SERVICE B

Night settled on the mountain villages in the late afternoon.

Sometimes a small café lit up a cobbled street, but the cold drifted in with the shadows and the people disappeared. Casson drove with his hands tight on the steering wheel, stopping often to peer at a map, trying to stay on the deserted roads that climbed the western slope of the Basses-Alpes.

He’d spent a long time outside Beaufort, doing what Degrave told him to do. He had managed to drag the bodies of the three miliciens into the Citroën, then drove it back toward the village to a place where the hillside fell sharply away from a curve in the road. He turned the engine off, set the gearshift in neutral, and pushed it over the edge.

It barely moved at first, the dense brush crackling under the wheels, then it sped up, bouncing over rocks and fallen trees, finally slewing sideways and rolling over, coming to rest upside down, its tires spinning slowly to a stop. It would be found, he knew, but not immediately, and all he needed was a few hours to be somewhere else when the alarm was sounded.

Degrave died sometime in the middle of the day. After he’d pushed the Citroën down the hill, Casson walked a long way back to the truck and moved him, very carefully, to the passenger side of the front seat. He was conscious for a moment—looked at Casson as though he didn’t know him, mumbled something, then closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window.

Casson drove to the next village as fast as the truck would go. He had intended to seek help from the local priest. It was the general rule, since 1940—if nothing else can be done, find the church, and the curé. But by the time they reached a village, Degrave was gone.

Casson drove north. The road wound through a narrow valley by a stream, its banks lined with poplar trees. He stopped the truck. Here, he thought. Degrave would have told him to do it this way, to do what needed to be done. But there was no shovel in the truck. He couldn’t leave Degrave to the dogs and the crows, so he rammed the shift back into gear and drove on. At the end of the valley he found a road marker, ST.-SYLVAIN—14.

The church was in the center of the village. Just inside the door he found a stand with tiers of burning votive lights. Casson took a fresh candle from the box, lit it, and fixed it with melted wax beside the others. Then he went to the vestry and knocked on the door. The priest answered, his dinner left on the table. He was young and bearded, his face weathered by life in the mountains.

Casson explained. A friend had died, he was in the truck outside the church. The priest looked Casson over carefully. “I will have to ask you,” he said, “if your friend died a natural death.”

Casson shook his head. “He was a soldier.”

Together they went to the truck, and Degrave was carried on a blanket into the vestry and laid on the stone floor. “Can we put a marker on the grave?” the priest said.

“Better not to,” Casson said.

The priest thought for a time. “A small plaque,” he said. “ ‘Mort pour la France.’ Among the dead of the last war, it won’t be noticed.”

He drove out of Saint-Sylvain into the darkness. No moon. A fine, light snow dusted the windshield. After an hour, he couldn’t go on. He pulled off the road, forced himself to eat a piece of bread, and drank some water.

He stared out the window; a meadow, the stubble white with frost. The engine ticked as the metal cooled. He was numb, too tired to think about anything. He put the Walther on the floor where he could reach it, pulled his coat tight around him, and fell asleep.

PARIS. 21 JANUARY.

Alexander Kovar wandered through the crowded waiting room of the Gare du Nord. He’d been contacted by Narcisse Somet—a meeting at 6:20 in the evening, when the station was busiest. He searched the faces, finally spotted Somet coming toward him from the entrance. Tinted spectacles, bluish-red nose and cheeks; easy to find in a crowd, Kovar thought.

They had been friends since they were fifteen years old, in Montmartre in 1908. This was not the artists’ quarter, it was the Montmartre where anarchists and thieves lived side by side, where street performers like Hercules and the Boneless Wonder were local heroes. Somet and Kovar had been drawn there by the preaching of the crippled anarchist who called himself Albert Libertad. Libertad was a legend, a passionate free spirit who loved fighting—using his crutches as weapons, the streets of Paris, and the poor. And, especially, women. He had died later that year, after a savage beating in a street brawl.

Together, Somet and Kovar had battled the police, lived on bread and green pears, written poetry, and made speeches on the boulevards. Revolution is now, today, in your heart, in the streets. By 1912 they had gone their separate ways, Kovar wandering among the mining villages of northern France, Somet to sea on tramp freighters. They’d met again in Berlin for a few days, during the back-alley brawls of the 1920s, then they’d had to run for their lives.

By 1936 they were both in Spain; Somet an administrative officer with the XIth International Brigade, Kovar the foreign correspondent for half a dozen Left newspapers in Paris and Brussels. But they’d had guns in their hands more than once—had fought side by side in the November defense of Madrid. Using his empty rifle as a club, Kovar had saved Somet’s life when a Moorish legionnaire had aimed a pistol at him at point-blank range.

The loudspeaker in the waiting room announced the seven o’clock train for Reims. Somet and Kovar embraced warmly and sat on a bench to talk.

“Alexander,” Somet said. “I think it may be time for you to disappear.”

“You don’t mean to Melun.”

“No. Far away. They’ve had some kind of meeting—a colonel brought in from the Center, a commissar, Weiss—”

“The eternal Weiss.”

“—and a man called Juron. Do you know him? Bald, wears thick glasses, doesn’t say much.”

“An NKVD thug. From the Foreign Directorate.”

“Yes. There’ll be another meeting, probably, with the French included, head of the FTP, head of the intelligence unit, but that will be a meeting for telling, not a meeting for asking. This was the Soviet control group, the shadow apparat.”

“What was it about?”

“I don’t know, my friend was downstairs. But a few days later this Juron questioned me—just how did I go about making contact with you. It came up in the middle of the discussion, but that’s what he wanted.”

Kovar thought it over. “Maybe I’d better run.”

“Do you need help? Money?”

“I can manage. My friends in Mexico are trying to get me a visa. Until then, I have to stay in France. How much time do I have?”

“Not much. I think once they get what they want from Casson’s friends, they’ll come looking for you.”

“They haven’t found me yet.”

“They will. Is there some way I can reach you quickly? By telephone?”

“I’ve been using a friend’s office in Paris, mostly at night.” Kovar gave him the number. Somet looked at his watch. “Are you taking the train for Reims?” Kovar asked.

“Yes.”

“If I don’t see you again, thanks for letting me know.”

Somet smiled—they would see each other again. “Take care of yourself, Alexander,” he said.

When they shook hands, Somet passed him five hundred francs and walked away before he could say a word.

Casson woke suddenly. It was 3:30. He reached under the seat for the map and the flashlight. Degrave had made him memorize a number in case of emergency—Lyons 43 12—and a protocol, then told him that in the Unoccupied Zone the safest telephones were to be found in railroad stations.

Casson ran the beam back and forth across the map and chose the town of Voirons. He started a few minutes after four and was there by midday, having stopped to siphon another tank of gas from the barrel in the back of the truck. He turned into the main street and asked a man walking a bicycle for the railroad station. “Tout droit,” the man said, waving directly ahead of him. That meant go straight, or, sometimes, I don’t know.

The railroad station was in the next street. He parked the truck, found the telephones, and dialed the number in Lyons.

A woman answered. “Calvert,” she said.

“This is Monsieur Rivette, I’m calling from the office.”

“Where are you?”

“Voirons. The railroad station.”

“Is there an emergency?”

“Yes. We were stopped by milice. Outside a village called Beaufort. The captain was killed.”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Are you being pursued?”

“No. The milice are dead.”

“And the rest?”

“I have it.”

“You are meant to go to Chalon. Can you get there by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where to go?”

“No.”

“First of all, you’re not to arrive at night. Truck traffic enters Chalon late in the afternoon, you have to be in the middle of it. On the Quai Gambetta that runs by the Saône, you’ll find the warehouses of the négociants—all the wine merchants in the region are headquartered there. The one you want is called Coopérative de Beaune. Pull up in the yard, ask for Henri. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“You have maybe a four- to five-hour drive from where you are. But you must go around Lyons—try to stay well east of the river. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Then, good luck.”

He left the station. The train from Paris had just arrived and he found himself in the middle of a crowd, people greeting friends, carrying baskets and suitcases, hurrying their children along. He stood by the truck and took a long look at the map. Route 75 ran north from Voirons, passing well east of Lyons, to Bourg, then to Tournus, where it joined the major north–south road, Route 6, and continued on into Chalon. All he had to do was drive to the edge of town and pick up Route 75. No problem. He started the truck, drove out of the railroad station area, and turned north on the grande rue.

Suddenly, metal ground on metal, the truck leaped forward and his head banged against the windshield. He went to jam the gas pedal to the floor —escape—then held up. Instead he braked hard and the truck rocked to a stop. He was a little dazed, stumbled out onto the street. All around, people had stopped to watch the show. A few feet behind the truck, a delivery van with its front bashed in and one headlight shattered.

The driver of the van was already out. A man in a peaked cap and an apron, his face bright red. He spotted Casson and shouted “Annnnhh”—the there he is! understood. A traditional sound, prelude to Homeric indignation. The crowd was not to be disappointed. The driver ran at Casson, shaking his fist. “You brainless fucking idiot,” he yelled, staggering to a halt.

“Wait—”

“Do you see what you’ve done to me? Dolt! Donkey! Don’t you look where you’re going?” He was so drunk he swayed back and forth as he was cursing.

“Calm down, monsieur,” Casson said. “Please.”

“Calm down?”

From the corner of his eye, Casson could see the approaching flic, walking toward them with that look on his face.

“Ah,” the driver said, glad to see the authorities.

“Shut up a second,” Casson said under his breath. “We can work this out between ourselves. Or maybe you just can’t live another minute without a visit to the police station?”

The man stared at him. What? He was so drunk, so much in the wrong, that he would defend himself like a lion. Casson, acutely aware of the Walther in his belt and the guns in the truck, took a wad of hundred-franc notes from his pocket and pressed it into the man’s hand and, using his other hand, curled the man’s fingers around it. Dumbfounded, the driver peered at the money; none of the catastrophes in his chaotic life had ever turned out this well.

The flic arrived. “It’s all settled,” Casson told him.

“You agree?” he asked the driver.

The driver blinked nervously, bit his lip, looked around for help. He knew there was more money to be had, but how to get it? “Well,” he said.

“So be it,” the flic said. “Your papers, right now.”

“No, no,” the driver said. “Nothing happened.”

The flic looked him over. “Go home, Philippe,” he said. “Go to bed.”

The driver staggered back to his van. With great concentration he managed to get the key in the ignition. He started the engine, the van lurched forward, then stalled. The flic put his hands on his hips. The driver started up again and drove away, with dark smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe. The flic turned to Casson, nodded his head at the truck. “Will it run?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then disappear.”

Casson drove slowly through the snow-covered countryside, bleak and silent. Now, there was nothing but the work of driving a truck, and it steadied him. As he got closer to Chalon the traffic increased. By cutting France into two countries, the Germans had created choke points at the border crossings—Moulins, Bourges, Poitiers, all the towns along the rivers. For the moment, Casson didn’t mind; it felt safe, one truck among many, all of them rumbling north together. But it took longer than he thought it would, and it was six-thirty by the time he found the Quai Gambetta and the warehouse of the Coopérative de Beaune.

Henri was waiting for him. Sitting with his legs dangling off the old wooden loading dock and smoking a cigar. “Enfin,” he said. At last you’re here. They stood together in the cold evening.

“What happened to Degrave?”

Casson told him.

“Milice.” He spat the word. “Degrave deserved better.”

He was, in military life, a sergeant. Casson had already guessed that by the time he got around to mentioning it. A sergeant—good at getting things done, by the book so long as it worked, by being crooked if that’s what it took.

He led Casson into the warehouse; wine in bottles, in small casks and huge wooden barrels. The air inside was thick, a cloud of manure, raspberries, vinegar. “We don’t help ourselves,” Henri confided, the smoke of his cigar hanging in the still air. “Hands off the Romanée. But they always put something out for us, over on the table. When you want to sleep, there’s a cot in the broker’s office. Can’t imagine why he put it there. Naps, maybe. Good for a few hours, anyhow—you look like you could use it.”

By five the next morning they were on the move, riding bicycles past the docks and warehouses, out to the residential districts. “We’ll go and have a look for ourselves,” Henri said, “to see how things are. But I suspect nothing’s changed.”

They pedaled up a long hill to a staid old neighborhood, plane trees and handsome street lamps, to a park on a bluff overlooking the western side of the city. Henri leaned on an iron railing and the two of them talked casually for a time, making sure they were alone. “Have a look,” Henri said, and handed over a pair of binoculars.

Casson could see out over the rooftops to Route 75. Parked by the road, a long line of trucks. Under the direction of German guards, the merchandise in the trucks was being searched; mounds of potatoes or coal probed with pitchforks, crates stacked on the ground, counted, and checked against shipping manifests.

He shifted the binoculars from scene to scene: a driver pacing and smoking, a soldier using a bayonet to pry open a packing case, an officer checking an upright piano—the panel above the keyboard had been removed, baring the strings and hammers. All of this overseen by a group of officers, standing beside an armored car, its machine gun trained on the search area. It would have taken only a moment of indecision, Casson realized. Staying on the main road instead of turning off on the streets that led to the river docks.

“Quite a show,” Henri said. “It didn’t used to be like this.”

“Anything we can do?”

“Oh there’s a way around it, there always is.”

They rode back down the hill, to a crowded market where they walked the bicycles. “One thing I have to let you know,” Henri said. “This is Degrave’s operation—he wanted it done, he ran it. And his friends are going to make sure it’s completed, we owe him that. But then, my guess is that senior officers won’t get involved. So, when it’s over, don’t be surprised if we disappear.”

They waited at the Coopérative until 8:20 in the evening. Henri killed time with stories—twenty years in the army, Beirut, Dakar, Hanoi, Oran. Then they backed the truck out of the loading area, drove to the edge of Chalon, and parked by a bridge. There they waited again. Casson stared out at the icy river, slow and gray, watched the girls, two by two, going home from work over the bridge. A policeman rode by on his bicycle, glanced at them sitting in the truck, but didn’t care. A tramp went past, possessions in a blanket roll on his back. “There’s the life,” Henri said. “Sleep under the stars, answer to no man.” Later on it began to snow. Henri was pleased. “God’s on our side tonight,” he said.

From the river, Casson heard the steady beat of an engine. A barge appeared, moving slowly against the current. It slid neatly below the bridge, then throttled back. On deck, a man walked up to the bow, a match flared. Henri clamped the cigar in his teeth and buttoned up his coat.

The barge was carrying gravel, a tarpaulin tossed casually over the middle of the load. Henri drove the truck onto the bridge and the man on the barge pulled the tarpaulin back, revealing a deep pit dug in the gravel. Sweating in the cold, Casson and Henri dropped the crates a few feet down to the man below, who stacked them in the pit. When the truck was empty, they drove it to the end of the bridge and parked.

“Anything in here?” Henri said. “Papers? Marked maps?”

“Nothing.”

They left the truck, climbed over the railing of the bridge, and dropped to the barge. The last crate lay two feet down, and the three men began to shovel gravel in on top. When they were done, Casson walked to the far end of the barge and leaned against the wall of the pilothouse. A young woman at the helm waved to him through the window. Casson lit a cigarette, his shoulders ached and he was breathing hard.

At the foot of the bridge, the door of the truck slammed shut, the sound sharp in the cold air. Then the engine started up, idled for a moment, and faded away in the streets by the river. Henri appeared out of the snow and handed him a coverall, black with grease and oil. “We have a cabin below,” he said. “Put this on when you get a moment. You’re a deckhand now, you have to look like one.”

Slowly, the barge got under way.

“We stay on the Saône up to the Burgundy Canal. That takes us north—to Dijon and Tonnerre, and up the river Yonne all the way to Montereau, near Versailles, where we get on the Seine. About three days, if the rivers don’t freeze.”

“The gravel goes to Paris?”

“Normandy. They’re building like crazy on the coast. Big stuff. Sand and gravel and cement, barged in from all over Europe.”

PARIS. 28 JANUARY.

Hands in pockets, face numbed by the wind, Marcel Slevin waited in a doorway on the rue Daguerre. Across the street, in an apartment owned by his uncle Misch, a Luftwaffe officer was getting ready to go out for the evening. A bomber pilot, a Nazi. Who would not see the sun rise again—if only he would get a move on before his assassin froze to death. Calm down, Slevin told himself, don’t let it get to you.

They had watched the German for three weeks—Slevin and the people who worked for Weiss. Learned where he went, and what he did. At one point, he’d disappeared. He was picked up by a friend at 8:32 and didn’t come home that night or the next. Gone to work, no doubt.

That had worried Slevin—maybe some Spitfire pilot had beaten them to it, setting Fritz on fire over Liverpool. Merde. But he was also secretly relieved. Lately he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, maybe he just wasn’t cut out for murder. Or maybe just not this murder. For one thing, the German pilot wasn’t what he’d expected. Not young, and no blond superman. He was tall and spindly, with sparse hair and a hawk nose, and to Slevin he seemed more like a pilot for Lufthansa than the Luftwaffe.

The first night of surveillance, Slevin thought his prey might be going off to the nightclubs to meet “Bébé” or “Doucette,” but who he went to see was Lohengrin. And then, the next night, back for seconds. Ten days later it was Rigoletto. He would take the Métro to the Opéra station, join a milling crowd of officers and diplomats, wives and girlfriends, all smiling and jabbering away in that godawful language. He would say hello to this one or that one, then take a seat in the balcony. And, when the opera was over, back he went to the rue Daguerre.

Slevin waited, stamping his feet to keep warm. In his pocket he had a small revolver, bought from a friend in the garment district who loaned out money at a very high rate of interest. He’d taken a long, careful look at his prey and had his escape route well planned out. The streets around the rue Daguerre weren’t so different from the Marais, passages and tunnels and alleys—some blind, some not. After the shot he would scoot, a ten-second sprint to a shed where he’d hidden a bicycle. A few seconds more and he’d be just one more Parisian on the street.

Slevin’s plan had been drawn up after careful study of the terrain, and depended on a particular feature of the pilot’s Métro stop, Denfert-Rochereau. The staircase went down twenty steps, to a landing hidden from the street, then turned back and continued down forty steps to the platform. That landing, once the crowds thinned out after 7:00 P.M., was invisible from above and below. The pilot would, for a moment, be alone and unseen. And then, no more Lohengrin.

Hurry up.

Slevin stared angrily at the door across the street. He was scared. He didn’t want to do this. Weiss and the guys in the FTP were tough—worth your life to fuck around with them—but he wasn’t, not really. He was all talk and he knew it. Well, now look what he’d talked himself into.

The pilot came out of the apartment and stopped for a moment as the door swung closed behind him. Topcoat, white silk scarf, tuxedo. He looked up at the sky and took a deep, satisfied breath, glanced at his watch, and strolled off toward the Métro.

Slevin waited a moment, then followed, moving among the last few shoppers and the merchants rolling down their shutters for the night. The pilot took his time, obviously enjoying the street life.

Denfert-Rochereau was a large, busy station, a major correspondance where several lines came together and riders could transfer from one to another. But this was not the main entry—the staircase simply led to the end of the platform, useful if you wanted to ride in the last car.

The pilot dropped a jeton in the turnstile and headed for the staircase. He was one of those people who run down stairs, letting their momentum do the work, sliding a hand down the banister.

“Hey.”

The pilot stopped on the landing, turned halfway around. Yes? A young Frenchman behind him. Short, a real monkey. What did he want?

Slevin drew the revolver from his pocket and fired. Down on the platform, a woman screamed. Slevin and the pilot stared at each other. What?

Slevin pulled the trigger again but this time, click, nothing at all. The pilot’s reflexes kicked in and he turned and ran, flying down the stairs toward the platform. Slevin took off after him, cursing under his breath, tears in his eyes. He skidded around the landing, ran halfway down the staircase, now in full view of the passengers below. They saw the pistol, some screamed, some ran, some went to the floor. The pilot leaped over them, head down, running with long, loping strides. Slevin steadied himself, aimed, pulled the trigger. The shot echoed up the tunnel, a tile in the wall beside him shattered as the cylinder was blown into it.

Slevin stared at the pistol, stared through it.

He turned and ran back up the stairs. Out the entrance, down a narrow passage between two high walls, and into a weedy yard behind a workshop. He reached into the shed, grabbed the bicycle, and pedaled for his life, throwing the pistol over a wall into somebody’s garden. He stood on the pedals, racing down a cobbled lane and out into the avenue. A few people were riding along in a group. He drew even with them and slowed down. Just then, the sirens started up.

The bicyclists looked around to see what was going on. A fire? An accident? Always something, around here.

Hour by hour, the barge pushed its way north. It wound through fields, always, it seemed to Casson, distant from houses and people. The sky stayed heavy, with thick, tumbled cloud rolling west, and gray light from dawn to dusk. Sometimes it snowed, a January that would never end.

He had almost nothing to do. He read a pile of old newspapers; the Red Army had been repulsed in its efforts to break the siege of Sevastopol. The Wehrmacht was fully engaged in the Mozhaisk sector, sixty-five miles from Moscow, where the temperature was −70° Fahrenheit. Sometimes he talked to Jean-Paul and his wife, who took turns steering the barge. They usually brought the kids, they said, but not this trip. Sometimes he talked to Henri. At night, a bottle or two of sour red wine broke the monotony. “We fill these up every fall at a little cave down in Languedoc. Not so bad, eh?”

They had gone through the German border Kontrol just north of Chalon. Twelve barges had to be processed, and the Germans didn’t get around to them until midnight. Then another hour, while the border guards poked around and looked under things. A German corporal drove a steel rod into the gravel, tried three or four places, and that was that. The barge was doing Third Reich business—the load en route to a French contractor working for the German construction authority—so the papers got a fast once-over and they were sent on their way.

Ten hours upstream, in Dijon, they docked for an hour and re-fueled. Jean-Paul went off to buy bread and haricots blancs, a little oil, and a newspaper. They turned west on the Langres plateau and then north, the next morning, toward Montbard, barges hauling fuel—Casson could smell it—headed south on the other side of the canal. “Gasoline,” Jean-Paul said. “Going across the Mediterranean, for Rommel’s tanks.”

At night, Casson slept on a burlap mattress stuffed with straw in the small cabin he shared with Henri. There was no heat, and, as tired as he was, the cold kept waking him up. Finally he went out on deck. No stars, just dark fields stretching out to the edge of the world, and willow trees along the bank, their branches hanging limp in the frozen air. He stared out into the night and thought about his movies, about Citrine, about Marie-Claire. His old life. Finished, he thought, he couldn’t go back. He’d played the part of someone else for too long, now he was someone else. He thought about Hélène, about the things they did together in his hotel room.

He got up and walked back toward the pilothouse. Jean-Paul’s wife was heating water on the woodstove. “Come in,” she said. “At least it’s warm. I’m making chicory, if you’d like some.”

He waited at the table, lighting a candle and reading the newspaper they’d bought in Dijon. Attack in Paris Métro. An attempt on the life of a German flying officer had failed. In reprisal, a thousand Jewish doctors and lawyers had been deported.

31 JANUARY.

The Seine, south of Paris. A hard, bright dawn, the sun on frost-whitened trees. Factories and docks and sheds, half-sunk rowboats, workers’ garden plots—stakes pulled over by bare vines. The Michelin factory, one end of it charred, windows broken out, old glass and burnt boards piled in a yard. Bombed, and bombed again. The smell of burned rubber hung in the morning air.

The river Kontrol was at Alfortville, just upstream from the madhouse at Charenton. Very brisk, dozens of soldiers with machine guns, Casson could feel the tension. The Germans weren’t fooling around, but they had no interest in gravel barges that morning. A sergeant waved them through after just a glance.

The quai at Ivry, and far enough. Even there, in the chaos of docks and factory streets, Casson could feel the life beating in the city. The barge was tied up to a wharf, Henri went off to the porte d’Italie, among the thieves and the produce merchants, and returned late that afternoon with a truck—the smell of earth and rotting vegetables almost overpowering when they opened the rear doors. Painted on the side, the name of a wholesaler.

After dark they dug the crates out of the gravel and loaded them in the truck. Jean-Paul went to buy something for dinner and came home with a piece of bright red meat wrapped in newspaper. His wife put it in a pot with salt and wine and cooked it for a long time.

“What is it, do you suppose?” Henri said.

“I didn’t ask,” Jean-Paul said. “It’s fresh. Filet de Longchamp, maybe.” Longchamp was the race track.

“It was an ox,” Jean-Paul’s wife said.

After supper, Casson lay down on his mattress to rest and went out like a light. The next thing he knew, a hand was on his shoulder. “Yes?”

Henri, his coat buttoned up, leaned over and handed him a key. “For the truck,” he said.

Casson sat up.

“So,” Henri said. “From here on . . .”

“Are you going?”

“Yes.”

They shook hands. “Good luck to you,” Henri said.

Casson wanted to say something, thank you or see you soon, but Henri melted away into the darkness.

At daylight, he nursed the cold engine to life and drove around the neighborhood until he found a garage. The owner helped him back the truck into a wooden stall—the garage had been a stable only a few years earlier—then said a month’s rent would be a thousand francs.

“A thousand francs?”

“You’re paying for peace of mind,” he said. “There’s somebody here at night. And a couple of dogs, big ones.”

Casson paid. He walked for a block or two, then saw a taxi with one of the new wood-burning engines mounted on the back.

“Where to?”

“The Hotel Benoit.” He watched as the city went by. He got out at the hotel, went to his room, and slept for twenty hours.

Call Hélène. He was barely awake, still trying to figure out where he was. He’d had powerful dreams; a woman, a boardwalk by the sea. She pulled her dress up, put her foot on a bench and fixed the strap on her sandal. He kicked his way out of bed and struggled to stand up, then he went to the window and moved the curtain aside. Gray winter Paris, nothing more.

“Agence Levaux, bonjour.”

“Bonjour. Mademoiselle Schreiber, s’il vous plaît. ”

“Un petit moment, monsieur.”

Casson waited. At the hotel desk, a fiftyish couple was checking in. He looked at his watch, 10:30 A.M.

“Hello?”

“Hello, it’s me.”

“Thank God you’re back.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Merde.” She switched to a professional voice. “I believe it sails the ninth, monsieur, from Copenhagen.”

Casson waited a moment. “All right now?”

“Yes.”

“Will you meet me for lunch?”

“The little bar on Marigny, just off the boulevard. One-fifteen.”

“I’ll see you then. I missed you.”

“I’m sorry, here we go again,” she said. “Certainly—I’ll have it in the mail this evening.”

“One-fifteen,” Casson said.

He stood on the corner of the rue Marigny and watched her coming down the boulevard, walking alongside a short, dark-haired girl and a blond woman with a bright red smile; shoulders braced, head held high. Victorine? Very tightly wound, he thought. A high forehead, blue veins at the temples, they would pulse when she was angry.

“See you later!” Hélène called out as she left the other two. They waved and continued down the boulevard.

When she spotted Casson her face lit up. As they embraced she said, “Did you see her?”

“The blonde.”

“Yes. The other one was my friend Natalie.”

They went into the bar and sat at a small table. “There’s been all kinds of trouble,” she said. Casson ordered a carafe of wine and beet soup, the only dish on the blackboard.

“What happened?”

“Well, first of all, Degrave.”

“You know?”

“They told Laurette.”

“How is she?”

Hélène shook her head.

“You’re spending time with her?”

“When I can.”

“Not much else you can do.”

“No. You can’t just sit there, so you say things, but . . .” A waiter brought the carafe, the soup, and a basket with two small pieces of bread. “The bread’s for you,” he said.

“Then, a few days ago, Victorine called me into her office—she’s the supervising agent now.”

“The job you gave up.”

“Yes, and I thought that was the end of it.” From Hélène, a rueful smile. “She was quite concerned, she said. About me. I wasn’t doing so well. Letting things go, not keeping up with my correspondence. I would simply have to try harder. Or else. She didn’t say that, but she didn’t have to.”

“And you said?”

“I crawled. Agreed with her, promised to do better.”

Casson nodded. “No choice,” he said.

“A day went by, then another. I kept out of her way and did my work—if she wanted everything perfect, that’s what she’d get. I thought, she’s just letting me know who’s boss. But then she called me in again. This time I was really scared, but she was pleasant enough. She asked me some questions about a client, I told her what she wanted to know, and then we chatted. She went on for a while, something about her mother needing medicine, how life was getting harder, everything so expensive. I was nodding and smiling, wondering when she was going to let me go out of there, and then she said, ‘Hélène, I’m afraid I must ask you to lend me a thousand francs.’ ”

About half a month’s salary, Casson guessed. “What did you do?”

Hélène shrugged. “What could I do? I gave it to her. Went to the bank at lunchtime and cleaned out my account. And then, a week later, she asked again. I said I couldn’t help her, I didn’t have it. She didn’t say anything right away, but she was angry. I’d seen it before—she doesn’t stop smiling but you can sense some kind of rage inside her. She has it under control, but not for long. After a while she looked at me and said, ‘I’m sure your people can help you, Hélène. You’ll just have to swallow your pride and ask.’ ”

“Your people?”

“That’s what she said.”

Casson thought for a moment. “She’s going to turn you in.”

“I know.”

“When I was at Degrave’s house, in Cassis, he gave me a name— a man who can help you get out of the country.”

“Degrave is gone, Jean-Claude.”

“Even so, we have to try.” He paused, then said, “How much does she want now?”

“Another thousand.”

“I’m going to give it to you. She has to have it today, after lunch. It will keep her from going to the police, she won’t do that until she’s sure she’s got everything you have.”

“Jean-Claude,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

He reached under the table, took her hand and held it tight. “And when you give it to her, be casual. You know the game, you don’t mind playing it, you and she are in this together.”

They went that evening. He’d looked up the name in the telephone directory, found several de la Barres but only one in the 7th— André, Textes de Médecine Anciens.

A maid let them in and led them down a long hallway lined with bookcases that rose to the ceiling. In the room that served as an office it was the same. De la Barre was in his late seventies—at least that, Casson thought—bent by age into the letter c, so that he looked up at the world from beneath thick, white eyebrows. “How may I help you?” he said.

Casson was direct. He told de la Barre that Hélène had to leave France, and that they had come at Degrave’s suggestion. Casson wondered if he knew who they were. Have you been told it’s a favor for a friend? De la Barre listened intently, but his face could not be read. When Casson was done, the room was very quiet. De la Barre looked at them for a full minute, making up his mind. Finally he said to Hélène, “Is it urgent, madame?”

“I’m afraid it is,” she said. Briefly, she explained her situation.

He opened a drawer and studied a list of some kind, then ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t promise,” he said. “We can only send a few people, and even then . . .”

“I have to try,” Hélène said.

“Of course,” de la Barre said gently.

Again, he consulted the drawer. “We will help you to cross into Vichy, that much is easy, and you can continue on to Nice. From there, you will have to sail to Algiers—still French territory, but you can find your way to neutral ports. The ship is Italian, the San Lorenzo, a small freighter that carries twenty or thirty passengers—it’s up to the captain. The next sailing is scheduled for a week from today, the eleventh of February, but it is always delayed. The weather turns bad, or the engines break down, or the shipping authority in Nice delays all departures for military reasons. Of course, working in a travel agency, you’re familiar with the situation.”

Hélène said she was.

“And speaking of that,” de la Barre said, “I wonder if you could do me a small favor? The agency must use a great variety of forms, is that right?”

“All sorts—for steamships and railroads and hotels. Of course they’re not valid until they’re stamped by the Germans.”

“No,” de la Barre said. “Of course not.” The edge of irony in his voice was so finely cut that Casson wondered if he’d actually heard it. “Even so, I would greatly appreciate it if you’d select a few of each, whatever you have, and make a small package for us. And while you’re at it you might include some stationery.”

“With pleasure,” Hélène said.

“On your train ride down to the Unoccupied Zone, someone will open the door of your compartment and say, ‘Any room in here?’ They’ll look directly at you when they ask, but you don’t have to answer. Later, go out into the corridor and give the package to that person. Don’t be furtive, simply hand it over.”

Hélène agreed.

“Now what you’ll need to do at work is ask for some time off— we don’t want you to disappear suddenly. Do you have some vacation days you can take? Good. Explain the request as a family emergency. Is there any reason why travel documents into the Unoccupied Zone shouldn’t have your name on them?”

“Not that I know about.”

“Good. Before you go, give me your identity card and I’ll copy off the information. You’ll need to travel south on the Monday night train, stop by here at seven or so and we’ll give you the permit.”

Hélène handed over her identity card. While de la Barre was writing, Casson walked around the room. Phrénologie. Physick. La Théorie de l’Alchimie de Jehan le Breton, in wood boards. “I should mention,” de la Barre said, “that you’ll need enough money for an extra week in Nice—not for a hotel, you’ll stay in an apartment. But sailings are at ten-day intervals, and if we can’t get you on the first one, we can try for the next.”

Afterward they went to a café. Hélène was flushed, excited. Casson ordered Ricon.

“My God,” she said. “Monday.”

“I know,” Casson said. “We have the weekend.”

On Thursday morning he took a train to Melun and left a message for Kovar. Late that afternoon, a response was dropped off at the hotel desk—a meeting at 9:30, same place.

He went out to the Gare du Nord quarter and found the office building. On the second floor, behind a set of double doors, was the Madame Tauron School of Ballet and Modern Dance. He could just make out the measured notes of a piano as he climbed the stairs. What was that? He paused for a moment and listened. Erik Satie, Gymnopédies. He could hear the shuffling of feet and a voice that echoed in a vast room. “Yes, and yes, and three.”

The third floor was dark, and deserted. Except for Alexander Kovar, behind somebody else’s cluttered desk. “Welcome,” Kovar said. Casson was pleased to see him.

“Still at it?” Kovar said.

“Yes,” Casson said. He could hear the piano on the floor below.

Kovar took a slightly bent cigarette from his shirt pocket, carefully tore it in two, and gave Casson half. “Maybe you have a match?” he said.

Casson lit their cigarettes. “The guns are in Paris,” he said. “So I need to contact the FTP.”

“A success,” Kovar said.

“So far.”

“I’ll talk to my friend.”

“And you—you’re surviving?”

“As usual. I think, the last time I saw you, I’d just quit my job at Samaritaine. Now I’m back to my old tricks, writing for the risqué weeklies.”

“Vie Parisienne?”

“Oh yes, and Le Rire. Under several pseudonyms—each one has his specialty. For example, the story of Mimi, the dance-hall girl. Adrift in the backstreets of Pigalle, innocent as a lamb, and headed full speed for debauchery.”

“But, somehow, never quite gets there.”

“No. Something always comes up. One week the frites catch fire. Next installment, a surprise visit from Uncle Ferrand.”

“Wicked Uncle Ferrand.”

“So it turns out—poor Mimi. When I get bored with that, I write ‘The Inquiring Reporter.’ I ask men with beards, ‘do you sleep with it over or under the sheet?’ Then I did one on ‘my favorite recipe for Lapin du Balcon.’ ”

“Guinea pig?”

“Yes.”

“You actually do it—go around and inquire?”

“Are you mad? Half the world is looking for me. I barely go out in the street.” He laughed. “Actually, it’s not so bad. I’ve been on the run for a long time, eventually you get used to it.”

Casson tapped out his cigarette in a saucer on the desk. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he said. “What do you think will happen here?”

“The war will go on. For a few years, anyhow, until the Americans get organized. Then, probably, civil war.”

“Here?”

“Why not? The right is finished, what with Pétain and Vichy. So, after the Germans leave, the Gaullists and the communists will fight it out. For myself, I plan to be somewhere else.”

“When the war ends.”

“Sooner. Maybe a lot sooner. I may see you again, Casson, but there’s a good chance I won’t. In a day or two you’ll be in direct contact with the FTP. They’ll ask about me—how we met, and where. Please, don’t tell them. Not about Melun, and especially not about this office. Can I depend on you for that?”

“Of course.”

Suddenly Casson realized that it was his fault, that Kovar had to leave because of what he’d done. He started to say it, then didn’t.

They stood and shook hands. “Bon courage,” Kovar said.

They decided to spend their last weekend in the country. Casson told himself he didn’t care about the money, and they could go to a hotel where travel agents got a discount. Friday after work they took the train up to Vernon, across the river from Giverny, and a taxi down a poplar-lined road to an inn where the paysagistes used to stay while painting the valley of the Seine. In the room, blue Louis the Fourteenths bowed to blue courtesans on the wallpaper, and through a tiny window under the eaves they could see, if not the Seine at least the Epte, its tributary. There was a fireplace with a basket of sticks, and a sepia photo of Berthe Morisot, hung slightly askew to hide a hole in the plaster.

They walked by the Epte, had the Norman omelet supper— obligatory for the demi-pension—went upstairs to drink the bottle of Algerian wine they’d brought from Paris. Took off their clothes, walked around naked in the firelight, made love.

A little broken, both of them, Casson thought. But that couldn’t be permitted to spoil things. The idyll at the country inn was like meeting for a drink or going to a dinner; you knew how to do it, you were good at it. Away from the husband, the wife, all the vengeful smiling and chattering of Parisian existence, stripping the blanket down to the end of the bed and getting to the urgent sixty-nine with all passionate speed. Once upon a time a cure, he remembered, a cure for almost anything, but different now—more had to be forgotten. There had been a moment, Hélène sprawled luxuriant across the quilt, her colors pale and dark rose in the firelight, when desire suddenly fled and what he saw struck him as fragile, vulnerable.

He wasn’t alone; she was also, sometimes, adrift, he could sense it. She was certainly adept, knew everything there was to know, and if the fire inside her was low she would make sure it was blazing in him. They managed, they managed, enough art to get to pleasure, the gods of the country idyll victorious in the end. She flopped back, her head off the bed and upside down, which made her voice a little strangled. “Enfin,” she said. “Something that felt good.”

They stared into the fire for a time. It was quiet on the river at the end of the road, only the old beams of the inn creaking in the winter air. He turned to look at her, saw tears in her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Scared?”

She was.

“I’ll miss you,” he said.

Again she nodded.

“When you reach Algiers, I want you to write me a postcard. So I know you’re safe.”

“I will. To the hotel?”

“Yes. And just to be on the safe side, write one to Natalie too. Did you ask for vacation?”

“I had to go to the office manager, but he’s always been nice to me. And then to the dragon herself. At first she was suspicious, but I told her I was going to see an old family friend. I didn’t actually say it, but she got the idea he was rolling in money—nothing he wouldn’t do for me.”

“Good.”

“Maybe I’ll send her a postcard.”

Casson laughed. “Maybe you should.”

“Will I ever see you again, Jean-Claude?”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Swung her feet over the edge of the bed, crossed the room, and put a piece of wood on the fire. Her silhouette against the firelight was slim and curved.

“Lovely,” he said.