father from Edinburgh, he’d grown up in the Dordogne, where his family owned a hotel.
They left the church, walked down the hill, crossed boulevard St.-Michel and entered the Luxembourg Gardens. Handed over a few sous to the old lady in black who guarded the park chairs, and sat on a terrace. It was crowded, couples holding hands, old men with newspapers, just below them boys launching sailboats in the fountain, keeping them on course with long sticks.
They were silent for a moment, Casson got a sense of the man sitting beside him. He was scared, but bolted down tight. He’d done what he’d done, signed up for clandestine service in time of war. Hadn’t understood what that meant until he got to Paris, saw the Germans in operation, at last realized how easy it was going to be to make the wrong mistake-only a matter of time. After that, he woke up scared in the morning and went to bed scared at night. But, he wasn’t going to let it finish him. Something else would, not that.
“Well,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll tell me what happened.”
Casson had taken the time to think it through and had the answer rehearsed. Simic. The money taken to Spain. The period of surveillance. Finally, the two contacts with Millau. Mathieu listened attentively, did not react until Casson repeated what he’d been told about Marie-Noelle being in German custody.
“And you didn’t tell anybody,” Mathieu said.
“No.”
For a moment there was nothing to be said, only the sound of the park, the birds in late afternoon, the boys by the fountain shouting to one another.
“I’m sorry,” Casson said. “It didn’t occur to me to tell someone about it-I really don’t know anything about how this works.”
“Was that all-they had her in custody?”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least we know now.”
“You’d met her?”
“No. I suspect she was with the other service, not mine. They’re the intelligence people, we’re operational. We blow things up. So, what we do isn’t exactly secret. Rather the opposite.”
“You’re in the army, then.”
“No, not really. I was a university teacher. Latin drama-Plautus and Terence, mostly. Seneca, sometimes. But I heard they were looking for people who spoke native French, and I was the right age-old enough to know when to run, young enough to run fast when the time came. So, I applied. And then, a stroke of luck, I got the job.”
Casson smiled. “When was that?”
“The autumn after the invasion here.”
“Eight months.”
“Yes, about that.”
“Not very long.”
Mathieu took off his hat, smoothed his hair back. “Well, they did have training, especially the technical part. But for the rest of it, they taught us the classic procedures but they also let us know, in so many words, that people who have done well at this sort of thing tend to make it up as they go along.”
Mathieu stared at something over Casson’s shoulder, Casson turned around to see what he was looking at. Down a long allee of lime trees, a pair of French policemen were conducting a snap search-a dark-haired couple handing over various passes and identity cards.
“Let’s take a little walk,” Mathieu said. They moved off casually, away from the search.
“I’m going to have to ask London what they want to do with you,” Mathieu said. “It will take a few days-say, next Thursday. Now, in a minute I’m going to give you a telephone number. Memorize it. It’s a bookstore, over in the Marais. You call them up-use a public phone, of course-and ask them some question with an Italian flavor. Such as, do you have two copies of Dante’s
“And then, if there’s still no response?”
“Hmm, they say Lisbon is pleasant, this time of year.”
28 May, 1941. 4:20 P.M.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon. Do you have a tourist guide for Naples?”
“I’ll take a look. Can I call you back?”
“Yes. I’m at
“Very good. We’ll be in touch.”
“Good-bye.”
29 May, 1941. 4:38 P.M.
“Hello?”
“Did you call about a guidebook for Naples?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I have an answer for you. I spoke with my managing director, he wants you to go ahead with the project.”
“What?”
“Do what they ask.”
“Agree to what they want-is that what you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Can we get together and talk about it?”
“Later, perhaps. What we will want to know is what they ask you to do. That’s important. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I’m on their side.”
“That’s correct-but don’t overdo it.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you going to be able to do this?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“You will have to be very careful.”
“I understand.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
5 June. 2:20 P.M.
“Monsieur Casson?”
“Yes.”
“Franz Millau. Have you thought over our discussion?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about it now?”
“If there’s a way I can help-it’s best.”
“Will you be at your office for an hour or so?”
“Yes.”
“An envelope will be delivered. Monsieur Casson?”
“Yes?”
“I will ask you one time only. Did you mention, or allude to, the discussion we had, to anybody, in any way whatsoever? Think for a moment before you answer me.”
“The answer is no.”
“Can you tell me please, why is that?”
“Why. It might take a long time to explain. Briefly, I was raised in a family that understood that your first
