by M. L. Huie
She’d been running him for several months. He was a low-lying member of the PCF, the French communist party, who’d turned double when she started talking francs. Despite his status or lack thereof, his information had been top notch. Today, he was scheduled to deliver the coup de grace: a list of PCF officials who’d met with Soviet agents after the May elections.
The spot for this particular meet—in front of this spectacular crucifixion mural—had been chosen by the agent. Perhaps, he reasoned, the last place anyone would expect to find a godless Soviet spy would be ogling a painting of Jesus.
Perched on a bench a few feet from the painting, Livy silently cursed the man she knew as Barnard. He’d never been late before. Tension ran down her spine. The sensation felt all too familiar.
Livy knew every nook and corner of Paris. The city felt like a second home. Her mother, sweet Marion, had been born here. When she drank wine, her mother would often break out into a warbly rendition of “Plaisir d’amour.” Livy could still hear her voice.
“Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment
Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie.”
Memories of her mother’s voice had helped get her through the war. Dropped behind enemy lines in 1943 as part of a network of British agents, Livy had to learn quickly to deal with the constant anxiety of suspicion and the fear of capture. She knew that someone who looked like an ordinary Parisian might stop you outside a café and ask for a light. “Bien sûr, monsieur.” Then, the vulnerable moment—match held high—as two others race out of the shadows to bundle you into a waiting car. Next stop, an unlit basement room for interrogation at the notorious Avenue Foch.
Even today, an occasional shiver ran down her back when she walked the streets. The shadows of the Nazi occupiers—vanquished for three years now—still lurked in the city’s darkness.
A cry of laughter from a three-year-old running through his father’s long legs brought her back to the present. The summertime crowds had recently returned to the Louvre in droves. On this Saturday in late June, lines of visitors dawdled from painting to painting, taking in the art like they had all the time in the world.
Livy felt none of their calm. She rocked on her heels, trying to keep her focus on the painting. Something about this meet didn’t feel right. Her nerves felt like icicles.
Seven minutes late now. Where was the man?
Agents weren’t late unless they’d been blown or picked up a tail. Barnard—who’d been saddled with the code name “Tempest”—had been a dedicated member of a communist resistance cell during the war. When it ended, he decided to lend his talents to the Russians. Livy’d invested ample time working him, gaining his trust, and making certain for herself that he was what he appeared to be. At first she hadn’t trusted Barnard. He lacked the passion of a devout Marxist. His eyes didn’t brighten when talking about a global worker’s revolt. But when the subject of francs came up, he became a bit more animated.
Behind every good communist is a capitalist looking to negotiate a better deal.
Where was the man? Livy’s insides were fit to pop. She felt sweat against her blouse. Dammit, she’d waited long enough.
She rose from the bench and spun on her heel toward the stairwell a good thirty yards away.
There he stood.
Barnard always struck her as a bit like one of Shakespeare’s clowns. Comic by appearance and nature, but just obtuse enough you weren’t ever quite sure if he was supposed to be funny. He sauntered toward her, his crown of thick black curls covered by a beret of all things. After that—baggy coat, baggy trousers, baggy face. Even a baggy smell.
He stopped in front of the painting and rocked on his heels, waiting.
Livy moved next to him and feigned interest.
“Every time I come here, this is the painting I must see,” he said in English. They’d always used French before.
Livy took the opportunity to move closer. “Monsieur?”
“It moves me. I don’t know why, but it does.”
She weighed the pros and cons of being seen in conversation with Barnard. Total strangers discussing art must happen hundreds of times a day. Enthusiasts studying brush strokes and what-not.
Livy’d seen the painting before, of course, but had never stopped to consider it. This was a crucifixion piece unlike the millions that hung in churches around the world. Jesus and the other two men on the hill, nailed to their crosses. Their bodies sagged. A roiling dark cloud hung behind them. This wasn’t realism, no. Scenes from the life of the Messiah fought for space on the canvas. In the upper right corner, Jesus ascended into a shimmering sphere along with a multitude of souls, all reaching up.
Barnard couldn’t take his eyes off it. “It’s breathtaking up close. You can feel the paint, the texture. Like it’s alive. Breathing.”
Art class needed to be over soon, or she’d leave her suddenly pious Red to commune with his savior.
“It can’t be here, you know that,” she said, keeping her eyes on the wall.
“What? Oh, I’ll go in a moment.”
“There’s a bench just behind us. I’m going to have a sit—”
He grabbed her cuff and pulled her closer. Livy stiffened. She resisted the urge to push him aside and run. This didn’t feel right.
“You’re not listening to me,” Barnard said, pointing at the three men on the cross. “There, you see, this is so much bigger than us. This makes me feel insignificant, tu comprends? Insignificant enough that they just might leave me alone.”
Livy placed her hand on his. “Of course,” she said. She hoped the gesture appeared comforting, even though she wanted to slap his face and remind him why they were there.
Instead, she asked quietly, “Who is it you want to leave you alone?”
“All of you,” he said, turning away from the painting to walk to the bench.
Livy kept her focus on Jesus just long enough for the suddenly emotional Barnard to gather himself on the bench behind her. Pirouetting, she took the opportunity to scan the long gallery and see if Barnard had been followed. A tail would be tough to spot in the Louvre tourist crowds, but once she’d ruled out the families, the lovebirds, and the old folks, that left only a few options. Her pulse began to normalize.
She positioned herself behind Barnard on the bench as if to observe the painting from a distance. Livy’s mind raced through the next few moments so quickly she had no answer when a Parisian Lothario, old enough to know better, said to her, “A thing of beauty, no?”
Frenchmen take those Charles Boyer pictures way too seriously.
Nevertheless, the flirtation provided cover. Livy dipped her chin coquettishly and eased back toward Barnard and the stone bench. Once seated beside him, looking in the opposite direction, she unfolded her map of the Louvre and pretended to find her next destination.
“Did you bring it?” she said quietly in French.
“Oui, oui. Right here.” He patted his baggy coat.
“You seem anxious today. Vous semblez nerveux.”
“I’m tired.”
He smelled like black market booze. The scent took her back to just after the war, when most nights her best friend was a costly bottle of Polish vodka. She’d ended all that last year. Her life felt different now. Cleaner. But the reminders were always there.
Barnard shoved his big, fleshy hand into his coat and removed a dirty A9 envelope. He studied it. “Will this buy me a little freedom?”
Livy’s face flushed. She knew Barnard was prone to mood swings.
“My people will let you know,” she said. Livy placed her museum guide on the bench next to Barnard’s envelope.
She reached for the larger package and his moist hand fell on top of hers.
“You know there is another way of looking at that painting,” he said. “That we all are on a path to the cross.”
Livy couldn’t remove her hand without drawing attention. Any sudden movement meant they’d be seen, heard, and possibly remembered.
“It’s not that, Miss Nash.”
Damn the bugger. Her name now.
“No matter what we do, they get us in the end.” He released her hand and pocketed the museum guide. “They always do.”
* * *
Before Livy could respond, Barnard pushed away from the bench; shuffled through the crowd, past his favorite painting; and was gone.
She folded the greasy envelope he’d left behind into her purse. No time to check and make sure it contained a list of names and addresses. Nor had he taken the time to count the francs in the envelope she’d brought.
This just didn’t feel right.
His hasty departure brought back an all-too-familiar vulnerability. The sensation of being the hunted, with no idea where the hunter might be lurking.
Trying to ignore the panic coursing through her body, Livy turned toward the opposite exit at the end of the long hall. Barnard had limited her choices for leaving. He’d scrambled away in one direction, leaving her only option being the long hallway to her right, which lead to the stairs and then, eventually, the front entrance. She’d just started to scan the crowd that aligned her exit route when two men strolled into her field of vision at the same time.
One man—balding and mustached, a flat cap clinched in his fist—stepped through the tall archway near the stairwell about twenty yards away. He wore a light blue jacket over gray trousers.
Across the way from him, another man. Straw trilby paired with a gray wool suit.
Both looked overdressed for Paris in the summer. Both alone. Both looked like they’d be more at home on holiday in the Crimea than in the Renaissance Hall of the Louvre. Did that little baggy-pants bastard set her up? “They always get us in the end.” Damn him. Practically a warning. Although his behavior had seemed more like that of a condemned man than a nervous double.
No time to think now. She had to get out.
Livy’s focus narrowed to the archway. The gauntlet up ahead. Flat Cap on her left. Straw Hat closer on the right. Her heartbeat spiked as she edged closer. She licked her dry lips and took a deep breath. Would they try and take her here? So many people around.
Ten yards now. Flat Cap pivoted to the center of the room, away from an oil portrait. Straw Hat crossed his arms and stepped deeper into the hallway. In ten feet, Livy would pass within arm’s length of him. The archway loomed. More tourists entered. A family who looked lost and an older couple, breathless from the stairs.
Straw Hat turned toward her as she passed. Would he move on her now?
Something struck her leg. Livy flinched and grabbed her purse with both hands. The little boy. The three-year-old who’d run between his father’s legs earlier rushed past Livy, brushing her skirt, on his way to the archway and the staircase beyond. She gasped. The boy’s embarrassed father shuffled past her, uttering a quick apology. Flat Cap and Straw Hat looked at her.
Livy scolded herself. A little boy touches her and she draws attention. What’s wrong with me? Stupid!
She passed between the two men without incident. Livy tried to bring her breath under control.
They wouldn’t have taken her there anyway. A gendarme would have been summoned. “Constable, these two men suddenly grabbed this poor woman. We will never again tolerate this in Paris.”
She knew how Russians worked. Far more subtly than the Gestapo. Their secret police tactics had been honed for almost thirty years. They would wait until she got outside. So, Livy had to lose them somehow.
Fine, she would be someone else now. Play another part. A woman hurrying to the front of the museum to meet her lover. A look at her watch. Oh yes, the time had gotten away from her, and he was waiting. Mon dieu! She hoped he hadn’t been there long.
The little game in her head quickly gave way to more realistic thoughts as she approached the first landing of the winding stairs. There, in the turn, she’d know her odds. She held her handbag tight against her body. The last few steps now. Then, the landing. She turned. A quick glance up.
Straw Hat stepped through the upper archway, unmistakably heading in her direction.
Down another floor, Livy pivoted on the next landing. The flow of foot traffic upstairs thickened, but Straw Hat stuck out. Behind him, maybe ten paces, strolled Flat Cap, his partner.
Barnard had sold her out. No doubt now.
Livy’s heel scraped on the edge of a step as a wave of dizziness passed through her. She had to keep moving. If she kept her distance, she’d have an advantage. A small one, but it could be decisive.
Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, the main entrance would send her out into the concrete plaza in front of the great U-shaped museum. Perhaps fifty yards from there to the Tuileries Garden, and then to the crowded Place de la Concorde, where, if her luck held, she might be able to flag a taxi.
No, they’d be smarter than to let her get away. Somewhere between here and the street, they’d take her by the arms, smiling, helpful. From there, a quick walk to a waiting automobile. She’d be shoved into the back before the car sped away, then secreted to an MGB safe house in the city. What then? They’d be smart enough to know that she was much more than a journalist. Self-respecting foreign correspondents don’t plan meet-ups with spies in the center of Paris. They might even know about her war background.
So, they’d bleed her. See how much she knew. Lock her in a dirty basement room. Take her clothes. Keep her dirty, hungry, and unsure of what was to come while they waited for her to talk.
Images of the war flashed through Livy’s mind. Caught finally by the Gestapo at a roadblock. Then, prison. She still felt the dampness of that cell in her bones. The fear rampant in her veins. Naked, cold, and hungry. Alone. Her face bruised from repeated beatings. Then, the waiting. Wondering when would they come for her. When would it be her time?
Livy’s foot hit the floor on the main level of the museum. The sight of the outdoors and sunshine calmed her briefly. She picked up her pace. Forget caution. The fear was a part of her.
Up ahead, the exit and beyond. She could see the light of the afternoon. She glanced back to the bottom of the stairwell. Straw Hat stepped onto the main floor, headed in her direction.
Livy had no plan, no idea what to do. Her resourcefulness—which she’d called upon so often in the past—left her as fear rumbled in her gut. She passed through the entranceway and into the brightness of a Paris afternoon.
She allowed herself one quick turn back. Both men stood near the entrance now. They maintained their distance, not speaking to each other, but Flat Cap and Straw Hat were on the move.
Livy turned and slammed into a tall blue wall. She tried to back away but couldn’t. The long arms of a gendarme, one of the tallest men she’d ever seen in Paris, held her tight.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said, a broad paternal smile spreading across his face.
Livy resisted the impulse to bolt. Her heart thumped so hard in her chest she felt sure he must hear it.
“Forgive me,” she said in English. She struggled for words, a tourist who didn’t speak the language, trying to be clear. “I—um—it is my mother—you see, monsieur.”
The gendarme had her bag in his hand. The snap at the top had come undone. The greasy envelope Barnard had left her peeked out from the opening. The police officer was trying to make sense of it. A woman running from the Louvre. A thief?
How close would her pursuers be now?
“My mother, monsieur—very sick.” She spoke slowly, voice rising. “I have to hurry, you see.” A woman on the verge of tears. She placed a hand on his chest where they had collided. Holding herself up. Lifting her eyes to his. The confused gendarme tipped his kepi and stood aside, holding the handbag out for her.
Livy resisted snatching it from his hand. She snapped it shut. “Thank you—um—merci, monsieur.”
“Avec plaisir.” And the now-gallant gendarme stopped the procession to the exit just long enou
gh for Livy to break free of the crowd.
She dared not look back. The progress of Straw Hat and Flat Cap would be delayed, but not for long. No choice now but to make her way through the gardens and pray a taxi or streetcar would be passing.
Livy ran. The tightness of her skirt tugged at her legs as she shuffled past groups of tourists making their way to the museum. More than one stood aside; many more stared.
At any moment, she expected a hand on her shoulder or the tug at her elbow. What would she do? Shrug it off? No, it would come again. Harder this time, like a vise. She knew how to defend herself. Her training during the war gave her confidence that she could take one man down. But two? A pair of Moscow-trained hoods would have no problem with one woman, no matter how well she could handle herself.
Just bloody well don’t let them get you.
Further away from the entrance, the crowds thinned. Keeping her eyes on the horizon, Livy saw a few cars crisscrossing the street ahead. Traffic would be lighter midday, but Parisian taxis seemed to outnumber cars in the capital two to one.
Her lungs strained as she ran harder. She’d gotten soft. She felt it in her ragged breath. Two years on rations, yes, but still she’d had regular meals and plenty of sleep. She should have been ready for this. Should’ve recognized the weakness in her agent. Damn Barnard!
Then, up ahead, her savior.
A black Peugeot cruised along the Place de la Concorde just beyond the gardens. The familiar taxi sign clearly visible on the passenger door.
Livy waved frantically. Still too far away to be heard, but the sight of this escape route ahead gave her legs new life.
Miraculously, the car slowed. She saw the silhouette of the driver’s head turn toward her. The taxi stopped.
But for another passenger. The man in the flat cap approached the car from the boot. Somehow he had beaten her there. Straw Hat must be right behind her. How?
Livy stopped. Still another ten yards from the car. But so vulnerable in the open. She had nowhere to go.
Flat Cap had his hand on the passenger door. He turned and looked at Livy.
“No, no, monsieur,” another voice spoke in a husky Parisian dialect. The taxi driver had rolled down his window. He was speaking to Flat Cap. “The mademoiselle hailed me first. Another car will be along shortly, monsieur.” The cabbie waved her forward.