The Foreign Correspondent

by Alan Furst

  A tall, spindly man unfolded himself from a low sofa, gripped Weisz’s hand, and said, “Mr. Weisz, a pleasure to meet you.” Crisp white shirt, solemn tie, perfectly tailored suit, the British upper class resplendent, with steel-colored hair and thin, professionally hesitant smile. But the eyes, deep-set, webbed with deep lines, were worried eyes, almost apprehensive, that came close to contradicting all the signals of his status. “Come sit with me,” he said to Weisz, indicating the other end of the sofa. Then: “Brown? Can you get us a scotch? As it comes?”

  This turned out to mean neat, two inches of amber liquid in a crystal glass. Lane said, “We’ll see you later.” Kolb had already evaporated, now Mr. Brown went off to another room in the apartment. “So,” he said to Weisz, his voice low and mellow and pleased, “you’re our writer.”

  “I am,” Weisz said.

  “Damn fine work, Mr. Weisz. Soldier for Freedom should do rather well, we think. I’d surmise you have your heart in it.”

  “That’s true,” Weisz said.

  “Shame about your country. I don’t believe she’ll be happy with her new friends, but that can’t be helped, can it. Not that you haven’t tried.”

  “Do you mean Liberazione?”

  “I do. Seen the back issues, and it’s easily at the top of its class. Leaves the politics alone, thank God, and leans hard on the facts of life. And your cartoonist is a delightfully nasty man. Who is he?”

  “An émigré, he works for Le Journal.” Weisz didn’t say a name, and Lane let it go.

  “Well, we hope to see lots more of that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. We see a bright future for Liberazione.” Lane’s voice caressed the word, as though it were the name of an opera.

  “The way life goes at the moment, it doesn’t really exist, not anymore.”

  If Lane’s face did anything well, it was disappointment. “No, no, don’t say such things, it must go on.” The must worked both ways, simply must, and really must—or else.

  “We’ve been under siege,” Weisz said. “By the OVRA, we believe, and we’ve had to suspend publication.”

  Lane took a sip of his scotch. “Then you’ll just have to unsuspend it, won’t you, now that Mussolini’s gone and joined the wrong side. What do you mean, under siege?”

  “An assassination, attacks on the committee members—trouble at work, possibly arson, a burglary.”

  “Have you gone to the police?”

  “Not yet. But we may try, it’s under consideration.”

  From Lane, an emphatic nod: That’s a good fellow. “Can’t just let it die, Mr. Weisz, it’s simply too good. And, we have reason to believe, effective. People in Italy talk about it—we know that. Now, we may be able to help you out, with the police, but you ought to give it a try on your own. Experience says that’s the best way. And, fact is, your Liberazione ought to be bigger, and more widely read, and there we really can do something. Tell me, what are your distribution arrangements?”

  Weisz paused, how to describe it. “They’ve always run themselves, since 1933, when the editorial committee of the Giustizia e Libertà 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 émigré 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 émigrés, 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 émigré 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 e
xhausted. 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 émigré 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 Véronique 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 Opéra café. “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 bientôt, Monsieur Weisz.” See you soon.

  Back on the rue des Saussaies, Weisz found a café, likely the Interior Ministry café, 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 café. “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 Médicis.”

  “I’ll call Elena,” Salamone said.

  Weisz found a taxi outside the café, 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 café, 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.�
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  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 Citroën.

  “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?”