Classic Spy Novels 3-Book Bundle (94 page)

They drove to a small villa in the back streets of one of the drearier suburbs, Vernouillet, squat brick houses with little gardens. The driver was introduced as Albert Singer, a blunt-headed, fair-haired man so heavy in the neck and shoulders his shirt collar was pulled out of shape around the button. At the villa, Millau asked him to make a fire. He tried, using wooden crates broken into kindling, newspapers, and two wet birch logs that were never going to burn anything. Stubborn, he squatted in front of the fireplace, lighting match after match to the corner of a damp section of the
Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung.
For a time, Millau watched him with disbelief. Finally he said, “Singer, isn’t there any dry paper?”

“I’ll look,” Singer said, struggling to his feet.

“What can you do?” said Millau, resigned. “He does what I tell him, so I have to keep him around.”

Casson nodded sympathetically. The room smelled of disuse, of mildew and old rugs; something about it made his heart beat faster. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No. In fact I will join you.” Millau got out a cigar and went to work on it. With the lights off and shutters closed, the parlor was in shadow. “Did you see the papers this morning?” Millau said.

“Yes.”

“Awful, no?”

“What?”

“The bombing. Out at the Citroën plant. Three hundred dead—and to no particular purpose. The assembly line was up and running again by ten in the morning. Casson, no matter your politics, no matter what you think of us, you have a moral obligation to stop such things if it is in your power to do so.”

Casson made a gesture—the world did what it did, it didn’t ask him first.

“I’ll let you in on one secret—we have a special envoy in London now, trying to work out, at least a cease-fire. At least let the horror stop for a moment, so we can think it over, so we can maybe just talk for a time. You can’t find
that
wrong, can you?”

“No.”

“I mean, we must be honest with each other. We’re fellow human beings, maybe even fellow Europeans—certainly it’s something we could discuss, but I won’t insist on that.”

“Europeans, of course.”

“Now look, Casson, we need your help or this whole thing is going to blow up in our faces. The people I work for in Berlin have taken it into their heads that you’re willing to cooperate with us and they’ve stuck me with the job of making that cooperation a reality. So, I don’t really have a choice.”

Singer returned with some newspaper, crumpled up a few pages and wedged them under the grate. He lit the paper, the room immediately smelled like smoke.

“Flue open?”

“Ja.”

Millau made a face. Reached into an inside pocket, took out an identity card, handed it over. Casson swallowed. It was his passport photograph. Underneath, the name Georges Bourdon. “Now this gentleman was to be used by the English, and I mean
used,
to assist a terrorist action that is planned to take place in the Paris region. The bombing last night killed three hundred Frenchmen—what these people want to do, and we aren’t sure exactly what that is, will no doubt kill a few hundred more. What we need from you is to play the part of this Bourdon person for a single night, then we’re quits. You will spend a few hours in a field, is all that is required, then I can report back to Berlin that all went well, that you tried but didn’t do much of a job, and in future we’re going to work with somebody else.

“I’m an honorable man, Monsieur Casson, I don’t care if you want to sit out this war and make movies—after all, I go to the movies—as long as you don’t do anything to hurt us. Meanwhile, if things turn out as I believe they will, Europe is going to be a certain way for the foreseeable future, and those people who have helped us out when we asked for their help are going to be able to ask for a favor some day if they need to. We have long memories, and we appreciate civilized behavior. Now, I’ve said everything I can say—”

There was a wisp of white smoke floating along the ceiling. Singer gazed upward from where he was squatting in front of the fire.

“You stupid ass,” Millau said.

“I’m sorry,” Singer said, standing and rubbing his hands. “It’s too wet to burn, sir.”

Millau put a hand against the side of his head as though he were getting a headache. “Now look,” he said to Casson. “In a few days we’ll be in contact with you, we’ll tell you where and when and all the rest of it. Keep the card, you’ll need it. Somebody will ask you if you’re Georges Bourdon, and you’ll say that you are, and show them your identity card. So, now, you know most of what I can tell you. Don’t say yes, don’t say no, just go home and think it over. What’s best for you, what’s best for the French people. But I would not be wholly honest if I didn’t tell you that we need a French person, somebody approximately of your age and circumstance, to be at a certain place on a certain date in the very near future.”

He paused a moment, trying to decide exactly how to say what came next. “You have us in a somewhat difficult position, Monsieur Casson, I hope you understand that.”

He took a train back to Paris, got off at the Gare St.-Lazare at twenty minutes after six. For a time he was not clear about what to do next, in fact stood on the platform between tracks as the crowds flowed around him. Finally there was a man’s voice—Casson never saw him—saying quietly, “Don’t stand here like this, they’ll run you in. Understand?”

Casson moved off. To a rank of telephone booths by the entry to the station. Outside, people were hurrying through the rain in the gathering dusk. Casson stepped into a phone booth, put the receiver to his ear and listened to the thin whine of the dial tone. Then he began to thumb through the Paris telephone book on a shelf below the telephone. Turned to the
B
section.
Bois. Bonneval. Bosquet. Botine.
Boulanger. Bourdon.

Albert, André, Bernard, Claudine, Daniel—Médecin, Georges.

18, rue Malher.
42 30 89.

Seeing it in the little black letters and numbers, Casson felt a chill inside him. As though hypnotized, he put a
jeton
in the slot and dialed the number. It rang. And again. A third time. Once more. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Casson put the receiver back on its hook. Outside, a woman in a green hat tapped on the door of the booth with a coin. “Monsieur?” she said when he looked at her.

He left. Walked east on the rue de Rome. The street was crowded, people shopping, or going home from work, faces closed and private, eyes on the pavement, trying to get through one more day. Casson came to a decision, turned abruptly, hurried back to the telephones at the Gare St.-Lazare.
Véronique.
He didn’t remember exactly where she lived—he’d dropped her off the night of Marie-Claire’s dinner party a year ago—but it was in the Fifth somewhere, the student quarter. He remembered Marie-Claire telling him, eyes cast to heaven in gentle despair at the curious life her little sister had chosen to live.
Yes, well,
Casson thought.

It took more than the polite number of rings for Véronique to answer.

“Yes?”

“It’s Jean-Claude.”

Guarded. “How nice to hear from you.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Very well.”

“Where should we meet?”

“There’s a café at the Maubert market. Le Relais. In a half-hour, say.”

“See you then.”

“Good-bye.”

She wore a trenchcoat and a beret, a tiny gold cross on a chain at the base of her throat. She was cold in the rain, sat hunched over the edge of a table at the rear of the workers’ café. Casson told her what had happened, starting with Altmann’s dinner at the Heininger. He handed her the Georges Bourdon identity card.

She studied it a moment. “Rue Malher,” she said.

“Just another street. He could be rich, poor, in between.”

“Yes. And for profession,
salesman.
Also, anything.”

Véronique handed the card back.

“What do you think Millau meant when he said I’d put them in a difficult position?”

She thought a moment. “Perhaps—you have to remember these people work for organizations, and these places have a life of their own. Department stores, symphony orchestras, spy services—at heart the same. So, perhaps, this man told a little fib. Claimed he had somebody who could be used a certain way. Thinking, maybe, that such a situation could be developed, in the future, so he’d just take credit for it a little early. On a certain day, perhaps, when he needed a success. Then, suddenly, they’re yelling
produce the goods!
Well, now what?”

Casson stubbed out a cigarette. The café smelled like sour wine and wet dogs, a quiet place, people spoke in low voices.
“Merde,”
he said.

“Yes.”

“I think, Véronique, I had better talk to somebody. Can you help?”

“Yes. Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Yes, I know.”

She looked in his eyes, reached out and squeezed his forearm. She was strong, he realized. She got up from the table and went to the bar. A telephone was produced from beneath the counter. She made a call—ten seconds—then hung up. She stood at the bar and talked to the proprietor. Laughed at a joke, kidded with him about something that made him shake his head and tighten his mouth—what could you do, any more, the way things were, a pretty damn sad state of affairs is what it was. The phone on the bar rang, Véronique answered it, said a word or two, hung up, and returned to the table.

“It’s tomorrow,” she said. “Go to the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, that’s just up the hill here. You know it?”

“Across from the school.”

“That’s it. You go to the five o’clock mass. Take a seat near the crypt of Sainte Geneviève, one seat in from the center aisle. Carry a raincoat over your left arm, a copy of
Le Temps
in your right hand. You will be approached. The man—he uses the name Mathieu—will be holding his hat in his left hand. He will ask you if he might have a look at your newspaper if you’re done reading it. You will tell him politely no, your wife hasn’t read it yet.” She paused a moment. “Do you have it?”

“Yes.”

She leaned over the table, coming closer to him. “For the best, Jean-Claude,” she said. Then, “Really, it’s time. Not just for you. For all of us.”

They said good-bye. He left first, walked to the Maubert-Mutualité Métro. There was a Gestapo control after 8:00 P.M. at the La Motte-Picquet
correspondance,
where he normally would have changed trains for his own station, so he got out two stops early and walked to a station on Line Six.

“Excuse me, may I see the paper if you’re done with it?”

He was quite ordinary, a plain suit over a green sweater, raincoat, hat—held in left hand, as promised. But there was something about him, the skin of his face rough and weathered a certain way, hair a deep reddish brown, mustache a little ragged—that made it immediately apparent that he was British. Thus something of a shock when he spoke. He opened his mouth and perfect native French came out. Later he would explain: mother from Limoges, father from Edinburgh, he’d grown up in the Dordogne, where his family owned a hotel.

They left the church, walked down the hill, crossed boulevard St.-Michel and entered the Luxembourg Gardens. Handed over a few sous to the old lady in black who guarded the park chairs, and sat on a terrace. It was crowded, couples holding hands, old men with newspapers, just below them boys launching sailboats in the fountain, keeping them on course with long sticks.

They were silent for a moment, Casson got a sense of the man sitting beside him. He was scared, but bolted down tight. He’d done what he’d done, signed up for clandestine service in time of war. Hadn’t understood what that meant until he got to Paris, saw the Germans in operation, at last realized how easy it was going to be to make the wrong mistake—only a matter of time. After that, he woke up scared in the morning and went to bed scared at night. But, he wasn’t going to let it finish him. Something else would, not that.

“Well,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what happened.”

Casson had taken the time to think it through and had the answer rehearsed. Simic. The money taken to Spain. The period of surveillance. Finally, the two contacts with Millau. Mathieu listened attentively, did not react until Casson repeated what he’d been told about Marie-Noëlle being in German custody.

“And you didn’t tell anybody,” Mathieu said.

“No.”

For a moment there was nothing to be said, only the sound of the park, the birds in late afternoon, the boys by the fountain shouting to one another.

“I’m sorry,” Casson said. “It didn’t occur to me to tell someone about it—I really don’t know anything about how this works.”

“Was that all—they had her in custody?”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least we know now.”

“You’d met her?”

“No. I suspect she was with the other service, not mine. They’re the intelligence people, we’re operational. We blow things up. So, what we do isn’t exactly secret. Rather the opposite.”

“You’re in the army, then.”

“No, not really. I was a university teacher. Latin drama—Plautus and Terence, mostly. Seneca, sometimes. But I heard they were looking for people who spoke native French, and I was the right age—old enough to know when to run, young enough to run fast when the time came. So, I applied. And then, a stroke of luck, I got the job.”