Paris Spring

by James Naughtie

  Then, with hardly a pause, ‘It’s Mr Abbott, am I right? Hello. My name is Craven.’

  Flemyng gestured to his chair and Craven said as he sat down, ‘We work together, you see.’

  ‘Flying the flag,’ Abbott said, pouring wine into the glass that Flemyng had taken off the bar. Craven took it from him.

  ‘Salut!’

  ‘What have you seen, Freddy?’ Flemyng asked, and for a moment Craven looked confused.

  Then he smiled. ‘Streets full of people. A city on edge.’

  Flemyng realized how quickly Craven had recovered his balance, and with what magic. He looked as if he had been perched comfortably at the table for an hour, and Flemyng and Abbott were attending on him rather than worrying, as they had been a moment earlier, about whether he could steer himself safely through the crowd. His fluency was back, and he drew Abbott’s eyes. ‘Tell me what you’ve been hearing. All this’ – he waved towards the door – ‘really isn’t my concern day-to-day, but I’m fascinated by the passion. The speed of it.’

  ‘I’ve been back for a few days – from the east,’ Abbott said. ‘Watching the smoke rising from the volcano. Feeling the tremors.’

  ‘You expect an eruption?’ Craven said.

  ‘Oh yes. They think nothing can stop that, and they’re right.’

  Craven smiled. ‘Revolution. If we still believe in such things. Your first one, Will.’ He turned back to Abbott.

  ‘And what tidings do you bring from points east?’

  ‘Fear,’ he said. ‘They’re as scared as can be.’

  Craven said he had been lunching with a friend at the Quai earlier that day – Flemyng suspected it was a useful fib, and loved the brazen moment – who had been amused by the alarm shared across the divide. ‘Revolution! Unwelcome in Moscow as it is here. So much better for them if our problem on the streets evaporated and the children went home.’

  And, putting the question as if it were a natural follow-up, he said to Abbott, ‘You will have known Grace Quincy, I assume.’

  Abbott said, ‘Sad. We travelled together a few times, obviously. I liked her very much, admired her spirit.’

  ‘And tell me – Edward, if I may – how do you think it was that she came to die?’

  Flemyng was startled as much by Craven’s speed as by his willingness to give Abbott a glimpse of his real interest. He knew that their presence together in the café was a chance collision, so his decision must have come after his alarming entrance from the street, dishevelled and half lost, in the few minutes after he sat down. Flemyng wondered why. But if Abbott was thrown, he didn’t show it.

  ‘How she came to die?’ he said. ‘Do you mean the nature of it, or the reason?’

  Craven smiled in acknowledgement of the subtle answer.

  Flemyng intervened. ‘Let’s be blunt. You have no doubt, Edward, that she was killed?’

  ‘None,’ said Abbott. ‘That’s why I think you’re asking me if I know why.’

  Craven said, ‘Indeed. I can see that you’re surprised – maybe asking what business it is of ours. Why should an embassy functionary like me be playing Maigret, when the unfortunate dead woman was American? It’s not as if she was a British subject. I understand your point of view, Edward, but I find that in these tumultuous days we’re tied up in each other’s affairs more and more.’ He clasped his hands together tightly to make the point, as if preparing to pray. Flemyng noticed how bony his fingers had become.

  ‘Don’t you find that, too?’

  ‘I do,’ Abbott said. ‘But, as for Quincy, I’ve got nothing to offer, except sympathy all round. I really can’t help, although I wish I could.’

  Craven said, ‘If she was killed by an enemy – forgive me, but I’ll use that word – you’ll realize that it’s natural to ask why she was posing a threat. What she knew, or might know. It must have been something important, wouldn’t you say, for them – whoever they are – to risk all the fuss that was bound to come with her death? That’s what I think, anyway. Do you have any idea what it might have been?’

  ‘Honestly, no,’ said Abbott. ‘None.’

  For the first time, Flemyng saw discomfort, and in an instant the atmosphere changed.

  Abbott’s languid air was gone. He stood, then reached down for the rough canvas holdall where he kept his notebooks. ‘I really must be off. I’ve arranged to see someone a little later, and the metro may be troublesome this evening. All this.’ He looked round at the crowd.

  ‘My apologies to you both.’ He was smiling as he told Craven that he had much enjoyed their encounter. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me when I say that I’ve heard of you here and there, so I’m delighted we’ve had a talk. I hope that when I’m here I can ring you at the embassy some day, and perhaps we can take a stroll, have lunch. That kind of thing. May we?’

  ‘I should be delighted,’ Craven said. ‘Forgive me for not rising, Edward. We old men are a little worn out by the time the evening comes.’ He extended a hand, and they all laughed.

  Abbott waved at them both, then squeezed through the throng to the door, going out backwards against the tide. The noise seemed to swell as he left.

  After a moment, Flemyng asked, ‘Why?’

  Craven was happier than he had seen him for days, his eyes quick.

  ‘Abbott intrigues me,’ he said. ‘You, too, I assume.’

  ‘Of course. But Freddy, please, there’s more to it than that, I can see.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Flemyng said, ‘Come on, old foxy friend.’

  Craven leaned in. It was noisy around them, and no one else could hear his answer.

  ‘He has interesting friends. For example, Sandy Bolder speaks of him often.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Flemyng knew, when he heard Kristof on the phone, that his luck had run out.

  It was the first time he had used his number, the first time they had spoken without facing each other alone, and his voice had changed. It was higher and sharper, and had lost the rhythm that Flemyng had come to know. His message was brief, using no names.

  ‘I have to come to you now. This will not be easy. One hour.’

  Flemyng said, ‘Come’, and replaced the receiver. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It would be ten o’clock in a few minutes. He made tea and turned on the radio. The news on the hour reported student demands, police at the Sorbonne, a government appeal for calm. He listened for a few minutes then switched it off to give himself quiet. The room was dark except for the lamp standing behind the chair where he liked to read, and he sat down in the pool of light, pulling the ottoman from the fireplace and putting his feet up. His face was in shadow, and for most of the next hour he appeared not to move, although he was awake. When he got up it was nearly eleven.

  Downstairs, he stood inside the front door until it was time, then quietly unlocked it and went into the street. He stood in the darkness of the alleyway for a few minutes and, on the hour, watched Kristof crossing the street at the corner. As he approached, walking quickly, Flemyng stepped out of the darkness and opened the front door without speaking.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kristof said when they were in the apartment. Nothing more.

  Flemyng gestured to the chair on the other side of the fireplace from his own, and went into the kitchen. Returning with a bottle of whisky and two crystal glasses he placed them on the low table between them, and said, ‘Perhaps we’ll need this.’

  ‘I think so,’ said Kristof.

  Flemyng poured, and lifted his glass in a silent toast. The signal to begin.

  Kristof was dressed differently. He was wearing a navy fisherman’s jumper and jeans, and hadn’t brought a coat. Flemyng was struck by the change, and noticed that his signet ring had gone. Without his worn suit and white shirt he took on a new character, as if his thin trappings of authority had been removed. The face that he had drawn for Freddy Craven was still familiar, but he was looking at a man stripped bare. Kristof couldn’t conceal his alarm. He laid h
is pipe and tobacco on the table.

  ‘I have troubles,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Flemyng.

  ‘I’m in danger. You need not know from where. There is information which may help, and you can get it.’

  Flemyng said nothing.

  ‘It is personal, and it may be my lifeline. I have always said the day might come when I needed help. It will be difficult, however.’

  His next words were more unexpected than anything Flemyng had experienced in all the wild days since Quincy had arrived in Paris.

  ‘I must see Freddy Craven’s diary.’

  Flemyng stared at him.

  ‘I know it exists. Never mind how. You are his trusted colleague, and have certain skills. You will be able to find the part I want. It concerns Berlin.’

  Flemyng shook his head, but before he could speak Kristof picked up.

  ‘Craven mustn’t know, but you have to do this for me.’

  Flemyng said, ‘I can’t’, and sipped his drink.

  ‘You must, and I will make you an offer.’

  Flemyng watched him pour himself another whisky and light his pipe, and said nothing.

  ‘I can tell you the story that Quincy was hoping to write. As your seafaring friend Mr Craven might say, it will shiver your timbers.’

  Flemyng thought again of the mystery Kristof carried with him, his easy English with its sprinkling of antiquated expressions, and the strange comfort he showed in speaking of Craven and his world, without the awkwardness that was characteristic of his kind. Where had he learned it?

  ‘You’re asking me to steal from a friend,’ he said.

  ‘For a prize,’ Kristof said.

  ‘It would be treachery, professional and personal. Un-thinkable.’

  ‘I know,’ Kristof said, ‘and that is why I’m afraid I have to give you no choice.’

  ‘Explain,’ said Flemyng.

  ‘It is simple. If you don’t help, I shall betray you.’

  Flemyng stood up. Stepping away from the lamp light, he became a shadow.

  ‘Are you going to ask me to leave?’ Kristof said.

  There was silence.

  ‘I am glad. Let me tell you what I would have to do, although I would not enjoy it. Actually hate it. I would let it be known – this town is full of journalists, as you are aware – who you are and what you do. And your brother. I would blow him to the world, and let out the information I have about him, which would be destructive. The brother spies. A delicious story, with its own mysteries, that would excite everyone in these troubled times, and which would be the end of your career. Out of the dark and into the light. Exposed. You could live quietly somewhere, maybe be a schoolmaster. Marry. Be happy, perhaps. But never be a spy again. And Abel? The end, I think.’

  ‘You bastard,’ said Flemyng.

  ‘I am trying to save myself. The instinct we all have. I am sorry, but I must.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Flemyng said.

  He turned away and went to the kitchen, where he did nothing but stand at the window. He was breathing fast, and took some moments to calm himself.

  When he sat down again, with a drink, he asked his first question of Kristof.

  ‘When you contacted me, was this the purpose?’

  ‘I was serious about your brother. But you know how much has changed in these days. Quincy. Her connections. Her discoveries. We have come to this, and I must ask my favour of you.’

  ‘Blackmail,’ Flemyng said.

  ‘No. A deal.’

  ‘Under threat. You can’t believe I would accept this, surely?’

  ‘I came here because I had to. What I know is all I have. Therefore I have to use it as best I can.’

  Flemyng got up again and spoke.

  ‘There are things you understand that surprise me. Much that you know. So how can you be so stupid? Asking me to let you see a book that’s not only private but secret, too. If it even exists. To break every pledge I’ve ever made, against a threat that you couldn’t carry out. Who would believe you?’

  ‘There are people who would be listened to. Storytelling is a powerful business. Quincy knew that.’

  Flemyng said, ‘How do I know that you have any idea what she was going to write? That you could tell me anything that I don’t know already.’

  Kristof smiled and poured another whisky. ‘It sounds to me as if we’re going to make a deal,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Let me try,’ Kristof said. ‘I have a story to tell that would be precious to you and your people. Treasure. Quincy had an inkling, but only that. You would be a hero in London, and, I would suggest, in Washington, too. That is the prize. And what do I want in return? Information that is personal to me. That’s all.’

  He stood and moved to Flemyng’s chair, so that the light caught his face and showed his excitement.

  ‘I promise it would not harm your friends. There would be no damage to the interests you are sworn to defend. A diary, no more than that.’

  ‘Prove it,’ Flemyng said.

  ‘I can’t. Isn’t that the trouble with our trade?’

  ‘You mean I have to trust you?’ Flemyng said.

  ‘Of course. What else is there but trust, and luck?’

  ‘There’s loyalty,’ said Flemyng.

  ‘Your loyalty is to your country,’ the German said, ‘and I can tell you that what I have would let you fulfil that duty.’

  He waited for Flemyng, taking a moment to look at the pictures on the wall, getting close to see them in the shadows. Two or three minutes passed, and Flemyng spoke so quietly that it sounded as if he were afraid of being overheard.

  ‘Will you ring me here tomorrow? Late. I have a dinner. And we might arrange to meet at the weekend.’

  Kristof said he would be out of Paris for two days. ‘We are restricted and I travel with difficulty, as you know. But I have found a way. I will return by Sunday, and I will ring you in the evening.’

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  Kristof said, ‘I had hoped it would end like this.’

  ‘It hasn’t ended, believe me,’ Flemyng said.

  ‘But we have begun,’ Kristof said, and stretched out his hand.

  Flemyng walked him downstairs, staying in the hall as Kristof stepped out. He closed the door quietly without looking into the street and went upstairs, locked the apartment door from the inside and filled his glass before he took his chair. He sat for a long time, as he had done earlier in the evening, and listened to the silence of the night. There were no sirens, almost no traffic in his street, and it was quiet enough to hear the ticking of his clock.

  It was just before one when the phone rang, later than he had expected. Abel, as he had promised, wanted to make a date. They exchanged some warm words, said little and arranged to meet at seven. ‘Looking forward to seeing you,’ Abel said.

  ‘Me too.’ They said no more.

  He went back to his chair, sitting awake with his mind racing. When it struck two, he got up and put away the whisky. Getting ready for bed, he thought of Abel.

  He left the book at his bedside unopened. Switching off the light he said a few words into the darkness and closed his eyes.

  Sleep came slowly.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Bridger, though he knew so little, got to the heart of it.

  ‘I feel as if I’m in a bloody parlour game where everyone has been told something that they’re obliged to keep to themselves.’

  He had summoned an early meeting in Craven’s office before Friday morning prayers. Wemyss was watching from the corner. Flemyng and Bolder were facing the desk, alongside Craven, who had surrendered his chair to Bridger. The old man was smoking, the others drinking tea. Bridger said, ‘There will be no note of this conversation. Wemyss is aware. I must have it out.’

  He was interrupted by sirens from the street. Flemyng counted five vehicles, and heard a posse of motorcycles behind.

  ‘I’m tickled by your parlour game thought,’ said Cr
aven. ‘Blind man’s buff, I’d say.’

  Bridger turned red, and picked up without looking at him. ‘The ambassador is on his way back from Aix, even now. More to the point, he dines with us at home tomorrow, and in the company of my American opposite number, which makes things very awkward indeed.’

  ‘On the contrary, Pierce,’ said Craven. ‘We are in luck. I can provide you with some interesting questions. You – and Grizelda – have timed your dinner well.’

  Flemyng saw that Bridger was working hard to control his temper. When they were young and green, his gusts of rage had been amusing. They would both laugh when the storms passed as quickly as they had come on. But even in his early middle age they had become uglier and more troubling, because time had robbed him of the ability to forget.

  He was struggling. ‘I do not intend to mince my words.’

  More sirens sounded from the window.

  ‘I am aware – how I could I not be?’ – he looked at Flemyng – ‘that all of you have your own chain of command, and answer to others. We serve in different regiments. But in this embassy I do have certain responsibilities and therefore, to be blunt with you, certain powers. And I am afraid that this morning I am demanding answers. Do I have to spell it out? I am angry.’

  Craven interrupted with a coughing fit, and Bolder intervened. ‘Pierce, we understand. It is your duty.’ The huddled figure who’d sat at the same desk for his dressing down the day before had snapped back to life, his coiffure in place, a crisp handkerchief in his top pocket and his shoes shining. ‘I’m sure we all want to help.’

  ‘Very well,’ Bridger said. ‘Let’s begin. Wemyss has something to say.’

  They all turned towards him, and the young man took a moment to steady himself.

  ‘I have heard… murmurings. One of my acquaintances among the Americans passed on a concern.’

  ‘A concern,’ said Bridger.