Alan Furst - Red Gold

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 Chateaud’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.”

“Yes. One last thing-of course we assume that you’re coming to see us in good faith. I should mention, however, that Captain Vasilis has friends, loyal friends, everywhere. As long as you’re legitimate, pay what we agree, take delivery, and that’s the last we hear about it, there would be no reason for you to meet them.”

“That’s understood,” Casson said. “And equally true for us.”

7:30 A.M., Helene Schreiber walked through the morning darkness and went into the travel agency. Her friend Natalie was already at her desk and they chatted for a while. Office buildings had at least some heat, apartments were cold in the daytime-better to come to work early and stay as long as possible.

Helene was filing carbon copies when somebody said good morning. She looked up to see Madame Oris, the supervising agent. They smiled as they said hello, had liked each other since the first day they’d met. “Can you come and see me, Helene? Around eleven?”

Helene agreed. Madame Oris returned to the glass-topped cubicle that went with her position. She was a tall woman, thin and worried and courtly, who had worked for the agency for thirty years, a dedicated soul who had made a career of cleaning up other people’s messes. When she’d first met Helene she’d recognized a kindred spirit-one didn’t cut corners, one rose to emergencies. Now nearing seventy, Madame Oris had let it be known that she was going to retire.

Natalie leaned over and said, “Today is the day.”

“I think so,” Helene said. The job was hers if she wanted it.

“What are you going to do?”

Helene shook her head, as if she didn’t know.

Natalie’s whisper was fierce. “You can’t give in to that garce!” Bitch.

Helene had an enemy in the office, a young woman named Victorine; pretty and cold, with a bright manner, and very ambitious. She wasn’t shy about going after what she wanted. “I’m sure you’ve heard that Madame Oris is leaving,” she’d said. “There’s a chance I can have her job.”

Only if Helene turned it down. Back in May, when Madame Oris first mentioned retirement, most of the people in the office had let Helene know they were glad she’d be taking over. But Victorine had a different view. “What a terrible day,” she’d said one evening as they were leaving the office. “A couple from Warsaw, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Helene was politely sympathetic, but Victorine’s voice sharpened as she continued. “Isn’t it odd,” she’d said, “how certain people feel they should have whatever they want? They just grab it, not a thought for the rest of the world. What would you call such people?”

You, Helene thought, would call them Jews.

How had she found out? Helene didn’t know, but the statement was aimed directly at her, a threat, and it had to be taken seriously. Because a German decree in April had forbidden Jews to work in companies where there was contact with the public. Would Victorine turn her in? To the owner of the agency? To the Gestapo? Or was it a bluff?

In the next few weeks, a number of things went inexplicably wrong. For example, Madame Kippel’s lost steamship ticket- Helene’s fault? Or stolen from her desk? Or, mysteriously, Monsieur Babeau in the wrong Spanish hotel; a sputtering, static-filled phone call summoning up the lower depths of Madrid, bandits and highwaymen and no flush-chain on the porcelain squatter.