by Ian Loome
'There are worse fates,' Giraud said. 'Look, Anton, I believe you deserve to know, as you have been a true intellectual adversary and confidante: I am leaving Paris as soon as possible. The black market is not what it used to be, and the authorities' good graces appear to have been exhausted, with respect to my activities.'
Levesque sniffed. 'So: you'll rabbit, then. Run off to the south, maybe? No... if the Germans are looking for you it will have to be overseas or Switzerland. That will cost a lot of money.'
'Everything I have and some beyond,' Giraud replied. 'I plan to ask Isabelle Gaspard to run away with me, Anton. They will execute her if they find her; they believe she is a key communist sympathizer and that she murdered a German soldier.'
Levesque shook his head in small, quick motions. 'She will never go with you, Giraud. Outside of the fact that the two of you barely know each other, she is committed. She would rather die...'
'Really? Have you asked her? Because I recall you saying that you would get the word to her for me, if you could. So would she really rather die, or have you not actually talked to her about the matter? For all the political bluster that they often spew, most people whom I have met in this lifetime would really much, much rather live than just about anything else. I am many things, Anton, but I truly do not believe that I am a fate worse than death.'
'We are each our own person. That is something I never hear from you in this discussion, Giraud. I never hear you acknowledge the one fact that we both know is absolutely true: that she is her own person. And none of this is up to either of us. Until you speak with her about the matter...'
'And I shall. I am persistent and the clock is ticking, my friend. Soon, I shall get some word back that...
'She was here yesterday,' said a young voice. Pascal had approached quietly, from the cafe side, and Giraud had been deep in conversation. He turned quickly.
'What?'
'She was here late yesterday I think to get her last pay. But they didn't have it for her, so she is expecting to come back tomorrow to get it. 'The boy took a packet of Gauloises from his top pocket and matter-of-factly lit one. 'I listened by the fence again, like you asked. We have not talked in a while...'
'Of course,' Giraud said, reaching for his wallet. It was empty. 'Damn. Anton, do you have fifty francs for the boy...'
Levesque peered at him. 'No, I most certainly do not. Don't encourage the poor child to eavesdrop!'
'In this city at this time, it is a useful skill...'
'The war will end someday but what he learns will stay with him,' Levesque hissed. He looked at the boy. 'It is not good to eavesdrop, boy. The only exception is when it is a matter of life-and-death...'
'Ah, so a moral out-clause for communist spies, then,' Giraud chided. 'I knew somehow it would be evil if I commissioned the boy's inquiry, but pure humanism if it was for greater collective purpose. That's not hypocritical at all.'
'Your sarcasm only muddies the waters for the child and confuses the issue...'
Pascal frowned at that, unhappy with being labelled for his age. 'She mentioned you, monsieur.'
Giraud's eyes widened. 'She... mentioned me? Are you sure?'
The boy nodded emphatically. 'She told the older woman, the one who sits at the back, that she despaired of you ever bothering to actually speak with her, and she must leave Paris. She said that once she has her pay, she will try to escape to the south, where she has family. I think she said near Carcassonne...'
'You see, Giraud?' Levesque said. 'You sat on your hands and missed your opportunity.'
Pascal continued, 'She said she smiled at you several times and greeted you once and was certain that she was the reason you came back here for so many days. She felt you had a connection. But you never said anything to her...'
Giraud turned back to Levesque. 'Anton, I must find her! If she attempts to take the routes south, they will stop her. They have checkpoints, country and woodland patrols, watch towers... She will not make it that way.'
'Then what?' Levesque said. 'It is one thing for a French policeman to get approval for a flight. You can find a convenient excuse, something they will believe about returning after visiting someone. But as you said she is wanted by both police and the Germans. You would need the right documents, and the Germans don't like to hand them out.'
'I can make it happen, I believe,' Giraud said. 'I can get enough money together to purchase two plane tickets, and to bribe two transit passes out of one of my contacts.'
'Well... good luck to you, Giraud. It is a plan, at least, and you appear to have some hope in the matter.' Levesque rose. 'Now, I must be off. I have an editorial to write, and my wife hates the clacking of the typewriter keys, which shall make it that much more enjoyable.'
Pascal appeared puzzled. 'I don't understand...'
'One day, you will be married my boy, and you will drive your wife to distraction, and she you. And then it will all become clear.'
And with that, he turned and made his way down the street.
Giraud was smiling and putting on a brave face, but it would not be easy. Gunther Obst would not be bought cheaply, but unlike the officer, Wulff, he most definitely could be bought. Of that, Giraud was certain.
But it was unlikely that he had enough to pay for passes and flights for both of them. He would have to dip into the Nazi seizure fund, and that would be flagged quickly. Once he took the money to pay their way, they would have just a few hours to get out of France. It was too tight a window for any certainty of success, and he frowned, knowing that it was his sole option.
'And what is Giraud looking so glum about today, exactly?'
It was the banker, Hubert Rousseau.
Giraud had a flash of inspiration.
43...
Rousseau was worried, at least momentarily.
'Giraud, what's going on?'
'Going on?'
'Your entire visage just went from one of defeat and fatigue to what appeared to be elation at my presence.'
'You reminded me of something.' Giraud gestured to the bench. 'Sit for a minute, join me.'
'I... don't have a lot of time today, Damien. I was just stopping by to see if the two of you were here while on my way...'
Giraud interrupted him. 'Please, Hubert, sit. I have a business proposition for you, one that might be extremely lucrative.'
His suspicion turned to curiosity. 'Fine. You know I have a sweet spot for making money.' Rousseau took the spot Levesque had recently vacated. 'Still, I'm quite uninterested in anything illegal, so if that's what you're thinking...'
'Not an issue,' Giraud said. 'I have in my possession a bank draft drawn on your bank, on behalf of a wealthy-but-shy friend. She unfortunately cannot make it into the city to take care of this herself and has asked me to find a way to have the draft cashed out and delivered to her. Now, of course, you would normally require her to sign for this and identify herself, because it is an extremely large amount of money...'
He let the words hang there for a moment. '... however, in this case, she felt you would entrust the pickup and delivery of the funds to an honorable member of law enforcement, such as myself, in exchange for a healthy finder's fee of say... ten percent of the total.'
'That is a very... odd arrangement, Damien, I must say, and perhaps not quite passing the smell test from the perspective of a financial institution. How much would ten percent amount to, exactly? Given the bank's... exposure in such a matter, it would have to be a worthy business arrangement.'
It was then that Giraud knew he had him. 'Ten thousand American dollars.'
The banker's eyebrows fairly shot skyward. 'How much?' He looked around quickly to see if anyone was within earshot, suddenly acutely sensitive to the magnitude. 'Did I hear that right?' he whispered. 'Did you say ten thousand? Dollars?'
'I did.'
'So you have a bank draft for a hundred thousand dollars in your pocket? Right now?'
'I do.'
'My God.'
'Indeed.'
Rousseau's eyes narrowed, his sense of security kicking in. 'And what name is this draft made out to?'
'Isabelle Gaspard.'
'That... is the same name as the waitress for whom you and the Germans have been searching, is it not?' The banker appeared leery, as if calculating his next best option.
'I'm sure there are many Isabelle Gaspards in France, Hubert,' Giraud said, once again careful to personalize the matter with the banker's first name. 'The CNEP cannot be responsible for checking every single name that goes through its accounts daily. It would shut the place down, surely.'
'That... may be plausibly true, yes. But the way I see this, Giraud, you need me in this matter, or you would have gone to the bank yourself and deposited it.'
'I still could. I could deposit it into the seizures fund and get at least some of it.'
Rousseau shook his head. 'No, anything involving a large sum from the Germans' assets would be flagged immediately, and you would know that. You would have to explain such a sum, where you got it from, why you didn't immediately report it; so you need someone on the inside; you need me. The question, then, from my perspective is this: how much of it are you willing to give up to get what you want?'
Damn. Giraud had counted on the illegality of the venture to dampen Rousseau's ambition. Instead, it had emboldened him. 'Ten percent is fair,' Giraud offered.
'I had a rather more unfair number in mind: fifty percent, plus five German transit letters.'
'That's outrageous.'
Rousseau looked unimpressed. 'Consider the circumstances before you lay judgement. I could ask for more. From the events of the last few days, I could surmise that you have reasons to get out of Paris quickly.'
'Twenty and no letters. And that's because you have so amiably defended me against Levesque's polemics over the last month. It's still outrageous.'
'Forty, and five German transit letters. The transit letters are essential, Giraud. Without them, I cannot get my family out of the country: my parents, my younger sister and my nephew. I do not want them here if matters escalate, as everyone expects.'
'Twenty-five and one letter. You can copy and reuse it...'
'No, I cannot. They are individually numbered so that the German High Command can keep track of important persons' movements. Thirty-five percent, and five letters. There is no point in my doing this deal with you, Giraud, if my family cannot get out of France with the money.'
'And what about you? You would remain here?'
Rousseau seemed impassive. 'By the time anyone realizes they are gone, I will have had time to move my own assets to Switzerland and escape via the south. Unfortunately, I will have to space out the transfers and disguise them to avoid suspicion, and there is a risk of being caught. But it should take no more than a week. In the meantime, I can secure plane tickets for my family with my portion of the money. So what do you say? Thirty-five percent, and five letters of transit.'
The letters would be expensive, perhaps three hundred marks each, and Obst would be loath to provide so many -- he'd need seven, to account for himself and for Isabelle. But it was a drop in the bucket compared to sixty-five thousand dollars.
Or...
'Twenty-five and the letters, and we have an agreement.'
'Done.' Rousseau offered a hand and they shook on it. 'Now our fates are tied, Giraud, and damn all the rest. Let's hope that by this time next week, we are both somewhere nice, with our bank accounts fat and this war behind us.'
44...
For all of his good fortune in having a banker for a colleague, Giraud still had to convince Isabelle to go with him, when the truth was that she hardly knew him.
He also needed to appeal to Gunther Obst's corrupt side, a markedly easier task and the first to handle -- although Obst insisted on adding some challenge to the matter by at first rejecting the notion altogether. He sat in his typing chair behind his functional office desk at headquarters, in the Seventh Arrondissement, and leaned on one elbow whilst simultaneously twisting the chair to and fro.
'Seven? You want me to turn myself in to Obergruppenfuhrer Best at the same time, save him the cost of an investigation? You don't ask for much, Giraud, do you? I can do two, maybe three...'
'The number isn't flexible, Gunther, but I'm sure we can deal with that via increased compensation.' Right to the point; Gunther liked it when he played it straight.
'This will take time.'
'Something my clients lack. I need them right away. And a blank German passport.'
The German sagged a little at that. 'You're really going out of your way to make this easier, you know that?'
'Circumstances, my friend.'
'The passport is easy, as I have a friend in the department. But the passes...' he rubbed his chin. 'How soon?'
'As soon as you can, but no later than tomorrow. How much will this cost me?'
'For that type of timeline? Four thousand marks.'
'Four thou...' That was eighty thousand francs, his entire remaining personal balance. If the situation ran astray and Rousseau was caught, he would not have enough left for his own plane ticket, let alone Isabelle or Rousseau's family. 'Come on, Gunther; it's not like we don't have a history...'
'And that's all we'll have, judging by the number of passes you need. You're either leaving, or you're spending a fortune to help someone else leave, which means they probably shouldn't.'
'It's complicated. But five hundred each...'
'...Would leave you five hundred marks short. The passport blank, remember?'
Perhaps there was a way to make the whole thing a little less laden with uncertainty, Giraud postured. Perhaps Obst would grant him one indulgence...'Will you take my marker until next week? I have a big shipment coming in on the weekend and I need my full scope of resources...'
'And I need you to pay me upfront. You don't think the high command just gives these away, do you?'
'I know they're not costing you anything like what you're charging me. I'll give you half upfront, half next week when my delivery's done.'
Obst eyed him suspiciously. 'You fuck me over on this, Giraud, and I'll find you. Long before you get out of Paris, I'll find you.'
'Fine, of course, Gunther. Of course. When?'
'Come back here in two hours with the first two thousand.'
45...
The banker was waiting in the park at three o'clock, as he'd promised. 'I have a chance at the last five seats on the five o'clock from Lisbon to Buenos Aires if we can hurry this up,' he said as Giraud sat down. 'You have the documents.'
'I do not.'
The banker's head lolled back. 'Giraud... my God, what are you getting us into? I still have to go to the bank and withdraw the money!'
'Some calm, Rousseau! The arrangements are made. It's costing me a fortune, I hope you realize that.'
'It's also making us a fortune that I imagine is many times greater, and getting us out of here. If I were you, I would see if there is a sixth seat on that flight...'
'I have already inquired about leaving. But it's two seats, on the seven-ten to Lisbon and New York.'
Rousseau looked excited for him. 'She agreed?'
Giraud shook his head. 'I still have not seen her.'
'But... she is right there, for God's sake!' Rousseau gestured over the policeman's shoulder. Giraud turned. On the cafe patio, Isabelle hugged the old man. She had a white dress on with a black pinafore, and to Giraud looked positively entrancing.
He was frozen, entranced. Rousseau slapped him gently on the thigh with the back of his hand. 'Go on then, you fool, go! Talk to her!'
Giraud felt a lump in his throat, his breath shallow, his chest tightening. His legs fairly wobbled from nerves as he rose and found himself walking across the road.
She turned and began to talk to the older woman. They hugged and laughed about something. The piano player saw him crossing and watched him suspiciously. Giraud opened the small gate on the right side of the pie-shap
ed fence and approached sheepishly. 'Excuse me... mademoiselle?'
The waitress turned towards him and her head tilted slightly as she realized it was the man from the park. She smiled serenely and there was warmth in her eyes, a sparkle he had not noticed before then. 'Monsieur Giraud, is it not? My friends mentioned how foolish they felt yesterday when I arrived back here to learn they had accused you of my hideous murder.'
He chewed the corner of his lip anxiously for a mere moment. 'I... I must say, Mademoiselle Gaspard that I have wished to speak with you for some time now. Perhaps they mistook my somewhat shy attentions for ill-will.'
She seemed a little surprised by that. 'And I make you shy, monsieur? You are a policeman...'
'And you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.' The words came out without prompting, and Giraud caught even himself by surprise.
Her hands came up to her mouth as she blushed furiously and chuckled slightly. 'Monsieur... I am embarrassed.'
'You should not be. Mademoiselle...'
'Please... call me Isabelle.'
'Mademoiselle Isabelle.'
'Just Isabelle.'
'Of course.' Giraud was chagrined and flustered by his ineptitude with her. 'Isabelle... I do not wish to interrupt your reminiscing with your friends, but there are matters of great urgency that must be discussed.'
They sat at the first table, closest to the street, and he told her of everything he had seen and heard in the prior month about her resistance cell, omitting nothing save for his strangulation of the German, which he felt might horrify her, and the bank draft, which he feared she would demand be returned to her colleagues. When he was finished, her serene visage had turned to one of pure concern.
'I must get out of Paris right away,' she said. 'I knew they were looking for me, monsieur, because of the raid...but this, this is far more than political questions. I must get to the south; I have important work, you see...'