Red Gold (32 page)

“Yes. What is it?”

A young man squatted beside him and whispered, “Do you have any cord?”

“No. What do you want with that?”

“The gendarmes. They say to tie them up, or else the Germans will shoot them.”

“I don’t know—use their belts. Certainly there is rope on the barges.”

“Serra, I just want to ask you, will the explosion hit the lockkeeper’s little house?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just do your job, and we’ll do ours.”

The young man gave him a look, then ran off and circled back around the dam.

“Now,” Serra said.

“Look.” Escobar pointed back toward the town.

“What?”

“Something’s on fire.”

“That’s the power station. Ivanic always burns something.”

The barrel of Ammonal went off at 8:46.

Serra had started his apprenticeship in the mines of Asturias when he was eleven years old. By the time he was twelve, he knew how to move rock around with explosive.

The barrel had been set snugly at the base of the stone wall of the dam and blew a great cloud of stone chips and dirt into the air. People on the barges screamed, leaped onto the embankment, and scrambled away into the darkness. Dust and smoke drifted slowly toward the town. The hole in the wall of the dam was only three feet wide to begin with, but the force of the water soon took away one piece of cracked stone block, then another.

The water ran into the backstreets of Coligny and down the grates of the medieval sewers, echoing in the huge vaults below the town. People heard it, opened their windows and leaned out, had a word or two with their neighbors across the street.

“Albert, is your power out?”

“Yes. Something blew up.”

“A bomb?”

“No. Nothing like that, probably those
conards
at the power station pulled the wrong lever.”

“Do you smell smoke?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll never get to sleep now. Want to play cards?”

“What about Françoise?”

“Nothing wakes her, we can play in the kitchen.”

On the dam, the barges sank slowly, it took a long time for the water to run out of the hole blown in the stonework. Just about all of the people on the barges took advantage of it—some had to swim but most of them made their way from the deck of one barge to the next, stepped onto the shore, then stood and watched as the water went down. At the end, the barges bobbed for a moment on the blackish slime at the bottom of the empty dam, then settled softly into the mud.

1 1 : 2 5 .

In the room above the café, the light went back on. The workers in the power station had apparently rigged up an emergency system. A moment later, the telephone. Weiss waited, then picked it up. He listened for a few seconds, then hung up. “Four months,” he said.

“Can you be certain?” Casson asked.

“We know what it takes to build things. Thirty barges at the bottom of a well, that’s pretty much what’s happened. Twenty of them carrying fuel. Another hundred or so are headed south on the canals—they won’t be able to get through.”

“Well, then.” Casson didn’t know exactly what to say. He was too tired to feel victory.

Weiss smiled. “I have to go out for a time,” he said. “An hour, maybe. Then we’ll head back to Paris. It’s not a good idea to stick around after one of these things.”

Casson stood, they shook hands.

He was exhausted, he realized. He turned the light out, sat at the desk, and almost went to sleep. The phone rang. Casson reached for it, couldn’t decide whether to answer or not, but it didn’t ring again.

Back to Paris.
To start again, some new operation. It wasn’t going to end for a long time. If they took the night train he could sleep—even that seemed like a luxury now.

One ring. Why? A signal?

No. He was letting his imagination get the better of him, a bad idea. He stood up, walked to the window, looked out over the deserted street below.
Calm down,
he told himself, this is over.

He sighed, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. He walked down the stairs into the café and stood at the bar. Normal, another night in the village café. Two white-haired men, heavy sweaters under their jackets, were playing dominoes. A farmer in rubber boots, drinking pastis. A couple of old ladies in the corner. A
fonctionnaire,
peering through gold spectacles at the evening paper. A young woman, smoking, staring into space, by her side a Briard stretched out on the muddy tile floor, dreaming away.

The woman behind the bar came over and asked him what he’d like.

“Could I have a
vin rouge?
”

“You can, monsieur.”

She poured it from a pitcher, wiped the bottom of the glass with a rag, set it on the zinc bar in front of him.

“Some excitement tonight,” he said.

The woman shrugged. “Yes, I suppose. Some kind of accident over at the canal, the electricity out.”

They both heard it at the same time—people charging up the stairs that went to the room above the café. More than two, maybe three or four. Not quite running, but in a hurry. He heard the door open—its knob hit the wall. He heard them walking around, directly above his head, the old wooden flooring creaked under the weight. He stared at the ceiling, so did the woman behind the bar. He saw that her hand was shaking. In the café it was quiet, none of the little sounds, cups and spoons, and nobody talked. Up above, he could hear voices.

It went on for a few minutes. Then he heard them coming back down the stairs. They threw the door open and slammed it shut. A car started up in the street, and drove away. Casson could hear it for a long time, the driver shifting up through the gears as the sound of the engine faded into the distance.

The woman behind the bar took a deep breath. “That will be two francs, monsieur,” she said.

Monsieur Levaux arrived at his office on the Champs-Elysées punctually at ten on Monday morning. In his perfect suit and perfect shoes, with his perfect shave, he was the local god. On the way to his office he accepted obeisance—“
Bonjour,
Monsieur Levaux,” “
Bonjour,
Monsieur Levaux”—with profound disdain. A cold, polite face, it gave nothing away.
You are not in favor. Neither are
you.
Phones rang, typewriters clattered. At the end of the room, his office. He went in and closed the door. His secretary gave him a few minutes, then knocked discreetly and entered. Levaux told her what he wanted, and away she went.

Life had not always been so easy. His father had been a railroad clerk, he had not shone in school, but he had worked hard, very hard, over the years, and, in time, the Agence Levaux was a place where people went when they needed to travel. By train or ship, to a commercial hotel or a resort, the agency was pleased to suggest the appropriate route, to make the reservation, write the ticket, collect the money. It was not the grandest agency in Paris, but it was not the smallest either. It made money, year in and year out. It made Monsieur Levaux a rich man.

He lived well, belonged to a club, lived in a fine apartment. But this was Paris, where money mattered but wasn’t everything. It didn’t, for instance, buy membership in the upper classes. It was pleasant to be rich, he thought, and it would just have to be sufficient. To rise any further—one had to be a realist about such things—was unlikely.

Or so he’d thought. Then, one Tuesday afternoon, a telephone call. A competitor, a man who owned many more offices than he ever would. They’d known each other for years, a distant relationship, a favor this way, a favor that way, one was flattered to be asked. But this call was different—a dinner party, in the 16th Arrondissement, could Monsieur and Madame Levaux possibly attend? Or was it, perhaps, inconvenient?

Oh no, they would certainly attend.
Chez
Levaux, ecstasy. Madame in a flurry, off to the shops. For monsieur, a new suit. They arrived at 8:30 precisely, with damp palms and flushed faces. They talked, they ate, they drank, they were as charming as they knew how to be. And, in the middle of the evening, one of the guests, a
grand personnage
of the Sorbonne—asked of him a small favor. Would it be possible . . . ? Oh yes. He’d been considering it himself, in fact. He had? The
personnage
was pleased, said thank you and meant it.

A knock at the office door. The woman he’d summoned was shown in, he directed her to sit down. She was very nervous, he thought. Was he such a fearsome presence? Well, perhaps he overdid it, but far better to err on the side of authority.

Not unattractive. He’d suspected from the beginning a romantic entanglement lay at the heart of this business, but that didn’t matter. Dark, he thought, dark eyes, a generous mouth, seductive. He smiled, she returned the smile.
Calm yourself,
he thought,
my
dear—
he consulted the file
—my
dear Hélène.

He made a show of what he was going to do. Opened her dossier, paged through it, remarked on her years of service. “What I need,” he said, “is someone like yourself, who knows the agency, who knows how we do business, and has a good feel for the Levaux clientele.” Someone, above all,
dependable.
Well, how did she feel about that. Good?
Bon.
What he was offering was a job as the assistant office manager, in the Lisbon office. Quite a way from Paris, it was true, but an advancement in salary, and position. Would she consider it? Yes, she would.

On an April morning, Monsieur Marin settled his account at the Hotel du Commerce and moved to the Hotel Moncey, on the square of the same name near Nôtre Dame de Lorette. No special reason, he thought, it was simply time to go. Too long in one place, too many nods from the other fugitives in the endless hallways.

He had received, the last week in March, two unsigned postcards. The first sent from Vera Cruz. “I’m living now,” it began, “at the Hotel Alcalà.” There was probably no such hotel—the name from the title of a book by Alexander Kovar—but the message was clear. “I’m with old friends,” it continued, “and I am in good health.” The second card, with a photograph of a Moorish garden, came from Lisbon. “I will never forget you,” it said.

Monsieur Marin spent the day settling in to his new
quartier.
He had one meeting—with a man who’d worked before the war as a surveyor around Caen—then he stopped at a bookstore, and picked up an envelope that held the production schedule of an aluminum refinery in the south.

He woke early the next morning and opened the window, watching the night fade from the Paris sky. The rain had stopped, a few black puddles in the cobbled square, and the air smelled like spring. He heard someone in the corridor, then a light knock at the door.

“Yes?” he said.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALAN FURST, who has often been compared to Graham Greene and Eric Ambler, is widely recognized as a master of the atmospheric spy thriller. He is the author of
Night Soldiers, Dark
Star, The Polish Officer,
and
The World at Night.
He lives in Sag Harbor, New York.