Red Gold (15 page)

In the thirties, his luck held. Joining the Nazi Party in 1933, he’d made good use of the blond maidens whose patriotic duty it was to fuck his brains out. Usually in a forest, on a carpet of pine needles, but he’d learned to live with that. The fantasies were pretty much the same, only the girls had given up slinking in favor of frolicking, the prescribed form for Aryan womanhood. Sullen ennui gave way to lusty giggles and they saved a bundle on the eye shadow.

But Paris was a different proposition. Stationed at Gestapo headquarters, essentially a military clerk, he discovered that Frenchwomen were not quite as he’d imagined. Many of them wouldn’t have anything to do with Germans, which was understandable, but some would. Unfortunately, the best of those went to the officers, and what remained for the enlisted men was not to Albers’s taste. Very materialistic, he thought. They didn’t want exotic adventures, they wanted little gifts.

For a long time, he tried. A chubby redhead, who worked in a shop; an overworked housewife, her husband off somewhere; but they turned him down. For one thing, there were language difficulties. He wasn’t sure how the French talked about such things, to be subtle or artful was out of the question. “What,” they said, freezing up, “do you want?” Forced to say words from a dictionary, he came off as a boor or a pervert, or both.

But none of this mattered on the rue St.-Denis. You paid for your pleasures and the women were quick to figure out what you wanted and what you would pay to get it.

A gray, bleak afternoon, Albers walked with hands in pockets, past frowzy blondes and swarthy Corsicans, past a fat girl stuffed into a child’s jumper, past a
dominatrice
wearing a broad leather belt and a fearsome scowl. Past housemaids and Marie Antoinettes and femmes fatales with cigarette holders. Oh the trashy circus of it, he thought, yearning for the giggling pine maidens in their dirndls.

But wait, wait one minute, what have we here? Brown hair snipped off in a pageboy, tatty old coat, submissive little smile, spectacles, and holding no less than a Bible in both hands. Both mittens. A mouse! Why not? It was, Albers thought, at least a beginning.

EVREUX. 14 DECEMBER.

They drove north in the late afternoon, slowly. With snow and ice on the roads, the old Renault skidded now and then. Bare trees, empty fields. Weiss did not like the countryside in the winter.

He was a doctor that day, which allowed him, under Occupation rules, to drive the car. A pediatrician, working in the factory districts. Surprising, the number of doctors and nurses in the party— a year or two working with the poor and they joined up. But, of course, nothing guaranteed anything; the doctor who wrote under the name Céline had worked with the poor, and now shrieked against the Jews on the radio.

Outside the town of Mantes he had to apply the brakes and slid to a stop behind a Wehrmacht truck. Troops with rifles between their knees sat on facing benches.

“Look at them,” Ivanic said.

“Better not,” Weiss said. “They don’t like to be looked at.”

Slow truck, Weiss thought, maybe he should pass. But there was possibly a motorcycle in front, or a staff car, and they might stop him. His papers were good. A doctor’s black bag was on the seat in the back, and Ivanic would be explained as a patient.
This man has
tuberculosis, please don’t get too close to him. Sir.

Weiss looked at the men in the truck. A sergeant sat on the end of the bench, his white face vacant, almost hypnotized. Weiss pulled out to pass, the Renault coughed and sputtered. Slowly, he overtook the truck. Then he saw a car speeding toward him. Now this, he thought. The other driver saw he was stuck in the passing lane and slowed to a crawl, but the driver of the truck never touched his brakes. Weiss finally pulled back in—behind another Wehrmacht truck. Apparently he was in the middle of a convoy.

“Where are they going, do you think?” Ivanic said.

“One of the ports, Caen or Antwerp. Off to Russia, maybe.”

“That must be it,” Ivanic said. Then, softly, to the men looking out the opening in the canvas cover, “Good-bye.”

The Russians were fighting back now, finally. It took forever to get anything organized in that place, Weiss thought. With them, chaos was fine art. He’d been there twice—more than enough. Ordered to Moscow in 1934 and again in ’37, he’d somehow survived both purges. He’d made a point of staying away from the cliques, the
khvosts,
and luck had handed him one or two of the right bosses. Also, he kept his mouth shut, kept his opinions to himself. In Paris, before the war, he’d met Willi Muenzenberg, who ran magazines and cultural events for the Comintern. A law unto himself, Muenzenberg—Moscow could say what it wanted, he was a citizen of the world. “We should get together sometime,” he told Weiss. “And talk things over.” It never happened, Weiss made sure it never happened. In the days after the Germans reached Paris, amid the general disorder, Muenzenberg was beaten up and hanged from a tree.

He passed the second truck, and a third, the road was empty after that. Weiss accelerated. The Renault backfired, ran like a greyhound for half a mile, then settled back to three cylinders, valves tapping like a drum solo, the smell of gasoline so strong they had to open the windows.

“What’s going on with Casson and Kovar?” Weiss said.

“Kovar’s not so easy. We had him, then we lost him. We’ve gone back to Somet but, according to him, Kovar materialized out of the night, then disappeared. We’ll find him, of course. Only a matter of time.”

“What about the other one, Casson?”

Ivanic shrugged. “Say when.”

They came to a village, shut down for winter, squat little granite houses and a Norman church. “What’s this?” Weiss asked.

“Bonnières.”

“Hm.”

“Not far now.”

“No.”

“Looks like the road goes left, over the bridge.”

He drove straight ahead. The street narrowed to a lane, a young girl leading a cow on a rope moved over to let them by.
“Merde,”
Weiss said. The lane ended at a meadow. Weiss started to back up to turn around. Reverse gear whined and the wheels spun in the icy mud. He swore.

“Hold on, I’ll give us a push.”

“In a minute.” Weiss pressed the clutch pedal to the floor, let it up very, very slowly until he felt the wheels start to turn. The car moved backward. He stopped, shifted into first gear, got halfway round, backed up, then drove down the lane. The little girl still had the cow over to one side—she lived in Bonnières, she knew they’d be back.

Weiss turned right at the bridge, a sign on the other side said EVREUX 34.

It took some time to find Brico’s street. The workers’ district ran on forever, high walls, barely enough room for the car. Weiss could see redbrick chimney stacks in the distance, smoke barely moving in the frozen air. Finally, rue de Verdun. The Germans would eventually change the name, but they probably weren’t in a hurry to come in here. Weiss looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after five. Unless the shift worked overtime, the workers would be heading home. Brico was a party member. He’d helped to distribute
Le Métallo,
a version of
Humanité
for metal workers, edited by Narcisse Somet. Too bad, Weiss thought, but that didn’t change anything, that only made it worse.

Weiss parked the car, then settled down to watch the rearview mirror. The street was deserted, only an orange-and-white cat lying curled up on Brico’s windowsill. Brico’s door opened, a lean woman in an apron banged a dust mop against the edge of the stone step, said something to the cat, then went back inside.

The first workers started to come off shift; a teenager racing his bicycle, two men riding side by side. The factory whistle sounded twice, and twice again.

“Any sign?” Ivanic said.

“No.”

Ivanic reached inside his jacket, took out an automatic pistol, and freed the magazine from the grip. He studied the top bullet and pressed it lightly with his finger to make sure the spring had tension before reassembling the gun, ramming the magazine home with the heel of his hand.

“Everything all right?”

Ivanic nodded.

“Don’t go inside,” Weiss said.

“I won’t.”

Weiss glanced in the mirror. A crowd of men were walking up the street. A moment later, Brico. Ivanic knew before Weiss had a chance to say anything, pulled the brim of his cap down low and got out of the car.

Weiss watched the two of them talking. He saw Ivanic nod his head toward the car. Brico said something, Ivanic agreed, and the two of them walked slowly toward him. Ivanic waited while Brico climbed into the back seat, then got in next to him. As the car moved off, the two of them talked, about production schedules, cell meetings, leaflets. Brico seemed to know a lot about what went on in the factory. He was short and muscular, with big hands, and very sure of himself.

“They put the shift back up to twelve hours,” he said. “After all the shit we went through in ’38.”

Weiss turned down a back road at the edge of the town and parked by a field. Brico said, “What’s all this?”

Weiss spoke for the first time. “When Renan was shot, the Germans knew what was going on. You turned him in.”

“That’s a lie,” Brico said.

“No,” Weiss said. “We know.”

“I have a family,” Brico said.

“So did Renan.”

Ivanic took the gun from inside his jacket. Brico swallowed. “It had to be like that,” he said. “You people sit down there in Paris—” He didn’t finish. It was quiet in the car.

“Out,” Ivanic said.

Weiss watched as Brico, head down, walked away from the car. Ivanic took him into the field and shot him.

The lawyer’s office was in the lawyers’ district, on the rue Châteaud’Eau. This was not the neighborhood for grand offices, Casson thought, his old lawyer friends wouldn’t be caught dead here. This was where the notaries worked, and the
huissiers—
bailiffs—who collected bad debts by breaking down the door and taking everything except, by law, a bed, a chair, and a cooking pot. The lawyers on these streets made out wills, then helped the heirs sue each other, these lawyers presided over property disputes that carried over from one generation to the next. And these lawyers defended criminals, like the merchant Vasilis.

Casson climbed the staircase, passing a variety of
avocats
and
notaires,
a marriage broker and an astrologer, before he found the office—a cramped room on the top floor. “Georges Soutane,” the lawyer said, as they shook hands. Sharp, Casson thought. Beginning to thicken in his late thirties but still boyish, with sharp eyes, and essentially fearless. His desk was piled high with papers— separated only by a green ribbon tied around each file. After a few pleasantries, he got down to business. “Captain Vasilis is in prison,” he said.

That much Casson knew, the inspector had told him.

“In Holland,” he added.

“For a long time?”

“A couple of months to go,” the lawyer said. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

“What’s he in jail for?”

“Herring. A boat working out of Rotterdam, without licenses.”

“We have something a little different in mind.”

“Of course. But what matters here is money. If you’re prepared to pay, we’re ready to consider almost anything.”

“We’re prepared to pay.”

“What, in general terms if you like, are we talking about?”

Casson paused. “I would prefer to discuss it with Captain Vasilis.”

“Well, I’ll have to take you up there, so you can expect to pay for my time along with everything else. What’s the scale of the purchase?”

“Significant. A million francs at least, likely a good deal more.”

Now the lawyer was interested. He looked Casson over. One of those individuals, Casson thought, with no family or social connections to ease his way in the world, but smart, very smart—only his mind between him and the poorhouse. “There’s a question of currency,” he said. “It’s something we’ll have to talk about.”

“You have a preference?”

“We’ll take Swiss francs, gold, diamonds, American dollars. If this is going to involve French francs, it will require some negotiation. I won’t say we’ll refuse, but the figure is going to be higher— we’ll have to discount the rate heavily in our favor. To be blunt with you, monsieur, French currency simply isn’t worth anything.”

“Yes, we know that.”

“And you will have to pay a very substantial portion of the money before we can proceed.”

“We know that too,” Casson said.

The lawyer nodded
—so
far, so good.
“We will consider anything of value,” he said. “Paintings, for example. Substantial properties in the countryside. A business, or even a hotel.”

“Money would be best,” Casson said.

“For us as well.” The lawyer opened a drawer and took out a small calender with circled dates. “This coming Thursday—is that too soon for you?”

“Not at all.”

“Thursday is visiting day. Other arrangements are possible, but this is the simplest way. You’ll have to tell the prison authorities you’re a lawyer, or a relative.”

“What kind of prison is it?”

“The administration is Dutch, not German. It’s a prison for tax evaders, people like that. Captain Vasilis has a room in the hospital.”

“Not too bad, then.”

“No. This is the sort of thing that can happen in peacetime just as easily as in war. One other thing I’ll need to ask you. I trust your identity papers will permit you to cross borders—without, ah, special attention?”

“It won’t be a problem.”

“Good. Officially, you’ll be my associate. The prison administration is quite understanding.” He took a railway timetable from the drawer. “There’s a local that leaves from the Gare du Nord Thursday morning at 9:08. The local is the French train—the Germans like to get places in a hurry so they take the express. If the track hasn’t been blown up, we’ll be in Amsterdam by early evening, and we can see Captain Vasilis the following morning.”

Casson stood to go. “I’ll see you on Thursday, then.”