The Foreign Correspondent ns-9

by Alan Furst

  Weisz paused, how to describe it. “They’ve always run themselves, since 1933, when the editorial committee of the Giustizia e Liberta committee worked in Italy. It is, well, it grew by itself. First there was a single truck driver, in Genoa, then another, a friend of his, who went up to Milan. It isn’t a pyramid, with a Parisian emigre at the top, it’s just people who know one another, and who want to participate, to do something, whatever they can, to oppose the fascist regime. We’re not the Communists, we’re not in cells, with discipline. We have a printer in Genoa, he hands bundled papers off to three or four friends, and they spread it out among their friends. One takes ten, another takes twenty. And from there it goes everywhere.”

  Lane was delighted, and showed it. “Blessed chaos!” he said. “Cheerful Italian anarchy. I hope you don’t mind, my saying that.”

  Weisz shrugged. “I don’t mind, it’s true. In my country, we don’t like bosses, it’s the way we’re made.”

  “And your print run?”

  “Around two thousand.”

  “The Communists run twenty thousand.”

  “I didn’t know the number, I assumed it was larger. But they get themselves arrested more than we do.”

  “I take your point-we can’t have too much of that. And readers?”

  “Who knows. Sometimes one to a paper, sometimes twenty. We couldn’t begin to guess, but it is shared, and not thrown away-we ask for that, right on the masthead.”

  “Could one say, twenty thousand?”

  “Why not? It’s possible. The paper’s left on benches in railway waiting rooms, and on the trains. Anywhere public you can imagine.”

  “And your information-if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “By mail, by new emigres, by gossip and rumor.”

  “Naturally. Information has a life of its own, which is something we know very well, to our joy, and, sometimes, to our sorrow.”

  From Weisz, a sympathetic nod.

  “How’s your drink?”

  Weisz looked down and saw he’d almost finished the scotch.

  “Let me top that up for you.” Lane stood, walked over to a cabinet by the doorway, and poured them both a second drink. When he returned, he said, “I’m glad we had a chance to talk. We’ve made some plans for you, in London, but I wanted to see who we’d be working with.”

  “What plans have you made, Mr. Lane.”

  “Oh, as I said. Bigger, better distribution, more readers, many more. And I think we might be able to help out, now and then, with information. We’re good at that. Oh, by the way, what about paper?”

  “We print at the Genoa daily newspaper, and our printer, well, it’s like everything else-he finds a way, a friend upstairs, in the office, or maybe the records aren’t kept all that well.”

  Once again, Lane was delighted, and laughed. “Fascist Italy,” he said, shaking his head at the absurdity of such an idea. “How in God’s name…”

  Like the rest of the world, Weisz had had his bad nights-lost love, world gone wrong, money-but this was by far the worst; slow hours, spent staring at the ceiling of a hotel room. Yesterday, he would have been excited by his meeting with Mr. Lane-a change of fortune in the war he fought. Good news! An investor! Their little company approached by a big corporation. Which might turn out to be not such good news, and Weisz was aware of that. But, where were they now? It was, certainly, an event, a sudden turn of fate, and Weisz typically rose to such challenges, but now all he could think about was Christa. In Berlin. In a cell. Interrogated.

  Fear and rage rose within him, first one, then the other. He hated her captors, he would pay them back. But, how to reach her, how to find out, what could he do to save her? Could she still be saved? No, it was too late. Could he go to Berlin? Could Delahanty help him? The Reuters board of directors? Desperately, he reached for power. But found only one source. Mr. Lane. Would Lane help him? Not as a favor. Lane was an executive, and shared with others of his breed a sublime talent for deflection-Weisz had felt it. His purpose, in the sea he swam in, was to acquire, to succeed. He could not be pleaded with, he could only be forced, forced to bargain, in order to get what he wanted. Would he bargain?

  Weisz had thought about asking, during the meeting in Passy, but had held back. He needed time to think, to work out how to do what needed to be done. He knew very well who he was dealing with; a man whose job it was, that week, to spread clandestine newspapers through an enemy country. Would he ask only Weisz? Only Liberazione? Who else had he seen that night? What other emigre journals had he approached? No, Weisz thought, let him win, let him bring this game home in his bag. Then, attack. He could launch only one, he knew, so it had to work. And, executive that he was, Lane had never actually asked the crucial question: will you do this? Thus avoided the awkwardness of an answer he didn’t want to hear. No, that job would be left to Brown. So, Mr. Brown.

  Weisz never did sleep that night, never took his clothes off, but dozed now and then, toward dawn, finally exhausted. Then, on another heaven-sent June morning, he went early to work, and telephoned Pompon. Who wasn’t in, but called back an hour later. A meeting was arranged, after work, at the Interior Ministry.

  It was still dusk when Weisz arrived at the rue des Saussaies; the vast building filled the sky, the men with briefcases streaming in and out through its shadow. As before, he was directed to Room 10; a long table, a few chairs, high window behind a grille, dead air heavy with the smell of cooked paint and stale cigarette smoke. Inspector Pompon awaited him, accompanied by his older colleague, his superior, the cop, as Weisz thought of him, grizzled and slumped, who now introduced himself as Inspector Guerin. They were informal that evening, jackets off, ties loosened. So, friendly inspectors, for this meeting. Still, Weisz sensed both tension and expectation. We’ve got him. Do we? On the table before them, the green dossiers, and, once again, it was Pompon who took notes.

  Weisz wasted no time getting down to business. “We’ve obtained information,” he said, “that may interest you.”

  Pompon led the questioning. “We?” he said.

  “The editorial committee of the emigre newspaper, Liberazione.”

  “What do you have, Monsieur Weisz, and how did you get it?”

  “What we have is evidence of an Italian secret service operation, in this city. It’s at work now, today.” Weisz went on to describe, without using names, Elena’s pursuit of the man who’d approached her supervisor, the interrogation of Veronique and the subsequent meeting with Elena, his telephone call to the Photo-Mondiale agency and his doubts about its legitimacy, the committee’s attempt at surveillance of 62, boulevard de Strasbourg, and the letters he’d found in the agency’s mailbox. Then, from the notes he’d brought with him, he read out the names of the French bank, and the addresses in Zagreb.

  “Playing detective?” Guerin said, more amused than annoyed.

  “Yes, I suppose so. But we had to do something. I mentioned, earlier, the attacks on the committee.”

  Pompon slid the dossier over to his colleague, who read, using his index finger, the notes of a meeting with Weisz at the Opera cafe. “Not much, for us. But the investigation of the murder of Madame LaCroix is still open, and that’s why we’re talking to you.”

  Pompon said, “And you believe this is related material. This spy business.”

  “Yes, that’s what we think.”

  “And the language your associate heard, beneath the staircase, was Serbo-Croatian?”

  “She didn’t know what it was.”

  For a moment, silence, then the inspectors exchanged a glance.

  “We may look into it,” Guerin said. “And the newspaper?”

  “We’ve suspended publication,” Weisz said.

  “But, if your, ah, problems are eliminated, what then?”

  “We’ll continue. More than ever, now that Italy has allied herself with Germany, we feel it’s important.”

  Guerin sighed. “Politics, politics,” he said. “Back and forth.”


  “And then you get war,” Weisz said.

  Guerin nodded. “It’s coming.”

  “If we investigate,” Pompon said, “we may be back in touch with you. Has anything changed? Employment? Domicile?”

  “No, it’s all as before.”

  “Very well, if you should find out anything else, you’ll let us know.”

  “I will,” Weisz said.

  “But,” Guerin said, “don’t go trying to help, not anymore, right? Leave that to us.”

  Pompon went back over his notes, making sure of the names and addresses in Zagreb, then told Weisz he could go.

  As Weisz left, Guerin smiled and said, “A bientot, Monsieur Weisz.” See you soon.

  Back on the rue des Saussaies, Weisz found a cafe, likely the Interior Ministry cafe, he thought, from the look of the men eating dinner and drinking at the bar, and a certain muted quality to the conversation. Pressed for time, he gobbled down the plat du jour, a veal stew, drank two glasses of wine, then called Salamone from a pay telephone at the back of the cafe. “It’s done,” he said. “They’re going to investigate. But I need to see you, and maybe Elena.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Oh, maybe they’ll look into it. You know how they are.”

  “When do you want to meet?”

  “Tonight. Is eleven too late?”

  After a moment, Salamone said, “No, I’ll pick you up.”

  “At the rue de Tournon, the corner of the rue de Medicis.”

  “I’ll call Elena,” Salamone said.

  Weisz found a taxi outside the cafe, and by eight he was at Ferrara’s hotel.

  They worked hard that evening, doing more pages than usual. They were up to Ferrara’s entry into France and his internment at a camp near the southwestern city of Tarbes. Ferrara was still angry, and didn’t spare the details, well focused on the bureaucratic sin of indifference. But Weisz toned it down. A flood of refugees from Spain, the sad remnants of a lost cause, the French did what they could. Because the Pact of Steel had changed the political chemistry, and this book was, after all, propaganda, British propaganda, and France was now, more than ever, Britain’s ally in a divided Europe. At eleven Weisz rose to leave-where was Kolb? Out in the corridor, as it happened, headed for the room.

  “I have to see Mr. Brown,” Weisz said. “As soon as possible.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “It isn’t the book,” Weisz said. “Something else. About the meeting last night.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Kolb said. “And we’ll arrange it.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Weisz said. “There’s a cafe, called Le Repos, just down the rue Dauphine from the Hotel Dauphine. At eight.”

  Kolb raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how we do things,” he said.

  “I know, but this is a favor. Please, Kolb, time is important.”

  Kolb didn’t like it. “I’ll try. But, if he doesn’t show up, don’t be surprised. You know the routine-Brown picks the time, and the place. We have to be careful.”

  Weisz was an inch away from pleading. “Just try, that’s all I ask.”

  Out on the street, Weisz walked quickly to the corner. The Renault was there, its engine missing as it idled. Elena was sitting next to Salamone, and Weisz climbed into the backseat, then apologized for being late.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Salamone said, ramming the shift lever until it clunked into first gear. “You’re our hero, tonight.”

  Weisz described the meeting at the Interior Ministry, then said, “What we have to discuss now is something else-something I found out about last night.”

  “Now what?” Salamone said.

  Weisz told Elena, briefly but accurately, about the Ferrara book, an operation of the British SIS. “Now they’ve approached me on the subject of Liberazione,” he said. “Not only are they eager to see us back in business, they want us to grow. Bigger printing, more readers, wider distribution. They say they’ll help us to do that, and they’ll provide information. And, I have to add that I want to use the opportunity to save a friend’s life, a woman’s life, in Berlin.”

  For a moment, nobody said anything. Finally, from Salamone: “Carlo, you’re making it hard for us to say no.”

  “If it’s no, it’s no,” Weisz said. “For my friend, I’ll find another way.”

  “‘Provide information’? What is that? They’ll tell us what to print?”

  “It’s the alliance,” Elena said. “They wanted Italy to stay neutral, but, whatever they were doing, it didn’t work. So, now, they have to turn up the heat.”

  “Jesus, Carlo,” Salamone said, hauling at the wheel and turning into a side street. “You of all people-it sounds like you want to let them do it. But you know what happens. A foot in the door, then a little more, and soon enough they own us. We’re spies, us.” He laughed at the idea. “Sergio? The lawyer? Zerba, the art historian? Me? The OVRA will take us apart, we can’t survive in that world.”

  Weisz’s voice was tense. “We have to try, Arturo. What we always wanted was to make a difference, in Italy, to fight back. Well, this is our chance.”

  The dark interior of the Renault was suddenly lit by the headlights of a car that had turned into the street behind them. Salamone glanced in the mirror as Elena said, “How would we even do that? Find another printer? More couriers? More people to hand out copies? In more cities?”

  “They know how, Elena,” Weisz said. “We’re amateurs, they’re professionals.”

  Again, Salamone looked in the mirror. The car had come up close to them. “Carlo, really I don’t understand you. When we took over from the giellisti in Italy, we faced intrusion of this kind, and fought it off. We’re a resistance organization, and that has its perils, but we must remain independent.”

  “There will be a war here,” Elena said. “Like 1914, but worse, if you can imagine that. And every resistance organization, every nose-in-the-air idealist, will be pulled into it. And not for their saintly opinions.”

  “Are you with Carlo?”

  “I don’t like it, but yes, I am.”

  Salamone turned the corner and sped up. “Who is that? Behind us?” The Renault was back on the street that ran adjacent to the Jardin du Luxembourg, and going faster, but the headlights stayed fixed in the mirror. Weisz turned and looked out the back window, saw two dark shapes in the front seat of a big Citroen.

  “Maybe we should let them help us,” Salamone said. “But I think we’ll regret it. Just tell me, Carlo, is it this personal reason, this friend, that’s changed your mind? Or would you do it anyhow?”

  “The war isn’t coming, it’s here. And if it isn’t the British today, it will be the French tomorrow, the pressure’s just beginning. Elena’s right-this is just a matter of time. We’re all going to fight, some with guns, some with typewriters. And, as for my friend, it’s a life worth saving, no matter who she is to me.”

  “I don’t care why,” Elena said. “We can’t go on by ourselves, the OVRA proved that. I think we should accept this offer, and, if the British can help Carlo, can save his friend, so be it, and why not. What if it were you or me, Arturo? In trouble in Berlin, or Rome? What would you want Carlo to do?”

  Salamone slowed down, then, staring at the rearview mirror, rolled to a stop. The Citroen also stopped. Then, slowly, swung around the Renault and pulled up beside it. A man in the passenger seat turned and looked at them for a moment, then said something to the driver, and the car drove away.

  “What was that all about?” Elena said.

  7 June, 8:20 A.M.

  The Cafe le Repos was busy in the morning, customers two deep at the bar, saving a few sous on their coffee. In search of privacy, Weisz had taken a table in the far corner, backed up to the pebbled-glass partition. And there he waited, Le Journal unread before him, his coffee a dark stain at the bottom of the tiny cup, but no sign of Mr. Brown. Well, Kolb had warned him, these people had their own ways of doing business. Then, a man in a peaked cap
left the bar, walked over to his table, and said, “Weisz?”

  “Yes?”

  “Come with me.”

  Weisz left money on the table and followed the man outside. In the street a taxi was idling in front of the cafe. The man in the cap got behind the wheel and Weisz climbed into the back, where Mr. Brown was waiting for him. The usual Mr. Brown today, the smell of pipe smoke sweet in the air. “Good morning,” he said tartly. The taxi drove away and merged with the slow traffic on the rue Dauphine. “Pleasant morning, we have today.”

  “Thank you for doing this,” Weisz said. “I had to talk to you, about your plans for Liberazione.”

  “You’re referring to your little chat with Mr. Lane.”

  “That’s right. We think it’s a good idea, but I need your help. To save a life.”

  Brown’s eyebrows rose, and the pipe sent up an exclamatory puff of smoke. “What life is that?”

  “The life of a friend. She’s been involved with a resistance group, in Berlin, and now she may be in trouble. Because, two days ago, I saw a cable at Reuters that could mean she’s been arrested.”

  For a moment, Brown looked like a physician who’s been told something awful-bad as it was to you, he’d heard it all before. “You require a miracle, then everything will be hunky-dory. Is that the idea, Mr. Weisz?”

  “Maybe a miracle, for me, but not for you.”

  Brown took the pipe from his mouth and gave Weisz a long look. “Girlfriend, is it?”

  “More than that.”

  “And, truly, doing things in Berlin, against the Nazis? Not just being vocal at dinner parties?”

  “The former,” Weisz said. “A circle of friends, some of them working in the ministries, stealing papers.”

  “And passing ‘em to who? If you don’t mind my asking. Not to us, surely, you couldn’t be that lucky.”

  “I don’t know. It could be the Soviets, or even the Americans. She made a point of not telling me.”

  “Even in bed.”

  “Yes, even there.”

  “Then good for her,” Brown said. “Bolsheviks, these people?”