite. "Thank you, Major, I don't need to trouble you any further."

Paul did not feel the conversation was really over, but he had been dismissed by a senior officer, and he had no choice but to walk away.

He had obviously got caught in the crossfire of a turf war between MI6 and SOE. He felt most angry with Fortescue, who had used the meeting to score points. Had Monty made the right decision in choosing to bomb the telephone exchange rather than let SOE have another go at it? Paul was not sure.

As he turned into his own office he glanced back. Major Clairet was still arguing with Colonel Thwaite, her voice low but her face animated, expressing outrage with large gestures. She stood like a man, hand on hip, leaning forward, making her point with a belligerent forefinger, but all the same there was something enchanting about her. Paul wondered what it would be like to hold her in his arms and run his hands over her lithe body. Although she's tough, he thought, she's all woman.

But was she right? Was bombing futile?

He decided to ask some more questions.

The vast, sooty bulk of the cathedral loomed over the center of Reims like a divine reproach. Dieter Franck's sky-blue Hispano-Suiza pulled up at midday outside the Hotel Frankfort, taken over by the German occupiers. Dieter got out and glanced up at the stubby twin towers of the great church. The original medieval design had featured elegant pointed spires, which had never been built for lack of money. So mundane obstacles frustrated the holiest of aspirations.