by Alan Furst
A little after ten o’clock, a white-haired man with a skull for a face entered the nightclub and peered around the room. When Herbert beckoned to him he approached the table and stood there a moment while the attentive one-eyed monster brought a chair and an extra glass. “You would be Aleksey?” Herbert said. “The Russian?”
“That’s right.” German was the second language of eastern Europe and Aleksey seemed comfortable speaking it.
“General Aleksey?”
“So I’m called—there are many other Alekseys. How did you recognize me?”
“My associate in Belgrade sent me a photograph.”
“I don’t remember him taking a photograph.”
Herbert’s shrug was eloquent, they did what they wanted to do. “In security work,” he said, “it’s important to take precautions.”
“Yes, of course it is,” Aleksey said, letting them know he wasn’t intimidated.
“Your contract with us calls for payment in Swiss francs, once you’ve done your job, is that right?”
“Yes. Two thousand Swiss francs.”
“If I may ask,” Herbert said, “of what army a general?”
“The Russian army, the Czar’s army. Not the Bolsheviks.”
“So, after 1917, you emigrated to Belgrade.”
“ ‘Emigrated’ is barely the word. But, yes, I went to Belgrade, to the émigré community there. Fellow Slavs, the Serbians, all that.”
“Do you have with you … what you’ll need?”
“Yes. Small but dependable.”
“With silencer?”
“As you ordered.”
“Good. My colleague and I are going out for a while, when we return it will be time for you to do your work. You’ve done it before, we’re told.”
“I’ve done many things, as I don’t care to sweep floors, and Belgrade has more than enough émigré taxi drivers.” He paused a moment, then said, “So …”
From Herbert, a nod of approval. To the question he’d asked, an oblique answer was apparently the preferred answer. As General Aleksey poured himself some mastika, Herbert met Lothar’s eyes and gestured toward the door. To Aleksey he said, “We have an errand to run, when we return we’ll tell you where to go. Meanwhile, the floor show should start up again any time now, you may find it amusing.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Not too long,” Herbert said, rising to leave.
Prideaux had packed in a hurry, forgetting his pajama bottoms, and now wore the top and his underdrawers. Alone in a foreign city, he was terribly bored, by ten in the evening had read, for the third time, his last French newspaper. He was also hungry—the desk clerk had brought him a plate of something that couldn’t be eaten—so smoked the last of his Gitanes followed by the first of a packet he’d bought at the Varna railway station. Surely he couldn’t go anywhere; a nighttime tour of the Varna waterfront with a million francs in a valise was an invitation to disaster. Stretching out on the bed, he stared at the ceiling, tried not to recall his former life, and fantasized about his new one. Rich and mysterious, he drew the attention of women …
A reverie interrupted by two hesitant taps on the door. Now what? Somebody from the hotel; if he remained quiet, perhaps they would go away. They didn’t. Thirty seconds later, more taps. He rose from the bed and considered putting on his trousers but thought, who cares what servants see? and stayed as he was. Standing at the door, he said, “Who is it?”
“The desk clerk, sir.”
“What do you want?”
No answer. Out in the harbor, a ship sounded its horn. From the room above, the floorboards creaked as somebody moved about. Finally, whoever was in the hall again tapped on the door. Prideaux opened it. The man in the hallway was slim and well-dressed and not a desk clerk. Gently but firmly, the man pushed the door open, then closed it behind him as he entered the room. “Monsieur Prideaux?” he said. “May we speak for a moment?” His French was correct, his accent barbaric. He looked around for a chair but there was no such thing to be found, not in this room, so he settled at the foot of the bed while Prideaux sat by the headboard.
Prideaux’s heart was beating hard, and he hoped desperately that this was something other than what he suspected. “You’re not the desk clerk, sir.”
Herbert, his expression on the mournful side, shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “I am not.”
“Then who are you?” But for the whine in his voice, this would have been indignant.
Herbert said, “Think of me as a courier.”
“A what?”
“A courier. I’ve come here to recover something that belongs to us—it certainly doesn’t belong to you.”
Prideaux looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
Herbert, no more than slightly irritated, simply said, “Please.”
“I don’t know what you want, sir, I simply got fed up with life in Paris and came down here. How does that concern you, whoever you are?”
Herbert turned toward the window—this was growing tiresome. “I hope there’s no need for violence, Monsieur Prideaux, my associates are downstairs but please don’t force me to bring them up here. Better that way, believe me. I am, as I said, a courier, and my instructions are to take the money you’ve stolen back to Berlin. After that, we don’t care what you do or where you go, it doesn’t concern us.”
Prideaux collapsed very slowly; the hauteur in his expression drained away, his shoulders slumped, and finally his head lowered so that he stared at the floor.
Herbert took no pleasure in this—a show of humiliation was, to him, unbearable weakness. And what might come next, he wondered. Tears? Hysterics? Aggression? Whatever it might be, he didn’t want to see it. “I’m sure,” he said, his voice reaching for sympathy, “there was a reason. There’s always a reason.”
Prideaux started to rise, but Herbert stood up quickly, raised a hand like a traffic policeman stopping a car, and a defeated Prideaux sat obediently back down on the bed. Herbert stayed on his feet, stared at Prideaux for a moment, then said, “Monsieur Prideaux, I think it will be easier for both of us if you simply tell me where the money is. Really, much easier.”
It took a few seconds—Prideaux had to get control of himself—then he said, so quietly that Herbert could only just hear the words, “Under the bed.”
Herbert slid the valise from beneath the bed, undid the buckles, and peered inside. “Where are your personal things?” he said.
Prideaux gestured toward another valise, standing open at the foot of the bed.
“Did you put any of the money in there? Have you spent some of it? Or is it all, every franc of it, in here? Best now to be truthful.”
“It’s all there,” Prideaux said.
Herbert closed the valise and pulled the straps tight. “Well, we’ll see. I’m going to take this money away and count it and, if you’ve been honest with me I’ll be back, and I’ll give you a few hundred francs—at least something for wherever you’re going next. Shall I tell you why?”
Prideaux, staring at the floor, didn’t answer.
“It’s because people like you can be useful, in certain situations, and people like you never have enough money. So, when such people help us out, with whatever we might need, we are always generous. Very generous indeed.”
Herbert let this sink in. It took some time, but Prideaux eventually said, “What if I’m … far away?”
Herbert smiled. Prideaux’s eyes were cast down so he didn’t see the smile, which was just as well. “Monsieur Prideaux,” Herbert said, as though he were saying poor Monsieur Prideaux, “there is no such thing as far away.” Then he stepped into the hall and drew the door shut behind him.
Herbert left Lothar to watch the hotel, likely unnecessary but why take chances. Prideaux, he thought, had taken the bait and would remain where he was. Herbert then returned to the nightclub, told General Aleksey where to find Prideaux and described him, in his pajama top and underdrawers. Thirty m
inutes later, as the canvas horse capered and danced to the music of the accordion, Lothar and the Russian returned. Herbert counted out two thousand Swiss francs, General Aleksey put the money in his pocket, wished them a pleasant evening, and walked out the door.
Read more of
MISSION TO PARIS
Available June 2012
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Also by Alan Furst
Night Soldiers
Dark Star
The Polish Officer
The World at Night
Red Gold
Kingdom of Shadows
Blood of Victory
Dark Voyage
The Foreign Correspondent
The Spies of Warsaw
Spies of the Balkans
Mission to Paris
ALAN FURST is widely recognized as the master of the historical spy novel. Now translated into eighteen languages, he is the author of Night Soldiers, Dark Star, The Polish Officer, The World at Night, Red Gold, Kingdom of Shadows, Blood of Victory, Dark Voyage, The Foreign Correspondent, The Spies of Warsaw, Spies of the Balkans, and Mission to Paris. Born in New York, he lived for many years in Paris and now lives on Long Island.
Visit the author’s website at www.alanfurst.net
