by Tessa Lunney
“Your friends, the Yusupovs, might be surprised to see you here.”
“They aren’t my friends.”
“I gathered that, from the way the servants speak about you.”
He gave a bitter half-laugh. “They’re such snobs. Just because they stayed in service.”
“And you didn’t?”
“I was never a servant!”
“You were an art dealer last time we met, trying to bamboozle me at the Café Gogol. What happened?” He hung his head. “Was it Hausmann?”
He sniffed; he was almost crying. He covered his eyes.
“Did Hausmann blackmail you?”
He looked up. I tried my best to look sympathetic; it worked.
“He…” He rubbed his face, as though to rub out the anguish. “I thought we were partners, I thought…”
“He’s a weasel, that one.”
“A scoundrel! He only wanted to use me to get to men like Felix Felixovitch, Feodor Alexandrovitch, all of their family… he knew, I don’t know how, but he knew Felix would be receptive to his ‘ideas.’ Ideas! Politics! I thought I would be safe in Paris. It’s been an awful year, I just want it to end…”
I passed him another cigarette and lit it for him, looking at him with my best listening face. I used all my nursing training to ignore the rank smell of his sweat and where he had pissed himself. His eyes were bloodshot, both suspicious and needy. I couldn’t see Fry but I heard him shift in his seat.
“You… you work with him?” He nodded at Fry. “You can help me? You can help get me out of Paris, out of this life?”
“Tell me what I need to know.”
He looked from me to Fry, spending longer on me, searching my face. Last April he had been a flirtatious raconteur, kissing my hand and licking jam off his fingers in the café, twirling me around a dance floor and toasting me with vodka. Now his suit was stained and crumpled with some poorly darned patches at the cuffs. His hands were bruised and scraped, his nails bitten to the quick, his wrists red raw and he sat at an odd angle, as though protecting a pain in his side or back. He took another drag of the cigarette and blew the smoke over his knees with a huge sigh. Brutalizing a man had never been my method, but to protest at his treatment now would give Lazarev room to wriggle away. In this game of fear and shadows, I had to pretend and pretend. To show our true size would mean we wouldn’t get the information, I wouldn’t find the princes, Tom would remain in danger. It was also clear that Lazarev was ripe for talking. I pushed down all my fury at Fox and the ways he continued to manipulate me, to become a soft shoulder for Lazarev to cry on.
“I’m sick of it.” Lazarev’s voice held tears.
“Tell me.” I could hear Fry cough at my soft, gentle tones.
“I’m sick of being scared.” Lazarev exhaled more smoke. “I’m sick of looking over my shoulder, pretending, lying, sick of the whole business.”
“You’re a spy.”
“I am an art dealer.”
I cocked my head in subtle skepticism; Lazarev picked up the inference at once and began to exonerate himself in injured tones.
“I was an art dealer before the revolution! I tried to pick up the trade when I moved here. It was hard. The Russians I knew had sold most of their works already and the French had their own dealers. But I was beginning, slowly, as more Russians joined us, as young artists started to need someone who wasn’t German or American, who could properly understand them. I met Hausmann at one of the parties at the Café Gogol. Eva…”
“I met her last year. She brought me to the Gogol.”
“Yes… yes, that’s right. She introduced me to Hausmann, said he was also interested in art, et cetera et cetera. Snake, snake that she is! She’s working with him, with those Fascists…”
“Those Fascists…” I shook my head. Lazarev nodded as excitedly as his bruises allowed.
“It was all a trick! Liars! Hausmann knew a lot of rich people but knew nothing about art except its cold-blooded monetary value. He said he wanted to buy art from me. I had been cultivating relationships with the Yusupovs, Romanovs, any other Russian family who had fled to Paris and might be looking to sell their treasures. I knew no one in England but I knew there was plenty of money about. Hausmann implied that he could make those connections for me.”
“But he never did.”
“Nothing of the sort! Just after the summer, last year, Hausmann came to me with a very different proposition. I would steal the artwork for him, and, in return, he would not expose that I had lied about my war service.” His voice had become smaller than the tap dripping in the corner. Fry scowled and made a tsk noise.
“Have a few fake medals, do you?” Fry called from behind the desk. Lazarev gave him a quick, dirty look. I hoped Fry would interrupt again; much as I hated it, a little bit of menace from Fry would help us keep the upper hand.
“No.” Lazarev’s eyes searched the room’s corners, as if his gaze probed for an escape.
“But perhaps you didn’t correct other people’s… assumptions.” I did my best to look like this was normal behavior which, in fact, I suspected it was.
“Russians don’t care, the revolution has obliterated everything else. But the French, the British, people here in Paris are very particular about who fought and how. I… let people think I had been on the front line in Galicia. In fact, I was in Petrograd until 1917, when I fled. Exposure would have ruined my contacts…”
“And hence your fledgling business, and left you…”
“Penniless! Exiled even from my exile. I agreed to Hausmann’s plan, I had to, at least to his face. I had no intention of carrying it out. That would have been beyond stupid, when it would be much more worth my while to sell the picture for him and take commission.”
“You’re all heart.” Fry’s sarcasm made Lazarev scowl.
“What would you know?” Lazarev spat blood on the floor. Fry slammed his hand on the table and Lazarev flinched. Lazarev flung an angry, scared glance at me. I decided to sigh theatrically.
“I have no control over my colleague here,” I said with a resignation that I didn’t need to fake, “so perhaps it might be best if you keep to your story.”
He looked sulky, glancing between me and Fry as he started to suspect that I was not the angel of mercy that I seemed. I smiled in a tired way and handed him an unlit cigarette. He played with it but I didn’t offer him a light. Eventually he understood that I wouldn’t light it for him until I heard a bit more of his story. He coughed wetly.
“But I was contacted again, another horrendous proposition.”
“The Communist Party?”
“The Cheka. They found me. It’s every exile’s secret fear, a threat that underlines all our days. Their agents here in Paris saw me at balls, saw me with nobles, and saw an opportunity.”
“Who? Which agent?”
“I only met my handler, Smirnov.” He snorted. “Smirnov! He had a Georgian accent, he was no ‘Smirnov.’ He’d be Smirnashvili or Smirnadze or whatever passes for Smirnov in that backwater.”
“Tell me about Smirnov.”
He shrugged and played with his cigarette until it drooped from the dirt and blood on his fingers.
“Not much to tell. Average height, average build, so a bit smaller than me on both counts. Georgian, but trying really hard to be Russian, to be Bolshevik. He always wore either brown or gray and looked like a factory worker—thick wool pants, wool waistcoat, neckerchief, flat cap, blazer. Black eyes and black hair. Oh yeah, he had a missing front tooth and the tops of these fingers,” he indicated the ring and pinky on his left hand, “were also missing. Clean-shaven, which he lamented.” Lazarev reached shakily down for some more water, spilling it on himself when Fry slammed his hand against the table once more.
“Come on! More details! Where did you meet him, when, how often—we haven’t got all day!”
Lazarev cringed and a shiver went through him. “Every fortnight. After the Communist Party meetings—which he als
o attended—we’d choose a bar in Pigalle, a different one every time, always dingy and full of drunks. Otherwise we’d meet in Belleville, where he had a room, in a different café or bistro each time. I would have to get changed into my ‘worker’s costume’ before I met him. Can you imagine this suit in Belleville?”
“I can now.” Fry sneered. Lazarev was still trembling. I lit his cigarette for him.
“He made you join the Party. What else?”
“I had to report on the activities of certain noblemen and women to Smirnov. This included reporting on Hausmann. In return, no payment, not even of expenses. They simply would not kill me or my family still in Russia—my brother and his wife, my nieces, my ancient mother. I haven’t seen any of them for years, obviously, but he showed me photos of my nieces going to school in their little uniforms, my sister-in-law waiting in a bread line, my mother haggling for tobacco.”
“And your brother?”
“No photo. They said he was working for the government in Novosibirsk. He’s a teacher; I have no idea what he should be doing there.” He dragged hard on his cigarette. All was still but for the dripping tap, the sound of the canal outside.
“So… you had to ingratiate yourself with noble families for both the Cheka and for Hausmann. You had to report on them for the Cheka and pretend to steal their belongings for Hausmann. Correct?”
Lazarev nodded. “Hausmann’s threat was nothing compared to the Cheka’s, but if he exposed me, I would no longer be useful to the Cheka and they would kill my family. So, I had to pretend to be useful to Hausmann, and to pretend to deal in art, to go to balls one night and meetings in Pigalle the next. I’m a good salesman, but these lies were a tough sell, even for me.”
“But someone found you out.”
“No one found me out! Except you.” He glanced angrily at Fry. “Hausmann changed his mind about stealing artwork when he realized that he could just charm the princes into giving him money. Felix Felixovitch has handed over more than one check. I know; Hausmann showed me when he boasted. He’s trying to bring all those Romanovs into the movement too. Hausmann made me go to a meeting of his Brownshirts, his Fascists—all bloody Germans, all noblemen, all old soldiers.” He spat on the floor again, cleaning his mouth of bloody mucus.
“You loved it,” said Fry.
“No.” Lazarev scowled. “I hated it. Almost as much as the Communists, both of them so… blind to who people really are. The Fascists talked about restoring monarchy, restoring order, bringing Europe back to civilization, reducing the rabble…”
“The opposite of the Communist Party meetings.” I smiled. Lazarev looked pathetically grateful.
“There were some Germans there, princes or dukes or some such, speaking to Hausmann in English and wearing their brown shirts. They—well, him, really—he gave the best speech. Hausmann introduced him as Carl Eduard, or Charlie Coburg.”
This made Fry sit up with a scrape of his chair. Lazarev looked at him, scared, and Fry stood up and walked slowly toward him. Lazarev shrank into his seat.
“What did Charlie Coburg say?” Fry’s voice was like a rusty knife.
“He said…” Lazarev gulped and tried to pull his voice down from its fearful pitch. “He said they were on the cusp of achieving true power. He said that they were to prepare for a big event, a meeting, soon.”
“Where?” Fry took a step closer.
“In Rome.” Lazarev didn’t try to control his voice now. “A big march with the Italian Fascists in their black shirts. It’s supposed to show the world that Bolshevism has a new and powerful enemy.”
“When is the march?”
“I don’t know—”
“Find out.”
“I can’t!” Lazarev wailed. “Someone will have seen me talk to you! They’re going to kill me! You have to get me out of Paris! I’ve done everything you asked!” His squeaky voice was surely irritating, but Fry didn’t need to stop it with a slap, certainly not one that brought blood to Lazarev’s lip. Lazarev cowered against the chair.
“When did you find out about the meeting?” I asked.
“You said you’d help me.” Lazarev’s face had become slack with fear. I pushed away my growing repugnance for this game so I could finish the interrogation.
“Tell me more about Charlie Coburg. Tell me why you saw Felix yesterday.”
“I tried to find out more about Charlie Coburg but I couldn’t because Felix wouldn’t see me and Hausmann wouldn’t see me.” Lazarev’s voice wheedled. “I found out about the meeting last week. I told Smirnov all this yesterday… You have to help me. I’m not useful to Hausmann anymore, and my family in Russia…”
“We will, of course,” I hoped. “But you might need some more regular meetings with my colleague here to inform him of your dealings with Smirnov and Hausmann.”
“But…” He glanced at Fry and leaned forward to me. “We should work together, you and me. I’ve seen you with Feodor Alexandrovich, I’ve seen you with all those artists, you could be an art buyer, a would-be princess with taste and discernment, you’re a much better cover. Please. Please!” His voice rose in pitch as Fry dragged him away. I stood and tried to look sympathetic, but I was furious at Fry for being so heavy-handed. A man, who had silently and disconcertingly appeared in the doorway, stepped forward and put handcuffs back on Lazarev. He had some other kind of fabric in his hand, but then Lazarev was around the other side of the wall, his voice was muffled, and I couldn’t see what was happening. Fry watched from the doorway, then came over to the bucket by Lazarev’s chair to rinse his hands.
“Well, that got us some useful information. Very well played too, Miss Button. I enjoyed our nice-guy, tough-guy routine.”
“I know you bloody well did,” I said and he had the gall the grin. “I thought it was vile. What the hell did you treat him like that for?”
“These kind of men…” He waved his hand dismissively.
“These kind of men respond very well to charm, as I have shown. He was dying to talk. I could have done it all without a drop spilt, without all this ridiculous subterfuge.”
“You do realize that you’re a spy, don’t you? Subterfuge should be second nature.”
“After the war, the only second nature I want is an increased tolerance for whisky. And who was that other bloke, the shadow at the doorway?”
“A friend.”
“Oh, you can’t tell me? You rough up Lazarev in front of me, you expect me to do the same, and you won’t tell me who I’m working with? Is this directive from Fox or is this your own little bit of manipulation?”
“Settle, petal…”
“Give me Fox’s contact number here.”
“I don’t have it.”
“That is enough!” I was yelling now, the sound vibrating through the empty warehouse. Fry stood up, surprised, but I was in full flight. “I don’t even take this kind of treatment from Fox, and next to him, you are nothing. Give me his number.”
Fry blinked a couple of times. “Look, we have to…”
“Now!”
Fry exhaled, puffing out his cheeks, raising his eyebrows, trying to make comic his real discomfort. “He stays with the ambassador. I send word to him via the embassy. I ask him to meet me at Angelina’s for tea and then he returns my call from a private line.”
“Thank you.” He could hear that I meant I hate you and winced slightly. “I’ll be in touch.”
He called after me, some excuse or other, but I answered only with the ring of my footfalls as I marched out of the warehouse.
36
“who cares?”
“Fox.” His voice was steel once again. This was clearly his work voice; it seemed he kept his quicksilver just for me.
“I think we should meet at Angelina’s for tea, don’t you? It’s been such a long time.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath; could it really be that I had made him gasp?
“Vixen.”
“As you hear. Art thou pale for weariness
, wandering companionless, like a joyless eye that finds no object for its constancy?”
There was a long pause.
“Was Fry supposed to keep the code secret? You must know I’m a little more resourceful than that, my Ozymandias.”
“Yours, am I?” His voice held a slight croak.
“My stone in the desert, my trunkless legs? Sure, why not.”
“Why not…” I could hear him light up. “Where are you?”
“Saint Germain 7562.”
He hung up without a word. I had never before seen a street-side call box, a thing so novel I made the taxi driver drop me off beside it. It was the perfect place to call from, as Fox could only call me back at my command. Which, seeing as I could only just command my voice not to be furious, was probably just as well.
“Button.” I answered as coldly as my hot fury would allow.
“Vixen.”
“You know, a male fox is called a dog? Somehow I don’t think I should start calling you Dog. It doesn’t seem right.” There was a long pause where I heard him exhale; for some reason, I expected him to bark.
“Most agents call me ‘Sir’. Enjoy your privilege.”
“Privilege or bondage?”
“You don’t like my missives?”
“Some privacy would be better.”
“Think of them as in lieu of reports.”
“I’m happy to report, Fox. It’s your subversive missions behind enemy lines that make me wonder if I’ll lose consciousness, status, and my name.”
Silence. Now he knew that I knew that he had sent Tom off on the mission that had cost him his reputation.
“Do you take pictures of me too, Fox? Will I find some compromising photographs in my letter box that seem to say that I too am a threat to England? Will you send them to me with some Romantic poetry on the back? ‘Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive…’ ”
