The Foreign Correspondent

“Maybe we should let them help us,” Salamone said. “But I think we’ll regret it. Just tell me, Carlo, is it this personal reason, this friend, that’s changed your mind? Or would you do it anyhow?”

“The war isn’t coming, it’s here. And if it isn’t the British today, it will be the French tomorrow, the pressure’s just beginning. Elena’s right-this is just a matter of time. We’re all going to fight, some with guns, some with typewriters. And, as for my friend, it’s a life worth saving, no matter who she is to me.”

“I don’t care why,” Elena said. “We can’t go on by ourselves, the OVRA proved that. I think we should accept this offer, and, if the British can help Carlo, can save his friend, so be it, and why not. What if it were you or me, Arturo? In trouble in Berlin, or Rome? What would you want Carlo to do?”

Salamone slowed down, then, staring at the rearview mirror, rolled to a stop. The Citroen also stopped. Then, slowly, swung around the Renault and pulled up beside it. A man in the passenger seat turned and looked at them for a moment, then said something to the driver, and the car drove away.

“What was that all about?” Elena said.

7 June, 8:20 A.M.

The Cafe le Repos was busy in the morning, customers two deep at the bar, saving a few sous on their coffee. In search of privacy, Weisz had taken a table in the far corner, backed up to the pebbled-glass partition. And there he waited, Le Journal unread before him, his coffee a dark stain at the bottom of the tiny cup, but no sign of Mr. Brown. Well, Kolb had warned him, these people had their own ways of doing business. Then, a man in a peaked cap left the bar, walked over to his table, and said, “Weisz?”

“Yes?”

“Come with me.”

Weisz left money on the table and followed the man outside. In the street a taxi was idling in front of the cafe. The man in the cap got behind the wheel and Weisz climbed into the back, where Mr. Brown was waiting for him. The usual Mr. Brown today, the smell of pipe smoke sweet in the air. “Good morning,” he said tartly. The taxi drove away and merged with the slow traffic on the rue Dauphine. “Pleasant morning, we have today.”

“Thank you for doing this,” Weisz said. “I had to talk to you, about your plans for Liberazione.”

“You’re referring to your little chat with Mr. Lane.”

“That’s right. We think it’s a good idea, but I need your help. To save a life.”

Brown’s eyebrows rose, and the pipe sent up an exclamatory puff of smoke. “What life is that?”

“The life of a friend. She’s been involved with a resistance group, in Berlin, and now she may be in trouble. Because, two days ago, I saw a cable at Reuters that could mean she’s been arrested.”

For a moment, Brown looked like a physician who’s been told something awful-bad as it was to you, he’d heard it all before. “You require a miracle, then everything will be hunky-dory. Is that the idea, Mr. Weisz?”

“Maybe a miracle, for me, but not for you.”

Brown took the pipe from his mouth and gave Weisz a long look. “Girlfriend, is it?”

“More than that.”

“And, truly, doing things in Berlin, against the Nazis? Not just being vocal at dinner parties?”

“The former,” Weisz said. “A circle of friends, some of them working in the ministries, stealing papers.”

“And passing ‘em to who? If you don’t mind my asking. Not to us, surely, you couldn’t be that lucky.”

“I don’t know. It could be the Soviets, or even the Americans. She made a point of not telling me.”

“Even in bed.”

“Yes, even there.”

“Then good for her,” Brown said. “Bolsheviks, these people?”

“I don’t believe they are. Not the Stalinist kind, anyhow. It’s more acts of conscience, against an evil regime. And whoever they’ve found, to receive what they take, that’s likely by chance-somebody, some diplomat, maybe, they happened to know.”

“Or who contrived to know them, I daresay.”

“Probably. Somebody guessed right.”

“I’ll be frank with you, Weisz. If the Gestapo’s got her, there isn’t much we can do. She couldn’t possibly be a British citizen, could she.”

“No, she’s German. Hungarian on her father’s side.”

“Mm.” Brown turned away from Weisz and looked out his window. After a moment, he said, “We assume that it’s a committee of some sort, that runs your journal. Have you spoken with them?”

“I have. They’re prepared to do what you ask.”

“And you?”

“I’m in favor.”

“You’ll go?”

“Go along with the idea, yes.”

“Go along with the idea, he says. No, Weisz, go to Italy. Or did Lane not quite get around to telling you that part of it?”

You’re mad. But he was caught. “Actually, he didn’t. Is that part of the plan?”

“That is the bloody plan, boyo. It’s your hide, we’re after.”

Weisz took a breath. “If you’ll help me, I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Conditions?” Brown, his eyes cold, left the word hanging in the air.

Give the right answer. Weisz felt a muscle tick at the corner of his eye. “It isn’t a condition, but…”

“Do you know what you’re asking? What you’re after is an operation, do you have any idea what that entails? It ain’t ‘Good old Weisz, let’s just hop over to Berlin and snatch his chickadee from the Nazis.’ There will have to be meetings about this, in London, and if, for some absurd reason, we choose to even try, you’ll be ours. Henceforth. Like that word? I quite like it, myself. It tells a story.”

“Done,” Weisz said.

Under his breath, Brown mumbled, “Bloody nuisance.” Then, to Weisz: “Very well, write this down.” He waited while Weisz retrieved pen and pad. “What I’ll want from you, today, in your handwriting, is everything you know about her. Her name, maiden name, if she’s been married. A very precise physical description-height, weight, what she wears, how she does her hair. And every photograph you have, and I mean every photograph. Her addresses, all of ‘em, where she lives, where she works, and the telephone numbers. Where she shops, if you know, and when she shops. Where she goes to dinner, or lunch, the names of servants, and the names of any friends she’s mentioned, and their addresses. Her parents, who they are, where they live. And some phrase that’s private between the two of you, ‘my apple dumpling,’ that sort of thing.”

“I don’t have any photographs.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t.”

“Should I give it to Kolb, tonight?”

“No, write ‘Mrs. Day’ on the outside of an envelope and leave it at the desk of the Bristol. Before noon, is that clear?”

“It will be there.”

Brown, much persecuted by life’s sudden surprises, shook his head. Then, resignation in his voice, said, “Andrew.”

The driver knew what that meant, slid the taxi through traffic to the curb, then stopped. Brown leaned across Weisz and opened his door. “We’ll let you know,” he said. “And, meanwhile, best finish up your work with Ferrara.”

Weisz headed for the office, anxious to write what Brown had requested, and equally anxious to have a look at the previous night’s dispatches, but there was nothing further on the Berlin spy ring. For a moment, he had himself persuaded that this was a reasonable pretext for a call to Eric Wolf, then acknowledged it wasn’t, unless Delahanty asked. Delahanty did not ask, though Weisz mentioned it. Instead, Delahanty told him he had to be on the one o’clock train to Orleans, where the president of a bank had left town with his seventeen-year-old girlfriend and a substantial portion of his depositors’ money. Off to Tahiti, it was rumored, and not, as he’d announced at the bank, to a meeting in Brussels. Weisz worked hard for an hour, writing down everything he knew about Christa’s