Ken Follett - Jackdaws

Dieter fumbled for his gun.

Michel found the light switch, and the car's headlights came on. Dieter looked up. The riflemen were hideously exposed in the glare of the lights. They both got up off their knees, but before they could throw themselves out of the beam there was a rattle of machine-gun fire from the field. One rifleman cried out, dropped his gun, clutched his belly, and fell across the hood of the Mercedes; then the other was shot in the head. A sharp pain stung Dieter's left arm, and he let out a yell of shock.

Then there was a shot from within the car, and Michel cried out. Hans had at last flung Gilberte off himself and got his pistol out. He fired again, and Michel slumped, but Michel's hand was still on the horn, and his body now lay over his hand, pressing it down, so the horn continued to blare. Hans fired a third time, uselessly, for his bullet thudded into the body of a dead man. Gilberte screamed and threw herself at Hans again, grabbing at his gun arm with her manacled hands. Dieter had his gun out but could not shoot at Gilberte for fear of hitting Hans.

There was a fourth shot. It was Hans's gun again, but now it was somehow pointing upwards, and he shot himself, the bullet hitting him under the chin. He gave a horrid gurgle, blood came out of his mouth, and he slumped back against the door, his eyes staring lifelessly. Dieter took careful aim and shot Gilberte in the head.

He reached through the window with his right arm and shoved the corpse of Michel away from the steering wheel.

The horn was silenced.

He found the light switch and killed the headlights.

He looked across the field.

The van was still there, but the Jackdaws had disappeared.

He listened. Nothing moved.

He was alone.

Flick crawled through the vineyard on her hands and knees, heading for Dieter Franck's car. The moonlight, so necessary for clandestine flights across occupied territory, was now her enemy. She wished for a cloud to shade the moon, but for the moment the sky was clear. She kept close to the row of vines, but she threw a conspicuous moon shadow.

She had firmly instructed Paul and Ruby to stay behind, hiding at the edge of the field near the van. Three people made three times the noise, and she did not want a companion to betray her presence.

As she crawled, she listened for the incoming plane. She had to locate any remaining enemies and kill them before the plane arrived. The Jackdaws could not stand in the middle of the field with flashlights while there were armed troops aiming at them from the vineyard. And if they did not hold flashlights, the plane would return to England without touching down. The thought was unbearable.

She was deeper into the vineyard than Dieter Franck's car, which was parked at the edge. She was five rows of vines back. She would approach the enemy from behind. She kept the submachine gun in her right hand, ready to fire, as she crawled.

She drew level with the car. Franck had camouflaged it with vegetation, but when she peeped over the rows of vines she saw moonlight glint off the rear window.

The shoots of the vines were espaliered crosswise, but she was able to crawl beneath the lowest strand. She pushed her head through and looked up and down the next alley. It was clear. She crawled across the open space and repeated the exercise. She grew ultra cautious as she approached the car, but she saw no one.

When she was two rows away, she was able to see the wheels of the car and the ground around it. She thought she could make out two motionless bodies in uniform. How many were there in total? It was a long Mercedes limousine and could easily carry six.

She crept closer. Nothing moved. Were they all dead? Or had one or two survived, and concealed themselves nearby, waiting to pounce?

Eventually she crawled right up to the car.

The doors were wide open, and the interior seemed full of bodies. She looked in the front and recognized Michel. She choked back a sob. He was a bad husband, but he had been her choice, and now he was lifeless, with three red-ringed bullet holes in his blue chambray shirt. She guessed he had been the one to sound the horn. If so, he had died saving her life. There was no time to think of such things now: she would ponder them later, if she lived long enough.

Next to Michel lay a man she did not recognize who had been shot in the throat. He wore the uniform of a lieutenant. There were more bodies in the back. She looked through the open rear door. One was that of a woman. She leaned into the car for a better view. She gasped: the woman was Gilberte, and she seemed to be staring at Flick. A ghastly moment later, Flick realized that the eyes saw nothing, and Gilberte was dead, shot in the head.

She leaned over Gilberte to look at the fourth corpse. It rose up from the floor in a swift motion. Before she had time to scream, it grabbed her by the hair and thrust the barrel of a gun into the soft flesh of her throat.

It was Dieter Franck.

"Drop the gun," he said in French.

She was holding the submachine gun in her right hand, but it was pointing up and, before she could aim it, he would be able to shoot her. She had no choice: she dropped it. The safety catch was disengaged, and she half-hoped the impact of its fall would fire the gun, but it landed harmlessly on the earth.

"Back away."

As she stepped back, he followed her, getting out of the car, keeping the gun at her throat. He drew himself upright. "You're so small," he said, looking her up and down. 'And you've done so much damage."

She saw blood on the sleeve of his suit and guessed she had winged him with her Sten gun.

"Not just to me," he said. "That telephone exchange is every bit as important as you obviously believe."

She found her voice. "Good."

"Don't look pleased. Now you're going to damage the Resistance."

She wished she had not been so fierce in ordering Paul and Ruby to wait in hiding. There was now no chance they would come to her rescue.

Dieter shifted the gun from her throat to her shoulder. "I don't want to kill you, but I'd be happy to give you a crippling wound. I need you able to talk, of course. You're going to give me all the names and addresses in your head."

She thought of the suicide pill concealed in the hollow cap of her fountain pen. Would she have a chance to take it?

"It's a pity you've destroyed the interrogation facility at Sainte-Cecile," he went on. "I'll have to drive you to Paris. I've got all the same equipment there."

She thought with horror of the hospital operating table and the electric shock machine.

"I wonder what will break you?" he said. "Sheer pain breaks everyone eventually, of course, but I feel that you might bear pain for an inconveniently long time." He raised his left arm. The wound seemed to give him a twinge, and he winced, but he bore it. He touched her face. "The loss of your looks, perhaps. Imagine this pretty face disfigured: the nose broken, the lips slashed, one eye put out, the ears cut off."

Flick felt sick, but she maintained a stony expression. "No?" His hand moved down, stroking her neck; then he touched her breast. "Sexual humiliation, then. To be naked in front of many people, fondled by a group of drunk men, forced to perform acts of grossness with animals.."

"And which of us would be most humiliated by that?" she said defiantly. "Me, the helpless victim… or you, the real perpetrator of obscenity?"

He took his hand away. "Then again, we have tortures which destroy forever a woman's ability to bear children."

Flick thought of Paul and flinched involuntarily.

"Ah," he said with satisfaction. "I believe I have found the key to unlock you."

She realized she had been foolish to speak to him. Now she had given him information which he could use to break her will.