Classic Spy Novels 3-Book Bundle (81 page)

“What was that?” Citrine asked, once they were in the apartment.

“The baroness. She lives down below.”

“Well, well. She’s rather pretty. Do you—?”

“Are you crazy?”

They took off their coats. Citrine walked around the small living room, moved the drape aside and stared out over the rooftops. The Eiffel Tower was a dim shape in the darkness on the other side of the river. “It’s all the same,” she said. “Except for the lights.”

“Oh look,” he said. “A bottle of wine. Someone must have left it here.”

For the occasion, a pack of Gauloises. They smoked, drank wine, played the radio at its lowest volume. Citrine paged through the script, following the trail of SYLVIE as it wound from scene to scene. Casson watched her face carefully—this was Fischfang’s first real test. Altmann could be fooled, not Citrine. She scowled, sighed, flipped pages when she grew impatient. “How old is this Sylvie, do you think?”

“Young, but experienced. In the important moments, much older than her years. She wants very much to be frivolous—her life carried her past those times too quickly—but she can’t forget what she’s seen, and what she knows.”

Citrine concentrated on a certain passage, then closed the script, keeping the place with her index finger. She met Casson’s eyes, became another person. “ ‘My dreams? No, I don’t remember them. Oh, sometimes I’m running. But we all run away at night, don’t we.’ ”

Casson opened his copy. “Where are you?”

“Page fifty-five, in the attic. With Paul, we’re . . .” She hunted for a moment. “We’re . . . we’ve opened a trunk full of old costumes.”

“For the carnival, at Lent.”

“Oh.” She turned to the wall, crossed her arms. “ ‘My dreams.’ ” She shook her head. “ ‘No. I don’t remember them.’ ”
I don’t want to
remember them.
And somehow she bent the word
dreams
back toward its other meaning. She relaxed, dropped out of character. “Too much?”

“I wish Louis were here. He’d like it that way.”

“You?”

“Maybe.”

“You want to direct this, don’t you.”

“I always want to, Citrine. But I know not to.”

8:30. A second bottle of wine. Scarlatti from the BBC. The room smelled like smoke, wine, and perfume. “Did you know,” she said, “I made a movie in Finland?”

“In Finnish?”

“No. They dubbed it later. I just went ba-ba-ba with whatever feeling they told me to have and the other actors spoke Finnish.”

“That doesn’t work,” Casson said. “We did a German version that way, for
The Devil’s Bridge.
”

Citrine’s eyes filled with soft passion, she leaned forward on the couch, her voice a whisper. “Ba, ba-ba. Ba-ba-ba?”

Casson extended the wine bottle, holding it over Citrine’s glass. “Ba ba?”

“Don’t,” she said, laughing.

He smiled at her, poured the wine. Happiness rolled over him, he felt suddenly warm. Perhaps, he thought, paradise goes by in an instant. When you’re not looking.

“I’m almost asleep,” she said.

Or was it? Warmth rolled over him, he felt suddenly happy. He went to the radiator and put a hand on it. “A miracle,” he said. The apartment hadn’t been like this for months. From somewhere, coal, apparently abundant coal, had appeared, and Madame Fitou had decided, against all precedent, to use a great deal of it. This was, he realized, a rather complicated miracle.

“Suddenly,” he said, “there’s heat.”

Citrine spread her hands, meaning obvious conclusion. “Don’t you see?”

“No.”

“A beautiful baroness, a dashing German officer, coal is delivered.”

It felt good in the apartment, they were in no hurry to leave. The Occupation authority, grateful for a compliant population, had given Paris a Christmas present: extension of curfew to 3:00 A.M. Casson and Citrine talked
—Hotel
Dorado,
life and times, the way of the world. They’d never disagreed about big things, it had gone wrong between them somewhere else. They liked eccentricity, they liked kindness, coincidence, people who lost themselves in the study of planets or bugs. They liked people with big hearts. They wanted to hear that in the end it all turned out for the best.

Just after midnight she wandered into the kitchen, dabbed her finger in some galantine gelatin left on a plate and licked it off. A moment later Casson came in to see what she was doing, found her standing by the pipe that ran, mysteriously, through the corners of all the kitchens in the building. She was listening to something, hand pressed over her mouth, like a schoolgirl, to keep from giggling.

“What—?” he said.

She touched a finger to her lips, then pointed to the pipe. He listened, heard faint sounds from below. It made no sense at first.

“Your baroness?” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“Is getting a red bottom.”

Sharp reports—slow and deliberate, demure little cries. There was only one thing in the world that sounded like that.

“Tiens,”
Casson said, amazed. “And in the kitchen.”

Citrine listened for a time. “Well,” she said, “I predict you’ll have a warm winter.”

Later he walked her to the Métro—she wouldn’t let him take her back to the hotel. “Good night,” he said.

She kissed him on the lips, very quickly and lightly, it was over before he realized it was happening. “Jean-Claude,” she said. “I had a good time tonight. Thank you.”

“I’ll call you,” he said.

She nodded, waved at him, turned and went down the stairs of the Métro.
She’s gone,
he thought.

A CITIZEN OF THE EVENING

Night train to Madrid.

The air was ice, the heavens swept with winter stars, white and still in a black sky. Jean Casson had done what he’d done, there was no going back. The train pulled slowly from the Gare de Lyon, clattered through the railyards south of the city, then out into the night.

A first-class compartment; burgundy velveteen drapes, gleaming brass doorknobs. Casson pressed his forehead against the cold window and stared out into the dark countryside. Looking out train windows was good for lovers.
Citrine, Citrine.
They’d made love in a train once; lying on their sides in a narrow berth, looking out at the back-yards of some town, sheets hanging on wash lines, cats on windowsills, smoke from chimneys on tile roofs. It was a long autumn that year and nobody thought about war.

Staring out train windows good for lovers, not so bad for secret agents.
We are all adrift in the world, we do what we have to do.
Casson turned out the lamps so he could see better. Outside, the Beauce. Old, deep France
—France
profonde,
it was said. A flat plain where they grew wheat and barley, sometimes a forest where long ago they’d hunted bear with Beauceron dogs. A knock at the door, his heart hammered. “Monsieur?” Only a steward in a white jacket, peering at a list.

“Monsieur Dubreuil?”

“No, Casson.”

“Monsieur Casson, yes. Would you wish the first or second seating?”

“Second.”

“Very good, sir.”

He closed the door, the rattle of the train subsided. A man with eyes shadowed by the brim of a fedora came down the corridor, glanced into Casson’s compartment.
Calm down,
Casson told himself. But he couldn’t. The tanned, smiling Colonel Guske kept forcing himself to the front of Casson’s attention. He wasn’t a smart lawyer—Simic had been right there, Casson thought—but he was the sort of man who got things done. Worked hard, full of vigor and stupefying optimism about life.
Must get that spinnaker rigged! Must keep the racquet straight on
my backhand! Must get to the bottom of that Casson business!

He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. Forced himself to take comfort from the dark countryside beyond the window. The French had fought and marched across these plains for centuries. They’d fought the Moslems in the south, the Germans in the east, the British in the west. The Dutch in the north? He didn’t know. But they must have, some time or other. The War of the Spanish Succession? The Thirty Years’ War? Napoleon?

Calm down.
Or they’d find him dead of fear, staring wide-eyed at the scenery. Then it would be their turn to worry about the three hundred thousand pesetas. Of course, he thought, they wouldn’t worry very long. Or, perhaps, it would just stay where it was—God only knew what would be lost forever in this war. The train slowed, and stopped. Outside, nothing special, a frozen field.

Compartment doors opening and closing, the sound of a slow train rumbling past. Something to do, anyhow. He got up and joined the other passengers, standing at the windows in the corridor. A freight train, flat cars loaded with tanks and artillery pieces under canvas tarpaulins, gun barrels pointing at the sky. He counted thirty, forty, fifty, then stopped, the train seemed to go on forever. His heart fell—what could he, what could any of them do against these people? Lately it was fashionable in Paris to avert one’s eyes when seated across from Germans in the Métro. Yes, he thought, that would do it—the French won’t look at us, we’re going home.

His fellow passengers felt it too. Not the German aviators at the end of the car, probably not their French girlfriends, drunk and giggling. But the man who looked like a butcher in a Sunday suit, and Madame Butcher, they had the same expression on their faces as he did: faintly introspective, not very interested, vague. Strange, he thought, how people choose the same mask. Tall man, head of an ostrich, spectacles. A professor of Greek? A young man and his older friend—theatre people, Casson would have bet on it. The woman who stood next to him was an aristocrat of some sort. Late forties, red-and-brown tweed suit for traveling, cost a fortune years ago, maintained by maids ever since.

She felt his eyes, turned to look at him. Dry, weatherbeaten face, pale hair cut short and plain, eight strokes of a brush would put it in place. Skin never touched by makeup. Faded green eyes with laugh wrinkles at the corners her only feature. But more than sufficient. She met his glance; gave a single shake of the head, mouth tight for an instant.
How
sad this is,
she meant. And I don’t know that we can ever do anything about it.

He acknowledged the look, then by mutual agreement they turned back toward the windows. Tanks on flat cars crept past, canvas stiffened by white frost, at that speed the rhythm of the wheels on the rails a measured drumbeat. Then it was over, a single red lantern on the last car fading away into the distance. Casson and his neighbor exchanged a second look
—life
goes on—
and returned to their compartments.

The train got under way slowly, dark hills on the horizon just visible by starlight. The woman reminded him of someone, after a moment he remembered. A brief fling, years ago, one of his wife’s equestrienne pals—whipcord breeches and riding crops. A long time since he’d thought of her. Bold and funny, full of prerogatives, afraid of neither man nor beast, rich as Croesus, cold as ice, victor in a thousand love affairs. She had a white body shaped by twenty years of bobbing up and down in a saddle, hard and angular, and in bed she was all business, no sentimental nonsense allowed. She did, on the other hand, have delicious, fruit-flavored breath, particularly noticeable when she had him make love to her in the missionary position.

He’d wondered about her—connections with diplomats, months spent abroad, nights in exotic clubs one heard about from friends—wondered if she wasn’t, perhaps, involved with the secret services. Just as he’d wondered what sort of hobbies she pursued with the riding crop. But he never asked, and she never offered. Her life belonged only to her; no matter if she spied, whipped, made millions, she didn’t talk about it.

Now, stupidly, he felt better
—just
being near a woman.
But it was true. He dozed, woke up at Auxerre station. The blackout made the station ghostly, the waiting passengers shapes in the darkness. The doors opened, just enough time for people to get on the train, then closed. The locomotive vented white steam that hung still in the freezing air. He waited for the coach to jerk forward as the engine got under way.

Instead: the door at the end of the corridor was thrown open and a voice called out
“Kontrol.”
Casson sat up so suddenly it hurt his back. In the corridor, German voices, shouting instructions. What? This couldn’t happen.
Once the train leaves Paris, nobody bothers you, the
Germans can’t be everywhere.
In panic, he twisted to look out on the platform: pacing shadows, silhouettes of slung rifles just visible in the darkness.
The darkness.
He tested the window, no give. Of course, windows in a railway coach, you had to be strong.
Strong enough.
A door slammed in the passageway, another opened.
Jump out the window,
crawl under the train.
Across the track. Running full speed. Out into the street. Auxerre. Who did he know? Where did they live? Someone, there was always someone, someone would always help you. The door to his compartment opened.
“Kontrol.”

He stood up.

Something in German, a wave of the hand.
Sit down.
He sat. There were two of them, SS officers, leather coats open to black uniforms with lightning insignia, steel-handled Lugers in high-riding leather holsters. They hadn’t been in the train very long—he could feel the cold air on them.

“Papieren.”

A gloved hand extended. Casson fumbled for his identification in the inside pocket of his jacket. His fingers had gone numb. The passport, the
Ausweis,
the envelope. He took them out.
No, not the envelope.
Clumsy, maladroit. His arm had no feeling in it, the hand thick and slow.
Take back the envelope.
He swallowed, there was something caught in the center of his chest.

“Was ist los?”

No, not this, this doesn’t concern you.
He placed passport and travel permit on the glove, started to put the envelope back in his pocket. His hand wouldn’t work at all. He folded the envelope in half and stuffed it in, spreading his lips in what he hoped looked like a smile. Sorry to be so stupid, sorry to be trouble, sorry sir, regret, excuse.