Alan Furst - Mission to Paris

Minutes later, Stahl heard hurried footsteps on the staircase, then a smiling Wilkinson appeared. An outwardly relaxed and insouciant Wilkinson, wanting to reassure his rattled agent, but Stahl suspected he’d been shaken by the telegram. Wilkinson picked a book off the shelf, looked at the title, and said, ‘Have you read this one? Belgian Banking Practice in the Eighteenth Century? Kept me up all night, I couldn’t put it down.’ He returned the book to the shelf and said, ‘You seem to be okay.’

‘I guess I am.’

‘So, what went wrong?’

‘I made contact with the courier, he gave me the list and I paid him. Then, the next day, I found out he’d been strangled and thrown off the train, money and papers taken.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Just so.’

‘Could it have been a robbery? Happenstance, you know, coincidence.’

‘Could’ve. Is that what you think?’

‘No, it’s not. God damn it, what a mess.’

‘Did you warn Orlova?’

Wilkinson nodded, an unhappy nod but affirmative. Then he took a breath, blew it out, and said, ‘Anyhow, you did the right thing, letting me know that something had gone wrong. It did take me a minute to figure it out — my first thought was “it’s not my birthday”, then I understood. And by “gift en route” you meant…’

Stahl drew the envelope from his pocket and handed it to Wilkinson, who took the list out and for a time, turning pages, looked it over. ‘Hm, yes, good,’ he said. ‘They’ll like this in D.C., some kind of German operation in Poland.’ He turned a page and said, ‘I suspect the Polish congressmen from Chicago might find out about it, and their votes matter.’

‘Any idea what it means?’

‘These people could be Nazi spies… some of the names are German, and there are ethnic Germans in Poland who secretly admire Herr Hitler. Or it could be a list of targets — some propaganda operation being run by the Ribbentropburo. Or it could be anything.’

‘Do you think they’ve arrested Orlova?’

‘It’s possible, yes, maybe.’

‘And if they knew about the courier, do they know about me?’

Wilkinson shrugged and spread his hands. Stahl waited. Wilkinson said, ‘They didn’t know about you when you made the exchange. If they had, you wouldn’t be here. What happened suggests they were after the courier, but didn’t get him until you’d left the train. Meanwhile, if the worst happened, they’ve arrested Orlova and, given their methods, they’ll know about you soon enough.’

‘And then?’

‘I don’t…’ Wilkinson stopped, then said, ‘Please understand, this has never happened to me.’

‘Or to me,’ Stahl said.

‘Well, I guess you’ll have to face the possibility that they’ll come after you.’

‘How?’

‘Again, I can’t say. But better I don’t tell you not to worry, because you might believe me.’ Wilkinson thought for a moment, then said, ‘Is it possible for you to go back to California?’

‘Not now. I have to finish the movie.’

‘What if you didn’t?’

Stahl drew his finger across his throat. ‘It is the one thing you cannot do, you wouldn’t work again, not in Hollywood you wouldn’t.’

‘But you’d be alive.’

‘True, but I’ll tell you a funny thing, I won’t let them do that to me. Maybe I can’t stop them from murdering me, but they won’t destroy me.’

This earned, from Wilkinson, a faint but appreciative smile. ‘You’re a pretty good soldier, Fredric, you’ll never get a medal, but you are.’

‘What about you?’ Stahl said. ‘Would they come after you?’

‘It’s occurred to me,’ Wilkinson said. ‘But it’s something I can’t worry about.’ Then he shook his head and said, ‘Damn it all to hell, I wish this hadn’t happened.’

Avila had given the company the day off after the early-morning return to Paris. Thoroughly habituated to the rhythm of daily work, Stahl didn’t quite know what to do with himself. So he walked, a long walk, back to the Claridge from the American Library. Beneath an overcast sky, he wandered down side streets, paused at appealing shop windows, looked at the women as they passed him by, and had, in the way of people walking alone in a city, some conversation with himself. Yes, they might come after him, he thought, but brooding about it was pointless; what would happen would happen, though if he had the opportunity to fight back, then he’d fight them. Hard. Until then he decided to avoid, if he could, obsession with that part of his life. Think good thoughts, his mother had always told him. Well, that’s what he would try to do.

On the aeroplane, he had asked Renate for her telephone number and written it down on a scrap of paper, promising to call when they were back in Paris. This scrap of paper had migrated: from his pocket to his desk, then to the top of his bureau, and back to his pocket. When he returned to his room at 2.20 he could wait no longer, and called her. No answer. But at 2.45 she was home. They talked briefly, then he asked her to have dinner — was there something special she liked to eat? Lyonnais cooking? Normandy veal? The line hissed for a time, finally he said, ‘Renate?’ and she said, ‘Why don’t you come over here? I can make something for us.’ Her voice was strained, as though she feared his answer wouldn’t be the one she wanted.

‘Yes, of course, I’d like that,’ he said.

‘It’s not very fancy over here,’ she said. ‘Surely not what you’re used to.’ Then she gave him her address and they decided on a time, 7.00 p.m.

Stahl had brought his favourite sweater to Paris, very soft wool, in horizontal grey and black bands, which hung loose from his shoulders. This he wore, along with chocolate-coloured corduroy trousers, some cedar-smelling cologne — not too much! — then put on his belted raincoat and found his umbrella.

It was a few minutes after 6.00.

Not very fancy was to say the least. The rue Varlin was in a poor quartier near the Canal Saint-Martin and the railyards in the Tenth Arrondissement. Ancient workers’ tenements darkened the narrow street and the taxi slowed as it bumped over broken cobblestones. Said the driver, ‘Are you sure this is where you want to go?’ A concierge, an old woman in a kerchief who walked with two canes, let him in and said, ‘Steiner? On the top floor, monsieur.’ Heading for the staircase, Stahl passed the tenants’ mailboxes. No French names here — Poles, Italians, Germans — this was a building for emigres. The wooden stairs had hollows worn in the centre, a family fight was in progress on the third floor, a hunting cat crept past him and he was happy enough not to see its quarry.

Renate was, as always, all in black, sweater and heavy skirt, with, tonight, nylon stockings and low heels. He liked her mouth, the natural colour of her lips, but this she had ruined with red lipstick and, when he brushed her cheeks left and right, he encountered scented face powder. She was very tense, taking off her glasses and putting them back on. While he had not foreseen her mood, he was carrying a bottle of good Bordeaux, which would do as an antidote. The evening wobbled a little with a search for a strayed corkscrew — ‘I don’t have wine very often,’ she said.

It was a tiny apartment, the parlour furnished with little more than a battered old sofa, green velvet, that looked like a veteran of the flea markets. Smoothed across the back was a piece of Asian-looking fabric, either hiding or decorating. There were lots of books, in home-built bookcases painted red, and in stacks on the floor. A radio, hoarse with faint static, was playing a symphony. When the corkscrew was found, Stahl poured Bordeaux into mismatched water glasses. ‘ Salut,’ he said, wary of more affectionate forms.