The nonchalance with which the colonel could wish his driver a pleasant Sunday after what had just transpired was the final straw. Monday, Karl would ask for a transfer back into the Waffen SS with a request to be assigned to the medical unit as a driver for the evacuation of the wounded. The war was nearly over anyway, and the Allies were winning—a view he thought the colonel shared, but now he couldn’t be sure of any views of his superior. At least the man had the decency to have mademoiselle buried in a pleasant place. She had been enthralled by the area of their destination the day of the picnic that never occurred. At the colonel’s insistence, Karl had taken the fried chicken and apple pie home to share with his wife.

After hours of numb driving, Karl turned the vehicle onto the road that led to Count Archambault’s country estate, and at the fork took the route to the chateau. No sooner had he pulled before the massive front entrance than the double doors opened, and Mademoiselle Celeste, his superior’s mistress, stood posed in the wide-oaked frame, elegantly dressed as always, and in her hand, the usual cigarette burning in its long, slender holder. She smiled at Karl and came forward with several servants who hastened to the back of the van. Then, like a flare in the night illuminating battle-shattered ground, thunderstruck, Karl understood.

CHAPTER EIGHTY

CHAPTER EIGHTY

On Monday, listening to the latest news from his man in Paris, Alistair’s hope for Dragonfly sank. The team was lost. His facilitators had reported in—Madame Dupree, Jules Garnier, Jacques Vogel at the fencing school, and Captain Ballard. Bucky had not been seen at the boardinghouse since Wednesday. Chris had not shown up at the academy nor Brad on the captain’s fishing boat. Rumors were that Victoria might have already been executed, and Bridgette would be shot once they’d wrung her dry. So far, at least, the little spitfire had not given up her call signal. Her radio remained silent. Fighting down a surge of biliousness at the cost of her stubbornness, Alistair placed a call to Wild Bill Donovan.

*  *  *

The rest of Sunday the three prisoners were treated with the same solicitousness as the other days of their confinement, but in their grief over Liverwort they could neither eat or sleep, so they were already awake at dawn on Monday when their cell door suddenly flew open, and they were yanked from their warm nests to their feet by four Abwehr guards. Before they could catch their breath, their hands were tied behind their backs and black hoods were pulled over their heads.

“What’s happening?” Chris asked in German. “Where are you taking us?”

“Sprich nicht!”

“To the post in the courtyard, where else?” Bucky said.

“What? Before the first act?” Brad said.

“Sprich nicht!”