Agent of Fortune

by Kurt Magenta

  When he came to a certain house, he gazed up at the window, looking for the tiniest sliver of light at the edge of the blackout curtain. But there was nothing.

  He had telephoned, of course. He had pressed the buzzer. But there was only a cold, hollow silence.

  Finally, infuriatingly, it was Vauthier who let him off the hook. The Lieutenant slid into a gap beside him at the bar one evening, as sleek and urbane as ever.

  ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Vauthier said, without preamble, ‘but the lady you’ve been looking for is back at home. I’m told she’s about to take a trip. Early tomorrow morning.’

  Lucien opened his mouth and Vauthier silenced him with a gesture. ‘Don’t thank me. And you certainly didn’t hear it from me.’ He patted the bar with his palm, as if bidding it farewell. ‘Another time, Cortel.’

  He turned and melted into the throng.

  Lucien stood in the lee of a lamppost, coat drawn tightly around him. The air was iron cold and a freezing mist gnashed at his ears, the tip of his nose. Vapour swirled like smoke around the doused lamp. The sky was brightening into grey satin; the white parade of buildings looked more spectral than ever. Half asleep, hands thrust into his coat pockets, Lucien almost wished he smoked.

  A door opened and his head jerked up. There was no porch light – the blackout – but the doorway made itself felt as an absence in the line of houses, like a gap in a row of teeth. The door closed quickly, and the young woman began to walk down the street, footsteps echoing in the murk. She was carrying a valise, rather smart judging by the gloss on the brown leather. As Lucien had hoped, she was walking in his direction, towards the Tube. A taxi would have made a racket, and no doubt she wished to be discreet.

  She showed no surprise when he stepped out from the slim shadow of the lamp. ‘Bonjour, Anna.’

  She smiled faintly, her lips a glossy red. Her face was pale, her hair very black beneath a brimmed hat. Had she always looked so beautiful, so assured? He supposed she had.

  ‘You’ve been spying on me,’ she said.

  ‘With a little help from my friends. I hear you’re going away.’

  ‘As you see. I hope you don’t intend to stop me.’

  ‘Of course not. I only wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘Still the romantic Frenchman. Surely you haven’t any illusions about what happened between us?’

  ‘Oh, no. I worked that out long ago. Your father was the only one who counted. In fact you knew about him all along. You were already working with him in Paris, spying on the embassy staff. Espionage – the family trade.’

  ‘Look who’s talking. He told me all about you; how perfect you were for the role. Affection was the only currency you craved. We made sure you were a little in love with both of us.’

  ‘And now you’re working for them, aren’t you? The British. You accepted the deal your father declined. Where are they sending you, Anna?’

  ‘As if I’d tell you.’ She hefted the valise slightly, signalling the end of their conversation. He moved aside as she walked towards him. But then she stopped. She said, ‘You know, they never told me who killed my father. I wonder, was it you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I wanted to, for a few seconds. But no.’

  She nodded. ‘You didn’t pull the trigger. But you led him into the trap.’

  ‘Anna –’

  Her free arm came up and she slapped his face, the sound a whip-crack in the white silent street. His cheek burned. He put his palm to it.

  Anna Maddox walked past him and away, fading into obscurity as the mist closed behind her.

  Lucien hesitated, confused, unsure of what to do, finally walking in the opposite direction. A skeletal black object streaked out of the mist, bell ringing as it swerved to avoid him. A voice said, ‘Watch it, mate!’

  A bicycle. He wondered if his own was still propped in the lobby of the apartment building in La Rochelle, waiting for him.

  Despite everything, he managed to smile.

  He paused for a moment until the creak and clatter of the bicycle had faded into he distance. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and headed off into the uncertain light of another London day.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  There are secrets beside the Seine. One summer afternoon about five years ago I was browsing the bouquinistes’ stalls in search of rare French thrillers when I came across a book called, if you’ll allow my rough translation, A Secret History of the French in London, from 1940 to 1944, by André Gillois. It had a dramatic ‘Most Secret’ stamp on the cover. I bought it immediately, expecting a juicy exposé of Free French spies and their relationship with the English secret services.

  I was disappointed. The book was an academic, rather bloodless account of the Free French that demanded a great deal of concentration. I began to imagine a racier version, which gradually evolved into the story you’ve just read. (Details of the Patriotic School, as well as the incident involving the radiogram, came from Gillois.) Meanwhile, I began to search for more material.

  Two accounts I drew heavily on for the first few chapters were 40 à Londres, by Franck Bauer (who crops up in Agent of Fortune in the guise of Frédéric Baumer) and Alias Carcalla by Daniel Cordier. Both men escaped from France in circumstances similar to those of Lucien Cortel, and both passed through Olympia. Bauer was also sent to Cornwall on a secret mission; and he was once in a nightclub that got hit by a bomb. I hope these real-life heroes remarkably, Daniel Cordier is still alive at the age of 99 would have forgiven me for fictionalising their experiences.

  Other sources include The Forgotten French, by Nicolas Atkin, Fleeing Hitler, by Hanna Diamond (about the exodus from Paris), The First Day of the Blitz, by Peter Stansky, War Like A Wasp by Andrew Sinclair, which evokes London nightlife, as does West End Front by Matthew Sweet. Secret Flotillas by Brook Richards was helpful for the Cornwall chapters and Lucien’s escape from France.

  Mostly though, this is a book of fiction, if not of fantasy. I didn’t hesitate to change timelines or modify facts when it suited me. While Passy was a real-life figure, my version of him and his Free French intelligence service is entirely fictional. The Gargoyle Club did exist – much as I’ve described it – but as far as I know it remained intact throughout the war.

  Paris, May 1 2020

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kurt Magenta is the pen name of a British journalist and non-fiction author based in Paris. Under his given name he is the author of several books about advertising, travel and the luxury industry.