‘These people could be Nazi spies… some of the names are German, and there are ethnic Germans in Poland who secretly admire Herr Hitler. Or it could be a list of targets — some propaganda operation being run by the Ribbentropburo. Or it could be anything.’
‘Do you think they’ve arrested Orlova?’
‘It’s possible, yes, maybe.’
‘And if they knew about the courier, do they know about me?’
Wilkinson shrugged and spread his hands. Stahl waited. Wilkinson said, ‘They didn’t know about you when you made the exchange. If they had, you wouldn’t be here. What happened suggests they were after the courier, but didn’t get him until you’d left the train. Meanwhile, if the worst happened, they’ve arrested Orlova and, given their methods, they’ll know about you soon enough.’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t…’ Wilkinson stopped, then said, ‘Please understand, this has never happened to me.’
‘Or to me,’ Stahl said.
‘Well, I guess you’ll have to face the possibility that they’ll come after you.’
‘How?’
‘Again, I can’t say. But better I don’t tell you not to worry, because you might believe me.’ Wilkinson thought for a moment, then said, ‘Is it possible for you to go back to California?’
‘Not now. I have to finish the movie.’
‘What if you didn’t?’
Stahl drew his finger across his throat. ‘It is the one thing you cannot do, you wouldn’t work again, not in Hollywood you wouldn’t.’
‘But you’d be alive.’
‘True, but I’ll tell you a funny thing, I won’t let them do that to me. Maybe I can’t stop them from murdering me, but they won’t destroy me.’
This earned, from Wilkinson, a faint but appreciative smile. ‘You’re a pretty good soldier, Fredric, you’ll never get a medal, but you are.’
‘What about you?’ Stahl said. ‘Would they come after you?’
‘It’s occurred to me,’ Wilkinson said. ‘But it’s something I can’t worry about.’ Then he shook his head and said, ‘Damn it all to hell, I wish this hadn’t happened.’
Avila had given the company the day off after the early-morning return to Paris. Thoroughly habituated to the rhythm of daily work, Stahl didn’t quite know what to do with himself. So he walked, a long walk, back to the Claridge from the American Library. Beneath an overcast sky, he wandered down side streets, paused at appealing shop windows, looked at the women as they passed him by, and had, in the way of people walking alone in a city, some conversation with himself. Yes, they might come after him, he thought, but brooding about it was pointless; what would happen would happen, though if he had the opportunity to fight back, then he’d fight them. Hard. Until then he decided to avoid, if he could, obsession with that part of his life. Think good thoughts, his mother had always told him. Well, that’s what he would try to do.
On the aeroplane, he had asked Renate for her telephone number and written it down on a scrap of paper, promising to call when they were back in Paris. This scrap of paper had migrated: from his pocket to his desk, then to the top of his bureau, and back to his pocket. When he returned to his room at 2.20 he could wait no longer, and called her. No answer. But at 2.45 she was home. They talked briefly, then he asked her to have dinner — was there something special she liked to eat? Lyonnais cooking? Normandy veal? The line hissed for a time, finally he said, ‘Renate?’ and she said, ‘Why don’t you come over here? I can make something for us.’ Her voice was strained, as though she feared his answer wouldn’t be the one she wanted.
‘Yes, of course, I’d like that,’ he said.
‘It’s not very fancy over here,’ she said. ‘Surely not what you’re used to.’ Then she gave him her address and they decided on a time, 7.00 p.m.
Stahl had brought his favourite sweater to Paris, very soft wool, in horizontal grey and black bands, which hung loose from his shoulders. This he wore, along with chocolate-coloured corduroy trousers, some cedar-smelling cologne — not too much! — then put on his belted raincoat and found his umbrella.
It was a few minutes after 6.00.
Not very fancy was to say the least. The rue Varlin was in a poor quartier near the Canal Saint-Martin and the railyards in the Tenth Arrondissement. Ancient workers’ tenements darkened the narrow street and the taxi slowed as it bumped over broken cobblestones. Said the driver, ‘Are you sure this is where you want to go?’ A concierge, an old woman in a kerchief who walked with two canes, let him in and said, ‘Steiner? On the top floor, monsieur.’ Heading for the staircase, Stahl passed the tenants’ mailboxes. No French names here — Poles, Italians, Germans — this was a building for emigres. The wooden stairs had hollows worn in the centre, a family fight was in progress on the third floor, a hunting cat crept past him and he was happy enough not to see its quarry.
Renate was, as always, all in black, sweater and heavy skirt, with, tonight, nylon stockings and low heels. He liked her mouth, the natural colour of her lips, but this she had ruined with red lipstick and, when he brushed her cheeks left and right, he encountered scented face powder. She was very tense, taking off her glasses and putting them back on. While he had not foreseen her mood, he was carrying a bottle of good Bordeaux, which would do as an antidote. The evening wobbled a little with a search for a strayed corkscrew — ‘I don’t have wine very often,’ she said.
It was a tiny apartment, the parlour furnished with little more than a battered old sofa, green velvet, that looked like a veteran of the flea markets. Smoothed across the back was a piece of Asian-looking fabric, either hiding or decorating. There were lots of books, in home-built bookcases painted red, and in stacks on the floor. A radio, hoarse with faint static, was playing a symphony. When the corkscrew was found, Stahl poured Bordeaux into mismatched water glasses. ‘ Salut,’ he said, wary of more affectionate forms.
They sat on the sofa, talked about Apres la Guerre, talked about the weather. When the first glass of wine had been drunk and the second was on the way, she said, ‘How do you like my little palace?’ gesturing grandly around the room.
‘It’s a lot nicer than the places I lived in when I was here in the twenties,’ he said. ‘At least you have heat.’
‘The building isn’t heated,’ she said. This was common in Paris; in winter people without offices to go to spent the day in heated cafes, reading books or newspapers, making a coffee last all afternoon. ‘I have that thing,’ she said, indicating a kerosene stove in the corner with a pipe that went into the wall, rags stuffed around the opening. ‘My departed husband, not much of a mechanical man, believe me, installed it, but it hasn’t killed me yet.’
‘Perhaps this evening,’ Stahl said. ‘They’ll find us together, dead as mackerels. Very romantic.’
She grinned, the wine was at work. He picked up the bottle and waggled it over her glass, his eyebrows raised. She drank off what remained, said, ‘Please,’ and he refilled her glass. ‘This really is very good,’ she said, and looked at him with her head to one side: and so?
Now? No, later. What’s the hurry? He took out a cigarette and offered her the pack. Delicately, she drew one out and he lit it for her with his lighter. A board on bricks in front of the sofa held a vase of weeds, and a Suze ashtray purloined from a cafe. With one bony finger she moved it towards them. She had, he saw, at least not put polish on her pared-back fingernails.
‘Tell me when you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I have good ham and butter and a baguette and a salad from the charcuterie.’
‘For the moment, I’ll stay with this,’ he said, holding up his glass.
‘Are you comfortable?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Why don’t you put your feet up?’
She stood, he raised his legs and stretched out full length. But he’d taken up too much of the sofa. She perched on the edge, then, with a jerk of her head, used a rough expression that meant move it and pressed a soft, heavy hip against his knee, making space for herself. He could have made more room by shifting his legs but didn’t, just stayed as he was, where he could feel the warmth of her body beneath the skirt. ‘Happy like that?’ she said.
He smiled at her. ‘What do you think?’
