by Glenn Meade
It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t safe, and every time Lebel saw Irena he feared their relationship would be exposed and, worse, stopped. But they would still take the risk and meet every time he was in Moscow.
And it would be their secret.
17
* * *
PARIS
FEBRUARY 3
The clouds hung gray and sullen over Paris that afternoon in early February, threatening rain all day, but in the luxury penthouse suite on the fifth floor of the Ritz Hotel, Henri Lebel’s mind was on anything but the weather.
The sight of the two young models who stood before him was tempting, too tempting almost. The curtains were drawn and the lights were on, three powerful xenon bulbs flooding the suite, and as the fashion photographer effected some last-minute adjustments, Lebel lit a cigar and smiled at the younger of the two models. “Very, very nice, Marie. Turn around now if you please.”
She cocked her head as she giggled back at a smiling Lebel. “What about the coat, Henri?”
Lebel pursed his lips and grinned. “In a minute, my sweet. Let me drink in this moment like good wine.”
Marie laughed as she stood with her hands on her hips.
Lebel thought: The girl is stunning, no question about it, and really ideal. “Très bien, Marie. And now Claire. Your turn. Nice and slowly.”
The second girl was fair-haired and nineteen. She gave Lebel a cheeky smile and turned to him. She was a beautiful creature nonetheless.
“Très bien, Claire.”
He stood and stubbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray on the coffee table. He turned to the photographer, an elegant middle-aged man in a sweater and slacks, with a cravat tied around his neck, and slapped him on the shoulder. “You did well, Patric. The girls have just the look I want for the New York catalog.”
“As always, a pleasure to work with you, Henri.”
Despite his busy schedule, Lebel always found time to supervise personally the catalog photo shoot for the coming winter collection, and the sumptuously decorated suite in the Ritz provided an ideal backdrop.
The photographer clapped his hands. “The sables first, girls. Let’s start with the best.”
The photographer had shot off a quick dozen frames with the girls in various poses, Lebel offering suggestions as he felt necessary, when there was a knock on the door. A tall, sharp-featured man with the dour face of an undertaker and dressed in a black suit entered the room. He barely glanced at the two beautiful models. Charles Torrance was English and, as Lebel’s butler and chauffeur, was discreet and had just the right air of gravitas. His honeyed voice spoke softly across the room in perfect French. “A visitor, sir.”
“Tell whoever it is to go away,” Lebel snorted. “Can’t you see I’m busy, Charles?”
“It’s Mr. Ridgeway, sir. He says he has an appointment.”
Lebel sighed. He had almost forgotten his secretary had phoned him about the appointment three days before. “Very well, tell Mr. Ridgeway I’ll see him in the study.” Lebel glanced back at the girls and photographer and smiled. “Champagne for everyone when they’re finished, Charles. And a little caviar would be nice. The Crimean red the Soviet ambassador sent.”
• • •
The penthouse suite Henri Lebel lived in on the fifth floor of the Ritz had one of the most pleasant views in Paris, overlooking the magnificent cobbled Place Vendôme. The suite had been occupied during the war by a senior Gestapo officer who had the luxury quarters expanded to a five-room apartment to impress his Parisian mistress. It was elegantly fitted out with period furniture and silk tapestries and had the distinct advantage of having three separate entrances and exits. Lebel’s registered offices and warehouses were in the suburb of Clichy, but he seldom if ever used them to conduct business. The suite in the Ritz was far more private.
As he stepped into the study that afternoon he saw Massey standing by the window, staring out at the pigeons swirling above the sodden Place Vendôme. The record player in the corner was on, Maria Callas in La Bohème playing softly in the background.
Lebel smiled as he crossed to the window, offering his hand. “Jake, good to see you.” He shook Massey’s hand before glancing back at the source of the music. “I see you took the liberty. She’s quite superb, Callas. Remind me if ever you want tickets when she’s playing in Paris. I have a friend at the opera.”
“Hello, Henri. I hope I didn’t disrupt your afternoon. Charles said you had company.”
Lebel took a cigar from a humidor on the lacquered table, lit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke. “So what brings you to Paris, Jake?”
Massey looked at the chubby Frenchman. His pencil-thin mustache was neatly clipped, and close up his face was covered in fine wrinkles, masked from a distance by a deep Riviera tan, the gold Rolex watch and diamond cuff links giving him an air of affluence.
“Just a brief visit to have a chat, Henri.”
Lebel nodded toward the record player. “Is that why you put the record on, just to be certain we can’t be overheard?” The Frenchman grinned. “Jake, you wouldn’t trust the Creator himself.”
“That’s how I’ve lived so long.”
Lebel’s eyes took in the room. “The suite is completely safe, believe me. No listening devices. I checked the rooms myself.” The record playing was unnecessary, but Lebel understood. He poured two Cognacs and handed one to Massey.
“So to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? It’s years since we last met. You never rang or wrote like you promised. You break my heart, Jake. If you were a woman I’d have given up on you long ago.”
Massey smiled. “So tell me, how is business?”
“One can’t complain. In fact, it’s very good. Since the war ended your rich Americans have no shortage of cash. They like the best money has to offer. And they particularly like my sables and ermine. I grossed five million francs from America alone last year. A quarter of my business.”
Massey’s eyebrows rose. “That’s good, Henri.”
“Wait until next year when they see my new catalog. It’s going to be even better.” Lebel smiled confidently and leaned forward and touched Massey’s knee. “But enough of business. Why are you in Paris?”
“You still see any of the boys from the resistance?”
“Once a year we meet and crack open a couple of bottles and remember the dead. You should come next time. They still remember you fondly. Killing Nazis was the highlight of their lives. Now they raise chickens or children and live boring lives. How could life ever be the same?”
Massey looked around the elegant room. “You don’t seem to be doing too badly. This place must be costing you plenty.”
Lebel smiled. “True. But it’s all down to luck and a twist of fate, mon ami. You know that.”
“Being in the resistance has been good to you, Henri.”
Lebel shrugged. “It had its price, but of course, I don’t deny it. They helped with my Moscow business contacts after the war.”
“That’s partly why I’m here. I need a favor, Henri.”
Lebel smiled. “Is it something highly dangerous or simply illegal?”
“Both. And it has to do with Moscow.”
A nervous look flickered on Lebel’s face, emphasizing his wrinkles. He became serious.
“Explain.”
Massey put down his glass. “A man named Max Simon and his daughter were murdered in Switzerland two months ago. Both of them were shot through the head. Moscow sanctioned the killings.”
Lebel put up a pudgy hand. “Jake, if it’s politics, you know I don’t get involved.”
“Hear me out. The man responsible is an East German killer named Borovik. Gregori Borovik. That’s not his real name. He uses a whole lot of aliases. He’s scum, Henri, and I want to find him.”
Lebel sighed and shook his head. “Jake, the contacts I have don’t talk about such things.”
“All I’m asking is that you make a few discreet inquiries. You know everyone in t
he Soviet Embassy in Paris. You’re personal friends with the ambassador.”
“It’s not a friendship that extends to discussing the nastier side of intelligence life.”
“Max Simon was a personal friend of mine. His daughter was only ten years old.”
Lebel’s face paled slightly before he shook his head firmly. “Jake, I’m sorry to hear that, but you’re wasting your time.”
Massey sighed and stood up. “Okay, let’s put that aside. Right now you’re the biggest dealer in Russian fur in Europe. Apart from diplomatic staff and a handful of Western businessmen in oil, tobacco, and diamonds, you’re one of the few people allowed to visit Moscow almost at will. And seeing as Moscow’s pretty much a closed city right now, I guess that makes you kind of special.”
Lebel nodded thoughtfully before sipping his Cognac. “That’s true. But to use an American expression, cut the bull, Jake. Get to the point.”
Massey smiled back, and his face didn’t flinch when he said, “I need you to take some people out of Moscow for me on one of your private freight trains.”
Lebel’s mouth opened, and before the cigar could fall from his mouth he pinched it hard between his thumb and forefinger and frowned in disbelief. “Let me get this right, Jake: You want me to smuggle people out of Russia?”
Massey nodded. “Three people, to be exact.”
Lebel laughed, a derisory snort. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m not asking you to do it for nothing. It’s a business arrangement, pure and simple. You’ll be well rewarded.”
“Correction, mon ami. It would be suicide, pure and simple. Besides, money I don’t need.” Lebel looked down at the square below. The rain had finally come, lashing the shiny cobbles, pigeons scattering to the rooftops. He looked back at Massey. “Jake, please understand. I’m a fur dealer, not a travel agent. I make a good life out of my trade with the Russians. You know what would happen if they found out I was smuggling people? I’d be making snowballs in some wretched camp in Siberia for the rest of my natural life.”
“Hear me out first, Henri.”
Lebel shook his head. “It’s pointless. Nobody could convince me to take such a risk.”
Massey stood. “I said hear me out. How many trainloads of furs do you take out of Russia each year?”
Lebel shrugged and sighed. “Four, maybe six in a good year. It depends on demand.”
“In sealed carriages?”
“Yes, in sealed carriages. Six carriages a train.”
“And you’re always there to accompany the goods?”
Lebel nodded. “Of course. With such a valuable cargo, I can’t take a risk. Even with Stalin in command there are bandits near the border with Finland. I lease a train privately from the Russians that travels from Moscow to Helsinki.”
“Do the Russians check you on both sides of the border, going in and coming out?”
Lebel smiled. “The border guards check all the carriages with sniffer dogs, Jake. Believe me, nothing goes in or out of that country without Moscow knowing about it.”
“You mean almost nothing.”
Massey took an envelope from his inside jacket. He handed it across to Lebel.
“If that’s money, Jake, I told you, forget it.”
“It’s not money. It’s a confidential report. I want you to read it, Henri.”
Lebel took the unsealed envelope and opened it. Inside was a single page. He read the page, and his face dropped. As he looked back at Massey the Frenchman had the startled look of a fox caught with a chicken in its mouth. “What’s the meaning of this?” Lebel said almost angrily.
“As you can see, it’s a report on the last three consignments you exported from Russia. You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you, Henri? You had five hundred more sable pelts than you claimed in the customs declaration, all hidden in a secret compartment under the train.”
Massey held out his hand, and Lebel returned the report, white-faced. He slumped into his chair and stared up at Massey. “How did you know?”
“The Finnish customs found the compartment under the carriage’s floorboards. They had a discreet look at your train in Helsinki Station after it came back from Moscow two trips ago. Naturally, they reported it to us, just in case our friends in Moscow were up to something. But now I know they’re not. It’s your operation, isn’t it, Henri? Who else knows about this? Anyone in Russia?”
“The train driver,” admitted Lebel. “In fact, the method was his idea. He saw it done during the war by certain criminals in Moscow, when food was being smuggled in from the country for the black market.”
“Can he be trusted?”
Lebel shrugged. “As much as any crook can be trusted. He has a weakness for a certain ravishing young Finnish lady who lives near the border in Russian-occupied Karelia. A big girl whose tastes run to expensive French champagne and silk underwear, with which I provide him. I guess he’ll do almost anything for a pretty woman’s favors, but then won’t most men?”
“But it is your operation, isn’t it, Henri?”
An anxious smile flickered on Lebel’s pale face. “Jake, you’ve no idea what the Finns charge me in import taxes. Their inland revenue would put a highwayman to shame.”
“So naturally, when your friend found a way around it, you jumped in.”
Lebel gestured with his cigar at the report in Massey’s hand. “Until you showed me that I thought I’d done the clever thing, but now I know I was foolish. Okay, Jake, what’s the story? You get the gendarmes to slap the bracelets on me and haul me away?”
“The American Embassy in Helsinki advised the Finns to hold their fire for the moment.” Massey smiled briefly. “But I’ve a feeling things might get pretty difficult for your company if the Finns prosecute. And after that I think you’d find America was a closed door for your business. You’d be ruined, Henri.”
“But you can save me from all that?”
Massey smiled. “If you are willing to cooperate.”
Lebel sat back with a sigh. “I was waiting for this.”
“First tell me how you got around the Russians. Don’t they check your train?”
“Of course, but only coming in over the Finnish border, not coming out. The carriages are examined by the Finns after we cross the Russian border into their territory.”
“Who else is in on this?”
Lebel hesitated. “Certain greedy associates I deal with in Russia. Bureaucrats and railway officials. In fact, it was they who put the train driver up to it. For a small consideration they make sure the Russian guards turn a blind eye when the train passes through the border checkpoint.”
“Did you ever take out people for Moscow?”
Lebel shook his head fiercely. “Jake, I don’t work for the KGB. Nor do the people I deal with, I swear it. Their sole motivation is money. But to take people instead of furs would be impossible, believe me, and the train driver would never agree. Furs are one thing, people quite another. He’d be shot for such a thing—so would I if I was caught.”
“What if the plan was foolproof?”
“Jake, no plan is foolproof, especially where the Russians are concerned.”
“Foolproof and worth half a million francs. Swiss francs, that is. Paid into your own Swiss account once you agree to help. And if you do what I ask about Max Simon, there’s a cherry on the cake.”
“A formidable sum, but I’m still not interested.” Lebel frowned with curiosity. “What’s the cherry?”
“The Finns throw away their file on you so long as you promise not to be a bad boy again. Otherwise, Henri, I can assure you, your hide’s going to be nailed to the wall, and you’ll never move another trainload of fur out of Russia.”
Lebel’s face showed his displeasure. “Jake, you’re a hard man.”
“Believe me, I’m a pussycat compared to the people who’ll come after you.”
There was a distracted look on Lebel’s face as he lit another cigar. For a long time he was silent,
his brow creased in thought, then he looked at Massey. “What if I said I would consider helping you, but not for money?”
“It depends on what you have in mind instead.”
“An extra passenger.”
Massey’s eyebrows rose. “You’d better explain.”
Lebel told him about Irena.
Massey said, “She’s Jewish?”
Lebel nodded. “Another reason why I’d feel safer if she got out of Moscow. And I can’t pretend some of my contacts there haven’t become noticeably icy toward me of late. I thought we had left all that behind us with Hitler, but it seems not. Many times I thought of trying to get Irena out, but the risks were too great. If the Finnish authorities were to find her on board the train they might send her back to Russia and me to prison. But you could make sure that wouldn’t happen, couldn’t you, Jake? And get her a legal passport and citizenship?”
“You’re a dark horse, Henri. This dacha Irena owns outside Moscow—is it safe?”
“Of course, that’s why we use it. Why?”
“I’ll explain later. Do you love this woman?”
“What do you think?”
“I think we can make a deal.”
18
* * *
NEW HAMPSHIRE
FEBRUARY 3
It was almost seven when Anna awoke. The small bedroom was cold, and when she opened the curtains she saw the thin fall of snow in the darkness. The view to the lake was really quite special, she thought. She threw on her dressing gown and went downstairs.
Slanski was sitting at the table drinking coffee. He wore a military parka and sturdy boots, a small rucksack on the floor beside him, and he looked up at her silently as she sat down.