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 chateau.

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 Citroens 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 Citroenscame 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 Citroens There was a clatter of crumpling metal and a medley of breaking glass.

The two Gestapo men leaped out of the front of the Citroensand 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?" "Beer," said Dieter.

"Draft." He hoped that if he kept his conversation to a minimum the barman would not notice his slight German accent and accept him as a cyclist who had stopped to quench his thirst.

"Coming up." "Where's the toilet?" The barman pointed to a door in the corner.

Dieter went through it.

Michel was not in the men's room.

Dieter risked a glance into the ladies': it was empty.

He opened what looked like a cupboard door and saw that it led to a staircase.

He went up the stairs.

At the top was a heavy door with a peephole.

He knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

He listened for a moment.

He could hear nothing, but the door was thick.

He felt sure there was someone on the other side, looking at him through the peephole, realizing he was not a regular customer.

He tried to act as if he had taken a wrong turn on the way to the toilet.

He scratched his head, shrugged, and went back down the stairs.

There was no sign of a back entrance to the place.

Michel was here, Dieter felt sure, in the locked room upstairs.

But what should Dieter do about it? He took his glass to a table so that the barman would not try to engage him in small talk.

The beer was watery and tasteless.

Even in Germany, the quality of beer had declined during the war.

He forced himself to finish it, then went out.

Hans was on the other side of the street, looking in the window of a bookshop.

Dieter went across.

"He's in some kind of private room upstairs," he told Hans.

"He may be meeting with other Resistance cadres.

On the other hand, it may be a brothel, or something, and I don't want to bust in on him before he's led us to anyone worthwhile." Hans nodded, understanding the dilemma.

Dieter made a decision.

It was too soon to rearrest Michel.

"When he comes out, I'll follow him.

As soon as we're out of sight, you can raid the place." "On my own?" Dieter pointed to two Gestapo men in a Citroenskeeping watch on Michel's house.

"Get them to help you.', "Okay." "Try to make it look like a vice thing-arrest the whores, if there are any.

Don't mention the Resistance." "Okay." "Until then, we wait."