Glen Allen - The shadow war

When they were both in their beds and had wished each other a good night, Benjamin had thought he would find it difficult to sleep. But with the salt air coming through the open window and the regular sighing of the surf outside, he'd dropped off almost as soon as he closed his eyes.

Now, early the next morning, they were sitting on the Seminaire's impressive veranda, dotted with potted palm trees. A marble balustrade was seemingly all that separated them from the incredibly blue Mediterranean, which lay just across the Pilatte and a narrow stretch of rocky beach. They had the veranda entirely to themselves.

"Well, despite this view, we have business to worry about," said Natalya. "We are to meet this 'Guy' at eight o'clock."

"And exactly," said Benjamin, "what is supposed to happen at this meeting?"

"We will obtain fake passports," Natalya said, sipping her coffee, as though what she'd suggested was the most natural thing in the world for one's first day in Nice. "And of course you will need a visa."

"Then we'd better stop at a bank on the way there," Benjamin said. "So, just how much is ten thousand dollars in francs?"

"He'll probably want euros," Natalya said. "But we'll need rubles for Russia. A year or so ago, everyone would have wanted dollars. But even money has become an expression of patriotism these days."

After finishing their coffee, they walked the short distance to a bank fronting the port and discovered there that the dollar wasn't doing so well: 10,000 U.S. dollars was barely 7,000 euros. So, just to be safe, Benjamin withdrew 10,000 euros. The teller had had to summon a manager for that amount; and, when he presented the stacks of currency to Benjamin, he also offered a nylon valise in which to carry the money, for which Benjamin was very grateful.

Once outside they'd hailed a cab. Natalya had given Guy's address to the driver, a number on rue Beaumont. The driver had looked a bit surprised.

"Acropolis?" he asked.

"Yes," Natalya had said simply, making it clear he wouldn't get any further information.

Guy's studio proved to be in a block of buildings that had seen better times. Set back in the old town on narrow streets not typically along a tourist's path, it was lined with dented metal trash cans, broken windows here and there, peeling paint on the stucco walls, and a general sense this wasn't a good place to come alone. Not for tourists. Especially not tourists carrying bags of money.

"Ze Acropolis, la, " said the driver, pointing farther down the street.

"Merci," said Natalya simply. Benjamin paid the driver, who shrugged and drove off.

Natalya led the way. Guy's studio was down a flight of stairs from street level, the number displayed on a very small, very weatherbeaten metal door. There was no buzzer, so Natalya knocked and they waited.

The man that opened the door was remarkable, in several ways. He was very short, very broad, with a wide, fat face. He sported an extremely thin, extremely manicured beard and mustache. His bald head was covered with a few lank white hairs combed over from the side of his head. He wore what appeared to be a velvet smoking jacket that, like the street, had seen better days and, to top it off, a paisley ascot.

"Entre, entre," he said, acting as though he was greeting old friends. "S'il vous plait, asseyez-vous," he continued, acting the perfect host.

The room looked like a small living room set for a stage play, as though the furniture, the paintings on the walls, even the books on the shelves were all props. Benjamin had the thought that indeed Guy's "studio" was all part of a performance; but whether that performance was meant to assuage their concerns, or distract them from whatever was really going on, he wasn't yet sure.

Guy and Benjamin carried on their negotiations in stilted French. Yes, Guy could provide passports and a visa of la plus haute qualite; yes, he could accomplish this with what he himself referred to as "incroyable chargez" in a few hours' time, so they could pick up their papers that very afternoon.

Guy asked to look at their real passports. He examined them for a moment, repeatedly glancing from the photos to their faces. He spent considerable time scrutinizing Natalya's. Finally he turned to Benjamin and said a few emphatic words.

"What?" asked Natalya. "Is something wrong?"

"He says you'll have to change," Benjamin said.

"Change?" she asked. "My clothes?"

"No." Benjamin smiled. "He says you are far too beautiful, too extraordinaire to go unnoticed. And I don't think it is what you would call a compliment. He means it. You just don't blend in, Natalya."

"Should I dress as a nun, then?" she joked.

Benjamin turned and conversed further with Guy. After a few minutes of this, he turned back to Natalya.

"It turns out this is a complete studio, indeed. Apparently, besides his work for 'special' travelers like us, Guy uses this place to make certain… what he calls films d'art. I think you can guess what that means." Natalya nodded, smiling, but Benjamin noticed she didn't seem too surprised. Or too offended. He continued. "So there is a small dressing room, with makeup, hair dye, wigs, other accoutrements of that… trade."

"I see," Natalya said. "What does he suggest? Something from the Folies Bergere?" She arched an eyebrow, made her lips pouty. "Like this?"

Benjamin laughed, shook his head. "Much simpler. Monsieur Directeur suggests short, brown hair for you, perhaps some glasses. The blond is just too… blond. And the eyes-"

"Yes?"

"Are just too beautiful."

Natalya frowned. "I do not think le directeur said that."

Benjamin smiled but didn't answer her implication. "There's something else," he said. "Another of Guy's suggestions."

"And?" asked Natalya.

"Well… he asked if it would be all right to make us a married couple. He said that's less likely to attract attention than if… well, if some of the people we'll be dealing with think you're single."

Natalya looked directly at him. "And what did you say?" she asked.

"I said, for me, it would be an honor, but that I could not speak for mademoiselle. "

Natalya didn't respond for a minute, and Benjamin started to get worried Guy had gone too far. But then Natalya nodded and said, "I guess that would make me madame, not mademoiselle. "

It was hard for Benjamin to tell exactly how she meant that, but he turned and told Guy to get started.

The next half hour found them sharing the small dressing room. First Benjamin cut Natalya's hair, trying not to chop it up too badly; then she dyed it with a chesnut-auburn mix she hoped would make her hair sufficiently "ordinary." Then, while the dye was setting, she cut Benjamin's hair, making it very close-cropped and what she called "properly Russian." They found a pair of prop glasses for Natalya-something, Benjamin suggested, Guy probably used in the schoolgirl fantasy epics, which made Natalya laugh out loud. But at least they helped to dim her brilliant blue-green eyes.

When they exited the dressing room, Guy pronounced their transformations tres magnifique, and set about taking photos for their new passports. He took down all of Benjamin's information for his visa and then, rubbing his hands together, said there was nothing left to do but settle their account.

"Ah," Benjamin said. He explained that their ami mutuel had told them the passports would be ten thousand dollars. Guy looked very sad. He went on at some length about the mounting expenses of this sort of business, the very high risks, the exorbitant costs for bribes… finally Benjamin said, "Combien?"

"Hmmm," Guy said, stroking his beard as though in deep, deliberate thought. "Twenty thousand?" He held up a finger. " Euros. "

In fact, Benjamin didn't care how much the passports cost. But he felt he had a certain role to play here, or Guy might become suspicious.