Alan Furst's Classic Spy Novels

by Alan Furst

  But, on the night of June 12, everything changed.

  At dusk, the mashed lentils and the gritty bread were shoved through the Judas port and his “quarter” filled up with drinking water. Between the mound of lentils and the tin plate lay a slip of paper.

  In roman letters it said BF 825. Then the numerals 2:30.

  The shock of it nearly knocked him to the floor.

  For the intervening hours he dared not sit down, pacing the small cell and hurling his body about as he pivoted at the far wall. Then the door whispered open to reveal a man in black who stood in the shadowed corridor and waited to enter. Two words, spoken quietly, came from the darkness: “Khristo Stoianev?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  The man stepped forward. He was a priest. Not the prison chaplain, a fat Gascon with a wine-reddened face, but a thin, ageless man with paperlike skin whose hands hung motionless at his sides.

  “Is there anything here you will want?”

  He grabbed his matches, a few shreds of tobacco folded in paper, his two letters and the matchbox diaries. He had nothing else.

  “Let us go,” the priest said.

  Together they walked through the darkened corridors, past the night sounds of imprisoned men. There were no guards to be seen. All the doors that would have normally blocked their path were ajar. In the reception area, a long wooden drawer sat at the center of a rough table. He found his old clothing and all the things that had been in his pockets on the day of his arrest. Also, a thick packet of ten-franc notes.

  The priest took him to the front entry of the prison, then pushed at the grilled door set into one of the tall gates. The iron hinges grated briefly as it swung wide. For a moment, the city beyond the prison overwhelmed him with the sounds and smells of ordinary life and, for that instant freedom itself was palpable, as though he could touch it and see it and capture it in his hands. Then his eyes filled with tears and he saw the world in a blur.

  “Blagodarya ti, Otche.” He needed, in that moment, to speak the words in his own language. Then added, in French, “It means ‘thank-you, Father.’ ”

  The priest closed his eyes and nodded, as though to himself. “Go with God,” he said, as Khristo walked through the door.

  In the autumn of 1943, on a cold October night with a quarter moon, Lieutenant Robert F. Eidenbaugh parachuted into the Vosges mountains of southeastern France.

  He landed in a field north of Épinal, breaking the big toe of his left foot—by doubling it over against the ground when he landed with his foot in the wrong position—and splitting the skin of his left index finger from tip to palm—he had no idea how. Limping, he chased down the wind-blown chute, wrestled free of the harness straps, and paused to listen to the fading drone of the Lancaster that circled the field, then turned west toward the OSS airbase at Croydon. From a sheath strapped to his ankle he took a broad-bladed knife and began digging at the ground in order to bury the chute. Fifteen minutes later, sweat cooling in the mountain chill, he was still hard at it. This was not the same turf he had encountered in practice burials at the old CCC—Civilian Conservation Corps—camp in Triangle, Virginia, a few miles east of Manassas, where he had trained. This grass was tough and rooty and anchored well below the surface of the ground. At last he abandoned the knife and began ripping up large sods with his hands—holding his split index finger away from the work—until he’d exposed a jagged oval of dark soil. Next he gathered up the silk and shrouds of the parachute, forced the bulk into a shallow depression, and covered it with a thin layer of dirt. He laid the sods back over the dirt and stamped them into place, then walked away a few feet to see what it looked like. It looked like someone had just buried a parachute.

  Typically, there would have been a reception committee on the ground and their leader would have bestowed the chute—the silk was immensely valuable—on one of his men, a spoil of war bestowed for bravery in a tradition as old as the world. But this was a “cold” drop. There were no maquisards triangulating the drop zone with bonfires, there was no container of Sten guns and ammunition dropped along with him—to be carried away by men and women on bicycles—and he had no radio. The mission, code-named KIT FOX, called for him to contact a loosely organized group of French resistance fighters in the village of Cambras, direct their sabotage efforts, turn them into a true réseau—headquarters—for underground operations, and extend, if possible, a courrier—secret mail system—throughout that part of the Vosges. His contact for supply was code-named ULYSSE (after the Homeric hero Ulysses), a senior officer of the résistance and his one resource on the ground, based in the small city of Belfort, not far from Switzerland. His only direct line of communication with OSS was to be coded messages personnels from the foreign service of the BBC.

  His true mission was, in fact, unknown to him.

  He was not alone in the area. There were several British communication and sabotage nets nearby, but he had been briefed—twice, first at OSS headquarters in London, then at the MI6 center in Battersea, located at what had once been the Royal Victoria Patriotic Asylum for the Orphan Daughters of Soldiers and Sailors Killed in the Crimean War—to stay well away from them. Both American and British briefers had been emphatic on that point.

  Which left Robert Eidenbaugh alone in a French field with a broken toe and a split finger. His hands were blackened with dried blood and French earth, and he was hobbling badly. A toe was almost a silly thing to hurt, but the pain made him grind his teeth on every step. He thought to bind up the finger with his handkerchief but decided against it. He disliked the idea of a white cloth flashing in the darkness as he moved about. He set off for Cambras—eight miles along a series of mountain ridges—on the narrow road a mile from the drop zone. His index finger throbbed and continued to ooze blood. How the hell had he done that? He leaned on a maple tree whose dry leaves rattled in the night breeze and took off his right shoe, then bound his sock around the finger, cutting off a piece of shoelace to secure the binding. He had, he realized with some horror, nearly removed his left shoe, which would have been an error because his toe had swollen so badly that he would never have been able to get the shoe back on. Limping, he held his zip-up briefcase under his right arm and moved through the darkness toward Cambras.

  His hat, suit, tie, shirt, socks and underwear were all well worn, and all of French manufacture. The suit had been altered by a French tailor at the OSS clothing depot on Brook Street in London. His toilet articles were also French, and the pistol in his briefcase was Belgian—a Fabrique Nationale GP35 automatic, essentially a licensed 9 mm Browning with a thirteen-round magazine. He had been warned never to carry it in public during daylight hours. His cover name was Lucien Bruer, accented on the final syllable in the French manner, and he was supposedly the sales representative of a Belgian company selling agricultural implements and fertilizers. He had been born on the French island of Martinique, raised in Toulon, a bachelor. His documents were quite good, he’d been told, for examination by French police or German street patrols. Should he fall into the hands of an intelligence section—Gestapo or SD—however, that would be that. We’ve learned, they’d told him, that the sooner you run after capture, the better your chances of a successful escape.

  He did not intend to be captured. He did not intend to mingle with Germans. He did not intend to be “brave”—had in fact been specifically cautioned against it. He would move cautiously in daylight, at most another French face in a French countryside, and play the game at night. A few wild souls back in Virginia had been eager to crawl about and slit throats. Their time would come, but for the moment they either trained their days away or disappeared back into regular service units.

  For most of the night he walked alone on the road—barely two lanes wide, with no center line—built of whitish pebbled aggregate with ragged edges bordered by tall weeds. In some places it was frost-rippled from the previous winter; in others, the lush roadside growth had cracked the paving. He saw the brief silhouette of a hunti
ng owl. Something whispered away from his shoe through the tall grass. Then, as the moon waned, he heard a distant engine and hobbled quickly to cover. He listened intently to the two-stroke sputter of the engine and decided it was a motorcycle. He was correct. Watched the German dispatch rider go by, sighting on him with a sockbound index finger and silently mouthing bam just at the proper moment, then heard the sound fade into the distance in a symphony of gear changes. No need to shift that much, he thought. The German, alone on the road, was playing with his machine, lying low over the handlebars like a racing driver. But he too, leading the rider for a single perfect shot, had been playing. That would change.

  What caught his attention, however, in the reality of that first, nebulous contact with the enemy, was the intimacy of it. The meaning of his job now came to him in bold letters for the first time—what he was really going to do and how it would feel to do it. Professional soldiering he respected—where would the Allies be without a corps of trained officers?—but he could never be more than an imposter in that world, his personality was not made for uniforms. He had, in civilian life, competed in a world of commonplace weapons: typewriters, telephones, perceptions, insights. In that world he had neither won nor lost, but now the battle was rejoined, with the prize for winning or the cost of losing vastly increased.

  The British, believing their social system and its exigencies prepared them for clandestine life, had their doubts about the ability of the American personality to adapt to a world where nothing was quite what it seemed. Were these blunt and forthright people capable of subtlety, deception, the artful ruse? Some thought not. But they had not lived and trained with Robert Eidenbaugh and his colleagues. They did not entirely understand that the dark side of the American personality was the adventurer’s side and that a time of war was the perfect climate for its flowering.

  Maquis meant “brush,” and that was pretty much the story at Cambras. In first light he’d found the chipped stone mile marker on the inner curve of the road, heard, a few minutes later, the sound of a woodcutter at work in the forest—recognition signal number one—then saw a pile of cow dung, confirming the first signal, by a dirt path that wound up the mountainside to the village.

  Cambras, backlit by a cold mountain sky, was a mud square surrounded by a handful of stone cottages with tightly shuttered windows and a rust-stained fountain with a tattered hen standing motionless atop the spigot, its feathers ruffled by the breeze. There were several small, brownish dogs, who glared at him unpleasantly from a safe distance, but no people. The village smelled like damp earth and pig manure. Eidenbaugh suddenly recalled a family outing to the mountains of the Var region, north of Toulon, where at lunchtime they had encountered just such a village. He could still see the look on his mother’s face as she’d said, “Not here, Arthur.”

  The Cambras maquis trickled from the doors of the cottages and formed up, more or less, in the square. There was a period of awkward silence, then they began to introduce themselves. There were the Vau brothers, both tall and hulking with spiky blond hair, clearly the village bullies and, he thought, a little slow. Henri Veul, called Sablé—Sandy—watchful and silent, a shotgun slung, barrel down, diagonally across his back. La Brebis—the ewe—in fact Marie Bonet, a stocky, young woman whose broad forehead and tiny eyes suggested the face of a sheep. And Vigie, which meant “lookout man,” the youngest, perhaps sixteen. The Vau brothers, he thought, were no more than nineteen.

  “Lucien?” It was Alceste Vau, the senior brother, who spoke.

  “Oui,” he said.

  He hadn’t any idea what they’d expected, but he slowly began to understand that they found him all too mortal. They were disappointed. They had probably anticipated a ten-foot-tall Texan bristling with machine guns and breathing fire. Well, he thought, too bad. They had instead a rather lean, plain young man, formerly an advertising copywriter, with a sock wound around a bloody finger and a bare right ankle. Probably, he thought, we deserve each other.

  They took him into one of the houses and announced him as Lucien. Breakfast was cabbage fried with fat bacon and hunks of heavy bread washed down with cups of chicory. An older man, Gilbert, and his youngish wife served l’Américain and the Cambras maquis. After the meal, a grandmother appeared, five feet tall and swathed in black, and examined his finger, sucked her teeth in sympathy, and applied a healing paste of pounded lizards.

  Finger rebound with strips of gray cloth, he headed outside to use the stone lean-to in the backyard. As he left, his host mumbled something about the American’s learning to faire le cent-onze—to make one hundred eleven. He knew the expression, which referred to the marks of three fingers down a wall. But they laughed in vain. The parting gift of his commanding officer had been twenty squares of French newspaper, wedged in his pocket at the moment of their final handshake.

  It was a war of mischief.

  That became apparent in the week that followed his arrival. Gilbert, in whose house he lived, said one evening that the people of Cambras had “always hated those bastards down there.” It was the contempt of mountain people for flatlanders, and it would not have been unusual to find such sentiments in parts of Tennessee or Kentucky, similarly expressed. Down there meant Épinal, St.-Dié, and the small towns between. Down there meant tax collectors and municipal authorities and Gendarmerie and all those blood-sucking leeches who made a poor man’s life a misery. Between Cambras and down there was a kind of truce, worked out over a long time, the flatlanders silently agreeing to bother the people of Cambras only a little, and the mountain people accepting just about that much botherment. They lived with each other—just.

  When, however, you added a heavy-handed Teutonic authority to this chemistry, a certain amount of hell was bound to break loose. The people of Cambras now took it as a divine mission to bother the schleuhs, as they called them, while avoiding too much interest from those they called la geste. The Gestapo. The French version of the name carried with it a certain amount of irony—bold deed—but it was quite clear to everyone that these Gestapo people were better left alone. They had made that evident early on. Had then taken to strutting about in leather coats and tearing around the roads in Grosser Mercedes sedans. Here we are, they said. Try your luck.

  So, in Cambras, until Lucien showed up, they’d had to content themselves with mischief, testing always to see what the reaction might be. A mistake was painful. When Vigie had somehow contrived to obtain a concussion grenade, Alceste Vau and the others had snuck inside the perimeter of a Panzer division encampment near Épinal and dropped it into a septic tank that served the officers’ latrine—just about the time it was in full use. Judging from the noise level inside the barrack, the result had been spectacular. Fountains. And, better yet, there’d been no response from the Germans. But when Sablé had become obsessed by an obnoxious poodle—the adored pet of a headquarters Feldwebel, who spoke German babytalk to it on the street—and had blown the thing’s fluffy head apart with an old army pistol stolen from Gilbert, the local pharmacist and his wife had been stood against a wall. Reprisal. The townspeople took the orphans in, but they had a good notion of who had done it, and Sablé had to visit relatives in another village for a time. They’d learned that angry people are dangerous, that one couldn’t be sure what they’d do, especially when the means to a hard lesson were so near at hand—the right word in the right ear was all it would have taken.

  In that same week, Eidenbaugh began to have a feel for the currents that ran beneath the surface of village life. There was a young girl, perhaps fifteen, who lived with Gilbert and his family. Cecille, she was called, a poor thing treated as servant or dishonored cousin by the rest of the household. Heavy, with a wan, immobile face, she stared at the floor when spoken to. She had come visiting one night, approaching his straw pallet in the corner of the eating room and standing there until he awoke, suddenly, startled by an apparition in a soiled flannel nightdress. He had sent her away—in kind fashion, he hoped—for the briefers had been
crystal clear on this point, especially the aristocratic Englishman—known only as Major F.—who had lived for years in Paris. “Village life is sexually quite complex, dear boy, don’t be drawn in,” the British officer had cautioned. And it soon became obvious that he’d been right. Cecille was visited, on successive nights, by Sablé and by Daniel Vau, the younger brother. Daniel, in addition, looked at Gilbert’s youngish wife in a quite explicit way. Eidenbaugh hadn’t any idea how Gilbert reacted to it—he seemed not to notice.

  Meanwhile, he familiarized himself with his surroundings, spent a good deal of his time walking the fields and forests around Cambras, learning the trails from La Brebis and Vigie, and listening each night to the messages personnels on the wireless, which held an honored position on a table in the center of the room. The volume of traffic surprised him, though a portion of it was certainly dross, designed to mislead the Germans as to the actual level of underground activity. Finally, ten days after he’d landed in the field, the words crackled from the radio: Limelight, la théâtre est fermé. His activation signal. He told Gilbert he would be away for a time, and the man offered to accompany him. “Now that you are here,” he said, “it is all different. Nothing against the young ones, they are the patriots of Cambras, but I am a patriot of France, a veteran of the war. The schleuhs gassed me at Verdun.” Eidenbaugh thought about the offer for a moment—by the rules, he was supposed to go alone—but there was something of a test in Gilbert’s manner, and he decided to trust the man. “Unless you are monumentally stupid or terribly unlucky,” the briefers had told him, “the Germans won’t catch you. On the other hand, the chances of being betrayed, for any number of reasons, political or otherwise, are better than one would like.”