Probably the accent was Russian, but he wasn’t completely sure. “Yes, that’s right.”
“In fact you are Jean Casson, formerly a film producer.”
“Yes.”
“Born in Paris? Of French nationality?”
“Yes.”
“Your military service?”
“In the first war, I served as a corporal with an air reconnaissance squadron, changing film canisters on Spad aircraft and sometimes supervising the development of the negatives. In May 1940, I was reactivated and returned to service as a member of the Section Cinematographique of the Third Regiment, Forty-fifth Division. I saw action on the Meuse River, near Sedan, and was discharged from the unit later that month, when its cameras and equipment were destroyed in a bombing raid.”
“Then you eventually returned to Paris.”
“That’s right.”
“By the way, are you aware that you were followed, as you set off for this meeting?”
“Followed? No, I don’t think so.”
“It isn’t important, and we took care of it, but we wondered if you knew.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Now, monsieur, why have you been looking for us?”
“To offer you the opportunity to meet with members of a resistance group.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“To discuss matters of mutual concern.”
“Such as?”
“I have no idea.”
She stared down, read a note she’d written. “Are you sympathetic to the objectives and programs of the Communist Party?”
“Sympathetic? Well, I’m certainly aware that there are poor people, and that they suffer. On the other hand, I don’t believe in the revolution of the working masses, or the dictatorship of the proletariat.” He paused, then said, “Or, in fact, the dictatorship of anybody.”
She didn’t smile, but it crossed his mind that a young and long-ago version of her might have. “You are naive, monsieur,” she said quietly.
Casson shrugged.
“Why do you live as a fugitive?”
“Last May, I was taken in for questioning by the Gestapo, held for a few hours in a cell in the basement of the old Ministry of the Interior on the rue des Saussaies, then brought up to the top floor for questioning. I was led down a hall to use the WC and left alone. I saw that the window wasn’t barred. I crawled out on the roof, and escaped.”
“Why were you taken in for questioning?”
“I lied on a form and they caught me.” That was, technically speaking, true. But it was also the story he’d been told to follow, and he followed it.
“What lie was that?”
“That I had not returned to military service in 1940-working with a film unit would have been seen as an intelligence function.”
She read through the papers for a moment, looking over what she’d written. In the shadows behind her, somebody lit a pipe, he could see the rise and fall of the yellow flame held above the bowl.
“The people who sent you here,” she said. “Who are they?”
“Army officers.”
“Members of the intelligence service? The former Service des Renseignements?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
“What do they want, information?”
“I don’t know what they want.”
“Then what do you believe their objectives are?”
“To resist the German occupation.”
“Are they in Vichy?”
“Yes.”
“Officers of the present service?”
“Yes.”
“And why did they choose you as their representative?”
“Because I’m neutral.”
“What does that mean?”
“Unaffiliated. With no aims of my own.”
“And what do you bring, Monsieur Casson, to this negotiation? What do you offer us, as an incentive for discussions, or doing business together, or whatever it might turn out to be?”
“No specific offer-but they are waiting to hear from you, and they will do whatever they can.”
“Monsieur Casson, are you a spy?”
“No, I’m not.”
“We shoot spies. Certainly you know that.”
Casson nodded.
“We’re going to send you back now. You can report this conversation to your army officers. And tell them that if they wish to pursue any kind of dialogue, the first step will be to provide evidence of good faith. What we want is this: weapons. Guns, Monsieur Casson. Do you think they will accept that condition?”
“I can’t say. But, why not?”
“What we want are automatic weapons, short-range, rapid-fire machine guns. Six hundred. With a thousand rounds of ammunition for each weapon. The terms of delivery will be spelled out when we receive your signal that the negotiation will go ahead. Do you understand?”
The trip back to Paris took forty-five minutes. It was dark when he was let out, and for a moment he had no idea where he was, somewhere in the streets of eastern Paris. He eventually found a Metro, and rode back to the place des Ternes. He wanted to walk, to think, but it was too cold, so he headed down the rue Poncelet toward the Benoit. Out on the boulevards, the street lamps had been painted blue, to make them less visible to aircraft, but in the narrow rue Poncelet it was almost completely dark.
Midway down the street, a man was sleeping in a doorway. This was not something Casson was accustomed to seeing, the police didn’t allow it, certainly not in that arrondissement. Casson stopped and peered through the darkness. The man’s back was to the street, his overcoat hiked up, the tails moving in the wind. His hat was halfway off, the brim caught between his head and his forearm. His other arm was flung out behind him.
He was dead, Casson knew that. By the way, are you aware that you were followed? It isn’t important, and we took care of it.
Casson stood there, staring, holding his coat around him. Then he started walking, heading back to the hotel.
THE LAWYER
Corbeil-Essonnes. 3 December.
It was the safest house they had. Thirty kilometers from Paris, it stood invisible behind twelve-foot walls at the edge of the village, with a separate garage that could hide four cars. The property was nominally owned by a company in Stockholm.
4:50 A.M. On the first floor, Ivanic and three others lounged in the kitchen and read newspapers. Two more men stood watch outside. In a parlor on the second floor, a meeting had been in progress since the previous afternoon. Seated at a dining-room table were: Lila Brasova, political commissar to the FTP, who had questioned
