DIETER'S CAR SUFFERED a puncture on the RN3 road between Paris and Meaux.

A bent nail was stuck in the tire.

The delay irritated him, and he paced the roadside restlessly, but Lieutenant Hesse jacked up the car and changed the wheel with calm efficiency, and they were on their way again within a few minutes.

Dieter had slept late, under the influence of the morphine injection Hans had given him in the early hours, and now he watched with impatience as the ugly industrial landscape east of Paris changed gradually to farming country.

He wanted be in Reims.

He had set a trap for Flick Clairet, and he needed to be there when she fell into it.

The big Hispano-Suiza flew along an arrow-straight road lined with poplars-a road probably built by the Romans.

At the start of the war, Dieter had thought the Third Reich would be like the Roman Empire, a pan-European hegemony that would bring unprecedented peace and prosperity to all its subjects.

Now he was not so sure.

He worried about his mistress.

Stephanie was in danger, and he was responsible.

Everyone's life was at risk now, he told himself Modern warfare put the entire population on the front line.

The best way to protect Stephanie-and himself, and his family in Germany- was to defeat the invasion.

But there were moments when he cursed himself for involving his lover so closely in his mission.

He was playing a risky game and using her in an exposed position.

Resistance fighters did not take prisoners.

Being in constant peril themselves, they had no scruples about killing French people who collaborated with the enemy.

The thought that Stephanie might be killed made his chest tighten and his breathing difficult.

He could hardly contemplate life without her.

The prospect seemed dismal, and he realized he must be in love with her.

He had always told himself that she was just a beautiful courtesan, and he was using her the way men always used such women.

Now he saw that he had been fooling himself And he wished all the more that he was already in Reims at her side.

It was Sunday afternoon, so there was little traffic on the road, and they made good progress.

The second puncture occurred when they were less than an hour from Reims.

Dieter wanted to scream with frustration.

It was another bent nail.

Were wartime tires poor quality? he wondered.

Or did French people deliberately drop their old nails on the road, knowing that nine vehicles out of ten were driven by the occupying forces? The car did not have a second spare wheel, so the tire had to be mended before they could drive on.

They left the car and walked.

After a mile or so they came to a farmhouse.

A large family was sitting around the remains of a substantial Sunday lunch: on the table were cheese and strawberries and several empty wine bottles.

Country folk were the only French people who were well fed.

Dieter bullied the farmer into hitching up his horse and cart and driving them to the next town.

In the town square was a single gas pump on the pavement outside a wheelwright's shop with a Closed sign in the window.

They banged on the door and woke a surly garagisre from his Sunday-afternoon nap.

The mechanic fired up an ancient truck and drove off with Hans beside him.

Dieter sat in the living room of the mechanic's house, stared at by three small children in ragged clothes.

The mechanic's wife, a tired woman with dirty hair, bustled about in the kitchen but did not offer him so much as a glass of cold water.

Dieter thought of Stephanie again.

There was a phone in the hallway.

He looked into the kitchen.

"May I make a call?" he asked politely.

"I will pay you, of course." She gave him a hostile glare.

"Where to?" "Reims." She nodded and made a note of the time by the clock on the mantelpiece.

Dieter got the operator and gave the number of the house in the rue du Bois.

It was answered immediately by a low, gruff voice reciting the number in a provincial accent.

Suddenly alert, Dieter said in French, "This is Pierre Charenton." The voice at the other end changed into Stephanie's, and she said, "My darling." He realized she had answered the phone with her imitation of Mademoiselle Lemas, as a precaution.

His heart gladdened with relief "Is everything all right?" he asked her.

"I've captured another enemy agent for you," she said coolly.

His mouth went dry.

"My God... well done! How did it happen?" "I picked him up in the cafee la Gare and brought him here." Dieter closed his eyes.

If something had gone wrong-if she had done anything to make the agent suspect her-she could be dead by now.

"And then?" "Your men tied him up." She had said him.

That meant the terrorist was not flick.

Dieter was disappointed.

All the same, his strategy was working.

This man was the second Allied agent to walk into the trap.

"What's he like?" "A young guy with a limp and half his ear shot off" "What have you done with him?" "He's here in the kitchen, on the floor.

I was about to call Sainte-Cdcile and have him picked up." "Don't do that.

Lock him in the cellar.

I want to talk to him before Weber does." "Where are you?" "Some village.

We have a damn puncture." "Hurry back." "I should be with you in an hour or two." "Okay." "How are you?" "Fine." Dieter wanted a serious answer.

"But really, how do you feel?" "How do I feel?" She paused.

"That's a question you don't usually ask." Dieter hesitated.

"I don't usually involve you in capturing terrorists." Her voice softened.

"I feel fine.

Don't worry about me." He found himself saying something he had not planned.

"What will we do after the war?" There was a surprised silence at the other end of the line.

Dieter said, "Of course, the war could go on for ten years, but on the other hand it might be over in two weeks, and then what would we do?" She recovered her composure somewhat, but there was an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice as she said, "What would you like to do?" "I don't know," he said, but that left him dissatisfied, and after a moment he blurted out, "I don't want to lose you."

He waited for her to say something else.

"What are you thinking?" he said.

She said nothing.

There was an odd sound at the other end, and he realized she was crying.

He felt choked up himself He caught the eye of the mechanic's wife, still timing his phone call.

He swallowed hard and turned away, not wanting a stranger to see that he was upset.

"I'll be with you soon," he said.

"We'll talk some more."

"I love you," she said.

He glanced at the mechanic's wife.

She was staring at him.

To hell with her, he thought.

"I love you, too," he said.

Then he hung up the phone.

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