Alan Furst - Red Gold

Out past the antiquaires’ stalls of Serpette and Biron there was a different market, this one jammed with people. The streets were lined with pushcarts and rickety tables piled with old clothes, rusty pots and pans, shoes and dishes and sheets. The narrow aisles were packed; the crowds shifting and pushing, somebody stopped to bargain, somebody going against traffic. A vendor called out to Casson, “You could use a new tie, monsieur.” He stood by a cart full of spotted horrors, some with painted scenes. “Take a look, anyhow,” he said. He had a beret pulled down over his ears and stamped his feet to keep warm.

“I need to sell something,” Casson said. “Quietly.”

The man blew on his hands. “Quietly,” he said. “Papers? Ration coupons?”

“No. A gun.”

The man looked him over. “Keep going,” he said. “To the end of the row, then right. You’ll see the people you need to talk to.”

He turned right at the end of the aisle and found another market. Hard to see at first, the same carts and tables, the same crowd, poking at clocks and lamps. But, in among them, a different group-hands in pockets, restless eyes.

By a table stacked with army blankets he saw a young man in a leather coat, belt pulled tight. Casson caught his eye and walked toward him. Then somebody-Casson never saw who it was-hurried past and whispered “Rafle.” Roundup. It happened so fast Casson wasn’t sure he’d heard it.

The man in the leather coat had vanished. Somewhere ahead, a sudden commotion-shouts, a dog barking. Then, police. They swarmed through the crowd, shoving people aside with batons, grabbing others and demanding papers.

The gun. He backed up, working his way around the table, took the Walther from his belt and slid it into the pile of blankets. Then squeezed between carts into the next aisle, jammed up against two women with shopping baskets who were blocked by the crowd. He stood still and watched, a bystander. The police were everywhere, thirty or forty of them. He saw a couple-foreign-looking, the man bearded, the woman in a head scarf-questioned, then led away. A kid, maybe fifteen, tried to run for it. The flics chased him down, he broke free and crawled under a table. Casson heard the batons as they landed.

He felt a hand close on his elbow. When he turned, the flic said, “Get your papers out.” As Casson reached under his coat, the man glanced at somebody behind his back, a question in his eyes — is it him? He got his answer, took Casson’s identity card without bothering to read it, and slid it in his pocket. “This one,” he called out. Casson was surrounded. One of them jerked his elbows together, another snapped handcuffs on his wrists.

They were taken to the far end of the market, Casson and ten others, shackled to a chain and led off to the Saint-Ouen police station. The men were separated from the women and pushed into a holding cell-yellowed tile, the ammoniac reek of Javelle water, a bucket in the corner. The bearded man he’d seen arrested paced around the cell for a few minutes, then squeezed in next to him, sitting with his back against the wall.

He was balding, heavy in the shoulders, and smelled of woodsmoke and clothing worn too long. “Listen, my friend,” he said. He had a thick accent, Polish or Russian, stared straight ahead and barely moved his lips when he spoke. A prison voice, Casson thought. “We can’t stay here.”

Casson made a half-gesture-nothing to be done.

“This is a little police station, not a prison. One door and you’re out. We can take the guard when he comes in-I’ll do it. You grab his keys and open the cells. Let everybody go, will give us a better chance to get away.”

“They’ll shoot us,” Casson said.

“Maybe not.”

“It won’t work.”

“Listen to me.” The man leaned hard against Casson, his shoulder was like a rock. “We started running in Lithuania in ’40-we didn’t come this far to die here.” He paused. “You know what happens next?”

Casson didn’t answer.

“Do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I know. We saw it done.”

Casson heard footsteps, the man beside him tensed. A flic stood at the barred door of the cell, a key in his hand.

“Jean Marin?”

“Yes?”

From the man beside him, a fierce whisper. “Don’t be a fool!”

“Come to the door,” the flic said.

Casson stood up. So did the bearded man.

“Not you,” the flic said. “You sit down.”

The flic turned the key in the lock. As Casson walked to the door, he looked over his shoulder. The bearded man saw he wasn’t going to try it, sat down, let his head fall back against the wall.

Casson stepped into the corridor, heard the door slam shut behind him.

“Straight ahead,” the flic said. He took the shoulder of Casson’s coat and shoved him forward. To the desk, and beyond. Down a long hallway to the end, then a second hallway to a heavy door in an alcove. The flic let him go, and faced him. “Back in the market, somebody got rid of a pistol in a pile of blankets. That was you.”

Casson was silent.

The flic leaned close to him. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me, what would this Monsieur Marin, the insurance adjuster, be doing with a Walther pistol?”

No answer.

“You better tell me something,” the flic said, his voice low. “There are forty agents in this station-some of them would be calling the Gestapo right now.”

But you aren’t one of them. “You know what I am,” Casson said.

The flic watched his eyes. Truth or lie? He handed Casson his identity papers, went to the door, ran the bolt back, and pushed it open. It was dark outside, Casson could see a long alley that ran to the street. The flic looked at his watch. “End of shift,” he said. “Things to be done.” He turned abruptly and walked down the hall.

Corbeil-Essonnes. 1 March.

At 11:30 A.M., Brasova, Weiss, and Juron met in the FTP safe house. They worked their way through several points on the agenda, then Brasova said, “The Center’s transmission of 27 February transfers the case of Alexander Kovar to the French section of the Foreign Directorate.” That meant Juron.

Weiss had seen the message. He didn’t like it. He met Brasova’s eyes-any chance? They’d known each other for a long time, since Weiss’s service in the Comintern in the 1930s. “Can we be absolutely sure we won’t need him again?” he said.

“It’s up to the Center,” Juron said. “Their decision is final.”

“I have to agree,” Brasova said. “Of course,” she said to Weiss, “Casson will remain your responsibility.” She meant, you got half of what you wanted, don’t be greedy.

Weiss turned to Juron. “What do you plan to do?”

“He’s become a liability,” Juron said.

To Weiss, Brasova said, “It’s my understanding that the last time we met on this subject, you promised Colonel Antipin your cooperation.”

“I did,” Weiss said.

“Do you know Kovar’s whereabouts?” Brasova asked.

Weiss started to say that the investigation was ongoing.

“We know,” Juron said impatiently. “Casson was followed to an office on the rue Petrelle. Kovar goes there at night.”

Weiss gave up. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Tell your people I have a job for them.”

Later, after Juron left, Weiss said to Brasova, “It’s wrong to do this, Lila. He acted against the Germans, nothing more.”

“I know it’s wrong,” Brasova said. “I’d guess that Antipin did the best he could. He horse-traded-saved Casson, gave up Kovar. So that’s the way it has to be.”

Weiss drummed his fingers on the table.

Brasova’s voice softened. “Let it go,” she said.