The Flight Portfolio

by Julie Orringer

  “Monsieur Fry,” he said, and gestured to a chair. “Won’t you wait a moment? My apologies. I’m just finishing with these papers.”

  “Please,” Varian said. As Vinciléoni executed the last of his tallying, Varian’s eyes traveled the network of maps that lined the walls, a portrait of the black market: those red arrows and black dotted lines, the ones that connected the European continent to the African one, represented a vast, well-lubricated circulatory system of contraband goods. Now they also represented paths of escape, means of saving human lives.

  “What can I do for you today?” Vinciléoni asked once he’d finished. He tapped a bell, and moments later a girl appeared; she was, Varian had learned, Vinciléoni’s illegitimate daughter. She must have been sixteen, though her trousers and her round-collared shirt made her look younger, almost prepubescent. She regarded Varian with her father’s narrow, appraising eyes as she received the marked-up forms. “Bring coffee for my friend,” Vinciléoni said. “Real coffee. And what else, Monsieur Fry? Cigarettes? A stronger drink?”

  Varian laughed. “You must sense that I’m under pressure, Charles.”

  “Men of action are always under pressure,” Vinciléoni said, and gave Varian his version of a smile: a swift cock of the eyebrow and an infinitesimal wink.

  “I’ve got three fish for you,” Varian said. “One small fry and two big ones.”

  “Big fish, big problems,” Vinciléoni said. “Everything has its price.”

  “You know we can pay,” Varian said. “The question is whether your captains are willing. I’m talking about Breitscheid and Hilferding. The Social Democratic leader, and Germany’s former minister of finance. And Breitscheid’s wife, Tony. And his secretary, Erika Bierman. They’ve been under house arrest in Arles for months now. We think they’re in imminent danger.”

  “No women on my cargo ships. Finis. The captains won’t have them. They can travel by commercial routes instead.”

  “All right. Just the men, then.”

  “And how do you propose to get them from Arles to Marseille?”

  “I hadn’t considered that, I’m afraid.”

  “Car service costs extra.”

  “You can provide that? Car transport?”

  “Everything is possible. A friend of mine has a limousine and a permit to drive with complete freedom throughout the Bouches du Rhône. And for a further fee, I can provide safe warehousing for your big fish here in Marseille. For a few days’ time, of course. After that, big fish make a big stink.”

  “That’s brilliant. And you’ve got a ship that could take them?”

  “A cargo ship leaves for Oran in four days. Thirty thousand francs will buy passage. But, if you’ll pardon my asking, Monsieur Fry, what will become of your fish once they land in Africa? I want some assurance that my captains won’t be undertaking this risk in vain.”

  “We wouldn’t send these clients if we thought they’d get stuck in Oran. We’ll do our utmost for them, Charles, I assure you. They’ll travel incognito, with false papers. We’ll turn them into obscure Alsatians. They’re unlikely to be recognized outside of Europe, in any case. They’ll stay in Oran for a while—they’ll want to wait for Madame Breitscheid and Madame Bierman. Meanwhile, they’ll see our contacts at the consulate in Algiers about their next round of papers. The consulate will be more likely to help, I think, once our big fish are out from under the Gestapo’s thumb.”

  “Your embassies seem to employ a kind of upside-down logic, Monsieur Fry. The time to help men like Breitscheid and Hilferding is when they are under the Gestapo’s thumb.”

  “Don’t I know it, Charles. But things are the way they are. There’s not much logic in Pétain’s government, either.”

  “That is why, Monsieur Fry, I prefer to operate under my own laws.” Again the raised eyebrow, the fleeting wink.

  Into the office came Vinciléoni’s daughter again, carrying an enameled tray with a tiny Turkish coffeepot and a thimble-sized cup. The coffeepot yielded a fragrant, opaque brew unlike anything Varian had tasted before. A doll-sized cup of it seemed to eradicate all the watery chicory he’d imbibed since landing in France. “What’s in this?” he asked. “Molten cacao? Rose petals?”

  “Americans have no knowledge of real coffee,” Vinciléoni said, dismissively. “But what about your small fish? Will he be on our ship to Oran as well?”

  “No, he’d better travel separately. Just in case anything happens to the big fish.”

  “Nothing will happen. You can trust me.”

  “I’m obliged,” Varian said. “Still, we’d better keep them separate. The small fish won’t be traveling alone, in any case. He’ll be with a decommissioned British soldier, or perhaps a pair of them. I believe I’ll send him disguised as another member of the British Expeditionary Force.”

  “And who is this small fish, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “No one of note. Just a German lad. The son of a friend.”

  Vinciléoni regarded Varian for a long moment through his steel-rimmed glasses, eyes narrowed. “He wouldn’t happen to be a concentration camp escapee, would he?”

  Varian’s throat constricted. Who had been in contact with Vinciléoni? Did he have a set of eyes at Air Bel? And then he knew: It had to be Killer, who operated in Vinciléoni’s circles and could surely be bought for the right price. And who might have resented Mary Jayne’s willingness to take heroic measures on Tobias’s behalf.

  “That’s right,” Varian said, slowly. “That German lad.”

  “We must have perfect transparency if this relationship is to continue, Mr. Fry.”

  “I understand, Charles.”

  “I hope you do. I don’t know whether you’ve had a chance to read this morning’s papers yet, but when you do, you’ll learn that your friend Ormond, the commandant at Vernet, has lost his job. Apparently the borders of his camp had become permeable in recent weeks. It seems he lost control of his guard force. Four of them were caught here in Marseille at a house of pleasure some months ago, having a grand time while their charges slipped away. More recently, another allowed himself to be drugged while on duty, and woke up missing his uniform and his gun. A prisoner failed to report to evening lineup that same day. The man’s identity didn’t make it into the official report. But my sources tell me you know where he is. And that he may be rather a bigger fish than you’re letting on.”

  There was no choice but the truth, or at least a modicum of it. “The boy’s under my protection. Believe me when I say he’s worth yours. We’ll pay whatever it takes to get him out of France.”

  “No deal,” Vinciléoni said. “Not now, anyway. The situation is too hot. I can’t compromise my network by mixing it up with fugitives.”

  “What else have you been transporting? They’re all fugitives!”

  “There’s a difference, Mr. Fry, between refugees and fugitives.”

  “Breitscheid and Hilferding become fugitives the minute they leave France.”

  “Wehrmacht intelligence isn’t trying to chase down Breitscheid and Hilferding.”

  That silenced him. The two men regarded each other in utter stillness. The ceiling fan above them ticked like a beetle, and Varian wished he had never dared to introduce the subject of Tobias Katznelson. He glanced down at the newspaper on Vinciléoni’s desk; visible just above the fold was a snippet of a photograph. He reached for the paper and turned it over. There was Commandant Ormond at his desk, the rows of despots’ biographies and historical novels arrayed on the shelves behind him. The commandant stared into the camera as if in amazement at how swiftly fortunes could change.

  “Forgive me,” Varian said. “I have a personal interest in the young German’s case. I’m all too aware of how precarious his situation is. If I failed to be perfectly honest with you, it was only to protect him.”

  “You can protec
t your clients best through perfect honesty with me,” Vinciléoni said. “I’ve been honest with you, after all. Inside this room you have a view to my most intimate secrets. You wouldn’t know how to interpret them, and you wouldn’t know how to use them. But I don’t keep them from you, Mr. Fry. I show them to you willingly, as evidence of what I can do for you. I can save your Social Democrats. And, if you like, I’ll simply forget that the rest of this conversation occurred.”

  So Varian’s patronage had its value too. “All right,” he said. “Fair.”

  “Advise your big fish to prepare to travel. My men will let you know when the car will arrive to retrieve them.”

  “Thank you, Charles.”

  “All charges must be paid in advance, as usual.”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s keep our relationship mutually respectful, Monsieur Fry.”

  Varian assured him that he would do his part. He offered his thanks again. And then, as quickly as he could, he lifted himself up out of his chair and got out of that windowless office and out of the Dorade.

  He skirted the perimeter of the Vieux Port, his nerves vibrating with the aftereffects of the Turkish coffee; an amber haze seemed to line the edges of his vision, and his chest felt hot and tight. Back at the office he delivered an edited account of his meeting with Vinciléoni to Danny. He instructed Danny to send a message to Breitscheid and Hilferding immediately, not a written message but a spoken one; he could go to Arles on that afternoon’s train. His mission was to impress upon the Social Democrats the necessity of traveling via Vinciléoni’s cargo ship, and the foolhardiness of waiting for their French exit visas to materialize. Danny assured him that he would deliver the message, and set off at once. And then, without even a glance at the islets of papers scattered across his desk, Varian half-ran to the Hôtel Beauvau and dragged his suitcase out from underneath the bed. He set it on the luggage stand and opened it, inhaling its familiar interior scent of camphor and laundry soap and old leather. Grant must have heard him moving around in his room; he came through their shared door and sat on the bed, leaning back on his elbows, his long legs crossed at the ankle.

  “Where are you off to, Tommie?” he said.

  “I have to get back to Air Bel.”

  “Want to tell the doctor why?”

  “Tobias isn’t safe out there.”

  “What makes you say so?”

  “Spies are everywhere. Ormond’s been deposed. Vinciléoni knows about the Wehrmacht intelligence mission to find Tobias. I asked him if I could stow a German friend’s son on one of his merchant ships, and he tore the cover right off my story. Who do you think told him? It’s got to be Killer. And Mary Jayne won’t throw him out of the house. If I’m there, I can run interference at least. Stand between Tobias and the law if I have to. Meanwhile, it looks like we’ve got a chance to get Breitscheid and Hilferding out.” He sat down at the edge of the bed and put his head into his hands.

  “What can I do? How can I help you?”

  Varian shook his head. “I’ve got to keep it together,” he said, his voice tight and frantic. “It’s all spinning apart.”

  Grant laughed. “You’ve been drinking coffee, haven’t you? Real coffee. I can smell it rising from your pores. And you’re talking too fast, making no sense. Come, let’s have it: Where are you keeping that miracle drug?”

  “At Vinciléoni’s.”

  “I was right!”

  “I’m losing my mind, Grant.”

  “You’re not. You’re on a little journey, a stimulant journey. That’s all. And you’re perfectly right. We should move back to Air Bel. If someone’s got to stand between Tobias and the law, it should be me.”

  “We should move back?”

  “Yes. You and I.”

  “And live where?”

  “In your room. House Tobias in the library again.”

  “Live there openly? In the presence of Gregor’s son?”

  “I’m not trying to hide anything from Gregor,” Grant said. “And I promised to get Tobias out of France, not to protect his innocence.”

  “And my clients, and the staff…?”

  “Varian,” Grant said, sitting up beside him, putting a hand on his back. “Listen to me. They know about us. They know. We haven’t exactly been trying to pass for straight. We’ve been spending every day and night with your clients and staff for months. And no one’s abandoned you yet. No one’s treated you like a pariah. Maybe it makes you a little more human to them. Maybe it suggests there’s something at stake for you personally. You’ve heard, haven’t you, that Hitler’s rounding us up now, putting us in camps? Branding us with pink triangles so the others will torture us?”

  Varian sat silent for a moment, his hands between his knees. “All my life I’ve enjoyed perfect privilege,” he said. “American, rich, Protestant, Harvard-educated. I could walk down the street anywhere and feel, God help me, like a master.”

  “You don’t have to explain that to me,” Grant said.

  “The fact is, Skiff, I don’t know how to live as what I am.”

  Grant laughed again and fell back onto the bed, his hands open at his sides like empty shells. “Tom,” he said, in a voice so intimate as to cause Varian’s caffeinated heart to fibrillate. “Tom. Wake up. You’re already doing it.”

  26

  An Escape

  On the night Vinciléoni’s cargo ship was scheduled to sail for Oran, the black limousine went to retrieve Breitscheid and Hilferding from the Hôtel du Forum at Arles. Danny’s mission had succeeded: he had convinced them that the time was now, that they couldn’t trust France to deliver their visas and let them out. According to the plan, Varian would pass the night with Breitscheid and Hilferding in a secret room in a dockside warehouse, and would see them loaded onto the cargo ship in the morning. By five a.m., Europe’s most prominent Social Democrats would be en route to Africa, their false Alsatian papers in hand. There they’d hole up in an out-of-the-way pension until Madame Breitscheid and Erika Bierman arrived, and then they would all set sail for the States.

  Varian dined with Danny that night at the Dorade, waiting for Vinciléoni’s driver to return. He had assembled various comforts in the secret warehouse room: sandwiches, wine, blankets to keep out the cold, a paraffin-burning lamp, a miniature medical kit in case of emergency. All that was missing now were Breitscheid and Hilferding. As Danny and Varian made their way through a stand of raw oysters doused in champagne and red pepper, then through a bouillabaisse light on fish but flavored with bright strands of black-market saffron, he tried not to consider everything that might go wrong. He kept seeing the car breaking down halfway to Marseille, the police stopping beside it; he saw Breitscheid and Hilferding arrested on the dock, or assassinated by snipers as their ship passed beneath the transport bridge.

  And then the door of the restaurant flew open, and in stalked a barrel-chested man in a black leather driver’s cap: Vinciléoni’s chauffeur. Varian let out a long breath: the men had arrived at last. But the chauffeur looked furious; he crossed the dining room and banged through the swinging doors to the kitchen, shouting for Vinciléoni. Above the din of pots and pans rose a burst of incredulous French. A moment later, Vinciléoni appeared at the kitchen door and beckoned to Varian.

  “Aequanimitas,” Danny said.

  “Thanks, Danny.”

  Varian got to his feet and followed Vinciléoni into the pumping heart of the restaurant. Between sous-chefs chopping leeks, fry chefs immersing baskets of fruits de mer in crackling oil, and busboys toting Pisa-towers of crockery, Vinciléoni leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, his generally impassive face tight with tension. Before him stood the chauffeur, twisting his hat in fury.

  “Idiots!” the chauffeur said in full-volume French, addressing Varian now. “Balls for brains! You paid good money to get them here, monsieur,
but they refused to get into my car. Refused!”

  “Slow down,” Varian said. “What happened exactly? What did they say?”

  “I arrived at seven at their hotel, just as you instructed. I waited in the alley until the appointed hour. Nothing. I waited another half an hour. Nothing! Finally I went inside—yes, I know I was not supposed to, but, monsieur, I didn’t know what else to do!—I went in and inquired at the desk. The clerk called the gentlemen’s rooms. Ten minutes later, a bellboy arrived with this.” He produced a note from his breast pocket and unfolded it. “Not tonight,” he read. “C’est tout.”

  Varian took the note from the chauffeur’s hand. “Christ,” he said. “Do I have to go out there and get them myself?” He looked at the chauffeur. “Can we leave at once?”

  “Absolutely not,” Vinciléoni said, frowning. “I can’t send the car to Arles again tonight. Too suspicious. Someone’s always watching.”

  “But the ship sails at five a.m.!”

  Vinciléoni took Varian by the arm. “Excuse us, Jacques,” he said to the driver. “Have a drink at the bar, on me.” The driver went out through the swinging doors, and Vinciléoni led Varian through the sea-smelling steam, down into the windowless office.

  “Monsieur Fry,” he said, settling behind the desk. “You can’t force Breitscheid and Hilferding to risk their lives. An unwilling refugee is the most dangerous kind, to himself and to anyone who tries to help him. There’s another ship on Thursday, a third on Friday. Go see your clients tomorrow. Make matters clear.”

  “How can I make matters any clearer? They must think they’re invincible!”

  “Well. Then you’ve done all you can, and now you must wait.”

  “That’s capitulation. There’s too much at stake.”

  “There are many lives at stake in this war, Monsieur Fry.”