Alan Furst - The Foreign Correspondent

“Of medium height. With a slim mustache, face pitted on one side, and something about his eyes, the way he looked at me, I didn’t like. He wore a gray hat, with a green feather in the band.”

“The man who came here had dirty fingernails,” Veronique said. “And his French was not Parisian.”

“I never heard him speak, although I can’t be sure of that. He went up to the office, then one man came out, followed by two others, who spoke, not French, I’m not sure what it was.”

Veronique thought it over. “The mustache is right. Like Errol Flynn?”

“A long way from Errol Flynn, the rest of him, but, yes, he tries for the same effect. What to call it, ‘dashing.’”

Veronique grinned, men. “The mustache just makes it worse-whatever it is, about him.” She scowled with distaste at the image in her memory. “Smug, and sly,” she said. “What a vile little man.”

“Yes, exactly,” Elena said.

Weisz looked dubious. “So what shall I tell the police? Look for ‘a vile little man’?”

“Is that what we’re going to do?” Elena said.

“I suppose we will,” Weisz said. “What else? Tell me, Elena, was the language you heard Russian?”

“I don’t think so. But perhaps something like it. Why?”

“If I said that to the police, it would stir their interest.”

“Better not,” Elena said.

“Let’s go to the cafe,” Veronique said. “I need a brandy, after this.”

“Yes, me too,” Elena said. “Carlo?”

Weisz stood, smiled, and waved a gallant hand toward the door.

2 June, 10:15 A.M.

Weisz dialed the number on the ten-franc note. After one ring, a voice said, “Yes?”

“Good morning, is this the Agence Photo-Mondiale?”

A pause, then: “Yes. What do you want?”

“This is Pierre Monet, from the Havas wire service.”

“Yes?”

“I’m calling to see if you have a photograph of Stefan Kovacs, the Hungarian ambassador to Belgium.”

“Who gave you this number?” The accent was heavy, but Weisz’s ear for French wasn’t sharp enough to go beyond that.

“I think somebody here wrote it on a piece of paper, I don’t know, maybe from a list of photo agencies in Paris. Could you take a look? We used to have one, but it’s not in the files. We need it today.”

“We don’t have it. Sorry.”

Weisz spoke quickly, because he sensed the man was about to hang up. “Maybe you could send somebody out-Kovacs is in Paris today, at the embassy, and we’re very pressed, over here. We’ll pay well, if you can help us out.”

“No, I don’t think we can help you, sir.”

“You’re a photo agency, aren’t you? Do you have some specialty?”

“No. We’re very busy. Goodby.”

“Oh, I just thought…Hello? Hello?”

10:45.

“Carlo Weisz.”

“Hello, it’s Elena.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at a cafe. They don’t let us make personal calls at the store.”

“Well, I called them, and whatever they do, they don’t sell photographs, and I don’t believe they take assignments.”

“Good. Then that’s done. Next we have to meet with Salamone.”

“Elena, he’s only home a few days from the hospital.”

“True, but imagine what he’ll think when he finds out what we’re doing.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“You know I am. He’s still our leader, Carlo, you can’t shame him.”

“Allright. Can we meet late tonight? At eleven? I can’t take another night off from, from the other work I’m doing.”

“Where should we meet?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call Arturo, see how he wants to do it. Can you call me back? Can I call you?”

“No, you can’t. I’ll call after work, I get off at six.”

Weisz said goodby, hung up the phone, and dialed Salamone’s number.

At the Hotel Tournon, Colonel Ferrara was a new man. Smiling, relaxed, living in a better world and enjoying his life there. The book had moved to Spain, and Weisz pressed the colonel for details of the fighting. What was commonplace to Ferrara-night ambushes, sniping from the cover of stone walls, machine-gun duels-would be exciting for the reader. Liberal sympathies could be invoked, but when it came to bullets and bombs, to putting one’s life on the line, here was the ultimate reality of idealism.

“And so,” Weisz said, “you took the school?”

“We took the first two floors, but the Nationalists held the top floor and the roof, and they wouldn’t surrender. We climbed the stairs and threw hand grenades up on the landing, and the plaster, and a dead soldier, came down on our heads. There was a lot of yelling, commands, and a lot of ricochet….”

“Bullets whining…”

“Yes, of course. It is very awkward fighting, nobody likes it.”

Weisz worked away on his typewriter.

A productive session, most of what Ferrara described could go directly into print. When they were almost done, Ferrara, still telling battle stories, changed his shirt, then combed his hair, carefully, in the mirror.

“You’re going out?” Weisz said.

“Yes, as usual. We’ll drink somewhere, then go back to her room.”

“Is she still at the nightclub?”

“Oh no. She’s found something else, at a restaurant, a Russian place, Gypsy music and a cossack doorman. Why not come along? Irina may have a friend.”

“No, not tonight,” Weisz said.

Kolb arrived as they were finishing up. When Ferrara hurried off, he asked Weisz to stay for a few minutes. “How’s it going?” he said.

“As you’ll see,” Weisz said, nodding toward that night’s pages. “We’re doing war scenes, from Spain.”

“Good,” Kolb said. “Mr. Brown and his associates have been reading right along, and they’re pleased with your progress, but they’ve asked me to suggest that you emphasize-and you can go back in the manuscript, of course-the German role in Spain. The Condor Legion-pilots bombing Guernica in the morning, then playing golf in the afternoon. I think you know what they’re after.”

So, Weisz thought, the Pact of Steel has had its effect. “Yes, I know. And I’d imagine they’d want more about the Italians.”

“You’re reading their minds,” Kolb said. “More about the alliance, what happens when you get into bed with the Nazis. Poor Italian boys slaughtered, Blackshirts strutting in the bars. As much as Ferrara remembers, and make up what he doesn’t.”

“I know the stories,” Weisz said. “From when I was there.”

“Good. Don’t spare the details. The worse the better, yes?”

Weisz stood and put on his jacket-he had his own, far less appealing, night meeting ahead of him.

“One more thing, before you go,” Kolb said. “They’re concerned about this affair Ferrara’s having, with the Russian girl.”

“And?”

“They’re not really sure who she is. You know what goes on here, femmes galantes “-the French expression for female spies-“behind every curtain. Mr. Brown and his friends are very concerned, they don’t want him in contact with the Soviet spy services. You know how it is with these girls”-Kolb used a squeaky voice to imitate a woman-“‘Oh here’s my friend Igor, he’s lots of fun!’”

Weisz gave Kolb a who’s-kidding-who look. “He’s not going to break it off because he might meet the wrong Russian. He could well be in love, or damn close to it.”

“In love? Sure, why not, we all need somebody. But maybe she’s the wrong somebody, and you’re the one who can talk to him about that.”

“You’ll just make him mad, Kolb. And he won’t let her go.”

“Of course he won’t. He may be in love, who can say, but he’s definitely in love with getting laid. Still, all they’re asking is that you raise the issue, so, why not. Make me look good, let me do my job.”