He stopped for a moment to inhale on the cigar, making the tip glow red, to see if it was still lit. “We got on to you down in Spain—the British were interested in you, and that was of interest to us. We were . . . nearby, when you met with a woman who calls herself Marie-Noëlle, Lady Marensohn, a representative of the British Secret Intelligence Service who we believe attempted to recruit you for clandestine operations. She is, by the way, residing with us at the moment.”
Casson felt the blood leave his face. Millau waited to see if he might want to comment, but he said nothing.
“Our view, Monsieur Casson, is that you did not accept recruitment.”
Casson waited a beat but there was nowhere he could hide. “No,” he said, “I didn’t.”
Millau nodded, confirming a position held in some earlier discussion. “And why not?”
There wasn’t any time to think. “I don’t know.”
“No?”
Casson shrugged. “I’m French—not British, not German. I simply want to live my life, and be left in peace.”
From Millau’s reaction Casson could tell he’d given the right answer. “And who would blame you for that, eh?” Millau said with feeling. “What got us into this situation in the first place was all these people meddling in politics. All we ever wanted in Germany was to be left alone, to get on with our lives. But, sadly, that was not to be, and you see what happened next. And, more to come.”
Casson’s expression was sympathetic. He realized that Millau possessed a very dangerous quality: he was likeable.
“We have no business fighting with England, I’ll tell you that,” Millau said. “Every week—I’m sure I’m not saying something you find surprising—there’s some kind of initiative; diplomatic, private, what have you. At the Vatican or in Stockholm. It’s just a matter of time and we’ll settle things between us. Our real business is in the east, with the Bolsheviks, and so is Britain’s business, and we’re just sorry that certain individuals in London are doing everything they can to keep us apart.”
“Hmm,” Casson said.
“So, that’s where you come in. My section, that is, AMT IV, is particularly concerned with terrorist operations, sabotage, bombing, assassination. We fear that elements within the British government plan to initiate such acts in France, a carefully organized campaign—and if a number of people die it is of no particular concern to them, they tend to be very liberal with French life.”
Millau made sure this had sunk in, then he said, “This isn’t a fantasy. We know it’s going to happen, and we believe they will contact you again. This time, we want you to accept. Do what they ask of you. And let us know about it.”
The brasserie was noisy, people talking and laughing, somebody was singing. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the aroma of grilled beef. Casson took his time, stubbing out the Gauloise in an ashtray. “Well,” he said.
“How about it?”
“Well, I don’t think they’ll actually approach me again,” Casson said. If Marie-Noëlle talked to them, he realized, he was finished. Would she? Considering what they did to people, would she? “I made it clear to them it wasn’t something I was going to do.”
“Yes,” Millau said softly, meaning that he understood. “But I’ll tell you what.” He smiled, conspiratorial and knowing. “I’ll bet you anything you care to name that they come back to you.”
3:20 A.M.
The music on his radio faded in and out—if he held the aerial he could hear it. Adagio for Strings, Samuel Barber. Coming in from far away. Outside it rained on and off, distant thunder muttering up in Normandy somewhere. The worst of the storm had come through earlier— on the way home from the Brasserie Heininger he’d had to take shelter in the Métro to avoid getting soaked, standing next to a woman in a sweater and skirt. “Just made it,” he’d said as the rain poured down.
“A little luck anyhow,” she’d agreed. “I have to go see somebody about a job tomorrow and this is what I have to wear.”
Oh, what kind of job—but he didn’t.
They stood quietly, side by side, then the rain stopped and she left, swinging her hips as she climbed the staircase just so he would know what he’d missed. He knew. He lay on top of the covers in the darkness and listened to the violin. It would have been nice to have her with him; big, pale body rising and falling. But Citrine, I didn’t.
Good times they’d had in the Hotel du Parc. He’d been leaning against a wall, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. She told him he looked like a place Pigalle tough guy and he’d given her back the classic line, “Tiens, montrez-moi ton cul.” Show me your ass. In lycée, they used to wonder if M. Lepic, the Latin teacher, said that to Mme. Lepic on Saturday night.
Casson peered at his watch on the table beside the bed. A few minutes after three. What if he went out somewhere and called the hotel in Lyons—let it ring and ring until an infuriated manager answered. This is the police. I want to speak with the woman in Room 28. Now!
Sirens. Air-raid sirens. Now what? Antiaircraft fire—to the north of the city, he thought. Like a drum, in deliberate time. Then he heard airplanes. He swung his legs off the bed, made certain the apartment was dark, went out on the terrace.
Searchlights, north of him, across the river. The AA guns working away, four or five beats to the measure, little yellow lights climbing to heaven. And, then, planes overhead, a lot of them, flying low, the drone hammering off the walls in the narrow rue Chardin. Across the street and down a little way, a couple in nightshirts out on their balcony, the woman with a fur stole thrown around her shoulders, gazing up at the sky. Then he saw others, the whole neighborhood was out.
To the north, bombs, close enough to hear the articulated explosions. Orange light stuttered against the sky—he could see clearly the dark undersides of rain clouds, like frozen smoke, lit by fires. The British are at work, he thought. Among the factories on the outskirts of the city. When the bombing faded to a rumble, fire sirens joined the air-raid sirens. Then the all-clear sounded, and the fire engines were joined by ambulances.
Casson got tired of standing on the terrace, sat against the wall just inside his living room. First edge of false dawn in the spring, the sky not so dark as it was, a few birds singing on the rooftops. The sirens had stopped, now there remained only a certain smell on the morning air. The smell of burning. He was falling asleep. Now that it was dawn, he could sleep, since whatever might come in the night would have to wait another day.
Then, Monday morning, when he got to the office at ten, Mireille had a message for him. “A woman telephoned, a Madame Detweiler.”
“Who?”
“The secretary of an officer called Guske. From the rue des Saussaies.”
“And?”
“She said to tell you that your Ausweis to go to the Vichy zone is under consideration, it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a problem, and they will have a determination for you by May fifteenth. If you have any questions, you are encouraged to call Obersturmbannführer Guske.”
“Thank you, Mireille,” he said, and went into his office.
Was that good news, he wondered, or bad? After a moment he realized it wasn’t good or bad, it wasn’t anything. It was simply their way of talking to him. It was simply their way of telling him that they owned him.
THE SECRET AGENT
Casson stood on the balcony, just after midnight, and stared out over the jagged line of rooftops. The city was ghostly in blue lamplight, and very quiet. He could hear distant footsteps, and night birds singing in the parks. The preparation of an escape, he thought, whatever else it did, showed you your life from an angle of profound reality. Where to go. How to get there. Friends and money must be counted up, but then, which friends—who will really help? How much money? And, if you can’t get that, how much? And then, most of all, when? Because these doors, once you went through them, closed behind you.