The Statement (4 page)

That was after his confession, a confession in which he had told the Monsignor, his confessor, about the Paris years, about the car hold-ups he and Jacquot had carried out, one a failure, one a success. And about the traffic in counterfeit francs, the black-market coffee racket, and what else? There were so many things one had to do to survive: there were so many of us hiding out in those years just after the ‘Liberation’. The betrayal, we called it. The old Maréchal in exile in Germany, camping out in Sigmaringen castle while de Gaulle marched down the Champs-Elysées pretending that he, and not the Americans, had freed France, what sort of freedom was it, it was a time of communists, a time of revenge, the ‘Purification’, they called it, the communists were out for blood: trials, accusations, people thrown into prison, women’s heads shaved, execution squads. Darnand, our chief, God rest his soul, he didn’t run away to Germany, he didn’t pretend: he stood before those red-robed judges in the Palais de Justice. ‘Monsieur le Président, I’m not one of those who’s going to tell you I’ve played a double game. I did what I did. I am proud of what I did. I made a mistake but I acted in good faith. I believe I served my country.’ Yes, Joseph Darnand was the only one to speak out for the things we fought for, a hero, a man of courage. In his prison cell in Chatillon the night before he died, he wrote a letter to de Gaulle, asking clemency for ‘my
miliciens
, for these old soldiers of 1914–18, and these many young men, workers, peasants, and boys from the liberal professions who did not hesitate to give up everything to serve what they considered from the bottom of their hearts to be the true interests of their country. They have committed only the fault of loyalty to a great soldier, they have been almost the only ones who refused to betray their oath and abandon a lost cause.’

Next morning they took Darnand out and shot him. I am old now, I forget things, I have to make lists, I write down names of new people when I meet them, while the names of old friends go blank in my mind. But I will never forget those words. The cause was lost – more than that, the war was lost. Was it any worse to live under the Maréchal’s New Order in co-operation with the Germans than to watch the Anglo-Saxons, the stupid ‘
Amerloques
’ and the two-faced English who ran away in 1940, help Russian communist troops rape and steal and kill their way across Europe? How many in France knew then that we had not won but had lost the battle? How many sensed it but didn’t dare to say it? The Church knew: in Rome, Pius XII asked for an amnesty for all who had been faithful to the Maréchal. The Pope knew the real enemy. He knew that the Maréchal was first and always a true son of the Faith. Soon even the stupid Americans saw the light and began to use Nazi brains in the struggle against Stalin. We could speak our minds at last. The enemy was Russia. The true motherland of those who brought France down.

I am on my knees tonight, humbly giving thanks for God’s mercy today. I must not let my mind drift back to anger. I have been a sinner and now I am blessed with God’s pardon, God’s love. He does not want me to die. I will protect myself against my enemies, His enemies.

He made the sign of the cross and stood up. He opened the suitcase that contained his memorabilia and took out the Walther pistol from its leather holster. Whoever sent that Jew to kill me knew that I would be in that bar in Salon today. Why was I there? To pick up my envelope. Who are they that they would know about the envelope, the most secret thing, the thing I have confided to no one, not even to Monsignor Le Moyne? What else do they know? Who told them?

It was a long time since he had slept with a gun under his pillow. He had lived in the shadows, for forty-four years, managing to stay in France when others fled to Argentina or Peru. That had been his triumph. He had not let them drive him out of his own country. He had lived here under their noses. But now they would find him. Someone knew. And, in that moment, fear came upon him like an ague. If I die tonight, will I be forgiven? Will God balance the things I did to save France from the Jew communists against my sins: women, the friends I betrayed, the hold-ups, the frauds? Monsignor Le Moyne says God’s mercy is infinite. I have lived these years of old age as devoutly as any man: mass, prayers, devotions. Yes, I killed today, but in self-defence.

But the fear did not leave him. What if the Monsignor is wrong? What if God, weighing all in the balance, casts me down? I must make my confession to Monsignor. He will absolve me. I must change my plan. Tomorrow, I will drive to Caunes.

2

Security, they called it. T had never seen anything like it. He looked out now across the Place de l’Alma, at the tour Eiffel, wrapped in grey fog, at people waiting for the 63 bus across the street. Why here? Why this particular café, a tourist place full of foreigners eating salads and drinking beer? Maybe that was why. There were no regular patrons in a place like this. It was his second visit. Yesterday, when they made the first rendezvous with him, he had been told that his contact would carry an English newspaper,
The Times
.

A 63 bus came down Avenue Président Wilson and stopped opposite. And suddenly he sat up straight, for there was the contact getting off the bus, the same man, carrying the newspaper. Security, they called it. Someone had been reading too many
romans policiers
. Why can’t I know this guy’s name, why can’t I meet him without all this fucking around? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?

The contact, carrying the newspaper, came into the café, walked along among the booths and tables and stopped as if by chance. ‘May I?’

T nodded. ‘Of course.’

The contact was a man in his fifties; he could be a doctor or a lawyer, respectable, bourgeois, with a snob accent which T found irritating.

‘You got them all right?’

T took the little plastic envelope out of his anorak. The contact slipped the three photographs out of the plastic and looked at them carefully. ‘You made sure of the size?’

‘Of course,’ T said.

‘How old are you?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ T hated these questions about his age. OK, so he looked like a kid. He was not.

The contact sighed. ‘For the passport,’ he said.

‘Sorry. Twenty-five.’

‘Good,’ the contact said. He slipped the photographs into his pocket. A waiter came and the contact ordered an
express
.

‘And for you, Monsieur?’ the waiter asked.

‘Same thing,’ T said.

As the waiter walked off, the contact looked around. T could see that he wasn’t used to this. He probably
was
a doctor or a lawyer. Somebody’s uncle.

‘I’ve been told to give you an address,’ the contact said. ‘Memorize it and, after tonight, forget it. We’re taking a risk, a security risk, by putting you in touch with this person but he wants to meet you. What he tells you may be a help. The address is 6 Rue St  Thomas d’Aquin in the seventh arrondissement. It’s behind a church. The Métro is Rue de Bac  –  ’

‘I’ll find it!’ T said.

‘It’s apartment 5, on the fourth floor. If you arrive at seven, exactly seven, and ring the bell, you can go straight up. Oh, by the way. I hear you’ll be leaving at once. Maybe tonight?’

‘One thing,’ T said. ‘I don’t want to ask questions, that’s understood. But those photos. Does that mean I’ll be leaving France?’

‘You’ll get your instructions tonight. The passport will be ready. We’ll work on it this afternoon. Got that address?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. I’ll leave you now. Pay for my coffee, will you? Good luck.’

What had luck got to do with it? You had to know what you were doing. As Pochon said, you’d better grow eyes in the back of your head. Pochon wasn’t like this contact today, he’d never say, ‘Good luck.’ What Pochon said was, ‘Look. I’m the one who’s working with this organization, not you. The less you know about them, the better. They aren’t in the milieu. They’re politicals. I’ve told them you can do this job, that’s all they need to know. I’m your contact. If you’re arrested I’m the only one you can get into trouble.’

Pochon was in his sixties, an ex-
flic
. Retired with the rank of inspector. He’d break your legs if you got
him
in trouble. ‘I’m behind you,’ he said. ‘All the way. But remember. Do as I say. Obedience saves lives.’

When T left the Place de l’Alma, he went to Janine’s apartment in the Rue St Joseph. Janine worked in Le Printemps, in the glove department. He thought that was stupid. She didn’t need to work in a boring job. Her parents were in couture, they owned a firm that made fancy buttons for big names like Lacroix and Saint Laurent. They were well able to support her. But she didn’t get on with her mother. So she said. T didn’t want to know all that shit. It was her business, not his. Today, as he let himself into her apartment, he thought it would be nice if you could deal with girlfriends the way Pochon dealt with him. No confidences, no family histories, no questions asked. Not that he told Janine what he was doing. He was a medical school dropout, he told her. He told her he was living off his parents. He said he wasn’t proud, like her. He took an allowance from them and spent it. ‘I bet you do,’ Janine said. ‘They must be rich.’

For the last few weeks he had been staying at Janine’s place. Now, when he went back there from the Place de l’Alma, he wrote her a note, saying he’d ring her sometime after nine. He went on from there to the little room he rented in the Hôtel Terminus where he packed a bag with what he’d need. Then, to kill the time before his meeting, he went to see a film that was playing on the Champs-Elysées. It was an American film, guns, guns, guns, a load of rubbish. But he liked American films. Lots of bullets. Cars crashing into each other. Actors bouncing around like acrobats. Nothing to do with real life.

It was beginning to get dark when he arrived at 6 Rue St  Thomas d’Aquin. It was the real old style, a building with a big dark courtyard. He walked across the courtyard and looked up. There were very few lights on in the apartments above. There was no name on Apartment Number 5. He rang and at once the buzzer sounded, letting him in. There was no lift, but there was a good carpet runner on the wide flight of stairs. The names on the apartments on the second and third floors were French. No foreigners. No offices. When he reached the fourth floor there were two apartments, both with handsome mahogany front doors. One of the doors was open and an old man stood there, waiting. He was wearing a brown cardigan over dark evening trousers, a formal evening shirt, black tie. His hair was grey and he had a grey moustache. He didn’t look Jewish, but then, T thought, a lot of Jews don’t look Jewish, especially if they’re
bon chic, bon genre
like this one.

The old man didn’t introduce himself. He simply said, ‘Come in.’

The apartment was large. T saw, ahead, a drawing room with two wall niches containing Roman busts, crossed swords on a wall, antique lamps, good heavy old furniture, Turkish carpets and rugs, oil paintings of classical scenes and, on a table in the front hall, a jumble of silver-framed photographs. The largest photograph was of a chic wedding. The bride and bridesmaids wore short frocks, thirties-style. Beside the wedding photo was one of an officer in a dress uniform. It was a photograph of his host.

‘This way,’ the old man said. He led T through the drawing room. In a dining room off to the side, T saw a large mahogany table set for six, with an elaborate floral centrepiece, crystal glasses for four different kinds of wine, heavy silver service plates. With this sort of set-up there must be servants. But there were no servants in sight.

‘In here.’

The old man now opened the door of a room with leather armchairs and sofa, walls lined with books, a library ladder stretching to the ceiling, a great teak desk littered with papers. Old money, T decided. If he’s Jewish, he’s Jewish like the Rothschilds.

‘Please sit down.’

The old man now went to the big desk and took out a large manila envelope. He brought it to T, taking from it a passport, a set of plane tickets and a French driving licence. The passport was dark blue with
CANADA
in gold lettering on the front. He opened it at a page showing T’s photograph and a name:
Michael Leavy
.

‘Sign on the opposite page of the passport. Signature of bearer. Michael Leavy. That’s also the name on the driver’s licence and your airline ticket. You know about this, of course?’

‘Yes.’

The old man leaned back in his chair. His brown cardigan fell open revealing a black cummerbund over the top of his evening trousers.

‘You’re very young. I was expecting someone older.’

‘I’m twenty-five.’

The old man had a soft charming voice and smiled each time he spoke. ‘We’re sending you to Aix,’ he said. ‘There’s a flight leaving Paris at nine o’clock tonight. When you arrive, go to the Eurocar rental desk and a car will be waiting for you in the name of Michael Leavy. Brossard is staying at this address.’ He handed T a sheet of ruled paper with a handwritten address. ‘He should arrive there tomorrow. He drives a Peugeot.’

‘Yes, I know. A ’77. White.’

‘He will stay in the residence adjoining the boys’ school, which is the address I’ve just given you. In a week or two he may move on to Villefranche or Nice. I don’t know what you’ve been told. I mean, I don’t know your
modus operandi
.’