ALL MORN INC THE Jackdaws drove north in a small bus.

It was a slow journey through leafy woods and fields of green wheat, zigzagging from one sleepy market town to the next, circling London to the west.

The countryside seemed oblivious of the war or indeed of the twentieth century, and Flick hoped it would long remain so.

As they wound their way through medieval Winchester, she thought of Reims, another cathedral city, with uniformed Nazis strutting on the streets and the Gestapo everywhere in their black cars, and she gave a short prayer of thanks that they had stopped at the English Channel.

She sat next to Paul and watched - the countryside for a while; then-having been awake all night making love-she fell into a blissful sleep with her head on his shoulder.

At two in the afternoon they reached the village of Sandy in Bedfordshire.

The bus went down a winding country road, turned onto an unpaved lane through a wood, and arrived at a large mansion called Tempsford House.

Flick had been here before: it was the assembly point for the nearby Tempsford Airfield.

The mood of tranquility left her.

Despite the eighteenth-century elegance of the place, to her it symbolized the unbearable tension of the hours immediately before a flight into enemy territory.

They were too late for lunch, but they got ~tea and sandwiches in the dining room.

Flick drank her tea but felt too anxious to eat.

However, the others tucked in heartily.

Afterwards they were shown to their rooms.

A little later the women met in the library.

The room looked more like the wardrobe of a film studio.

There were racks of coats and dresses, boxes of hats and shoes, cardboard cartons labeled Culotres Chausseue~ and Mouchoirs and a trestle table in the middle of the room with several sewing machines.

In charge of the operation was Madame Guillemin, a slim woman of about fifty in a shirtwaist dress with a chic little matching jacket.

She had spectacles on the end of her nose and a measuring tape around her neck, and she spoke to them in perfect French with a Parisian accent.

"As you know, French clothes are distinctively different from British clothes.

I won't say they are more stylish, but, you know, they are.

.

.

more stylish." She gave a French shrug, and the girls laughed.

It was not just a question of style, Flick thought somberly: French jackets were normally about ten inches longer than British, and there were numerous differences of detail, any of which could be the fatal clue that betrayed an agent.

So all the clothes here had been bought in France, exchanged with refugees for new British clothes, or faithfully copied from French originals, then worn for a while so that they would not look new.

"Now it is summer so we have cotton dresses, light wool suits, and shower proof coats." She waved a hand at two young women sitting at sewing machines.

"My assistants will make alterations if the clothes don't fit quite perfectly." Flick said, "We need clothes that are fairly expensive, but well worn.

I want us to look like respectable women in case we're questioned by the Gestapo." When they needed to pose as cleaners, they could quickly downgrade their appearance by taking off their hats, gloves, and belts.

Madame Guillemin began with Ruby.

She looked hard at her for a minute, then picked from the rack a navy dress and a tan raincoat.

"Try those.

It's a man's coat, but in France today no one can afford to be particular." She pointed across the room.

"You can change behind that screen if you wish, and for the very shy there is a little anteroom behind the desk.

We think the owner of the house used to lock himself in there to read dirty books." They laughed again, all but Flick, who had heard Madame Guillemin's jokes before.

The seamstress looked hard at Greta, then moved on, saying, "I'll come back to you." She picked outfits for Jelly, Diana, and Maude, and they all went behind the screen.

Then she turned to Flick and said in a low voice, "Is this a joke?" "Why do you say that?" She turned to Greta.

"You're a man." Flick gave a grunt of frustration and turned away.

The seamstress had seen through Greta's disguise in seconds.

It was a bad omen.

Madame added, "You might fool a lot of people, but not me.

I can tell." Greta said, "How?" Madame Guillemin shrugged.

"The proportions are all wrong-your shoulders are too broad, your hips too narrow, your legs too muscular, your hands too big-it's obvious to an expert." Flick said irritably, "She has to be a woman, for this mission, so please dress her as best you can." "Of course-but for God's sake, try not to let her be seen by a dressmaker." "No problem.

The Gestapo don't employ many of those." Flick's confidence was faked.

She did not want Madame Guillemin to know how worried she was.

The seamstress looked again at Greta.

"I'll give you a contrasting skirt and blouse, to reduce your height, and a three-quarter-length coat." She selected clothes and handed them to Greta.

Greta looked at them with disapproval.

Her taste ran to more glamorous outfits.

However, she did not complain.

"I'm going to be shy and lock myself in the anteroom," she said.

Finally Madame gave Flick an apple-green dress with a matching coat.

"The color shows off your eyes," she said.

"As long as you're not ostentatious, why shouldn't you look pretty? It may help you charm your way out of trouble." The dress was loose and looked like a tent on Flick, but she put on a leather belt to give it a waist.

"You are so chic, just like a French girl," said Madame Guillemin.

Flick did not tell her that the main purpose of the belt was to hold a gun.

They all put on their new clothes and paraded around the room, preening and giggling.

Madame Guillemin had chosen well, and they liked what they had been given, but some of the garments needed adjusting.

"While we are making alterations you can choose some accessories," Madame said.

They rapidly lost their inhibitions, and downed around in their underwear, trying on hats and shoes, scarves and bags.

They had momentarily forgotten the dangers ahead, Flick thought, and were taking simple pleasure in their new outfits.

Greta came out of the anteroom looking surprisingly glamorous.

Flick studied her with interest.

She had turned up the collar of the plain white blouse so that it looked stylish and wore the shapeless coat draped over her shoulders cloak-style.

Madame Guillemin raised an eyebrow but made no comment.

Flick's dress had to be shortened.

While that was being done she studied the coat.

Working undercover had given her a sharp eye for detail, and she anxiously checked the stitching, the lining, the buttons, and the pockets to make sure they were in the normal French style.

She found no fault.

The label in the collar said "Galeries Lafayette." Flick showed Madame Guillemin her lapel knife.

It was only three inches long, with a thin blade, but it was wickedly sharp.

It had a small handle and no hilt.

It came in a slim leather sheath pierced with holes for thread.

"I want you to sew this to the coat under the lapel," Flick said.

Madame Guiflemin nodded.

"I can do this." She gave them each a little pile of underwear, two of everything, all with the labels of French shops.

With unerring accuracy she had picked not just the right size but the preferred style of each woman: corsets for Jelly, pretty lacy slips for Maude, navy knickers and boned brassieres for Diana, simple chemises and panties for Ruby and flick.

"The handkerchiefs bear the laundry marks of different blanchisseries in Reims," said Madame Guillemin with a touch of pride.

Finally she produced an assortment of bags: a canvas duffel, a gladstone bag, a rucksack, and a selection of cheap fiber suitcases in different colors and sizes.

Each woman got one.

Inside she found a toothbrush, toothpaste, face powder, shoe polish, cigarettes and matches-all French brands.

Even though they were going in only for a short time, Flick had insisted on the full kit for each of them.

"Remember," Flick said, "you may not take with you anything that you have not been given this afternoon.

Your life depends on that." The giggling stopped as they remembered the danger they would face in a few hours.

Flick said, "All right, everybody, please go back to your rooms and change into your French outfits, including underwear.

Then we'll meet downstairs for dinner." In the main drawing room of the house a bar had been set up.

When Flick walked in, it was occupied by a dozen or so men, some in RAF uniform, all of them- Flick knew from previous visits-clestined to make clandestine flights over France.

A blackboard bore the names or code names of those who would leave tonight, together with the times they needed to depart from the house.

Flick read:

Aristotle-19:50 Capt.

Jenkins & Lieut.

Ramsey-20:05 All Jackdaws-20:30 Colgate & Bunter-21:OO Mr.

Blister, Paradox, Saxophone-22:05

She looked at her watch.

It was six-thirty.

Two hours to go.

She sat at the bar and looked around, wondering which of them would come back and which would die in the field.

Some were terribly young, smoking and telling jokes, looking as if they had no cares.

The older ones looked hardened, and savored their whisky and gin in the grim knowledge it might be their last.

She thought about their parents, their wives or girlfriends, their babies and children.

Tonight's work would leave some of them with a grief that would never entirely go away.

Her somber reflections were interrupted by a sight that astonished her.

Simon Fortescue, the slippery bureaucrat from MI6, walked into the bar in a pinstriped suit-accompanied by Denise Bowyer.

Flick's jaw dropped.

"Felicity, I'm so glad I caught you," said Simon.

Without waiting for an invitation he pulled up a stool for Denise.

"Gin and tonic, please, barman.

What would you like, Lady Denise?" "A martini, very dry." "And for you, Felicity?" Flick did not answer the question.

"She's supposed to be in Scotland!" she said.

"Look, there seems to have been some misunderstanding.

Denise has told me all about this policeman fellow-" "No misunderstanding," Flick said abruptly.

"Denise failed the course.

That's all there is to it." Denise made a disgusted sound.

Fortescue said, "I really don't see how a perfectly intelligent girl from a good family could fail-" "She's a blabbermouth." "What?" "She can't keep her damn mouth shut.

She's not trustworthy.

She shouldn't be walking around free!" Denise said, "You insolent cat." Fortescue controlled his temper with an effort and lowered his voice.

"Look, her brother is the Marquess of Inverlocky, who's very close to the Prime Minister.

Inverlocky himself asked me to make sure Denise got a chance to do her bit.

So, you see, it would be dreadfully tactless to turn her down." Flick raised her voice.

"Let me get this straight." One or two of the men nearby looked up.

"As a favor to your upper-class friend, you're asking me to take someone untrustworthy on a dangerous mission behind enemy lines.

Is that it?" As she was speaking, Percy and Paul walked in.

Percy glared at Fortescue with undisguised malevolence.

Paul said, "Did I hear right?" Fortescue said, "I've brought Denise with me because it would be, frankly, an embarrassment to the government if she were left behind-" "And a danger to me if she were to come!" Flick interrupted.

"You're wasting your breath.

She's off the team." "Look, I don't want to have to pull rank-" "What rank?" said Flick.

"I resigned from the Guards as a colonel-" "Retired!" "-and I'm the civil service equivalent of a brigadier." "Don't be ridiculous," Flick said.

"You're not even in the army." "I'm ordering you to take Denise with you." "Then I'll have to consider my response," said Flick.

"That's better.

I'm sure you won't regret it." "All right, here is my response.

Fuck off" Fortescue went red.

He had probably never been told to flick off by a girl.

He was uncharacteristically speechless.

"Well!" said Denise.

"We've certainly found out what type of person we're dealing with." Paul said, "You're dealing with me." He turned to Fortescue.

"I'm in command of this operation, and I won't have Denise on the team at any price.

If you want to argue, call Monty." "Well said, my boy," Percy added.

Fortescue found his voice at last.

He wagged a finger at Flick.

"The time will come, Mrs.

Clairet, when you will regret saying that to me." He got off his stool.

"I'm sorry about this, Lady Denise, but I think we've done all we can here." They left.

"Stupid prat," Percy muttered.

"Let's have dinner," said Flick.

The others were already in the dining room, waiting.

As the Jackdaws began their last meal in England, Percy gave each of them an expensive gift: silver cigarette cases for the smokers, gold powder compacts for the others.

"They have French hallmarks, so you can take them with you," he said.

The women were pleased, but he brought their mood back down with his next remark.

"They have a purpose, too.

They are items that can easily be pawned for emergency funds if you get into real trouble." The food was plentiful, a banquet by wartime standards, and the Jackdaws tucked in with relish.

Flick did not feel very hungry, but she forced herself to eat a big steak, knowing it was more meat than she would get in a week in France.

When they finished supper, it was time to go to the airfield.

They returned to their rooms to pick up their French bags, then boarded the bus.

It took them along another country lane and across a railway line, then approached what looked like a cluster of farm buildings at the edge of a large, flat field.

A sign said Gibraltar Farm, but Flick knew that this was RAF Tempsford, and the barns were heavily disguised Nissen huts.

They went into what looked like a cowshed and found a uniformed RAF officer standing guard over steel racks of equipment.

Before they were given their gear, each of them was searched.

A box of British matches was found in Maude's suitcase; Diana had in her pocket a half-completed crossword torn from the Daily Mirror, which she swore she had intended to leave on the plane; and Jelly, the inveterate gambler, had a pack of playing cards with "Made in Binning- ham" printed on every one.

Paul distributed their identity cards, ration cards, and clothing coupons.

Each woman was given a hundred thousand French francs, mostly in grubby thousand- franc notes.

It was the equivalent of five hundred pounds, enough to buy two Ford cars.

They also got weapons, .45-caliber Colt automatic pistols and sharp double-bladed Commando knives.

Flick declined both.

She took her personal gun, a Browning nine-millimeter automatic.

Around her waist she wore the leather belt, into which she could push the pistol or, at a pinch, the submachine gun.

She also took her lapel knife instead of the Commando knife.

The Commando knife was longer and deadlier, but more cumbersome.

The great advantage of the lapel knife was that when the agent was asked to produce papers, she could innocently reach toward an inside pocket, then at the last moment pull the knife.

In addition there was a Lee-Enfield rifle for Diana and a Sten Mark II submachine gun with silencer for Flick.

The plastic explosive Jelly would need was distributed evenly among the six women so that even if one or two bags were lost there would still be enough to do the job.

Maude said, "It might blow me up!" Jelly explained that it was extraordinarily safe.

"I knew a bloke who thought it was chocolate and ate some," she said.

"Mind you," she added, "it didn't half give him the runs." They were offered the usual round Mills grenades with the conventional turtleshell finish, but Flick insisted on general-purpose grenades in square cans, because they could also be used as explosive charges.

Each woman got a fountain pen with a hollow cap containing a suicide pill.

There was a compulsory visit to the bathroom before putting on the flying suit.

It had a pistol pocket so that the agent could defend herself immediately on landing, if necessary.

With the suit, they donned helmet and goggles and finally shrugged into the parachute harness.

Paul asked Flick to step outside for a moment.

He had held back the all-important special passes that would enable the women to enter the chateau as cleaners.

If a Jackdaw were to be captured by the Gestapo, this pass would betray the true purpose of the mission.

For safety, he gave all the passes to Flick, to be distributed at the last minute.

Then he kissed her.

She kissed him back with desperate passion, clutching his body to hers, shamelessly thrusting her tongue into his mouth until she had to gasp for breath.

"Don't get killed," he said into her ear.

They were interrupted by a discreet cough.

Flick smelled Percy's pipe.

She broke the clinch.

Percy said to Paul, "The pilot is waiting for a word with you." Paul nodded and moved away.

"Make sure he understands that Flick is the officer in command," Percy called after him.

"Sure," Paul replied.

Percy looked grim, and Flick had a bad feeling.

"What's wrong?" she said.

He took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

"A motorcycle courier from London brought this from SOE headquarters just before we left the house.

It came in from Brian Standish last night." He sucked anxiously on his pipe and blew out clouds of smoke.

Flick looked at the sheet of paper in the evening sunlight.

It was a decrypt.

Its contents hit her like a punch in the stomach.

She looked up, dismayed.

"Brian has been in the hands of the Gestapo!" "Only for a few seconds." "So this claims." "Any reason to think otherwise?" "Ah, fuck it," she said loudly.

A passing airman looked up sharply, surprised to hear a woman's voice utter such words.

Flick crumpled the paper and threw it on the ground.

Percy bent down, picked it up, and smoothed out the creases.

"Let's try to stay calm and think clearly." Flick took a deep breath.

"We have a rule," she said insistently.

"Any agent who is captured by the enemy, whatever the circumstances, must immediately be returned to London for debriefing." "Then you'll have no wireless operator." "I can manage without one.

And what about this Charenton?" "I suppose it's natural that Mademoiselle Lemas might have recruited someone to help her." "All recruits are supposed to be vetted by London." "You know that rule has never been followed." "At a minimum they should be approved by the local commander." "Well, he has been now-Michel is satisfied that Charenton is trustworthy.

And Charenton saved Brian from the Gestapo.

That whole scene in the cathedral can't have been deliberately staged, can it?" "Perhaps it never took place at all, and this message comes straight from Gestapo headquarters." "But it has all the right security codes.

Anyway, they wouldn't invent a story about his being captured and then released.

They'd know that would arouse our suspicions.

They would just say he had arrived safely." "You're right, but still I don't like it." "No, nor do I," he said, surprising her.

"But I don't know what to do."

She sighed.

"We have to take the risk.

There's no time for precautions.

If we don't disable the telephone exchange in the next three days it will be too late.

We have to go anyway." Percy nodded.

Flick saw that there were tears in his eyes.

He put his pipe in his mouth and took it out again.

"Good girl," he said, his voice reduced to a whisper.

"Good girl."

THE SEVENTH DAY Saturday, June 3,1944