DIETER WAS EXHAUSTED.

To get a thousand posters printed and distributed in half a day had taken all his powers of persuasion and intimidation.

He had been patient and persistent when he could and had flown into a mad rage when necessary.

In addition, he had not slept the previous night.

His nerves were jangled, he had a headache, and his temper was short.

But a feeling of peace descended on him as soon as he entered the grand apartment building at the Porte de la Muette, overlooking the Bois de Boulogne.

The job he had been doing for Rommel required him to travel all over northern France, so he needed to be based in Paris, but getting this place had taken a lot of bribery and bullying.

It had been worth it.

He loved the dark mahogany paneling, the heavy curtains, the high ceilings, the eighteenth-century silver on the sideboard.

He walked around the cool, dim apartment, renewing his acquaintance with his favorite possessions: a small Rodin sculpture of a hand, a Degas pastel of a dancer putting on a ballet slipper, a first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo.

He sat at the Steinway baby grand piano and played a languid version of "Ain't Misbehavin' ":

No one to talk with, all by myself...

Before the war, the apartment and much of the furniture had belonged to an engineer from Lyon, who had made a fortune manufacturing small electrical goods, vacuum cleaners and radios and doorbells.

Dieter had learned this from a neighbor, a rich widow whose husband had been a leading French Fascist in the thirties.

The engineer was a vulgarian, she said: he had hired people to choose the right wallpaper and antiques.

For him, the only purpose of objects of beauty had been to impress his wife's friends.

He had gone to America, where everyone was vulgar, said the widow.

She was pleased the apartment now had a tenant who really appreciated it.

Dieter took off his jacket and shirt and washed the Paris grime from his face and neck.

Then he put on a clean white shirt, inserted gold links in the French cuffs, and chose a silver-gray tie.

While he was tying it, he switched on the radio.

The news from Italy was bad.

The newscaster said the Germans were fighting a fierce rearguard action.

Dieter concluded that Rome must fall in the next few days.

But Italy was not France.

He now had to wait for someone to spot Felicity Clairet.

He could not be certain she would pass through Paris, of course, but it was undoubtedly the likeliest place, after Reims, for her to be seen.

Anyway, there was nothing more he could do.

He wished he had brought Stephanie with him from Reims.

However, he needed her to occupy the house in the rue du Bois.

There was a chance that more Allied agents would land and find their way to her door.

It was important to draw them gently into the net.

He had left instructions that neither Michel nor Dr. Bouler was to be tortured in his absence: he might yet have uses for them.

There was a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne in the icebox.

He opened it and poured some into a crystal flute.

Then, with a feeling that life was good, he sat down at his desk to read his mail.

There was a letter from his wife, Waltraud.

My beloved Dieter, lam so sorry we will not be together on your fortieth birthday.

Dieter had forgotten his birthday.

He looked at the date on his Cartier desk clock.

It was June 3.

He was forty years old today.

He poured another glass of champagne to celebrate.

In the envelope from his wife were two other missives.

His seven-year-old daughter, Margarete, known as Mausi, had drawn a picture of him in uniform standing by the Eiffel Tower.

In the picture, he was taller than the tower: so children magnified their fathers.

His son, Rudi, ten years old, had written a grown-up letter, carefully rounded letters in dark blue ink:

My dear Papa, I am doing well in school although Dr. Richter's classroom has been bombed.

Fortunately it was nighttime and the school was empty.

Dieter closed his eyes in pain.

He could not bear the thought of bombs falling on the city where his children lived.

He cursed the murderers of the RAF, even though he knew German bombs had fallen on British schoolchildren.

He looked at the phone on his desk, contemplating trying to call home.

It was difficult to get through: the French phone system was overloaded, and military traffic had priority, so you could wait hours for a personal call to be connected.

All the same, he decided to try.

He felt a sudden longing to hear the voices of his children and reassure himself that they were still alive.

He reached for the phone.

It rang before he touched it.

He picked it up.

"Major Franck here." "This is Lieutenant Hesse." Dieter's pulse quickened.

"You have found Felicity Clairet?" "No.

But something almost as good."