Alan Furst - The Foreign Correspondent

“I don’t have any photographs.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t.”

“Should I give it to Kolb, tonight?”

“No, write ‘Mrs. Day’ on the outside of an envelope and leave it at the desk of the Bristol. Before noon, is that clear?”

“It will be there.”

Brown, much persecuted by life’s sudden surprises, shook his head. Then, resignation in his voice, said, “Andrew.”

The driver knew what that meant, slid the taxi through traffic to the curb, then stopped. Brown leaned across Weisz and opened his door. “We’ll let you know,” he said. “And, meanwhile, best finish up your work with Ferrara.”

Weisz headed for the office, anxious to write what Brown had requested, and equally anxious to have a look at the previous night’s dispatches, but there was nothing further on the Berlin spy ring. For a moment, he had himself persuaded that this was a reasonable pretext for a call to Eric Wolf, then acknowledged it wasn’t, unless Delahanty asked. Delahanty did not ask, though Weisz mentioned it. Instead, Delahanty told him he had to be on the one o’clock train to Orleans, where the president of a bank had left town with his seventeen-year-old girlfriend and a substantial portion of his depositors’ money. Off to Tahiti, it was rumored, and not, as he’d announced at the bank, to a meeting in Brussels. Weisz worked hard for an hour, writing down everything he knew about Christa’s life, then, on his way back to the Dauphine to pack his valise, he stopped at the Bristol.

When Weisz returned to Paris, at midday on the ninth, there was trouble at the office. “Please go immediately to see Monsieur Delahanty,” the secretary said, a malicious gleam in her eye. She’d long suspected that Weisz was involved in some sort of monkey business, now it looked like she’d been right and he was going to get his comeuppance.

But she was wrong. Weisz sat in the visitor’s chair, across from Delahanty, who stood and closed his office door, then winked at him. “I did have some doubts about you, laddie,” he said, returning to his desk, “but now it’s all cleared up.”

Weisz was mystified.

“No, no, don’t say a word, you don’t have to. You can’t blame me, can you? All this running off, here and there. I asked myself, what the hell’s going on with him? Emigres always up to something, the way the world sees it, but work has to come first. And I’m not saying it hasn’t, almost always, since you started here. You’ve been faithful and true, on time, on the story, and no nonsense with the expense reports. But then, well, I didn’t know what was going on.”

“And now you do?”

“From on high, laddie, as high as it gets. Sir Roderick and his crowd, well, if they value anything, they value patriotism, the old roar of the old British lion. Now I know you won’t take advantage of this, because I do need you, got to have the stories, every day, or there’s no bureau, but, if you have to, well, disappear, now and then, just let me know. For God’s sake don’t just vanish on me, but a word will suffice. We’re proud of you, Carlo. Now get out of here and write me a follow-up on your filing from Orleans, that naughty banker and his naughty girlfriend. We’ve got her photo, from the local rag, it’s on your desk. Smoldering little thing she is, in a confirmation gown, no less, with a fooking bouquet in her hot little hand. Go to it, laddie. Tahiti. Gauguin! Sarongs !”

Weisz stood up to leave, then, as he opened the door, Delahanty said, “And, as for this other business, I won’t mention it again. Except to say good luck, and be careful.”

Somewhere, Weisz thought, in the backstage apparatus of his life, someone had turned a wheel.

10 June, 9:50 P.M., Hotel Tournon.It’s something I never want to go through again, but it made me the brother of every soul in Europe who looks out at the world through barbed wire, and there are thousands of them, no matter how much their governments try to deny it. It was my good fortune that I had friends, who secured my release, then helped me to start life anew in the city where I’m writing this. It’s a good city, a free city, where people value their freedom, and all I would wish for you, for people everywhere in Europe, everywhere in the world, is that they can, some day, share this precious freedom.It won’t be easy. The tyrants are strong, and grow stronger every day. But it will happen, believe me it will. And, whatever you have to do, whatever you may turn to, I will be there beside you. Or someone like me-there are more of us than you might think, we are just down the street, or in the next town, prepared to fight for what we believe in. We fought for Spain, and you know what happened there, we lost the war. But we haven’t lost hope, and, when the next fight comes, we will be there. And, as for me personally, I won’t give up. I will remain, as I have been these many years, a soldier for freedom.

Weisz lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chair. Ferrara came around behind him and read the text over his shoulder. “I like it,” he said. “So, we’re finished?”

“They’ll want changes,” Weisz said. “But they’ve been reading the pages every night, so I’d say it’s pretty much what they’re after.”

Ferrara patted him on the shoulder. “Never thought I’d write a book.”

“Well, now you have.”

“We should have a drink, to celebrate.”

“Maybe we will, when Kolb shows up.”

Ferrara looked at his watch, it was new, and gold, and very fancy. “He usually comes at eleven.”

They went downstairs to the cafe, below street level, at one time the cellar of the Tournon. Inside, it was dark and almost deserted, with only one customer, half a glass of wine at his elbow, writing on sheets of yellow paper. “He’s always here,” Ferrara said. They ordered brandies at the bar and sat at one of the battered tables, the wood stained, and scarred by cigarette burns.

“What will you do, now that the book’s finished?” Weisz said.

“Hard to say. They want me to go on a speaking tour, after the book comes out. To England, maybe America.”

“That’s not unusual, for a book like this.”

“Can I tell you the truth, Carlo? Will you keep a secret?”

“Go ahead. I don’t tell them everything.”

“I’m not going to do it.”

“No?”

“I don’t want to be their toy soldier. I’m not like that.”

“No, but it’s a good cause.”

“Sure it is, but not for me. Trying to read a speech, for some church group…”

“What then?”

“Irina and I are going away. Her parents are emigres, in Belgrade, we can go there, she says.”

“Brown doesn’t care for her, I guess you know that.”

“She’s my life. We make love all night.”

“Well, they won’t like it.”

“We’re just going to slip away. I’m not going to England. If there’s a war, I’ll go to Italy, and do my fighting there, in the mountains.”

Weisz promised not to tell Kolb, or Brown, and when he wished Ferrara well, meant it. They drank for a time, then, just before eleven, returned to the smoky room. That night, Kolb was prompt. When he’d read over the ending, he said, “Fine words. Very inspiring.”

“You’ll let me know,” Weisz said, “about any changes.”

“They’re really in a hurry now, I don’t know what’s gotten into them, but I doubt they’ll take much more of your time.” Then his voice turned confidential and he said, “Would you step outside for a moment?”

In the hallway, Kolb said, “Mr. Brown asked me to tell you that we have news about your friend, from our people in Berlin. She’s not in custody, yet. For the moment, they’re watching her. Closely. Sounds to me like our people kept their distance, but the surveillance is in place-they know what it looks like. So, keep away from her, and don’t try to use the telephone.” He paused, then said, concern in his voice, “I hope she knows what she’s doing.”