Agent of Fortune

by Kurt Magenta

  ‘Augustin.’ He nodded at the young man. ‘And you must be the one they’re calling Cadet.’ He stepped forward to shake Lucien’s hand. His grip was strong and calloused. ‘Philippe de Savières. I’m afraid I don’t really hold with this code name business. Major Maddox used to call me Le Compte, although I am no such thing.’

  ‘Actually he’s a viscount, which is a grade above,’ said Augustin, winking.

  Savières did not look amused. In fact something close to irritation marred his features. ‘Please take a seat, although you won’t be staying long. You must leave before dawn. Augustin will get you over the line. It should be relatively easy – after all, who wants to cross into the occupied zone?’ He swept a strand of white hair from his forehead. ‘Still, I must tell you that I am far from happy with this business. Maddox is a friend of mine but I don’t appreciate him taking advantage of my better nature. Above all, I don’t like him risking the lives of my son and one of my most loyal workers. The Germans have left us alone so far. I want it to stay that way.’

  Augustin snorted. ‘Stop it, Papa. We’re all patriots here. Guillaume was delighted to help. And by rights we should be holding rifles, not shovels.’

  ‘How did Major Maddox prepare you?’ asked Lucien, curious.

  ‘Oh, he has his little spies everywhere. A letter came via the post office in the village. Written in our old code. It told me what to do.’

  ‘So you’ve worked with him in the past?’

  ‘Several lifetimes ago. “I have borne the musket of a soldier, the traveller’s cane, and the pilgrim’s staff.” Forgive me,’ he raised the book. ‘I’ve been dipping into Chateaubriand.’ He tossed the tome onto the sofa with a thump, startling the dog. ‘We’ll need to get you ready. Some French change in your pockets, perhaps an old bus ticket or two. A few of those awful coupons they’ve started dishing out, otherwise you won’t be able to eat. Talking of which, I’m being terribly impolite. Let’s get you a glass of wine and some food.’

  Lucien did indeed feel better after a plate of reheated coq au vin and a glass of Chinon. Four hours later, he was shaken awake, still fully dressed, on a bed in a room at the top of the house. Augustin would walk him across the fields to a remote stretch of the river, which they would cross in a rowing boat.

  ‘We estimate that there are a pair of guards for every two kilometres or so of border,’ Augustin told him. ‘But they get pretty slack at this time of night, mostly standing around smoking or taking turns to nap. I’ve done a couple of dry runs to make sure. I’ll give you some clippers to cut through the wire on the other side.’

  ‘What about when I get to the railway station at Bourges?’

  He shrugged. ‘People might give you a second glance, but you look like a country doctor in that get-up.’

  Lucien planned to be as anonymous as possible. He would become a mouse, a nobody. He was determined to make it at least as far as Paris. After that, his survival would depend on the skills he had learned from Aldercroft – and a great deal of luck.

  So now there was a rowing boat hidden under branches; the wide cold river and the splash and trickle of oars. Augustin left him on the opposite bank with a nod. Two strips of barbed wire, the awkward feel of the clippers in his frozen hands. He lay on his stomach on the damp earth. Snipping the wire took an age; he clamped and twisted and mauled it.

  But finally he was through, and clear, and on his way.

  Chapter 17

  Madrigal

  Sometimes it was possible to believe that nothing had changed. On mornings like this, for example: the start of a fresh autumn day. The huddled zinc rooftops of Montmartre – in countless shades of grey, like pebbles on a beach – rose into a sky the colour of bleu de travail, the eternal blue overalls of French workmen. As he sauntered down the steps, André Dehix ran his hand along the iron railing, last night’s raindrops chill under his palm. Damp leaves of yellow and russet clung to the stone beneath his feet. Breathing the clean air, Dédé felt almost cheerful.

  Then he saw the black Citroën Traction Avant panting at the kerb below, and his heart lurched in his chest. It was no use. Paris – the whole of France – had changed utterly, and would probably never be the same again. Even if they could kick the men who drove black Citroëns all the way back to Berlin.

  He stood frozen, wondering not unreasonably if they had come for him. That they were The Enemy was incontrovertible: the French were no longer allowed to drive, their vehicles impounded months ago. Dédé pressed himself closer to the high wall along the steps, wishing he could fade into it like certain species of moth.

  The car’s passenger side door swung open as if the driver had reached across to unlatch it. A man appeared, quickly traversing the cobbled street. He wore a dark suit under a black raincoat and a grey fedora hat. Not so long ago he might have been a policeman in plain clothes, but today Dédé knew exactly what he was. The man ducked into the car and the door slammed. The Citroën rumbled away across the cobbles and Dédé let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

  Moments later he was pushing through the door of Le Carillon: his favourite café and one, he knew, he frequented far too often. He glanced around for safety, but there was nobody of note, apart from a new bohemian type hunched at the counter.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he asked Sylvie, as he took his regular place near the till. Dédé always stood, never sat. The coffee was cheaper when taken at the counter and he could see the door in the mirror behind the shelves.

  ‘Romance,’ she said, plonking a saucer containing a coffee spoon in front of him. ‘One of them’s got a thing for Anaïs at the tabac. Drops by once or twice a week to pick up some ciggies.’ She shrugged. People are people.

  Cup joined saucer with a satisfying chink. Dédé sipped and felt his anxiety dissolve. He met Sylvie’s eye and she winked at him. Yes, the coffee was good. And yes, it was real – not the abhorrent stew of ground acorns the shortages had forced on them. He had sold it to her at a very reasonable price only a few days earlier. He wondered in passing whether Sylvie had ‘a thing’ for him. She was a matronly widow, a little older than him but by no means unattractive. And soon the nights would grow cold. He felt a pang of regret for the south.

  It had been inevitable that he would return to Paris. With the outbreak of a new war, he knew that this was where the real business would be done. There was information – and other commodities – to be bought, sold, or bartered. It would be easy to find the right people; he knew most of them already. It wasn’t so much a case of creating a network as tugging the strings of those that already existed. It was just a shame that he’d been forced to put the brakes on his project – for the time being.

  In the mirror he discreetly studied the fellow brooding beside him. A scrawny sort in a dark overcoat, probably taller than he looked, with a soft tweed cap, round tortoiseshell spectacles and the beginnings of a beard. Something about him, though – the fine, slightly long nose and the suggestion of strength in the pianist’s fingers curled around the cup.

  Suddenly the man rose to his full height and turned, a poorly suppressed smile on his face.

  ‘How are you doing Dédé?’ asked Lucien Cortel.

  They took a table in the corner. Dédé wasn’t happy about it – two healthy men having a sotto voce chat in a smoky café had potential conspiracy scrawled all over it. At the counter, Dédé had looked at him with a brief mixture of horror and delight before burying his reaction entirely. ‘Ah! My friend who wants to buy a painting! I thought my prices had scared you off! Let’s take a seat and I’ll see if I can fleece you against your better judgement.’

  Now he said quietly: ‘What a disappointment you are, Lucien. I go to all the effort of getting you out of France, and here you are back again, like snow in April.’

  ‘They sent me to look for you. I thought you’d be somewhere around here.’ He ignored Dé
dé’s deepening frown. ‘How long have you been back in Paris? Any news of the others?’

  ‘To be frank I’d rather not talk here. This place is far too small and full of prying eyes, which usually go with wagging tongues. Meet me for dinner tonight at La Coupole.’

  ‘La Coupole? You’re joking, surely!’

  ‘Not at all. You’ll see why.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do until then?’

  ‘Walk. Watch. Stay out of trouble.’ His voice softened. ‘It is good to see you Lucien, really it is. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Do you have any ration coupons? They gave me a few at the drop point but I’m running short.’

  Lucien had discovered that it was almost impossible to buy bread or eat at a restaurant without handing over the required number of coupons; rationing had begun in earnest earlier that month.

  ‘Of course,’ said Dédé. ‘There’s quite a little trade in them. Some are counterfeit. Others…’ he shrugged. ‘Well, I hear that the town hall of the eighteenth arrondissement was burgled the other day. Their entire stock of ration coupons was stolen. Audacious, don’t you think?’ He was unable to keep the smirk from his face.

  ‘You’ll never change, Dédé.’

  He shrugged. ‘Much like Paris herself. Have you noticed? She remains very lovely, despite everything.’

  To an extent Dédé was right. The landscape of Lucien’s memories was intact: the dark green advertising columns and newspaper kiosks, the narrow cobblestoned streets, the broad tree-lined boulevards with buildings as ornate and secretive as antique cabinets.

  The soft blue sky and gilded autumn sunshine had lured Parisians onto café terraces, interspersed here and there with Germans in their drab field grey uniforms. The soldiers looked as relaxed and cheerful as everyone else, not remotely worried that some outraged French citizen might surge from the crowd and shoot them.

  Even so, the uniforms were among the duff notes that made the song of Paris discordant. Another was the lack of cars: instead there were flocks of bicycles, clattering and pinging, augmented by absurd ‘vélo-taxis’ that resembled rickshaws. Then he’d turn a corner and there would be a sign in German, in that doomy Gothic script they favoured. ‘Platz Kommandantur’, one of them read, plastered across a building on the corner of the avenue de l’Opéra. There were red and white striped sentry boxes at the entrance and he crossed to the far side of the street, fear rising in his limbs like floodwater.

  Place de la Concorde and rue de Rivoli were the worst: swastikas fluttered from the grey administrative buildings fronting the square, and lined the street above the arcades like malevolent bunting. He hurried on, head bowed as he crossed the road – more bicycles shrilling their bells at him – and then along the surging green-brown river until he could cross the Pont des Arts, the filigree pedestrian bridge that was one of his favourites.

  He was no longer surprised to see that the bouquinistes – the booksellers who plied their trade from hatched green boxes along the Seine – were open for business. He was tempted to go and see Jean-Vincent, the elderly seller who stocked the crime novels he liked (Simenon, the Americans Rex Stout and Erle Stanley Gardner, the Englishman Edgar Wallace), but Dédé had warned him, ‘Keep to busy streets, anonymous cafés. Stay away from your family’s place. And no old acquaintances.’

  So be it. He moved on, working his way slowly through the ordinary yet utterly bizarre city until he reached Montparnasse.

  A hub of bohemian antics since the turn of the century, Montparnasse wore its occupied status lightly, as if nonchalance was a kind of resistance. ‘Désinvolture’, the area’s habitués no doubt instructed themselves, as they ordered another glass and gestured elegantly with their cigarettes. The bars and restaurants were packed and would remain so until the curfew began at 11pm.

  Of course the American thrill-seekers who had haunted the area before the war were now absent, replaced by German officers. There were quite a few of them at La Coupole, although as he scanned the room he noticed that none of them had been parked anywhere near Dédé’s table – something he doubted was a coincidence.

  He also realised why Dédé had chosen the restaurant for their rendezvous. Few places on earth are as noisy as a Parisian brasserie in full swing. Clattering plates, clashing cutlery, the cries of the waiters – ‘Chaud devant!’ ‘L’addition, table cinq!’ – and of course the constant thunder of alcohol-fuelled conversation. Even if you bellowed your deepest secrets to the rafters, it was doubtful your neighbours would hear them.

  Dédé was not alone. Sitting next to him was a rather striking woman, perhaps in her early forties, dressed in a smart red silk blouse with a white collar. Her dark hair was coiffed high and pinned back in the current style, eyes and lips enhanced by discreet makeup. Round black-framed eyeglasses added an intellectual touch.

  ‘Let me present Yvonne Roussel,’ said Dédé, as Lucien arrived at their table. ‘Proprietor of the Galerie Roussel on rue Jolivet.’ He added under his breath, ‘And assuredly one of us.’

  Lucien saw Dédé’s point: a mixed group was far less suspicious than an all-male head-to-head.

  ‘The fourth member of our party will be joining us shortly,’ Dédé added, raising his hand for the waiter, ‘but that doesn’t mean we can’t take an apéritif.’

  By the time Lucien had settled into his seat, three glasses of Dubonnet had arrived.

  ‘How is the art trade, Madame?’ Lucien asked the gallery owner.

  ‘Oh, dreadful. The Nazis consider all modern art decadent. The rest, they loot for themselves. It won’t be long before I’m forced to shut down.’

  ‘Then there is the problem of Max,’ added Dédé.

  ‘My partner, in business and in life,’ Yvonne explained. ‘Jewish. The danger for him grows every day.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave before they came?’

  There was no question about who ‘they’ were. ‘We tricked ourselves into believing the worst could not happen. The spell failed.’

  She looked up sharply as Lucien felt a presence at his shoulder.

  A sibilant, heavily accented voice said, ‘Monsieur Dédé, how nice to see you. I hope you and your companions are having a pleasant time.’

  Lucien turned and was startled to see a German officer standing over them, addressing Dédé as if they were old friends. The German was young and trim, but there was something dissolute about the dark stains under his eyes.

  ‘Just arrived Willi, just arrived,’ said Dédé smoothly. ‘What are you up to tonight?’

  ‘Oh, I’m told there is a new – how shall I say it? – “nightclub” not far from here. We shall see what pleasures it has to offer.’

  ‘Good for you, mon ami. Enjoy your debaucheries. I’m afraid I’m far too old for that sort of thing.’

  ‘I am sure not. Feel free to join us later if you wish.’

  ‘You are too kind. À bientôt, Willi.’

  The German gave a little bow and strode off towards a distant table. Yvonne, suddenly pale, said, ‘Excuse me, but I must visit the powder room. I’m sure you two need to talk.’

  When she’d gone Lucien leaned in and hissed, ‘What was all that about?’

  Dédé looked unconcerned, gesturing with his glass. ‘Oh, Willi is a good boy. In my trade one must cultivate friendships.’ His lowered his voice. ‘Particularly among those who have access to the finer things in life, which are now denied to the rest of us. Forget about him. Tell me instead how you got here.’

  Lucien sketched in the details of his journey. ‘I kept to local train routes. Avoided sensitive stations.’

  ‘And you’re travelling as?’

  ‘Monsieur Michaud. A private tutor of French and Latin grammar. The papers are a work of art.’

  ‘I can believe it. In any case, for the moment the checks are few and far between. The Germans are behaving them
selves, still playing tourist. The ladies find them very cultivated and poli. How clean shaven they are! “Is that uniform made of real wool, monsieur? Can I touch the lapel?” But that will change – and soon.’

  ‘And you? Why the radio silence?’

  ‘All in good time. But tell me, how are you getting on with the British? They always seemed somewhat slippery to me. With the exception of your mother, of course.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You? You’re a nation of one.’

  Yvonne returned from the powder room, some of the colour back in her cheeks. Sitting down and raising her glass, she said, ‘Dédé’s connections always frighten me, but they enable us to live well. Ah, la voilà! Look who’s here!’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ A young woman slid into the seat next to him. Bouncy light brown hair, a certain elegance. Long seconds passed before he realised he was looking at his sister.

  ‘Merde.’ His hand jerked, tumbling his drink. A waiter arrived with a cloth, the clean-up covering his alarm. She was smiling at him with amusement.

  He gaped. ‘Shrimp, what in...? Where’s Maman?’

  ‘No need to shout. She’s still in La Rochelle, holding the fort with Madame Brechignac. Quite the pair, they are.’ She proffered her cheek. ‘Is this all the welcome I get?’

  He kissed one cheek and the other, in the customary manner. And then he hugged her tight. His little sister. She smelled of talcum and some kind of sugary scent. But when he released her his nerves were thrumming with shock and confusion.

  ‘I still don’t understand what you’re doing here.’

  ‘I’ve got a job, working as an editorial assistant at Apex.’

  ‘The news agency?’

  ‘Yes. Except it doesn’t really exist any more. The Germans took it over and renamed it AFIP: L’Agence Française d’Information de Presse. Propaganda, in other words.’