by Alan Furst
‘Do either of you recognize this man?’ the captain said.
Avila and Stahl said, in turn, that they didn’t.
‘Very well. You’re sure?’
‘We are,’ Avila said. ‘He’s not part of the film company, I’ve never seen him before. How did he die?’
‘Garrotte.’
A GOOD SOLDIER
17 DECEMBER. 1.30 IN THE MORNING. SEEN FROM THE WINDOW OF A taxi headed for the Claridge, winter Paris. On a bridge across the Seine, the streetlamps along the balustrade were no more than ghostly blurs of light in the river fog. Deserted streets after that, wet from an evening rain, one café still lit, with one patron, a woman in a fur hat with a glass of wine before her. Winter Paris, Christmas coming, the Galeries Lafayette would have its toy train running in the window, the station roof glittering with granular snow. Stahl thanked heaven for getting him back here alive.
He was in danger, so his intuition told him, yet not so much now. After what he’d seen in the cellar of the gendarmerie he’d felt it, nearby, waiting for him. Late that afternoon he had, as promised, seen Renate Steiner. And told her, because she would surely hear about it, what had happened at Er Rashida. Then all they did was walk around the village, both of them edgy and distracted, too much aware of what was going on around them. He dropped her off at the Kasbah Oudami, then went over to the telegraph office, where he did what he could to warn Wilkinson that Orlova might be in trouble.
Birthday greetings stop gift en route
stop our friend may be unwell stop send
card soonest stop Fredric
In his reaction to the murder Stahl had not been alone, Avila had also been alarmed – could it have been some spasm of anti-colonial politics? – and, for the next few days, he drove the company hard, wanting to finish the location shooting and get the hell out of there. So both Stahl and Renate had to spend long hours on the production – Stahl even lent a hand building rails for tracking shots out in the Sahara. The extra effort worked. The cast and crew left two days ahead of schedule, reaching Paris in the early hours of the seventeenth. On the aeroplane home, feeling that he’d somehow escaped, a relieved and talkative Stahl sat with Renate and went on about secret places – hidden parks, empty museums – that he liked to visit.
The taxi pulled up in front of the Claridge and, minutes later, Stahl, with a grateful sigh, slid into his sweetly welcoming bed. Exhausted, he slept deeply until 6.00 when his mental alarm clock jarred him awake: he had to see Wilkinson. By 8.30 he was at the neighbourhood Bureau de Poste, making an anonymous phone call to an emergency number Wilkinson had given him. An hour later, Stahl was once again in the stacks at the American Library, apparently searching the 330.94s, European Economies.
Minutes later, Stahl heard hurried footsteps on the staircase, then a smiling Wilkinson appeared. An outwardly relaxed and insouciant Wilkinson, wanting to reassure his rattled agent, but Stahl suspected he’d been shaken by the telegram. Wilkinson picked a book off the shelf, looked at the title, and said, ‘Have you read this one? Belgian Banking Practice in the Eighteenth Century? Kept me up all night, I couldn’t put it down.’ He returned the book to the shelf and said, ‘You seem to be okay.’
‘I guess I am.’
‘So, what went wrong?’
‘I made contact with the courier, he gave me the list and I paid him. Then, the next day, I found out he’d been strangled and thrown off the train, money and papers taken.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Just so.’
‘Could it have been a robbery? Happenstance, you know, coincidence.’
‘Could’ve. Is that what you think?’
‘No, it’s not. God damn it, what a mess.’
‘Did you warn Orlova?’
Wilkinson nodded, an unhappy nod but affirmative. Then he took a breath, blew it out, and said, ‘Anyhow, you did the right thing, letting me know that something had gone wrong. It did take me a minute to figure it out – my first thought was “it’s not my birthday”, then I understood. And by “gift en route” you meant …’
Stahl drew the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Wilkinson, who took the list out and for a time, turning pages, looked it over. ‘Hm, yes, good,’ he said. ‘They’ll like this in D.C., some kind of German operation in Poland.’ He turned a page and said, ‘I suspect the Polish congressmen from Chicago might find out about it, and their votes matter.’
‘Any idea what it means?’
‘These people could be Nazi spies … some of the names are German, and there are ethnic Germans in Poland who secretly admire Herr Hitler. Or it could be a list of targets – some propaganda operation being run by the Ribbentropburo. Or it could be anything.’
‘Do you think they’ve arrested Orlova?’
‘It’s possible, yes, maybe.’
‘And if they knew about the courier, do they know about me?’
Wilkinson shrugged and spread his hands. Stahl waited. Wilkinson said, ‘They didn’t know about you when you made the exchange. If they had, you wouldn’t be here. What happened suggests they were after the courier, but didn’t get him until you’d left the train. Meanwhile, if the worst happened, they’ve arrested Orlova and, given their methods, they’ll know about you soon enough.’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t …’ Wilkinson stopped, then said, ‘Please understand, this has never happened to me.’
‘Or to me,’ Stahl said.
‘Well, I guess you’ll have to face the possibility that they’ll come after you.’
‘How?’
‘Again, I can’t say. But better I don’t tell you not to worry, because you might believe me.’ Wilkinson thought for a moment, then said, ‘Is it possible for you to go back to California?’
‘Not now. I have to finish the movie.’
‘What if you didn’t?’
Stahl drew his finger across his throat. ‘It is the one thing you cannot do, you wouldn’t work again, not in Hollywood you wouldn’t.’
‘But you’d be alive.’
‘True, but I’ll tell you a funny thing, I won’t let them do that to me. Maybe I can’t stop them from murdering me, but they won’t destroy me.’
This earned, from Wilkinson, a faint but appreciative smile. ‘You’re a pretty good soldier, Fredric, you’ll never get a medal, but you are.’
‘What about you?’ Stahl said. ‘Would they come after you?’
‘It’s occurred to me,’ Wilkinson said. ‘But it’s something I can’t worry about.’ Then he shook his head and said, ‘Damn it all to hell, I wish this hadn’t happened.’
Avila had given the company the day off after the early-morning return to Paris. Thoroughly habituated to the rhythm of daily work, Stahl didn’t quite know what to do with himself. So he walked, a long walk, back to the Claridge from the American Library. Beneath an overcast sky, he wandered down side streets, paused at appealing shop windows, looked at the women as they passed him by, and had, in the way of people walking alone in a city, some conversation with himself. Yes, they might come after him, he thought, but brooding about it was pointless; what would happen would happen, though if he had the opportunity to fight back, then he’d fight them. Hard. Until then he decided to avoid, if he could, obsession with that part of his life. Think good thoughts, his mother had always told him. Well, that’s what he would try to do.
On the aeroplane, he had asked Renate for her telephone number and written it down on a scrap of paper, promising to call when they were back in Paris. This scrap of paper had migrated: from his pocket to his desk, then to the top of his bureau, and back to his pocket. When he returned to his room at 2.20 he could wait no longer, and called her. No answer. But at 2.45 she was home. They talked briefly, then he asked her to have dinner – was there something special she liked to eat? Lyonnais cooking? Normandy veal? The line hissed for a time, finally he said, ‘Renate?’ and she said, ‘Why don’t you come over here? I can make something for us.’ Her voice was strai
ned, as though she feared his answer wouldn’t be the one she wanted.
‘Yes, of course, I’d like that,’ he said.
‘It’s not very fancy over here,’ she said. ‘Surely not what you’re used to.’ Then she gave him her address and they decided on a time, 7.00 p.m.
Stahl had brought his favourite sweater to Paris, very soft wool, in horizontal grey and black bands, which hung loose from his shoulders. This he wore, along with chocolate-coloured corduroy trousers, some cedar-smelling cologne – not too much! – then put on his belted raincoat and found his umbrella.
It was a few minutes after 6.00.
Not very fancy was to say the least. The rue Varlin was in a poor quartier near the Canal Saint-Martin and the railyards in the Tenth Arrondissement. Ancient workers’ tenements darkened the narrow street and the taxi slowed as it bumped over broken cobblestones. Said the driver, ‘Are you sure this is where you want to go?’ A concierge, an old woman in a kerchief who walked with two canes, let him in and said, ‘Steiner? On the top floor, monsieur.’ Heading for the staircase, Stahl passed the tenants’ mailboxes. No French names here – Poles, Italians, Germans – this was a building for émigrés. The wooden stairs had hollows worn in the centre, a family fight was in progress on the third floor, a hunting cat crept past him and he was happy enough not to see its quarry.
Renate was, as always, all in black, sweater and heavy skirt, with, tonight, nylon stockings and low heels. He liked her mouth, the natural colour of her lips, but this she had ruined with red lipstick and, when he brushed her cheeks left and right, he encountered scented face powder. She was very tense, taking off her glasses and putting them back on. While he had not foreseen her mood, he was carrying a bottle of good Bordeaux, which would do as an antidote. The evening wobbled a little with a search for a strayed corkscrew – ‘I don’t have wine very often,’ she said.
It was a tiny apartment, the parlour furnished with little more than a battered old sofa, green velvet, that looked like a veteran of the flea markets. Smoothed across the back was a piece of Asian-looking fabric, either hiding or decorating. There were lots of books, in home-built bookcases painted red, and in stacks on the floor. A radio, hoarse with faint static, was playing a symphony. When the corkscrew was found, Stahl poured Bordeaux into mismatched water glasses. ‘Salut,’ he said, wary of more affectionate forms.
They sat on the sofa, talked about Après la Guerre, talked about the weather. When the first glass of wine had been drunk and the second was on the way, she said, ‘How do you like my little palace?’ gesturing grandly around the room.
‘It’s a lot nicer than the places I lived in when I was here in the twenties,’ he said. ‘At least you have heat.’
‘The building isn’t heated,’ she said. This was common in Paris; in winter people without offices to go to spent the day in heated cafés, reading books or newspapers, making a coffee last all afternoon. ‘I have that thing,’ she said, indicating a kerosene stove in the corner with a pipe that went into the wall, rags stuffed around the opening. ‘My departed husband, not much of a mechanical man, believe me, installed it, but it hasn’t killed me yet.’
‘Perhaps this evening,’ Stahl said. ‘They’ll find us together, dead as mackerels. Very romantic.’
She grinned, the wine was at work. He picked up the bottle and waggled it over her glass, his eyebrows raised. She drank off what remained, said, ‘Please,’ and he refilled her glass. ‘This really is very good,’ she said, and looked at him with her head to one side: and so?
Now? No, later. What’s the hurry? He took out a cigarette and offered her the pack. Delicately, she drew one out and he lit it for her with his lighter. A board on bricks in front of the sofa held a vase of weeds, and a Suze ashtray purloined from a café. With one bony finger she moved it towards them. She had, he saw, at least not put polish on her pared-back fingernails.
‘Tell me when you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I have good ham and butter and a baguette and a salad from the charcuterie.’
‘For the moment, I’ll stay with this,’ he said, holding up his glass.
‘Are you comfortable?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Why don’t you put your feet up?’
She stood, he raised his legs and stretched out full length. But he’d taken up too much of the sofa. She perched on the edge, then, with a jerk of her head, used a rough expression that meant move it and pressed a soft, heavy hip against his knee, making space for herself. He could have made more room by shifting his legs but didn’t, just stayed as he was, where he could feel the warmth of her body beneath the skirt. ‘Happy like that?’ she said.
He smiled at her. ‘What do you think?’
She took off her glasses and rested them on the arm of the sofa. ‘It’s starting to rain,’ she said.
He could hear the thin patter on the roof above them. He took the wine glass in his left hand and put his right hand on her knee. She looked at it, then back up at him, and, after a moment, covered his hand with hers. He thought about sliding his hand upwards, bringing her skirt with it, then didn’t. For a time they sat like that, the low-volume music and the sound of the rain made the room very still.
Now.
‘I wonder if I could …’
‘Merde!’ she said. ‘I forgot I bought candles. It’s too bright in here, isn’t it?’
With a small sigh he said, ‘Much too bright.’
She rose and hurried around the sofa, returning with two short white candles set on saucers. She struck a wooden match on the box, lit the candles, then twisted around and turned off a lamp. Turning back to him she said, ‘You were saying, monsieur?’ Delivered with one of her best ironic smiles.
‘Well, there was a preface to this, but now I’ll just ask you.’
‘And what were you going to ask?’
‘Why don’t you take off your clothes?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘All right.’ Then, ‘Here? Or go into the other room and come back … without them?’
‘Here. So I can watch you.’
She stood up, rolled her sweater over her head and tossed it on the floor. Then unbuttoned her skirt, let it drop, and stepped out of it. Next the shoes came off, which left her in white bra and panties, garter belt and stockings. ‘Is this what you wanted to see?’
‘Some of it. There’s more.’
But in truth there was a lot. She was bigger than he’d imagined her, heavy breasts, hips, tummy, and thighs. Emphasized by a narrow waist.
‘More?’
‘Yes, everything.’
She bent over, reached behind her back, undid her bra and slid it down her arms, then cradled her breasts with her hands. He was already excited, but this gesture provoked him even more. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Now you’ve seen me.’ Her eyes fastened on his, she raised one of her thumbs and circled it around her nipple, which came erect as he watched.
Suddenly he sat upright, meaning to go and snatch the rest of her clothes off her, but she took two steps towards him, put a hand on his chest and made him lie back. ‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘I like you as a sultan.’
‘A sultan?’
‘Something like that – a ruler who expects to be served.’
‘A sultan. Do you have a towel I can wear on my head?’
She hadn’t moved back and now, standing over him, inches away, she unhooked her garter belt, took it off, and removed her stockings. ‘Anything else you want?’
Growing wildly impatient, he reached for the waistband of her panties but she took his hands and put them on his chest and said, ‘Now, now.’
‘Renate, take your pants down.’
She did, he gazed up at the vee between her legs.
Again he moved his hand towards her but she bent over, put her mouth on his and, as his tongue slid across her lips, climbed on top of him. But he still had his clothes on, so worked his hands beneath her. She gave him a little room, he pulled at the sweater until it bunched under his chin, managed to
undo one button on his shirt, then yanked hard and the rest were torn off. Now, back curved, she let the tips of her breasts rub against his bare chest. He lay still for a time, face lit with pleasure, then put his arms around her and held her bottom in his hands and, when he tightened his grip, it drew from her a sharp intake of breath – startled and excited at once.
He let her go and tried to rid himself of his trousers, but she sat upright and worked her way backwards until she straddled his knees. ‘Soon enough,’ she said, ‘but there’s something I want to see.’ In no hurry, she unbuttoned his fly, freed him from his shorts, and, taking it between thumb and two fingers, gave it a few slow strokes, clearly pleased with the view, then lowered her head, met his eyes, and opened her mouth.
Eventually they got his clothes off and went at it; one way, another way – she knelt on the sofa and rested her forehead against the back – and did everything they liked to do. She was not the vocal type, though when the moment came it was accompanied by a series of moaning sighs that every time recharged him, inspired him to start over until, when he once again wanted her, she said, almost laughing, ‘I’m sorry but I don’t think there’s another one in there.’ Then she led him to her bedroom, barely large enough to hold a narrow cot, with a yellowed shade pulled down over the window. There they talked quietly; he told her he loved her curved body, she said she loved the way he touched her, what his hands did to her. Thus they at least used the word, and there was more to say, but with ceaseless fucking and drumming rain and a wintry night in Paris they let it go at that and fell dead asleep.
It was the most adorable little tearoom, with chintz café curtains and pink linen tablecloths, on a tree-lined street across from the Tiergarten park, and Olga Orlova often went there when she was in Berlin and not out at the Babelsberg studio making films. That afternoon, the tenth of December, she didn’t have anything in particular to do, so invited Trudi Mueller for tea at four o’clock. Trudi was an easy companion, who saved up tidbits from her daily life and could be depended on for table conversation. Since their encounter at an alpine hotel, when Trudi had revealed her romantic feelings for Orlova, the Russian actress had made sure they saw each other often and stayed friends. It was important, to the clandestine side of Orlova’s life, that there be no bad feelings between them.
