by Alan Furst
Romar chose two of his men and the three of them, moving from tree to tree, crawled forward toward the machine gun, its position revealed by muzzle flares. Romar moved closer, the machine gun halted briefly as the gunners changed belts, Romar stood, leaned against the side of a tree, and fired four shots. When there was return fire from among the trees, one of his men cried out. Romar, bent double, went toward him at a half run, the best he could manage. He could hear himself breathing, hoarse and panting with effort. He reached his soldier, wiped snow and blood from his face, and saw that he was still alive, his chest rising and falling as he fought for air. Romar took him by the collar and dragged him through the snow. When he reached his other soldier, the man knelt for a moment and said, “He is gone, Captain.”
They left him there and made their way back to where they thought the rest of the company was hiding, though there was little chance they would be able to find them. As Romar stumbled forward, the boughs of the pine trees released showers of snow. He was about to give up when he heard a low whistle—one of his soldiers had seen them. He counted the men, a corporal had been shot in the foot and leaned on the shoulder of another man.
Romar led them south for a half hour, exhausted now, they moved slower and slower but did not stop. By eight in the morning Captain Romar’s company had reached the town of Teruel and the Bank of Spain basement. From there he contacted battalion command by field telephone and reported the action. The soldiers took off the wounded man’s shoe and bound his foot with strips of rags. That was all they could do.
According to battalion command, the Moorish attack had been stopped. A counterattack was planned for noon. “We are down to twenty rounds a man,” Romar told the officer on the other end of the field telephone. “You’ll have to do the best you can” was the answer. “Until the supply trucks can reach us.”
8 February. Ferrar was at work when the diplomat Molina telephoned from the embassy. “Would you be able to stop by the Oficina Técnica this evening? About seven or so? There’s a fellow there I’d like you to meet, he’s just recently returned to Paris. The office is at 57, avenue George V, two doors down from the embassy.”
“I’ll be there at seven,” Ferrar said.
“He’s called Max de Lyon, the fellow you’re going to meet.”
A few minutes before seven, Ferrar rang the bell beside a gate in the high iron railing that ran between the sidewalk and the entry to the building. A porter let him in and told him that the Oficina Técnica was at the end of the corridor on the third floor. Ferrar knocked on the door, the man who answered said, “Are you Señor Ferrar?” He spoke French with just the bare hint of an accent that Ferrar could not identify. Slavic, perhaps, Ferrar thought.
“I am,” Ferrar said.
“Pleased to meet you, I am Max de Lyon.” Something about the way he announced himself suggested the Max de Lyon. De Lyon led him to a small office with a desk, a table, wooden filing cabinets, two telephones, and a few chairs, with a window that looked out on a courtyard. The office was dark, illuminated only by lights in windows above the courtyard. De Lyon turned on a small desk lamp, its beam falling on the desk, so that the first time Ferrar was able to study him he was in shadow. “Do you know who I am?” de Lyon said.
“Forgive me, Monsieur de Lyon, but I have no idea. Should I know?”
De Lyon shrugged and said, “Well, in my time I have been mentioned in the newspapers. Not in the most flattering way, I regret to add.”
De Lyon reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a long cigarette in a dark brown wrapper leaf, and lit it with a brass lighter designed to work in the wind. De Lyon had a still face and hooded eyes—narrow and low-lidded with a faint downward slant—that were at once amused and threatening. The world had conspired against him but he had, successfully, fought it off and would again. The gaze in those eyes was conventionally known as penetrating—they read deep, they knew who you were. For the rest, he was fifty or so, with a receding line of dark hair, a small, compact body, and had on a very good tweed jacket, casual and loose fitting, a jacket that got better over time. Worn with a broad, black wool tie, it suggested a life among landed gentry. Could he be an aristocrat?
When de Lyon looked up from lighting his cigarette, he said, “I have been called an arms merchant, and various other things, some of them correct.”
“And are you an arms merchant?”
“I was. A small-time trader who knew some of the right people. It’s not a healthy way to earn your living, I don’t recommend it. Also, certain righteous people don’t care for you.”
“I am a lawyer, monsieur, some people don’t like lawyers.”
“True”—that ghost on de Lyon’s lips could have been taken for a smile—“until you need one.”
“People who’ve been on the wrong end of a lawyer, the business end, don’t like them,” Ferrar said. “On the other hand, it’s better than a duel at dawn, which is the way disputes used to be settled. For me, it is the way I make a living, and I am blessed to work for ethical people.”
“I know the firm,” de Lyon said. “They do good when they can. By the way, may I offer you one of these?” He held the cigarette between the ends of his index and middle fingers, thumb beneath the smoker’s end, and now extended his hand so Ferrar could see it. “I have them made for me at a shop in Istanbul—if you enjoy very strong black tobacco you might like them.”
“Thank you,” Ferrar said, in a voice that meant no, thank you. “I’ll have a Gitane.”
Ferrar took a cigarette from his packet, de Lyon said, “Allow me,” flipped up the lid atop the lighter and produced a loud snick and a flame. De Lyon then settled back in his chair and said, “Now, Señor Ferrar, if you don’t mind a personal question, can you tell me what you’re doing here?” The question was courteous, but there was a jovial, unstated the hell after the what.
“The basic reason is that I was asked. Señor Molina requested my assistance, so I’m going to do whatever I can to help.”
“To fight Franco?”
“To fight Franco, to fight them all; Hitler, and those who aspire to be Hitlers … I don’t mean to give a speech but the subject forces you to, doesn’t it.”
Slowly, de Lyon nodded. “We’re going to have a Nazi Europe, I fear, which won’t be good for either of us. And for a lot of other people.”
“And nothing can be done?”
“Did I say that?”
“You did not, but it’s often the next thing that’s said.”
From de Lyon, a dry laugh. Then, “True. And if the time comes when the phrase to fight turns into to fight back, it will by that time be too late.”
“Are you French, Monsieur de Lyon?”
“By inclination, I am. But I carry a Swiss passport. Useful, these days.”
“And very difficult to get, unless you are born there.”
“That’s the reputation, but if you understand the Swiss, maybe not so difficult. Their officials like to be seen as stern and unyielding, chronic rule followers, but, if you can do something for them, they will give you whatever they need to.”
“And that’s what you did.”
“Made sure to do. I had a taste of life as a ‘stateless person,’ not a pleasant way to live, all kinds of civil servants will torment you, not to mention the police, because to be stateless is somehow a crime. For me, I made the mistake of being born in a little ghetto village in what was sometimes Russia, though it isn’t now, with no record of my birth.”
“You are Jewish?”
“Some of my ancestry was, some not. My mother died when I was seven, I was then raised on an estate in Poland, not welcomed, tolerated as the result of a youthful indiscretion. I left there when I was fourteen and have been looking after myself ever since.”
“You appear to have survived it.”
De Lyon nodded. “You grow up quickly, or not at all.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Speaking of ‘stateless persons,’ I’m sure you’re aware of your own situation.”
“You carry a Spanish passport?”
“I do.”
“If Franco wins this war, some members of the Spanish émigré community will still be considered as enemies. Especially those known to have worked for the Republic and against Franco. They already have a list, of course, with new names added as they are discovered. For example, working with this office is likely to land you on the list, and I doubt a victorious Franco Spain would renew your passport. And that will mean your name would appear on a French list too. I believe resident-alien status has to be renewed, not so?”
“Yes, it does. How can you be so sure my name will be on their list?”
“There are some people in this embassy who work secretly for the other side. And Franco maintains a considerable spy service in Paris, they may have watched you enter the building.”
“Well, there’s not much I can do about their list. As for my legal status, in an emergency my law firm would help me get American citizenship, we already work with clients who have nationality problems and in some cases we do that without charge.”
“Then you will be safe. Still, I tell you all this by way of saying that I won’t think badly of you if, on reflection, you wish to make use of the door.”
Ferrar’s reply was gentle but firm. “No, I said I would try to help, and I tend to keep my word.”
“Very well, a trait I admire. Would you like to see what you are getting yourself into?”
“I might as well.” He paused, then said, “Are you the director of the Oficina Técnica?”
De Lyon was amused. “I believe they pay me as a technical consultant. But there is a nominal director, a diplomat who has served this embassy for thirty years, he has on his desk an in-tray, and an out-tray, and every day he moves papers from one to the other. He does process payment vouchers when I ask him to, you will be shocked to learn the amount of money that flows through this office. Now, to get you into trouble as soon as possible, would you care to join me at eleven this evening? A visit to a nightclub?”
“Where shall we meet?”
“I’ll pick you up at eleven, if you’ll tell me where you live.”
Ferrar gave de Lyon his address. “I’ll be in front of the building,” he said.
•
Ferrar heard de Lyon coming before he caught sight of him. From one of the streets that ran downhill to the Place Saint-Sulpice came the fierce whine of a small, powerful engine, which paused for a growl as the driver used a downshift instead of the brakes, then whined again, the sound echoing off the church on the square. De Lyon pulled up in a British two-seater, a blue sports car with a soft top and a leather strap across the hood. Ferrar folded himself into the passenger seat, de Lyon said good evening, then put the car into first gear and away they flew. “Do you like it?” de Lyon shouted over the engine.
“Yes. What is it?”
“What?”
“What is it.”
“Oh, a Morgan.”
Ferrar had wanted to ask where they were going but there was no hope of that. Cold as hell on a February night, Ferrar thought, but a fine way to see Paris. Zooming past taxis and street-cleaning tanker trucks, the Morgan wove through the Sixth, crossed the Seine, followed the shabby edge of the First Arrondissement to a neighborhood of crumbling tenements next to the Les Halles market, then was briefly on the rue Saint-Denis, where the strolling prostitutes just loved the sports car and its occupants, waving and calling out to them—juicy sentiments no doubt but inaudible. De Lyon made a left and, a street or two later, turned into the rue du Cygne, where a giant doorman with gold epaulets on his uniform put two fingers to his cap as de Lyon and Ferrar struggled out of the car. A discreet sign by the door said LE CYGNE, the Swan, a nightclub named for its address.
Inside the door, a maître d’ in a tuxedo said, with just a suggestion of a bow, “Good evening, Monsieur de Lyon. Your usual table?” He then led them downstairs, whipped the RÉSERVÉ sign off a table by the wall, and bowed once more, clearly pleased with whatever de Lyon put in his hand. Very chic, Le Cygne; an Art Deco room, the floor in glossy black and white tile, walls painted black, indirect lighting—the lights hidden in a cornice at the edge of the ceiling—and black-lacquered tables. On a bandstand at the far end of the room, a quartet—guitar, violin, bass, and drums—was just getting ready to perform. A waiter appeared, de Lyon ordered champagne. “They may have something else,” he said, “but I’ve never seen it.”
The quartet began to play, a rendition of “Nuages” in the Django Reinhardt style, as patrons flocked to the cleared area and began to dance. Very highly dressed patrons, some of the women with daring necklines, others in backless gowns. One of the latter was dancing with a man in a tarboosh—the round, red, Middle Eastern hat with a tassel—who wore dark sunglasses. De Lyon saw what Ferrar was looking at and said, “He’s here every night, known as ‘the Lebanese.’ ” The Lebanese danced beautifully, with clever feet, three fingertips resting low on the bare back of his partner.
As the champagne arrived and the waiter used a linen napkin to open the bottle, Ferrar said, “Do you know these people, Max?”
“Oh, it’s the usual crowd. Parisians of the better class, criminals, swindlers, nouveaux riches from the western suburbs, a spy or two. What you find in a nightclub in this city—at least a nightclub like Le Cygne. Do you see that woman in green, sitting by the bandstand?”
It took some time, then Ferrar said, “Wearing a kind of oriental tunic, with a high neck? And pearl earrings?”
“That’s her.”
Ferrar studied the woman and said, “An aristocrat, if I had to guess.”
De Lyon nodded and drank some champagne. “The most perfect bearing, the way she holds herself tells the world she is far above them, and the most perfect manners, she condescends to no one. You should hear her voice, low and seductive, and she speaks this educated Parisian French, it’s like music.”
“You know her, then.”
“Yes, in a professional way. She is one of the great madams of this city.”
“No! Really? Her? She keeps a brothel?”
De Lyon laughed. “No, no, my friend, nothing of the kind. But she will arrange, for a breathtaking amount of money, a rendezvous with a lovely upper-class woman who must pay her dressmaker. The money goes to Angélique over there, and she pays her friend. And then, what happens … happens, though one mustn’t be too much of a snorting pig, unless the lady wishes it.”
“A service you use?” Ferrar said.
“Not personally, I don’t like to pay to make love, but it’s one of the, umm, inducements I can provide for a business associate.” After a moment he said, “Would you care to indulge? I will arrange it.”
“No, I like love affairs, a woman’s desire is the best aphrodisiac.”
De Lyon raised his glass and they drank to desire.
As midnight approached, a short, swarthy bear of a man came grinning toward the table. He was almost bald, strands of hair oiled to his scalp, wore a baggy, gray silk suit over a black shirt with open collar, and a mist of powerful cologne. He had, on one arm, a blonde in a cloche hat with a feather, on the other, a brunette in a tight, scarlet dress. When de Lyon rose to greet his guests, so did Ferrar. “Stavros!” de Lyon said.
“Max, my friend!” said the bear.
They shook hands, then the bear put his arms around de Lyon, laughed, and smacked him twice on the shoulder. As introductions were quickly made, both women seemed a little vague, even dazed. Behind the trio came the waiter, carrying three chairs and breathing hard. When the three were seated, de Lyon caught the waiter’s eye and raised two fingers and soon enough two new bottles of champagne appeared. “So, Stavros,” de Lyon said, “how goes our business?”
“I am close to getting what we want …,” Stavros said, holding his thumb and index finger an inch apart and adding, “… this close.” In a deep rumble of a voice he spoke French with what Ferrar took to be a Greek accent. Not wanti
ng to go further in front of his girlfriends, Stavros looked left and right and said, “Girls, look what Uncle Stavros has for you.” He produced a folded paper square and pressed it into the hand of the blonde. “Now go off to the ladies’ WC and try this out. And we’ll miss your pretty faces but don’t be in a hurry, take your time.” He rose, pulled their chairs back, and sent them off with a big, evil grin. When they’d gone, he looked pointedly at Ferrar: who’s he?
“Cristián is working with me,” de Lyon said. “You can trust him.”
Stavros leaned conspiratorially across the table and said, “I think I’ve found the man we want, he owns a company in Brno.”
“A Czech,” de Lyon said.
“Yes, a hungry one.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s called Szarny, a big, flabby type with pink cheeks—he looks like a tuba player in an oompah band. Somehow he has gotten himself into money trouble, though I think he makes plenty. He’s one of those solid bourgeois types who’s got one big, bad fault, which he hides from everybody, especially his family. I don’t know what it is, but someone like me can smell it: the guilty conscience. A taste for rare and special sex that’s costly to buy? Does he gamble? Does he like to be … mistreated? You know what I mean, Max? You, Cristián?”
They knew.
“Szarny has a foundry called Brno Ironworks that’s connected to the Skoda arms company. I don’t know how, I don’t know who owns what, but Szarny says he can deliver what we need.”
De Lyon looked over at Ferrar, meaning can you find out? Ferrar nodded, he could discover who owned what. De Lyon said, “How did you find him, Stavros?”
“I have a man in Brno, where they make the Skoda anti-tank guns. He’s a confidential agent and collects information from chambermaids in hotels, barmen, maybe a cop or two, and when I asked him about Skoda he came up with Szarny.”
As an aside, de Lyon said to Ferrar, “You know that Czechoslovakia is the leading arms exporter in Europe. They make the Panzer tank the Germans love so much.”
“I do know,” Ferrar said. People who read newspapers knew about Czechoslovakia, so beloved by Hitler. Who had stated rather clearly, if you knew how to read him, that he meant to have it. Thus the propaganda about the poor, much-abused German minority in the Sudetenlands.
