He was numb, too tired to think about anything. He put the Walther on the floor where he could reach it, pulled his coat tight around him, and fell asleep.
Paris. 21 January.
Alexander Kovar wandered through the crowded waiting room of the Gare du Nord. He’d been contacted by Narcisse Somet-a meeting at 6:20 in the evening, when the station was busiest. He searched the faces, finally spotted Somet coming toward him from the entrance. Tinted spectacles, bluish-red nose and cheeks; easy to find in a crowd, Kovar thought.
They had been friends since they were fifteen years old, in Montmartre in 1908. This was not the artists’ quarter, it was the Montmartre where anarchists and thieves lived side by side, where street performers like Hercules and the Boneless Wonder were local heroes. Somet and Kovar had been drawn there by the preaching of the crippled anarchist who called himself Albert Libertad. Libertad was a legend, a passionate free spirit who loved fighting-using his crutches as weapons, the streets of Paris, and the poor. And, especially, women. He had died later that year, after a savage beating in a street brawl.
Together, Somet and Kovar had battled the police, lived on bread and green pears, written poetry, and made speeches on the boulevards. Revolution is now, today, in your heart, in the streets. By 1912 they had gone their separate ways, Kovar wandering among the mining villages of northern France, Somet to sea on tramp freighters. They’d met again in Berlin for a few days, during the back-alley brawls of the 1920s, then they’d had to run for their lives.
By 1936 they were both in Spain; Somet an administrative officer with the XIth International Brigade, Kovar the foreign correspondent for half a dozen Left newspapers in Paris and Brussels. But they’d had guns in their hands more than once-had fought side by side in the November defense of Madrid. Using his empty rifle as a club, Kovar had saved Somet’s life when a Moorish legionnaire had aimed a pistol at him at point-blank range.
The loudspeaker in the waiting room announced the seven o’clock train for Reims. Somet and Kovar embraced warmly and sat on a bench to talk.
“Alexander,” Somet said. “I think it may be time for you to disappear.”
“You don’t mean to Melun.”
“No. Far away. They’ve had some kind of meeting-a colonel brought in from the Center, a commissar, Weiss-”
“The eternal Weiss.”
“-and a man called Juron. Do you know him? Bald, wears thick glasses, doesn’t say much.”
“An NKVD thug. From the Foreign Directorate.”
“Yes. There’ll be another meeting, probably, with the French included, head of the FTP, head of the intelligence unit, but that will be a meeting for telling, not a meeting for asking. This was the Soviet control group, the shadow apparat.”
“What was it about?”
“I don’t know, my friend was downstairs. But a few days later this Juron questioned me-just how did I go about making contact with you. It came up in the middle of the discussion, but that’s what he wanted.”
Kovar thought it over. “Maybe I’d better run.”
“Do you need help? Money?”
“I can manage. My friends in Mexico are trying to get me a visa. Until then, I have to stay in France. How much time do I have?”
“Not much. I think once they get what they want from Casson’s friends, they’ll come looking for you.”
“They haven’t found me yet.”
“They will. Is there some way I can reach you quickly? By telephone?”
“I’ve been using a friend’s office in Paris, mostly at night.” Kovar gave him the number. Somet looked at his watch. “Are you taking the train for Reims?” Kovar asked.
“Yes.”
“If I don’t see you again, thanks for letting me know.”
Somet smiled-they would see each other again. “Take care of yourself, Alexander,” he said.
When they shook hands, Somet passed him five hundred francs and walked away before he could say a word.
Casson woke suddenly. It was 3:30. He reached under the seat for the map and the flashlight. Degrave had made him memorize a number in case of emergency-Lyons 43 12-and a protocol, then told him that in the Unoccupied Zone the safest telephones were to be found in railroad stations.
Casson ran the beam back and forth across the map and chose the town of Voirons. He started a few minutes after four and was there by midday, having stopped to siphon another tank of gas from the barrel in the back of the truck. He turned into the main street and asked a man walking a bicycle for the railroad station. “Tout droit,” the man said, waving directly ahead of him. That meant go straight, or, sometimes, I don’t know.
The railroad station was in the next street. He parked the truck, found the telephones, and dialed the number in Lyons.
A woman answered. “Calvert,” she said.
“This is Monsieur Rivette, I’m calling from the office.”
“Where are you?”
“Voirons. The railroad station.”
“Is there an emergency?”
“Yes. We were stopped by milice. Outside a village called Beaufort. The captain was killed.”
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Are you being pursued?”
“No. The milice are dead.”
“And the rest?”
“I have it.”
“You are meant to go to Chalon. Can you get there by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where to go?”
“No.”
“First of all, you’re not to arrive at night. Truck traffic enters Chalon late in the afternoon, you have to be in the middle of it. On the Quai Gambetta that runs by the Saone, you’ll find the warehouses of the negociants-all the wine merchants in the region are headquartered there. The one you want is called Cooperative de Beaune. Pull up in the yard, ask for Henri. Clear?”
“Yes.”
“You have maybe a four- to five-hour drive from where you are. But you must go around Lyons-try to stay well east of the river. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Then, good luck.”
He left the station. The train from Paris had just arrived and he found himself in the middle of a crowd, people greeting friends, carrying baskets and suitcases, hurrying their children along. He stood by the truck and took a long look at the map. Route 75 ran north from Voirons, passing well east of Lyons, to Bourg, then to Tournus, where it joined the major north-south road, Route 6, and continued on into Chalon. All he had to do was drive to the edge of town and pick up Route 75. No problem. He started the truck, drove out of the railroad station area, and turned north on the grande rue.
Suddenly, metal ground on metal, the truck leaped forward and his head banged against the windshield. He went to jam the gas pedal to the floor — escape-then held up. Instead he braked hard and the truck rocked to a stop. He was a little dazed, stumbled out onto the street. All around, people had stopped to watch the show. A few feet behind the truck, a delivery van with its front bashed in and one headlight shattered.
The driver of the van was already out. A man in a peaked cap and an apron, his face bright red. He spotted Casson and shouted “Annnnhh”-the there he is! understood. A traditional sound, prelude to Homeric indignation. The crowd was not to be disappointed. The driver ran at Casson, shaking his fist. “You brainless fucking idiot,” he
