One moment, just a moment, of surrender to the music and her eyes began smarting. From the cigarette smoke? No. The lyrics. All about separation and heartbreak.
Three short weeks for this assignment, and here she was, five days after landing in France, two days after renting a room in Drancy—but no contact with Armand. She took a deep breath and focused on the shiny trouser knees of the clarinetist, the grey of the drummer’s pre-war white shirt, the threadbare droop of the saxophonist’s bow tie.
Fair hair stood out even in the gloom—German bureaucrats towering a head taller than the average Frenchmen. Earlier she had noticed only the Germans in uniform.
Look out for taller men. Be more observant, more aware!
Something else—
The musicians were all Europeans. In every jazz club she and Armand frequented before the war, she could not recall one such as this, where the band had not a single Negro musician. Most Negroes had probably fled France, and those who stayed must have been interned. Bien sûr! Many were American citizens, like Mother.
The singer circled back to the chorus, the song faded. Lights brightened in their sconces.
Noor approached the bar. Émile Garry—Phono—stood beside a glass of absinthe, nonchalant, acting as if he came here every Sunday evening and had no appointment with anyone called Anne-Marie.
“Un café noir,” said Noor.
The barman pointed to a sign: twenty-eight francs. An astronomical sum. “It’s a dry day tomorrow, but not today,” he suggested, meaning there were alternatives to black coffee.
At such prices her money wouldn’t last three weeks. For a moment Noor reconsidered. But an aperitif would be more expensive. She repeated her request.
Émile’s coat sleeve brushed her upper arm. The reassuring tightness of his biceps. Phono—just a name recited by Miss Atkins six days ago in London, now a friend pretending to meet her by chance.
Could she see the door from here? Escape if necessary? The escape route: through that kitchen door, into the courtyard behind and over the wall, Émile had said.
She spread her dress-skirt wide as she took her seat, to discourage anyone from sitting too close. No mistakes. Of any kind. A single mistake might bring arrest not just for herself but for her contacts. There should be a list of all the mistakes a secret agent shouldn’t make.
Darkness spread across the club again. An instrumental stretch unfolded in accord with itself, notes improvising their way out of the spotlight to an unknown destination.
Abbajaan improvised on the veena for hours when she and Kabir were small. Music was his métier, his true vocation, but Indian instruments and music proved incomprehensible to Western audiences. Mother had urged him to simplify the music. Who could blame her for that? But eventually Abbajaan had refused. Making his music any simpler for Western ears, he said, degraded the devotion to Allah that underlay each note. By the time she was nine and learning the veena from him, Abbajaan could talk for hours about that devotion—people paid to hear him speak—but refused to play in public any more, and bitterly resented the loss of his art.
Instruments were incidental to Abbajaan and Armand; how they sounded was everything. If Abbajaan had been alive, he would have welcomed Armand, whatever his heritage, improvised with him, allowed his presence to enrich their family.
“May I join you, mademoiselle?”
Noor shrugged assent, as if Émile were a total stranger. Émile pulled a chair close enough to whisper in her ear without leaning, then almost deafened her by shouting.
“Viennot, mon ami! I haven’t seen you in months!”
“Or at least since last week,” said a wry voice behind Noor.
A pair of bushy black eyebrows, a mop of dark, curly hair and a half-sniggering grin installed themselves beside Noor.
“Please, do not insult the patron’s intelligence, Émile. And remember”—Viennot lowered his voice—“there are enough Gestapo here who know me quite well.”
Émile seemed about to retort when a German officer in a black uniform entered. Silence swept across the table, in fact across the room. Noor narrowed her eyes. SS. Death’s head on his cap. Sicherheitsdienst, or the SD—police officer of the SS. He joined a suet-faced German bureaucrat wearing round spectacles. People went back to their conversations.
Viennot seemed not yet thirty, an age where either employment or wits kept him from being sent to work in Germany. Instead, here he was, lolling back in his chair, moving one foot in time to the music, the ribboned tassel of a red beret bordered in checkered black and white dropping almost to his back. The ends of a long brown silk scarf knotted themselves like hands above the collar of his burnt sienna coat, a black onyx brooch winking at his throat as if holding the whole ensemble together.
“You ask me to come, I come,” said Viennot. He sounded like a venturer down all avenues. “Mademoiselle―?” An eyebrow lifted in her direction.
“Anne-Marie Régnier,” said Émile.
Viennot’s remark about the Gestapo wasn’t reassuring. Noor forced a smile.
“Jacques Viennot.”
Viennot stared deeply into Noor’s eyes, then fixed his gaze upon her lips, lingered at her neck, stayed a few seconds too long on her breasts. He seemed to think his admiration was a compliment; plainly he thought that about every woman. A little hijab would offer some protection against his barely repressed fantasies. Noor let her hair fall forward, obscuring her face.
Viennot ordered a Pernod, remarking that this was one of the few places you could still get one, and didn’t count his change when the waiter returned with the green concoction.
“Mademoiselle is newly arrived,” whispered Émile. “Code name: Madeleine.”
This information elicited Viennot’s undivided attention, though his foot never lost a beat and his eyes roved, watching other club patrons.
“Bienvenue, mademoiselle,” he said. “Émile, I congratulate you—another war tourist to educate, shelter, shepherd around, hmm? Another prudish Englishwoman to protect till Mr. Churchill decides we’ve been punished enough by Herr Hitler.”
Émile gave his good-natured smile. “He is not serious, Anne-Marie.”
“Frenchmen should do the job of Frenchmen,” said Viennot. “Placing women in dangerous situations … it offends my chivalry.”
“Monsieur Viennot,” said Noor, “hundreds—maybe thousands—of French women are in very dangerous situations. All of us, men and women, are in dangerous situations at every moment.”
Viennot looked surprised, then nodded grudgingly.
He’s unaccustomed to the idea that women can take action.
Émile said to Noor, “Viennot requires a pianiste. from time to time. He’s well connected, often has advance information that can be very useful to our friends in The Firm. Odile or Monsieur Hoogstraten will convey his messages to you, but you should recognize him by sight.”
Noor had no doubt she could recognize Monsieur Viennot by sight, about a mile away.
“Voilà, now you know your partners,” whispered Émile. “Monsieur Hoogstraten, our chief, Professor Balachowsky, Gilbert, me and Viennot. Prosper, of course.” He leaned back in his chair, tipped his glass as if sipping and spoke to Viennot from the side of his mouth. “Archambault will leave as soon as Anne-Marie’s transmitters arrive.”
Viennot’s eyebrows met. “Is he marked in some way? Identifiable to them?” He half turned in his seat and looked away from Émile as if surveying the room.
“Archambault needs training on new equipment.”
“I see. Have we experienced any new outbreaks of sickness?”
“Yes, we had more people taken ill this morning, near Dhuizon.”
“Taken ill”—code for arrests.
Viennot took a larger sip, almost a gulp. “How did our friends on the avenue Foch find out?” He meant the Gestapo, appropriators of several mansions on that long leafy boulevard.
“I really don’t know. Archambault swears we have a double agent. When Prospe
r came in last week, he requested Marc, the officer he has worked with ever since he first arrived—a true patriot, above suspicion. Yet they were waiting at a road block. They dragged two good men out of their truck and beat them unconscious.”
“Did they find the supplies?”
“All nine containers, under the straw in the back. And worse: a courier was arrested on his way home after disposing of a load, and they let him go after questioning. You know why? They said they were looking for someone arriving from London. How did they know? Of course, right now, they could arrest every person travelling at night on the roads around Paris and down the Loire valley, and every man would be a member of some resistance group or a Maquis. Viennot, so many supplies—every day we ask more people to take more terrible risks. London wants us armed for a ground invasion, and it’s our only hope—but it must happen soon.”
“Émile, tais-toi! The Germans don’t have to go down the Loire—someone will overhear you and arrest you right here.”
Émile gave a sardonic laugh. “Here? Moi? I can say anything today—it’s not a dry day. To them I am a stupid, drunken, lying, lazy Frenchman—all of us are. And these Germans are sellers, friends of yours, from whom you buy information every day.”
Viennot made no answer, but cloaked himself in the smoke and scent of a Gauloise. He looked unabashed.
Across the room, an argument had escalated to a sharp slap and tears. A woman staggered into the night, shrieking maledictions. Unconcerned, an artist a few tables away carefully arranged the angle of his model’s head and continued sketching her profile in charcoal.
“Did you have enough blasting caps last night?” whispered Noor. She had had no chance to ask Émile before now.
“Oui, oui—and we managed to find more. The German side of the hospital near the junction was very busy this morning,” Émile whispered in a tone of cherubic glee. “I will give you a message to send as soon as I know how many Boche wounded, how many dead.” He broke off. “Voilà!”
Monsieur Hoogstraten, Prosper, Archambault and Gilbert were doffing their hats and making their way past the white jackets and the soloist. Prosper and Gilbert absorbed the pulse of vibrating bass strings, but Archambault’s deliberate gait remained unaffected by the deep booming beat. Monsieur Hoogstraten’s military gait and silver-touched pate stood out in the room; most of the men were half his age. Chair legs scraped terrazzo as the men sat down at the next table. A bottle of wine made its precarious way from the bar.
Émile’s furtive demeanour turned festive; his job of introducing Noor to her fellow agents was done. Now Noor had to look just like any other Parisian enjoying jazz.
Glasses clinked as signature to unwritten promises, in the press and hubbub of ongoing commerce. The musicians bowed to applause and left the spotlight briefly to a flamenco guitarist, whose minor chords and depressive lyrics of unhealed wounds matched his refugee eyes.
When they returned, they resumed without fanfare or drums. A slow piece that alternated between wordless resignation and sporadic creative buildup. Whispered cues caused new instruments to appear and change hands. A tenor saxophone launched an accelerando, the piano a glissando. The bass player’s fingers danced an arpeggio. It was a gathering of effort that verged on the heroic. Clarinets and drums entered the fray now, heralding a vertiginous crescendo. Soon the walls of the small club vibrated with compressed expectation. Nothing intervened to offer release.
Just as Noor’s temples began to pound with the tension, each instrument, every player, every note went silent. Mid-bar, mid-phrase, mid-note, suddenly there was silence, a jolting, brutal silence that dispelled the revelry with a final, shocking break, with not an isolated chord to cushion the end.
Just silence.
Clap, clap.
Clap.
Monsieur Hoogstraten had taken the sudden silence for successful conclusion. Younger French patrons accustomed to more satisfying musical dénouements followed his lead hesitantly, and Noor joined in.
The band must have been making an artistic gesture of valiant defiance.
German officers, unaware of the subtle symbolism, looked up from their champagne glasses and banged their fists on the tables in appreciation.
No Mad Hatter’s tea party was ever so strange.
The Jazz club was becoming more crowded. Viennot and Gilbert departed in the direction of beckoning eyes. Prosper patted a vacant seat beside him, so Noor moved one seat over. Monsieur Hoogstraten made his way to the lavatory, and Émile to the bar for more absinthe. Archambault offered cigarettes to Prosper, then Noor. Noor declined; she only smoked occasionally, in surreptitious protest against Uncle’s restrictions.
Prosper flicked his lighter. A tremor stirred the flame. Noor hadn’t thought Prosper’s hand could be unsteady.
“That’s what will happen.”
Was he speaking to Archambault or to her?
“Silence, just like that. For all fifteen hundred brave French soldiers in my network. Tell the Colonel. As soon as you arrive, say: there is a traitor in The Firm.” He was speaking to Archambault.
“I say the traitor is right here,” said Archambault.
Noor looked away but strained to listen; Prosper was now whispering.
“I know what you think. But we have no proof. All Gilbert’s operations have been successful. Every case of illness has been elsewhere. I tell you, this network cannot survive three more months.” Prosper leaned back. He glanced at Noor, excused himself and now included her fully in the conversation. “I moved today.”
“Will you tell me where?” asked Archambault.
“The Hôtel Mazagran in St-Denis, room fifteen,” he whispered.
“Back among your old friends the Communists.” Archambault made it sound like a nasty flaw in an otherwise rational person.
“They are workers willing to unite against Hitler and the Germans, that’s all.”
Archambault backpedalled. “I meant it’s a far cry from the comfort of the Seizième, n’est-ce pas?”
“It’s bloody uncomfortable, but I think still safe.”
“Who else knows?”
“Mademoiselle Anne-Marie needs to know,” said Prosper with a slight nod in her direction, “because she must know where to reach me. And Gilbert. No one else.”
“Why Gilbert?”
“Because if I have to leave suddenly, he will have to arrange a flight.” Turning slightly to Noor, he said, “Mademoiselle, have you rented the new premises yet?”
“Only one. In Drancy.”
“Bien. I will be gone for a few days. Use Grignon until your sets arrive, then leave a set at each safe house and move between them for transmissions.” And to Archambault, “You heard what happened this morning at Dhuizon?”
“Yes. I sent a message addressed to Monsieur N. immediately.”
“Sometimes I think everyone is oblivious to the dangers. We must be more careful, for the sake of all! I was with Monsieur Hoogstraten and Professor Balachowsky at Grignon today when I heard the news. I felt terrible, terrible. The Boche seem to know all our plans in advance. What is to be done?”
Archambault gave a noncommittal grunt and sipped his wine.
Order him to transmit a message, blow up a train or meet a plane and he can do it, but advising Prosper is beyond him.
Prosper looked so wretched, Noor’s heart went out to him. But what comfort or assistance could she offer? She was too new to her cell.
Viennot, Gilbert and Monsieur Hoogstraten squeezed their way back through the crowd and sat down beside Prosper. Émile returned from the bar.
Time for a little gypsy guitar music or something like “Je Suis Swing,” from the Drôle de Guerre days of 1939. But—remember the Germans!—swing was outlawed. The band launched a slow foxtrot, prompting a Wehrmacht officer to lead a French woman in a georgette dress of Prussian blue to the dance floor. The spotlight illuminated his uniform, never box-stepping more than a few inches off dead centre, stiff as a robot from the ‘37 World Ex
hibition. If this were London, Zaib and others would be on the dance floor doing the jitterbug.
Under cover of the music, Prosper, composure regained, launched into more orders, more plans. “Gilbert, bring the Canadians to Paris tomorrow morning. Meet me at the entrance to the Gare d’Austerlitz.”
“Canadians?” said Viennot.
“Yes, two Canadians. Don’t worry, they speak fluent French.”
Viennot’s eyes rolled, Noor smothered a smile. She fell silent with everyone else till the waiter refilled their glasses and departed.
“No sleep tonight—the Canadians are coming,” grumbled Gilbert. “Then no sleep the following night either, because I must meet the plane at Rosny.”
Archambault glared. “Sleep all day, then, but be there.”
“Are we ready for Rosny?” asked Prosper.
Attention intensified around the table, though to any curious German it would seem there was no change in physical attitudes and everyone at the table was listening to the music.
Émile reported, “Professor Balachowsky has spoken to his students, I have obtained the petrol permit. Now I have to find the petrol. But have no doubt—I will.”
Lights dimmed and the jazz players began to improvise from the first three bars of the Marseillaise, the musical quote recognizable enough for the solace of French patrons but moving away from its source rapidly enough not to trigger German suspicions.
Gilbert’s arm sidled across the back of Noor’s chair. “You have letters?”
Noor opened her handbag below the table. She whispered, “Please make sure this is delivered, Gilbert, it is so very important to me.”
The lights blazed on and the jazz players retreated immediately from their dalliance with the Marseillaise to safer musical ground, “Lili Marlene.”
Gilbert skimmed the address silently—Kabir Khan, c/o The War Office, Whitehall, London—and gave her a knowing wink as he slid it into his pocket.
Noor wasn’t required to explain to Gilbert that Kabir Khan was not a lover or fiancé. Let Gilbert believe what he pleased. But that wink irked her. She looked at her watch. Half an hour to curfew; time to catch the last métro.
The Tiger Claw Page 19