The World at Night

woman- blonde, green-eyed-on his arm. Their eyes met, Bruno winked. Good to see you getting about with the right people, at last-glad you’ve seen the light. Then they went around the corner of a wall of banquettes and disappeared.

Altmann and Schepper left.

“Friend of yours?” Millau said.

“Acquaintance.”

“Some more champagne?”

“Thank you. How do you come to speak French like that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“No, I don’t mind. As a youngster I lived in Alsace-you know, un, deux, trois, vier, funf.”

Casson laughed politely.

“That’s the way to learn a language, as a child,” Millau said.

“That’s what they say.”

“What about you, Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

“No, not at all.”

“Maybe some English, then?”

“A little. I can get along in a commercial situation if everybody slows down.”

Millau took a heavy black cigar from his pocket, stripped off the band and the cellophane. “Perhaps you’d care to join me.”

“No, thank you.”

Millau took his time lighting up, made the match flame jump up and down, at last blew out a stream of smoke, strong, but not unpleasant. He shook his head. “I like these things too much.”

Casson lit a Gauloise.

Millau leaned on the table, spoke in a confidential tone. “Let me begin by telling you that I’m an intelligence officer,” he said. “Reasonably senior, here in Paris.”

“I see,” Casson said.

“Yes. I work for the Sicherheitsdienst, the SD, in the counterespionage office up on the avenue Foch. We started out as the SS foreign service, and in a sense we still are that, though success has brought us some broader responsibility.”

Millau paused, Casson indicated he understood what had been said.

“We’ve been getting to know you for a few months, Monsieur Casson, keeping an eye on you, and so forth, to see who we were dealing with.”

Casson laughed nervously.

“Ach, the way people are! I assure you, we can’t be surprised or offended by all these little sins, the same thing, over and over. We’re like priests, or doctors.”

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-Noelle, 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-Noelle 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 Metro 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 lycee, 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