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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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The
Foreign Correspondent by Alan Furst |
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Rating: |
** |
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(Mildly Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Detailed Alan Furst
continues to focus his skills as a novelist on espionage in 12
February. The request—it
was an order, of course—arrived as a telephone message in his mailbox at the
office. The secretary who’d taken the message gave him a certain look when he
came in that morning. So what’s all
this? Not that he would tell her, not that she had any business asking,
and it was only a momentary look, but a longish, concentrated sort of a
moment. And she watched him as he read it—his presence required at Room 10,
at the Sureté Nationale, at
eight the following morning. What did she think,
that he would tremble? Break out in a cold sweat? He did
neither, but he felt it, in the pit of the stomach. The 511 reté was the national security
police—what did they want? He put the slip of paper in his pocket, and, one
foot in front of the other, got through his day. Later that morning, he made
up a reason to stop by Delahanty’s office. Had the
secretary told him? But Delahanty said nothing, and
acted as he always did. Did he? Or was there, something? Leaving early for
lunch, he called Salamone from a pay phone in a
café, but Salamone was at work, and, beyond “Well,
be careful,” couldn’t say much. That night, he took Véronique
to the ballet—balcony seats, but they could see—and for supper afterward. Véronique was attentive, bright and talkative, and one
didn’t ask men what was wrong. They hadn’t talked to her, had they? He considered asking, but the right moment never
came. Walking home, it wouldn’t leave him alone; he made up questions, tried
to answer them, then tried again. At ten of
eight the next morning, he walked up the avenue de Marigny
to the Interior Ministry on the rue des Saussaies.
Massive and gray, the building stretched to the horizon and rose above him;
here lived the little gods in little rooms, the gods of émigré fate, who
could have you put on a train, back to wherever it was, back to whatever
awaited you. A clerk
led him to Room 10—a long table, a few chairs, a hissing steam radiator, a
high window behind a grille. A powerful presence, in Room 10: the smell of
cooked paint and stale cigarette smoke, but mostly the smell of sweat, like a
gymnasium. They made him wait, of course, it was
9:20 before they showed up, dossiers in hand. There was something about the
young one, in his twenties, Weisz thought, that
suggested the word probationary. The
older one was a cop, grizzled and slumped, with eyes that had seen
everything. Formal and
correct, they introduced themselves and spread their dossiers out. Inspector
Pompon, the younger one, his boiled white shirt gleaming like the sun, led
the interrogation, and wrote out Weisz’s answers on
a printed form. After sifting through the particulars, date of birth,
address, employment, arrival in “Yes, we
were acquainted.” “Good
friends?” “Friends,
I would say.” “Did you
ever meet his paramour, Madame LaCroix?” “No. “Perhaps
he spoke of her.” “Not to
me.” “Do you
know, Monsieur Weisz, why you are here today?” “In fact,
I don’t know.” “This
investigation would normally be conducted by the local Prefecture, but we have interested ourselves in it because it
involves the family of an individual who serves in the national government.
So, we are concerned with the, ah, political implications. Of the
murder/suicide. Is that clear?” Weisz said it was. And it
was, though French was not his native language, and answering questions at
the Sureté was not the same as chatting with Devoisin or telling Véronique
he liked her perfume. Fortunately, Pompon took considerable pleasure in the
sound of his own voice, mellow and precise, and that slowed him down to a
point where Weisz, working hard, could pretty much
understand every word. Pompon put
Weisz’s dossier aside, opened another, and hunted
around for what he wanted. Weisz could see the
impression of an official stamp, made with a red ink pad, at the upper
corner of each page. “Was your friend Bottini
left-handed, Monsieur Weisz?” Weisz thought it over. “I
don’t know,” he said. “I never noticed that he was.” “And how would you
describe his political affiliation?” “He was a political
émigré, from Pompon wrote down the
answer, his careful hand the product of a school system that spent endless hours
on penmanship. “Of the left, would you say?” “Of the center.” “You discussed
politics?” “In a general way,
when it came up.” “Have you heard of a
newspaper, a clandestine publication, that is called
Liberazione?” “Yes. An opposition
newspaper distributed in “Have you read it?” “No, I’ve seen others,
the ones published in “But not Liberazione.” “No.” “And Bottini’s relationship to this newspaper?” “I wouldn’t know. He
never mentioned it.” “Would you describe Bottini? What sort of man he was?” “Very proud, sure of
himself. Sensitive to slights, I would say, and conscious of his—do you say
‘standing’? His place in the scheme of things. He had been a prominent
lawyer, in “Meaning what, precisely?” Weisz thought for a moment.
“If there was an argument, even a friendly argument, he still liked to win
it.” “Was he, would you
say, capable of violence?” “No, I think that
violence, to him, meant failure, a loss, a loss of . . .” “Self-control?” “He believed in words,
discourse, rationality. Violence, to him, was a, how
to say, descent, a descent to the level of, well, beasts.” “But he murdered his
paramour. Was it, do you think, romantic passion that drove him to do such a
thing?” “I don’t believe that.” “What then?” “I suspect this crime
was a double murder, not a murder/suicide.” “Committed by whom,
Monsieur Weisz?” “By operatives of the
Italian government.” “An assassination,
then.” “Yes.” “With no concern that
one of the victims was the wife of an important French politician.” “No, I don’t think
they cared.” “Was Bottini, then, to your way of thinking, the primary
victim?” “I believe he was,
yes.” “Why do you believe
that?” “I think it had to do
with his involvement in the antifascist opposition.” “Why him, Monsieur Weisz? There are others in “I don’t know why,” Weisz said. It was very hot in the room,
Weisz felt a bead of sweat run from beneath his arm
down to the edge of his undershirt. “As an émigré,
Monsieur Weisz, what is your opinion of “I have always liked
it here, and that was true long before I emigrated.” “What exactly is it
that you like?” “I would say,” he
paused, then said, “the tradition of individual freedom has always been
strong here, and I enjoy the culture, and “You are aware that
there are disputes between us— “Well, I
wouldn’t leave.” “Would you
serve a foreign country, against your native land?” “Today,” Weisz said, “I don’t know how to answer that. My hope is
for change in the government of “And would
you be willing to put such ideals to work? To work for what you believe
should be harmony between these two nations?” Oh fuck you. “Truly, I cannot
imagine what I could do, to help. It all takes place high up, these
difficulties. Between our countries.” Pompon
almost smiled, started to speak, to attack, but his colleague, very quietly,
cleared his throat. “We appreciate your candor, Monsieur Weisz.
Not so easy, these politics. Perhaps you’re one of those who in his heart thinks that wars should be settled by diplomats in their
underwear, fighting with brooms.” Weisz smiled, intensely
grateful. “I’d pay to watch it, yes.” “Unfortunately,
it doesn’t work like that. Too bad, eh? By the way, speaking of diplomats, I
wonder if you’ve heard, as a journalist, that an Italian official, from the
embassy here, has been sent home. Persona
non grata, I believe that’s the phrase.” “I hadn’t
heard.” “No? You’re
sure? Well, maybe a communiqué wasn’t issued— that’s not up to us, down here
in the trenches, but I’m told it did happen.” “I didn’t
know,” Weisz said. “Nothing came to Reuters.” The cop
shrugged. “Then better keep it under your hat, eh?” “I will,” Weisz said. “Much
obliged,” the cop said. Pompon
closed his file. “I think that’s all, for today,” he said. “Of course we’ll
be speaking with you again.” For those
readers who find this place and time in history interesting, and especially
for fans of spy novels, The Foreign
Correspondent will provide fine reading pleasure. General readers may
find the action to be too slowly paced to maintain attention throughout.
Those who admire the ability to place a reader in a particular place through
detailed descriptive language will love The
Foreign Correspondent. Steve Hopkins,
July 26, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the August 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Foreign Correspondent.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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