Alan Furst - The Foreign Correspondent

It was still dusk when Weisz arrived at the rue des Saussaies; the vast building filled the sky, the men with briefcases streaming in and out through its shadow. As before, he was directed to Room 10; a long table, a few chairs, high window behind a grille, dead air heavy with the smell of cooked paint and stale cigarette smoke. Inspector Pompon awaited him, accompanied by his older colleague, his superior, the cop, as Weisz thought of him, grizzled and slumped, who now introduced himself as Inspector Guerin. They were informal that evening, jackets off, ties loosened. So, friendly inspectors, for this meeting. Still, Weisz sensed both tension and expectation. We’ve got him. Do we? On the table before them, the green dossiers, and, once again, it was Pompon who took notes.

Weisz wasted no time getting down to business. “We’ve obtained information,” he said, “that may interest you.”

Pompon led the questioning. “We?” he said.

“The editorial committee of the emigre newspaper, Liberazione. ”

“What do you have, Monsieur Weisz, and how did you get it?”

“What we have is evidence of an Italian secret service operation, in this city. It’s at work now, today.” Weisz went on to describe, without using names, Elena’s pursuit of the man who’d approached her supervisor, the interrogation of Veronique and the subsequent meeting with Elena, his telephone call to the Photo-Mondiale agency and his doubts about its legitimacy, the committee’s attempt at surveillance of 62, boulevard de Strasbourg, and the letters he’d found in the agency’s mailbox. Then, from the notes he’d brought with him, he read out the names of the French bank, and the addresses in Zagreb.

“Playing detective?” Guerin said, more amused than annoyed.

“Yes, I suppose so. But we had to do something. I mentioned, earlier, the attacks on the committee.”

Pompon slid the dossier over to his colleague, who read, using his index finger, the notes of a meeting with Weisz at the Opera cafe. “Not much, for us. But the investigation of the murder of Madame LaCroix is still open, and that’s why we’re talking to you.”

Pompon said, “And you believe this is related material. This spy business.”

“Yes, that’s what we think.”

“And the language your associate heard, beneath the staircase, was Serbo-Croatian?”

“She didn’t know what it was.”

For a moment, silence, then the inspectors exchanged a glance.

“We may look into it,” Guerin said. “And the newspaper?”

“We’ve suspended publication,” Weisz said.

“But, if your, ah, problems are eliminated, what then?”

“We’ll continue. More than ever, now that Italy has allied herself with Germany, we feel it’s important.”

Guerin sighed. “Politics, politics,” he said. “Back and forth.”

“And then you get war,” Weisz said.

Guerin nodded. “It’s coming.”

“If we investigate,” Pompon said, “we may be back in touch with you. Has anything changed? Employment? Domicile?”

“No, it’s all as before.”

“Very well, if you should find out anything else, you’ll let us know.”

“I will,” Weisz said.

“But,” Guerin said, “don’t go trying to help, not anymore, right? Leave that to us.”

Pompon went back over his notes, making sure of the names and addresses in Zagreb, then told Weisz he could go.

As Weisz left, Guerin smiled and said, “ A bientot, Monsieur Weisz.” See you soon.

Back on the rue des Saussaies, Weisz found a cafe, likely the Interior Ministry cafe, he thought, from the look of the men eating dinner and drinking at the bar, and a certain muted quality to the conversation. Pressed for time, he gobbled down the plat du jour, a veal stew, drank two glasses of wine, then called Salamone from a pay telephone at the back of the cafe. “It’s done,” he said. “They’re going to investigate. But I need to see you, and maybe Elena.”

“What did they say?”

“Oh, maybe they’ll look into it. You know how they are.”

“When do you want to meet?”

“Tonight. Is eleven too late?”

After a moment, Salamone said, “No, I’ll pick you up.”

“At the rue de Tournon, the corner of the rue de Medicis.”

“I’ll call Elena,” Salamone said.

Weisz found a taxi outside the cafe, and by eight he was at Ferrara’s hotel.

They worked hard that evening, doing more pages than usual. They were up to Ferrara’s entry into France and his internment at a camp near the southwestern city of Tarbes. Ferrara was still angry, and didn’t spare the details, well focused on the bureaucratic sin of indifference. But Weisz toned it down. A flood of refugees from Spain, the sad remnants of a lost cause, the French did what they could. Because the Pact of Steel had changed the political chemistry, and this book was, after all, propaganda, British propaganda, and France was now, more than ever, Britain’s ally in a divided Europe. At eleven Weisz rose to leave-where was Kolb? Out in the corridor, as it happened, headed for the room.

“I have to see Mr. Brown,” Weisz said. “As soon as possible.”

“Anything wrong?”

“It isn’t the book,” Weisz said. “Something else. About the meeting last night.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Kolb said. “And we’ll arrange it.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Weisz said. “There’s a cafe, called Le Repos, just down the rue Dauphine from the Hotel Dauphine. At eight.”

Kolb raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how we do things,” he said.

“I know, but this is a favor. Please, Kolb, time is important.”

Kolb didn’t like it. “I’ll try. But, if he doesn’t show up, don’t be surprised. You know the routine-Brown picks the time, and the place. We have to be careful.”

Weisz was an inch away from pleading. “Just try, that’s all I ask.”

Out on the street, Weisz walked quickly to the corner. The Renault was there, its engine missing as it idled. Elena was sitting next to Salamone, and Weisz climbed into the backseat, then apologized for being late.

“Don’t worry about it,” Salamone said, ramming the shift lever until it clunked into first gear. “You’re our hero, tonight.”

Weisz described the meeting at the Interior Ministry, then said, “What we have to discuss now is something else-something I found out about last night.”

“Now what?” Salamone said.

Weisz told Elena, briefly but accurately, about the Ferrara book, an operation of the British SIS. “Now they’ve approached me on the subject of Liberazione, ” he said. “Not only are they eager to see us back in business, they want us to grow. Bigger printing, more readers, wider distribution. They say they’ll help us to do that, and they’ll provide information. And, I have to add that I want to use the opportunity to save a friend’s life, a woman’s life, in Berlin.”

For a moment, nobody said anything. Finally, from Salamone: “Carlo, you’re making it hard for us to say no.”

“If it’s no, it’s no,” Weisz said. “For my friend, I’ll find another way.”

“‘Provide information’? What is that? They’ll tell us what to print?”

“It’s the alliance,” Elena said. “They wanted Italy to stay neutral, but, whatever they were doing, it didn’t work. So, now, they have to turn up the heat.”

“Jesus, Carlo,” Salamone said, hauling at the wheel and turning into a side street. “You of all people-it sounds like you want to let them do it. But you know what happens. A foot in the door, then a little more, and soon enough they own us. We’re spies, us.” He laughed at the idea. “Sergio? The lawyer? Zerba, the art historian? Me? The OVRA will take us apart, we can’t survive in that world.”