Red Gold

by Alan Furst

  He passed the second truck, and a third, the road was empty after that. Weiss accelerated. The Renault backfired, ran like a greyhound for half a mile, then settled back to three cylinders, valves tapping like a drum solo, the smell of gasoline so strong they had to open the windows.

  “What’s going on with Casson and Kovar?” Weiss said.

  “Kovar’s not so easy. We had him, then we lost him. We’ve gone back to Somet but, according to him, Kovar materialized out of the night, then disappeared. We’ll find him, of course. Only a matter of time.”

  “What about the other one, Casson?”

  Ivanic shrugged. “Say when.”

  They came to a village, shut down for winter, squat little granite houses and a Norman church. “What’s this?” Weiss asked.

  “Bonnières.”

  “Hm.”

  “Not far now.”

  “No.”

  “Looks like the road goes left, over the bridge.”

  He drove straight ahead. The street narrowed to a lane, a young girl leading a cow on a rope moved over to let them by. “Merde,” Weiss said. The lane ended at a meadow. Weiss started to back up to turn around. Reverse gear whined and the wheels spun in the icy mud. He swore.

  “Hold on, I’ll give us a push.”

  “In a minute.” Weiss pressed the clutch pedal to the floor, let it up very, very slowly until he felt the wheels start to turn. The car moved backward. He stopped, shifted into first gear, got halfway round, backed up, then drove down the lane. The little girl still had the cow over to one side—she lived in Bonnières, she knew they’d be back.

  Weiss turned right at the bridge, a sign on the other side said EVREUX 34.

  It took some time to find Brico’s street. The workers’ district ran on forever, high walls, barely enough room for the car. Weiss could see redbrick chimney stacks in the distance, smoke barely moving in the frozen air. Finally, rue de Verdun. The Germans would eventually change the name, but they probably weren’t in a hurry to come in here. Weiss looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after five. Unless the shift worked overtime, the workers would be heading home. Brico was a party member. He’d helped to distribute Le Métallo, a version of Humanité for metal workers, edited by Narcisse Somet. Too bad, Weiss thought, but that didn’t change anything, that only made it worse.

  Weiss parked the car, then settled down to watch the rearview mirror. The street was deserted, only an orange-and-white cat lying curled up on Brico’s windowsill. Brico’s door opened, a lean woman in an apron banged a dust mop against the edge of the stone step, said something to the cat, then went back inside.

  The first workers started to come off shift; a teenager racing his bicycle, two men riding side by side. The factory whistle sounded twice, and twice again.

  “Any sign?” Ivanic said.

  “No.”

  Ivanic reached inside his jacket, took out an automatic pistol, and freed the magazine from the grip. He studied the top bullet and pressed it lightly with his finger to make sure the spring had tension before reassembling the gun, ramming the magazine home with the heel of his hand.

  “Everything all right?”

  Ivanic nodded.

  “Don’t go inside,” Weiss said.

  “I won’t.”

  Weiss glanced in the mirror. A crowd of men were walking up the street. A moment later, Brico. Ivanic knew before Weiss had a chance to say anything, pulled the brim of his cap down low and got out of the car.

  Weiss watched the two of them talking. He saw Ivanic nod his head toward the car. Brico said something, Ivanic agreed, and the two of them walked slowly toward him. Ivanic waited while Brico climbed into the back seat, then got in next to him. As the car moved off, the two of them talked, about production schedules, cell meetings, leaflets. Brico seemed to know a lot about what went on in the factory. He was short and muscular, with big hands, and very sure of himself.

  “They put the shift back up to twelve hours,” he said. “After all the shit we went through in ’38.”

  Weiss turned down a back road at the edge of the town and parked by a field. Brico said, “What’s all this?”

  Weiss spoke for the first time. “When Renan was shot, the Germans knew what was going on. You turned him in.”

  “That’s a lie,” Brico said.

  “No,” Weiss said. “We know.”

  “I have a family,” Brico said.

  “So did Renan.”

  Ivanic took the gun from inside his jacket. Brico swallowed. “It had to be like that,” he said. “You people sit down there in Paris—” He didn’t finish. It was quiet in the car.

  “Out,” Ivanic said.

  Weiss watched as Brico, head down, walked away from the car. Ivanic took him into the field and shot him.

  The lawyer’s office was in the lawyers’ district, on the rue Châteaud’Eau. This was not the neighborhood for grand offices, Casson thought, his old lawyer friends wouldn’t be caught dead here. This was where the notaries worked, and the huissiers—bailiffs—who collected bad debts by breaking down the door and taking everything except, by law, a bed, a chair, and a cooking pot. The lawyers on these streets made out wills, then helped the heirs sue each other, these lawyers presided over property disputes that carried over from one generation to the next. And these lawyers defended criminals, like the merchant Vasilis.

  Casson climbed the staircase, passing a variety of avocats and notaires, a marriage broker and an astrologer, before he found the office—a cramped room on the top floor. “Georges Soutane,” the lawyer said, as they shook hands. Sharp, Casson thought. Beginning to thicken in his late thirties but still boyish, with sharp eyes, and essentially fearless. His desk was piled high with papers— separated only by a green ribbon tied around each file. After a few pleasantries, he got down to business. “Captain Vasilis is in prison,” he said.

  That much Casson knew, the inspector had told him.

  “In Holland,” he added.

  “For a long time?”

  “A couple of months to go,” the lawyer said. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

  “What’s he in jail for?”

  “Herring. A boat working out of Rotterdam, without licenses.”

  “We have something a little different in mind.”

  “Of course. But what matters here is money. If you’re prepared to pay, we’re ready to consider almost anything.”

  “We’re prepared to pay.”

  “What, in general terms if you like, are we talking about?”

  Casson paused. “I would prefer to discuss it with Captain Vasilis.”

  “Well, I’ll have to take you up there, so you can expect to pay for my time along with everything else. What’s the scale of the purchase?”

  “Significant. A million francs at least, likely a good deal more.”

  Now the lawyer was interested. He looked Casson over. One of those individuals, Casson thought, with no family or social connections to ease his way in the world, but smart, very smart—only his mind between him and the poorhouse. “There’s a question of currency,” he said. “It’s something we’ll have to talk about.”

  “You have a preference?”

  “We’ll take Swiss francs, gold, diamonds, American dollars. If this is going to involve French francs, it will require some negotiation. I won’t say we’ll refuse, but the figure is going to be higher— we’ll have to discount the rate heavily in our favor. To be blunt with you, monsieur, French currency simply isn’t worth anything.”

  “Yes, we know that.”

  “And you will have to pay a very substantial portion of the money before we can proceed.”

  “We know that too,” Casson said.

  The lawyer nodded—so far, so good. “We will consider anything of value,” he said. “Paintings, for example. Substantial properties in the countryside. A business, or even a hotel.”

  “Money would be best,” Casson said.

  “For us as well.” The lawyer o
pened a drawer and took out a small calender with circled dates. “This coming Thursday—is that too soon for you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thursday is visiting day. Other arrangements are possible, but this is the simplest way. You’ll have to tell the prison authorities you’re a lawyer, or a relative.”

  “What kind of prison is it?”

  “The administration is Dutch, not German. It’s a prison for tax evaders, people like that. Captain Vasilis has a room in the hospital.”

  “Not too bad, then.”

  “No. This is the sort of thing that can happen in peacetime just as easily as in war. One other thing I’ll need to ask you. I trust your identity papers will permit you to cross borders—without, ah, special attention?”

  “It won’t be a problem.”

  “Good. Officially, you’ll be my associate. The prison administration is quite understanding.” He took a railway timetable from the drawer. “There’s a local that leaves from the Gare du Nord Thursday morning at 9:08. The local is the French train—the Germans like to get places in a hurry so they take the express. If the track hasn’t been blown up, we’ll be in Amsterdam by early evening, and we can see Captain Vasilis the following morning.”

  Casson stood to go. “I’ll see you on Thursday, then.”

  “Yes. One last thing—of course we assume that you’re coming to see us in good faith. I should mention, however, that Captain Vasilis has friends, loyal friends, everywhere. As long as you’re legitimate, pay what we agree, take delivery, and that’s the last we hear about it, there would be no reason for you to meet them.”

  “That’s understood,” Casson said. “And equally true for us.”

  7:30 A.M., Hélène Schreiber walked through the morning darkness and went into the travel agency. Her friend Natalie was already at her desk and they chatted for a while. Office buildings had at least some heat, apartments were cold in the daytime—better to come to work early and stay as long as possible.

  Hélène was filing carbon copies when somebody said good morning. She looked up to see Madame Oris, the supervising agent. They smiled as they said hello, had liked each other since the first day they’d met. “Can you come and see me, Hélène? Around eleven?”

  Hélène agreed. Madame Oris returned to the glass-topped cubicle that went with her position. She was a tall woman, thin and worried and courtly, who had worked for the agency for thirty years, a dedicated soul who had made a career of cleaning up other people’s messes. When she’d first met Hélène she’d recognized a kindred spirit—one didn’t cut corners, one rose to emergencies. Now nearing seventy, Madame Oris had let it be known that she was going to retire.

  Natalie leaned over and said, “Today is the day.”

  “I think so,” Hélène said. The job was hers if she wanted it.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Hélène shook her head, as if she didn’t know.

  Natalie’s whisper was fierce. “You can’t give in to that garce!” Bitch.

  Hélène had an enemy in the office, a young woman named Victorine; pretty and cold, with a bright manner, and very ambitious. She wasn’t shy about going after what she wanted. “I’m sure you’ve heard that Madame Oris is leaving,” she’d said. “There’s a chance I can have her job.”

  Only if Hélène turned it down. Back in May, when Madame Oris first mentioned retirement, most of the people in the office had let Hélène know they were glad she’d be taking over. But Victorine had a different view. “What a terrible day,” she’d said one evening as they were leaving the office. “A couple from Warsaw, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Hélène was politely sympathetic, but Victorine’s voice sharpened as she continued. “Isn’t it odd,” she’d said, “how certain people feel they should have whatever they want? They just grab it, not a thought for the rest of the world. What would you call such people?”

  You, Hélène thought, would call them Jews.

  How had she found out? Hélène didn’t know, but the statement was aimed directly at her, a threat, and it had to be taken seriously. Because a German decree in April had forbidden Jews to work in companies where there was contact with the public. Would Victorine turn her in? To the owner of the agency? To the Gestapo? Or was it a bluff?

  In the next few weeks, a number of things went inexplicably wrong. For example, Madame Kippel’s lost steamship ticket— Hélène’s fault? Or stolen from her desk? Or, mysteriously, Monsieur Babeau in the wrong Spanish hotel; a sputtering, static-filled phone call summoning up the lower depths of Madrid, bandits and highwaymen and no flush-chain on the porcelain squatter.

  “No highwayman would ever put up with that,” Natalie said later. But it wasn’t exactly funny. If Victorine had sabotaged Hélène’s clients, she was easily capable of denunciation.

  You have until eleven, Hélène told herself. But she’d already made a decision. “I don’t want to give in to anybody,” she explained to Natalie. “On the other hand, what I really want is peace.”

  Natalie looked glum. If Victorine got the job she’d make Natalie’s life miserable, because Natalie was Hélène’s friend. “But,” she said, “what about the money?”

  She’d thought about it. The raise wasn’t much, but it might be enough for her to bribe her way into a new apartment—even without a residence permit. Tempting, but Victorine could kill any chance of a paycheck. “The money’s not bad,” she said. “But money isn’t everything.”

  Natalie was about to answer, then abruptly said, “Attention! ”

  Victorine was coming down the aisle, back straight, chin held high, a stack of dossiers in her hands.

  “Bonjour, Hélène,” she said.

  “Bonjour, Victorine.”

  “Did I see Madame Oris stop by?”

  “You did.”

  “Oh Hélène, this is going to be such an important day for you. I hope you do the right thing.”

  Behind her back, Natalie made a Victorine face—a beaming mock smile.

  “I’m sure I will,” Hélène said. She could hear the defeat in her voice.

  Victorine swept off, her skirt swinging. “See you later,” she sang.

  Natalie shook her head in disbelief. “Hélène, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does she have something on you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s in her voice,” Natalie said. “We’re friends, Hélène. If you need help, you should tell me.”

  “I know.” The urge to confide was strong, but she fought it off. “Really, I know.”

  Natalie waited a moment longer, then went back to work. Hélène stared at a pile of confirmations that had come in by teleprinter the night before. Herr and Frau Von Schaus, arriving 20 December for one week at the Plaza-Athénée. Madame Dupont, by first-class compartment to Rome.

  Her phone rang, the office intercom. “Yes?”

  “Hélène, there’s a couple waiting in the réception.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “You’re going to give up, aren’t you,” Natalie said.

  Hélène nodded.

  She saw Casson that night—waited for him in the park across from the Benoit. He came over and sat next to her on the bench, sensed right away that something was wrong. “What is it?” he said. She told him everything. He sighed at the end, a fatalist, a realist—he didn’t want her to know what went on inside him. “Well,” he said, “of course you had to give her what she wanted.”

  “I know. It just made me sick to do it.”

  “Now that she’s got the job, will she shut up?”

  “I think so. The triumph should be enough for her, that, and rubbing my nose in it.”

  Casson sat back against the bench and put his hands in his pockets. “The war will end, Hélène. And, when it does, a lot of scores will be settled.”

  “Yes, that’s what I keep telling myself. Oh, if you could just see her. She has the shape of a hen.”

&nb
sp; “How did she find out?”

  Hélène shook her head. “Guessed, maybe. Do I look Jewish?”

  He didn’t think so. She had dark, glossy hair, deep eyes, strong features, a face that was, at times, seductive for no reason he could think of. Like half the women in Paris, he thought. “Not to me,” he said.

  She stood and took his hand; despite the cold her skin was hot and damp. “Let’s walk,” she said.

  They walked through the park. The bare branches of the chestnut trees were stark against the sky. At the entrance there was a bust of Verlaine.

  “I’ve talked to Degrave,” he said. “He told me he might be able to get you out in February, or maybe March. Until then, the important thing is to survive. Whatever you have to do.”

  “You must survive, you must survive.” She stared down at the ground for a time. “I’ll tell you something I discovered, Jean-Claude. You can be scared for only so long, then a day comes when you don’t care anymore.”

  Belgium in December. Through the cloudy window of a slow train. Like a pastoral drawing from the nineteenth century, he thought. Black and white and a hundred shades of gray; cows by a stream in a field, cows by a stream in a field, cows . . . A lone elm in the mist, a farmer in rubber boots, his dog by his side.

  Casson dozed off, then woke up suddenly and made sure the paper-wrapped parcel was still on the seat next to him. Expensive, almost very expensive. What seemed like a mindless errand had sent him deep into the heart of his old neighborhood, where every passing stranger threatened to turn into somebody he knew.