FLICK WAS IN the doorway of the Cafe des Sports, behind Michel, standing on tiptoe to look over his shoulder.

She was alert, her heart pounding, her muscles tensed for action, but in her brain the blood flowed like ice water, and she watched and calculated with cool detachment.

There were eight guards in sight: two at the gate checking passes, two just inside the gate, two patrolling the grounds behind the iron railings, and two at the top of the short flight of steps leading to the chateau's grand doorway.

But Michel's main force would bypass the gate.

The long north side of the church building formed part of the wall surrounding the chateau's grounds.

The north transept jutted a few feet into the parking lot that had once been part of the ornamental garden.

In the days of the ancien Regime, the comte had had his own personal entrance to the church, a little door in the transept wall.

The doorway had been boarded up and plastered over more than a hundred years ago, and had remained that way until today.

An hour ago, a retired quarryman called Gaston had entered the empty church and carefully placed four half-pound sticks of yellow plastic explosive at the foot of the blocked doorway.

He had inserted detonators, connected them together so that they would all go off at the same instant, and added a five-second fuse ignited by a thumb plunger.

Then he had smeared everything with ash from his kitchen fire to make it inconspicuous and moved an old wooden bench in front of the doorway for additional concealment.

Satisfied with his handiwork, he had knelt down to pray.

When the church bell had stopped ringing a few seconds ago, Gaston had got up from his pew, walked a few paces from the nave into the transept, depressed the plunger, and ducked quickly back around the corner.

The blast must have shaken centuries of dust from the Gothic arches.

But the transept was not occupied during services, so no one would have been injured.

After the boom of the explosion, there was a long moment of silence in the square.

Everyone froze: the guards at the chateau gate, the sentries patrolling the fence, the Gestapo major, and the well-dressed German with the glamorous mistress.

Flick, taut with apprehension, looked across the square and through the iron railings into the grounds.

In the parking lot was a relic of the seventeenth-century garden, a stone fountain with three mossy cherubs sporting where jets of water had once flowed.

Around the dry marble bowl were parked a truck, an armored car, a Mercedes sedan painted the gray-green of the German army, and two black Citroens of the Traction Avant type favored by the Gestapo in France.

A soldier was filling the tank of one of the Citroens, using a gas pump that stood incongruously in front of a tall chateau window.

For a few seconds, nothing moved.

Flick waited, holding her breath.

Among the congregation in the church were ten armed men.

The priest, who was not a sympathizer and therefore had no warning, must have been pleased that so many people had shown up for the evening service, which was not normally very popular.

He might have wondered why some of them wore topcoats, despite the warm weather, but after four years of austerity lots of people wore odd clothes, and a man might wear a raincoat to church because he had no jacket.

By now, Flick hoped, the priest understood it all.

At this moment, the ten would be leaping from their seats, pulling out their guns, and rushing through the brand-new hole in the wall.

At last they came into view around the end of the church.

Flick's heart leaped with pride and fear when she saw them, a motley army in old caps and worn-out shoes, running across the parking lot toward the grand entrance of the chateau, feet pounding the dusty soil, clutching their assorted weapons-pistols, revolvers, rifles, and one submachine gun.

They had not yet begun firing them, for they were trying to get as close as possible to the building before the shooting started.

Michel saw them at the same time.

He made a noise between a grunt and a sigh, and Flick knew he felt the same mixture of pride at their bravery and fear for their lives.

Now was the moment to distract the guards.

Michel raised his rifle, a Lee-Enfield No.4 Mark I, the kind the Resistance called a Canadian Rifle, because many of them were made in Canada.

He drew a bead, took up the slack of the two-stage trigger, then fired.

He worked the bolt action with a practiced movement so that the weapon was immediately ready to be fired again.

The crash of the rifle ended the moment of shocked silence in the square.

At the gate, one of the guards cried out and fell, and Flick felt a savage moment of satisfaction: there was one less man to shoot at her comrades.

Michel's shot was the signal for everyone else to open fire.

On the church porch, young Bertrand squeezed off two shots that sounded like firecrackers.

He was too far from the guards for accuracy with a pistol, and he did not hit anyone.

Beside him, Albert pulled the ring of a grenade and hurled it high over the railing, to land inside the grounds, where it exploded in the vineyard, uselessly scattering vegetation in the air.

Flick wanted to yell angrily at them, "Don't fire for the sake of the noise, you'll just reveal your position!" But only the best and most highly trained troops could exercise restraint once the shooting started.

From behind the parked sports car, Genevieve opened up, and the deafening rat- tie of her Sten gun filled Flick's ears.

Her shooting was more effective, and another guard fell.

At last the Germans began to act.

The guards took cover behind the stone pillars, or lay flat, and brought their rifles to bear.

The Gestapo major fumbled his pistol out of its holster.

The redhead turned and ran, but her sexy shoes slipped on the cobblestones, and she fell.

Her man lay on top of her, protecting her with his body, and Flick decided she had been right to suppose he was a soldier, for a civilian would not know that it was safer to lie down than to run.

The sentries opened fire.

Almost immediately, Albert was hit.

Flick saw him stagger and clutch his throat.

A hand grenade he had been about to throw dropped from his grasp.

Then a second round hit him, this time in the forehead.

He fell like a stone, and Flick thought with sudden grief of the baby girl born this morning who now had no father.

Beside Albert, Bertrand saw the turtleshell grenade roll across the age-worn stone step of the church porch.

He hurled himself through the doorway as the grenade exploded.

Flick waited for him to reappear, but he did not, and she thought with anguished uncertainty that he could be dead, wounded, or just stunned.

In the parking lot, the team from the church stopped running, turned on the remaining six sentries, and opened up.

The four guards near the gate were caught in a crossfire, between those inside the grounds and those outside in the square, and they were wiped out in seconds, leaving only the two on the chateau steps.

Michel's plan was working, Flick thought with a surge of hope.

But the enemy troops inside the building had now had time to seize their weapons and rush to the doors and windows, and they began to shoot, changing the odds again.

Everything depended on how many of them there were.

For a few moments the bullets poured like rain, and Flick stopped counting.

Then she realized with dismay that there were many more guns in the chateau than she had expected.

Fire seemed to be coming from at least twelve doors and windows.

The men from the church, who should by now be inside the building, retreated to take cover behind the vehicles in the parking lot.

Antoinette had been right, and MI6 wrong, about the number of troops stationed here.

Twelve was the M16 estimate, yet the Resistance had downed six for certain and there were at least fourteen still firing.

Flick cursed passionately.

In a fight like this, the Resistance could win only by sudden, overwhelming violence.

If they did not crush the enemy right away, they were in trouble.

As the seconds ticked by, army training and discipline began to tell.

In the end, regular troops would always prevail in a drawn-out conflict.

On the upper floor of the chateau, a tall seventeenth- century window was smashed open, and a machine gun began to fire.

Because of its high position, it caused horrible carnage among the Resistance in the parking lot.

Flick was sickened as, one after another, the men there fell and lay bleeding beside the dry fountain, until there were only two or three still shooting.

It was all over, Flick realized in despair.

They were outnumbered and they had failed.

The sour taste of defeat rose in her throat.

Michel had been shooting at the machine-gun position.

"We can't take out that machine gunner from the ground!" he said.

He looked around the square, his gaze flying to the tops of the buildings, the bell tower of the church, and the upper floor of the town hall.

"If I could get into the mayor's office, I'd have a clear shot." "Wait." Flick's mouth was dry.

She could not stop him risking his life, much as she wanted to.

But she could improve the odds.

She yelled at the top of her voice, "Genevieve!" Genevieve turned to look at her.

"Cover Michel!" Genevieve nodded vigorously, then dashed out from behind the sports car, spraying bullets at the chateau windows.

"Thanks," Michel said to Flick.

Then he broke cover and sprinted across the square, heading for the town hall.

Genevieve ran on, heading for the church porch.

Her fire distracted the men in the chateau, giving Michel a chance of crossing the square unscathed.

But then there was a flash on Flick's left.

She glanced that way and saw the Gestapo major, flattened against the wall of the town hail, aiming his pistol at Michel.

It was hard to hit a moving target with a handgun at anything but close range-but the major might be lucky, Flick thought fearfully.

She was under orders to observe and report back, and not to join the fighting under any circumstances, but now she thought: To hell with that.

In her shoulder bag she carried her personal weapon, a Browning nine-millimeter automatic, which she preferred to the SOE standard Colt because it had thirteen rounds in the clip instead of seven, and because she could load it with the same nine-millimeter Parabellum rounds used in the Sten submachine gun.

She snatched it out of the bag.

She released the safety catch, cocked the hammer, extended her arm, and fired two hasty shots at the major.

She missed him, but her bullets chipped fragments of stone from the wall near his face, and he ducked.

Michel ran on.

The major recovered quickly and raised his weapon again.

As Michel approached his destination, he also came closer to the major, shortening the range.

Michel fired his rifle in the major's direction, but the shot went wild, and the major kept his head and fired back.

This time, Michel went down, and Flick let out a yell of fear.

Michel hit the ground, tried to get up, and collapsed.

Flick calmed herself and thought fast.

Michel was still alive.

Genevieve had reached the church porch, and her submachine gun fire continued to draw the attention of the enemy inside the chateau.

Flick had a chance of rescuing Michel.

lt was against her orders, but no orders could make her leave her husband bleeding on the ground.

Besides, if she left him there, he would be captured and interrogated.

As leader of the Bollinger circuit, Michel knew every name, every address, every code word.

His capture would be a catastrophe.

There was no choice.

She shot at the major again.

Again she missed, but she pulled the trigger repeatedly, and the steady fire forced the man to retreat along the wall, looking for cover.

She ran out of the bar into the square.

From the corner of her eye she saw the owner of the sports car, still protecting his mistress from gunfire by lying on top of her.

Flick had forgotten him, she realized with sudden fear.

Was he armed? If so, he could shoot her easily.

But no bullets came.

She reached the supine Michel and went down on one knee.

She turned toward the town hall and fired two wild shots to keep the major busy.

Then she looked at her husband.

To her relief she saw that his eyes were open and he was breathing.

He seemed to be bleeding from his left buttock.

Her fear receded a little.

"You got a bullet in your bum," she said in English.

He replied in French, "It hurts like hell." She turned again to the town hail.

The major had retreated twenty meters and crossed the narrow street to a shop doorway.

This time Flick took a few seconds to aim carefully.

She squeezed off four shots.

The shop window exploded in a storm of glass, and the major staggered back and fell to the ground.

Flick spoke to Michelin French.

"Try to get up," she said.

He rolled over, groaning in pain, and got to one knee, but he could not move his injured leg.

"Come on," she said harshly.

"If you stay here, you'll be killed." She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and heaved him upright with a mighty effort.

He stood on his good leg, but he could not bear his own weight, and leaned heavily against her.

She realized that he was not going to be able to walk, and she groaned in despair.

She glanced over to the side of the town hall.

The major was getting up.

He had blood on his face, but he did not seem badly injured.

She guessed that he had been cut superficially by flying glass but might still be capable of shooting.

There was only one thing for it: she would have to pick Michel up and carry him to safety.

She bent in front of him, grasped him around the thighs, and eased him on to her shoulder in the classic fireman's lift.

He was tall but thin-most French people were thin, these days.

All the same, she thought she would collapse under his weight.

She staggered, and felt dizzy for a second, but she stayed upright.

After a moment, she took a step forward.

She lumbered across the cobblestones.

She thought the major was shooting at her, but she could not be sure as there was so much gunfire from the chateau, from Genevieve, and from the Resistance fighters still alive in the parking lot.

The fear that a bullet might hit her at any second gave her strength, and she broke into a lurching run.

She made for the road leading out of the square to the south, the nearest exit.

She passed the German lying on top of the redhead, and for a startled moment she met his eye and saw an expression of surprise and wry admiration.

Then she crashed into a cafeable, sending it flying, and she almost fell, but managed to right herself and run on.

A bullet hit the window of the bar, and she saw a cobweb of fracture lines craze the glass.

A moment later, she was around the corner and out of the major's line of sight.

Alive, she thought gratefully; both of us-for a few more minutes, at least.

Until now she had not thought where to go once she was clear of the battlefield.

Two getaway vehicles were waiting a couple of streets away, but she could not carry Michel that far.

However, Antoinette Dupert lived on this street, just a few steps farther.

Antoinette was not in the Resistance, but she was sympathetic enough to have provided Michel with a plan of the chateau.

And Michel was her nephew, so she surely would not turn him away.

Anyway, Flick had no alternative.

Antoinette had a ground-floor apartment in a building with a courtyard.

Flick came to the open gateway, a few yards along the street from the square, and staggered under the archway.

She pushed open a door and lowered Michel to the tiles.

She hammered on Antoinette's door, panting with effort.

She heard a frightened voice say, "What is it?" Antoinette had been scared by the gunfire and did not want to open the door.

Breathlessly, Flick said, "Quickly, quickly!" She tried to keep her voice low.

Some of the neighbors might be Nazi sympathizers.

The door did not open, but Antoinette's voice came nearer.

"Who's there?" Flick instinctively avoided speaking a name aloud.

She replied, "Your nephew is wounded." The door opened.

Antoinette was a straight-backed woman of fifty wearing a cotton dress that had once been chic and was now faded but crisply pressed.

She was pale with fear.

"Michel!" she said.

She knelt beside him.

"Is it serious?" "It hurts, but I'm not dying," Michel said through clenched teeth.

"You poor thing." She brushed his hair off his sweaty forehead with a gesture like a caress.

Flick said impatiently, "Let's get him inside." She took Michel's arms and Antoinette lifted him by the knees.

He grunted with pain.

Together they carried him into the living room and put him down on a faded velvet sofa.

"Take care of him while I fetch the car," Flick said.

She ran back into the street.

The gunfire was dying down.

She did not have long.

She raced along the street and turned two corners.

Outside a closed bakery, two vehicles were parked with their engines running: one a rusty Renault, the other a van with a faded sign on the side that had once read Blanchisserie Bisset-Bisset's Laundry.

The van was borrowed from the father of Bertrand, who was able to get fuel because he washed sheets for hotels used by the Germans.

The Renault had been stolen this morning in Chalons, and Michel had changed its license plates.

Flick decided to take the car, leaving the van for any survivors who might get away from the carnage in the chateau grounds.

She spoke briefly to the driver of the van.

"Wait here for five minutes, then leave." She ran to the car, jumped into the passenger seat, and said, "Let's go, quickly!" At the wheel of the Renault was Gilberte, a nineteen- year-old girl with long dark hair, pretty but stupid.

Flick did not know why she was in the Resistance-she was not the usual type.

Instead of pulling away, Gilberte said, "Where to?" "I'll direct you-for the love of Christ, move!" Gilberte put the car in gear and drove off.

"Left, then right," Flick said.

In the two minutes of inaction that followed, the full realization of her failure hit her.

Most of the Bollinger circuit was wiped out.

Albert and others had died.

Genevieve, Bertrand, and any others who survived would probably be tortured.

And it was all for nothing.

The telephone exchange was undamaged, and German communications were intact.

Flick felt worthless.

She tried to think what she had done wrong.

Had it been a mistake to try a frontal attack on a guarded military installation? Not necessarily-the plan might have worked but for the inaccurate intelligence supplied by MI6.

However, it would have been safer, she now thought, to get inside the building by some clandestine means.

That would have given the Resistance a better chance of getting to the crucial equipment.

Gilberte pulled up at the courtyard entrance.

"Turn the car around," Flick said, and jumped out.

Michel was lying facedown on Antoinette's sofa, trousers pulled down, looking undignified.

Antoinette knelt beside him, holding a bloodstained towel, a pair of glasses perched on her nose, peering at his backside.

"The bleeding has slowed, but the bullet is still in there," she said.

On the floor beside the sofa was her handbag.

She had emptied the contents onto a small table, presumably while hurriedly searching for her spectacles.

Flick's eye was caught by a sheet of paper, typed on and stamped, with a small photograph of Antoinette pasted to it, the whole thing in a little cardboard folder.

It was the pass that permitted her to enter the chateau.

In that moment, Flick had the glimmer of an idea.

"I've got a car outside," Flick said.

Antoinette continued to study the wound.

"He shouldn't be moved." "If he stays here, the Boche will kill him." Flick casually picked up Antoinette's pass.

As she did so she asked Michel, "How do you feel?" "I might be able to walk now," he said.

"The pain is easing." Flick slipped the pass into her shoulder bag.

Antoinette did not notice.

Flick said to her, "Help me get him up." The two women raised Michel to his feet.

Antoinette pulled up his blue canvas trousers and fastened his worn leather belt.

"Stay inside," Flick said to Antoinette.

"I don't want anyone to see you with us." She had not yet begun to work out her idea, but she already knew it would be blighted if any suspicion were to fall on Antoinette and her cleaners.

Michel put his arm around Flick's shoulders and leaned heavily on her.

She took his weight, and he hobbled out of the building into the street.

By the time they reached the car, he was white with pain.

Gilberte stared through the window at them, looking terrified.

Flick hissed at her, "Get out and open the fucking door, dimwit!" Gilberte leaped out of the car and threw open the rear door.

With her help, Flick bundled Mitel onto the

The two women jumped in the front "Let's get out of here," said Flick.

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