Red Gold

MONSIEUR MARIN

28 MARCH, 1942.

The apartment was in the 7th, on the avenue Bosquet, above a small and very expensive restaurant. It was well used; smelled of Gauloises and wet overcoats, and too much time spent indoors with the windows shut. “It belongs to a wealthy family,” Gueze explained. “They’ve left the country, but we can use it for as long as the war goes on. The best way to come in is down the hallway from a door inside the restaurant, then up the stairs.” He paused, then said, “We think it’s safe, but look around before you enter the building. It’s like everything else.”

He had a sheet of paper in front of him, which he tapped with the end of his pen. “We got hold of your dossier. Not too bad. They want to question you again, but there’s nothing about an escape.”

“How is that possible?”

“Apparently they’ve protected themselves. The Gestapo is unforgiving—in their view, accidents don’t happen. So, they called you in for questioning, then you left.”

“A man chased me. Fell off the roof into the courtyard.”

“If it happened, it isn’t in here. They may have reported it separately, as an accident, or a suicide. There is a cross-reference to the files of the SD, the SS intelligence service, we don’t know what’s in there. It seems to us that the case against you is obscure, not appealing to most investigators. You were certainly suspected of involvement with the British, but so were a lot of other people. And now the dossier is missing, perhaps misfiled.”

“So then?”

“You’re just as well off as Marin. You can’t be rehabilitated. Not now. Major Guske, the officer who called you in for questioning, is still in Paris. I would, if I were you, try to avoid him.”

“I’ll try.”

They both smiled. “As I said, we’re all new to this. We’ve suffered losses, but we’re learning as we go along. I think I may have to concede that perhaps the Brasserie Heininger wasn’t such a good idea after all. When you went to the WC, a man came over—I knew him slightly—and asked if you were the film producer Jean Casson.”

“What did you say?”

“That you were an insurance executive.”

“Claims investigator, is what my papers say.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t be having dinner with somebody like that. Anyhow, you can stay in Paris for the time being, but you must be careful.” He paused, cleared his throat, put his notes away. “Now,” he said, “the British have come to the London office with a problem. Of course we agreed to help, and it’s up to us, to you and me, to show them we can do it.

“According to their intelligence, during the period January-February of this year, fifty-five hundred tons of gasoline and aviation fuel went from France to Rommel’s Afrika Korps in Libya. A war in the desert is a war of gasoline—for warplanes, for the tanks. In this kind of expanse—thousands of square miles—whoever can cover more ground, whoever can stay in the air longer, wins. What they want is for somebody to slow down the fuel deliveries. Some of it moves by rail, a good deal of it goes south on the rivers and canals, from the refineries in Rouen. Some of it must be coming from the Toulon refineries in the south, but the tonnage is well beyond what they produce. That’s more or less the situation, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Gueze said. “Now do something about it.”

5 APRIL.

3:40 A.M., raining hard. The dockyards at Ablon, just south of Paris.

The union office was in a wooden shack—a few desks and chairs, a cold woodstove with a zigzag pipe to the roof. Weiss flinched as he entered, water dripping on him from the doorframe. Inside, the two men in bleu de travail grinned. “We’ve been meaning to do something about that,” one of them said.

His friend laughed. “Comrade Weiss doesn’t care.”

Weiss smoothed his hair back and wiped the water off his forehead.

“We have what you want,” the first man said. He produced a sheaf of paper, a handwritten manifest.

The oil lamp was turned down to a glow, Weiss peered at the columns of tiny script. “Maybe if I had my glasses,” he said.

“We have eleven fuel barges waiting to go. Looks like a convoy. There may be more coming down today, from Rouen.”

“What is it?”

“Just plain gasoline. Not the fancy stuff for planes. That’s what the manifest says, anyhow.”

“What time does it leave?”

“Sometime around six-thirty this morning. Lots of Germans around, though. That usually slows things down.”

“Any idea what they’re after?”

“Who knows? Sometimes they hear something.”

Weiss thought for a while, staring at the darkness outside the window. “We want these barges to burn,” he said. “Can you take care of it?”

“Not here.” The man laughed, though nothing was particularly funny. “They’d kill every last one of us.”

“What about a little way downstream?”

“I suppose it’s possible, with explosives.”

“What happens if you put a bullet in it?”

“Not much. We tried that during a strike in ’37. Somebody put four shots right in the tank and nothing happened—it spilled a few pints of gasoline, somebody else was beaten up, and a couple of people who had nothing to do with it were fired.”

“Is the manifest complete—bargeloads, names, and numbers?”

“It’s all there,” the man said, a little relieved.

Casson was waiting in a hotel room near the docks. Weiss hung his wet coat on the back of a chair. “Fuel barges all over the place,” he said. “Up in Ivry, and Choisy, and eleven down here. They’re being very careful.”

“What are they worried about?”

“Hard to say. It’s a big war, some damn thing goes on in Copenhagen or Odessa and a message shows up on the teleprinter in the rue des Saussaies.”

“Anything we can do?”

Weiss exhaled, rubbed his face. He was tired. “I’m out of ideas. This thing was organized in a hurry—I’m not complaining, you understand, it’s what we asked for. But we usually work slowly, find out what we need to know, plan every step.”

Casson wondered what he could offer. Gueze had given him a briefcase full of hundred-franc notes, but Weiss and the FTP didn’t work that way. “We’ll think of something,” Casson said.

Weiss brooded, took a well-creased road map of France from the pocket of his coat and spread it out on the bed. “It’s hard, with the waterways. You can’t blow up a river.”

Later that day, riding a local train south to Troyes, Casson found a leaflet on the seat from the resistance group Libération. The lead story: a heroic attack by three RAF Beaufighters on a barge convoy at Elbeuf, in the curve of the Seine south of Rouen.

. . . their 20 MM cannon firing thunderbolts of destruction, crewmen leaping off the decks and swimming for their lives. A hard blow, and daring, in full daylight, engines screaming as they dove, lower, lower, leveling out just a few feet above the water, machine guns blazing. Then, bombs released, the planes roar away. A huge blast—windows tremble in Rouen, hearts tremble in Berlin. Four bargeloads of coal sent to the bottom of the river. No tank turrets will be forged with that coal!

Coal, Casson thought. Merde.

He met with Weiss as planned, at a café in Troyes, and told him what he’d read. Weiss shrugged. “Could as well have been turnips,” he said. “Last I heard, Rommel was running panzer tanks, not locomotives.”

“Were they after the gasoline?”

“What else? The problem is, doing this kind of thing with airplanes is very hard. They miss, they hit the wrong building, the wrong part of the building, the wrong town, and, yes, it’s happened, I promise you, the wrong country. So, in this case, they hit the wrong barges.” They were silent for a time, the rain slanting down beyond the steamy window. “There is one thing we can try here—a lock, on the canal south of the town. The countryside looks flat but actually it isn’t, the barge traffic has to move uphill.” He looked at his watch. “I have to sleep,” he said, “it’s been forty hours.”

“You have a place to go?”

“Yes, and you better come along. I don’t want you in hotels today—if there’s one thing the British did with their raid, they woke the Germans up. It’s typical of the British—they’ll try an air attack and a sabotage operation on the same target. If one doesn’t work, maybe the other will.” Weiss rubbed his eyes. “Let’s get going,” he said, “before I fall asleep on the table.”

The woman in the small cottage was not pleased to see them. Her husband mumbled something or other as they came through the door but she wasn’t having any. She was big and broad-shouldered, stood over a huge pot with an iron spoon in her hand and glowered at them. Five kids in the house, at least as far as Casson could count, and her husband invites his pals for dinner.

Weiss stretched out on a sofa in the tiny parlor and fell sound asleep. Casson slept in a chair.

“You could have stayed in Paris, you know,” Weiss said to him later. “This is only going to get harder.”

“I know,” Casson said. “But I tried that once. It was a disaster. We were making The Devil’s Bridge, shooting on location—a bridge over the Sambre, way up north, almost on the Belgian border. I think the Germans blew it up in ’40. ‘Why not stay in Paris?’ the director said. ‘When the problems come, you’re right there in the office to solve them.’ Well, the problems came, all right, oh how they came. First, the usual problems, then the problems that came from not having a producer on location. I went up there on the next train but it was too late—started out badly and it was going to stay that way.”

“But you made the movie.”

“We made something.”

Just before dark, a woman knocked on the door. Weiss introduced her as Jeanne. She acknowledged Casson with a glance, her hands thrust deep in the pockets of an oilskin field coat. Casson offered her a cigarette and lit it for her. She nodded her thanks as she inhaled, her face drawn with fatigue. “This wasn’t easy,” she said to Weiss, “but we found somebody, the uncle of a teacher at the lycée. He has a barge called Le Zéphyr, docked about thirty miles upstream. He promises to be in Troyes by eleven tomorrow.”

“That’s the first good news today,” Weiss said. “Will he do what we want?”

“Perhaps he will—he says he will. If he doesn’t show, we’ll have to find somebody else.”

“No time.”

“All right,” she said, “I’ll steal a barge and do it myself.”

The Zéphyr was north of Troyes a little after noon. The teacher’s uncle, its captain, had already stoked up his courage: the sour smell of wine hung around him like a mist. “What must be done must be done,” he mumbled, as much to himself as anybody else. As arranged, they’d met him on the riverbank, about five kilometers from Troyes, where he’d tied the barge to a willow tree. “I am ready, monsieur,” he said to Weiss.

The lock system was on the other side of the town. Weiss and Casson bicycled there and found a patch of woods where a street turned into a dirt path. Weiss swore when he saw what was going on. A German officer was standing with the lockkeeper in his small hut to one side of the gates. A string of barges had just gone through the lock, white water was foaming out of the downriver spillway, and a line of barges waiting to enter had tied up to posts on the far bank.

It seemed a long time, a half hour or more, before they saw the Zéphyr. Moving quickly for a barge, its stern engine hammering away in a haze of blue smoke.

Casson watched the German officer. Tall, hands clasped behind his back, a sharp profile below the visor of his cap. He rocked back and forth as he watched the Zéphyr approach.

“I don’t care for this German,” Casson said.

Weiss agreed. “No, he’s taking it very seriously, whoever he is.”

“What’s our captain going to think, when he sees him?”

“We’ll find out,” Weiss said. “If I’d known he would be here, I would have called the thing off. I thought this would be a French affair—catastrophe as daily bread and all that. But now . . .” He didn’t bother to finish.

The last of the water spilled from the downriver gate and the lockkeeper thrust his weight against a huge iron wheel. As it turned, the two gates began to move toward each other, an inch at a time, until they met. When the lockkeeper looked up, there was the Zéphyr, headed full speed for the closed gates of the lock. On the tied-up barges, people were shouting, waving their arms. The lockkeeper did his best, ran to the other end of the hut and turned the wheel frantically, trying to get the gates open, but they parted only a foot or so. He saw he couldn’t do it in time, ran out of the hut and along the stone wall that held the gates, and signaled violently with both hands: run it into shore! But the Zéphyr never wavered, headed directly for the lock.

The sound of the collision was not dramatic, a muffled thud as the wooden prow hit the gates, then the sound of metal on metal as they bent backward. A chain snapped, an ancient iron pulley fell into the canal with a splash. That was all.

The Zéphyr’s stern swung around in the current and the side of the barge bumped against the crushed gates as the captain shut off his engine.

For a moment, silence. On the barges, people stared in disbelief. Casson wanted to laugh. There was something comic about it, slap-stick, you saw it coming but there was nothing anybody could do.

Weiss’s voice was so quiet Casson barely heard it. “Oh no,” he said.

The German officer came tearing out of the hut and ran onto the stone wall, brushing past the lockkeeper. Lean and graceful, he ran hard, and Casson now saw what Weiss had seen a moment earlier: something about the way he was running made it clear what he was going to do.

The captain of the Zéphyr stumbled out of the wheelhouse and threw his arms wide, palms up to heaven. Oh Lord, now look what’s happened. The officer never missed a step. He leaped onto the barge, grabbed the captain by the shirt, and threw him to the deck, the man’s feet flew up in the air as he landed. He started talking, some of the words drifted over to Weiss and Casson, shrill, whining. The officer waited, the barge captain never stopped. The officer’s arm swept up from his side, pointed out straight, and a flame came out of his hand, the sound flat and hollow on the open water. The man on the deck thrashed for a time, Casson thought he heard him saying something. The officer put his pistol away, vaulted back up to the stone wall and returned to the hut.

8 APRIL.

The town of Coligny, on the Briare Canal. Weiss had a room over a café on the main square. It was quiet in the evening, farm country in Burgundy, people played cards and drank wine in the café. The telephone in the room rang from time to time. Weiss listened, said a few words, hung up. He made one brief call, then another. “The news is not so good,” he told Casson. “They’re saying in Troyes that the canal will be back in operation in a day or two. If we get a sixty-hour delay out of this I’ll be surprised.”

“Maybe it’s just a rumor.”

“I don’t think so. We got word in Paris, about an hour ago, that one of the foundries in Metz has a complete stop-work order—to set up for an emergency job. Somebody will try to get a look at the drawings, but I would bet they’re going to make a new set of lock gates. What that means to me is intervention at a very high level, so we have to assume the Germans pretty much know what we’re doing. By tomorrow, they’ll probably have a couple of infantry companies at every lock on the inland waterways, and we’ll be out of business.”

He paced the room for a time then sat in a swivel chair by the desk. “What we’re doing tonight,” he said, “is maybe our best chance. It’s improvised, but at least we’re depending on our own people.”

The waiting was hard. Casson walked around the room. The town outside was dark and silent, farm dogs barking somewhere in the distance. The phone rang again, Weiss let it ring a second time, then answered. He looked at his watch and said, “Just after eight-thirty,” and hung up.

A knock at the door and two men entered: the pale Slav who’d been with Weiss the day the guns were delivered, and a man who Casson thought, from his accent, might be a Spaniard. They both nodded to Casson.

“Ready to go?” Weiss said.

The two men exchanged a look. After a moment the Spaniard said, “I don’t know this explosive. They use it in the mines, but not where I come from. It’s been in the rain, I think.”

“That won’t matter.”

“No, the man who brought it said it wouldn’t.”

“What kind of fuse?”

“Detonation cord. Also damp, but I cut off a small piece and it worked.”

“You have enough people?”

“Escobar. And three others.”

“It’s scheduled for eight-thirty,” Weiss said. He turned to the other man. “What about the power station?”

“I have somebody from the local office. It won’t be a problem.”

“Good.”

The two men said good night and left.

“We can’t get the right explosive,” Weiss said. “What we’re using now is Ammonal, powdered aluminum and TNT, mining explosive. We get it from the Poles who work the iron pits up in Nancy.”

“What do you need?”

“C4. Likely the English have something even better.”

“Do this tonight,” Casson said. “And they’ll give you whatever you want.”

8 : 3 0 .

Serra and Escobar were waiting in the shadows at the Coligny lock, on the edge of town where the Briare Canal met the river Loing. The Germans had lit the area with two powerful searchlights—which created a fine hiding place just beyond the beams. The lock had been built in 1810; heavy gates on either end of a long barrage, a dam of dry-masoned set stone that measured several hundred feet from end to end, large enough to hold thirty barges.

Serra had packed the Ammonal into a metal drum he’d found outside a workshop in Coligny. He’d punched a hole in the side and set the end of the fuse between two packets of explosive.

“A lot of people on the barges,” Escobar said.

“Yes. They’re waiting to go through in the morning.”

They could smell smoke from cooking fires. Somebody laughed, a woman called out to a friend.

“Who is at the power station?”

“Ivanic.”

“Then we don’t have to worry.”

“No,” Serra said.

“And the guards?”

“Four of them. Gendarmes, in the lockkeeper’s hut. They stay in there most of the time, people here say they go to sleep after midnight. I don’t think you should be worrying about them, somebody’s covering that side of the dam. They have a machine gun, the gendarmes will not argue with it.”

8 : 4 4 .

The searchlights flared brilliant white, then died away.

Serra closed his eyes and waited for the afterimage to fade. It was very dark now, a power failure in Coligny. A half-moon and a few stars showed through the scudding cloud, just enough light to catch the dull silver of the gasoline tanks on the barges.

“In a minute,” Serra said.

Some commotion, a single shout from the lockkeeper’s hut. Moments later a whistle, and a man came running low around the stone wall of the dam. “Serra, are you there?” he called in Spanish.

“Yes. What is it?”

A young man squatted beside him and whispered, “Do you have any cord?”

“No. What do you want with that?”

“The gendarmes. They say to tie them up, or else the Germans will shoot them.”

“I don’t know—use their belts. Certainly there is rope on the barges.”

“Serra, I just want to ask you, will the explosion hit the lockkeeper’s little house?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just do your job, and we’ll do ours.”

The young man gave him a look, then ran off and circled back around the dam.

“Now,” Serra said.

“Look.” Escobar pointed back toward the town.

“What?”

“Something’s on fire.”

“That’s the power station. Ivanic always burns something.”

The barrel of Ammonal went off at 8:46.

Serra had started his apprenticeship in the mines of Asturias when he was eleven years old. By the time he was twelve, he knew how to move rock around with explosive.

The barrel had been set snugly at the base of the stone wall of the dam and blew a great cloud of stone chips and dirt into the air. People on the barges screamed, leaped onto the embankment, and scrambled away into the darkness. Dust and smoke drifted slowly toward the town. The hole in the wall of the dam was only three feet wide to begin with, but the force of the water soon took away one piece of cracked stone block, then another.

The water ran into the backstreets of Coligny and down the grates of the medieval sewers, echoing in the huge vaults below the town. People heard it, opened their windows and leaned out, had a word or two with their neighbors across the street.

“Albert, is your power out?”

“Yes. Something blew up.”

“A bomb?”

“No. Nothing like that, probably those conards at the power station pulled the wrong lever.”

“Do you smell smoke?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll never get to sleep now. Want to play cards?”

“What about Françoise?”

“Nothing wakes her, we can play in the kitchen.”

On the dam, the barges sank slowly, it took a long time for the water to run out of the hole blown in the stonework. Just about all of the people on the barges took advantage of it—some had to swim but most of them made their way from the deck of one barge to the next, stepped onto the shore, then stood and watched as the water went down. At the end, the barges bobbed for a moment on the blackish slime at the bottom of the empty dam, then settled softly into the mud.

1 1 : 2 5 .

In the room above the café, the light went back on. The workers in the power station had apparently rigged up an emergency system. A moment later, the telephone. Weiss waited, then picked it up. He listened for a few seconds, then hung up. “Four months,” he said.

“Can you be certain?” Casson asked.

“We know what it takes to build things. Thirty barges at the bottom of a well, that’s pretty much what’s happened. Twenty of them carrying fuel. Another hundred or so are headed south on the canals—they won’t be able to get through.”

“Well, then.” Casson didn’t know exactly what to say. He was too tired to feel victory.

Weiss smiled. “I have to go out for a time,” he said. “An hour, maybe. Then we’ll head back to Paris. It’s not a good idea to stick around after one of these things.”

Casson stood, they shook hands.

He was exhausted, he realized. He turned the light out, sat at the desk, and almost went to sleep. The phone rang. Casson reached for it, couldn’t decide whether to answer or not, but it didn’t ring again.

Back to Paris. To start again, some new operation. It wasn’t going to end for a long time. If they took the night train he could sleep—even that seemed like a luxury now.

One ring. Why? A signal?

No. He was letting his imagination get the better of him, a bad idea. He stood up, walked to the window, looked out over the deserted street below. Calm down, he told himself, this is over.

He sighed, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. He walked down the stairs into the café and stood at the bar. Normal, another night in the village café. Two white-haired men, heavy sweaters under their jackets, were playing dominoes. A farmer in rubber boots, drinking pastis. A couple of old ladies in the corner. A fonctionnaire, peering through gold spectacles at the evening paper. A young woman, smoking, staring into space, by her side a Briard stretched out on the muddy tile floor, dreaming away.

The woman behind the bar came over and asked him what he’d like.

“Could I have a vin rouge?”

“You can, monsieur.”

She poured it from a pitcher, wiped the bottom of the glass with a rag, set it on the zinc bar in front of him.

“Some excitement tonight,” he said.

The woman shrugged. “Yes, I suppose. Some kind of accident over at the canal, the electricity out.”

They both heard it at the same time—people charging up the stairs that went to the room above the café. More than two, maybe three or four. Not quite running, but in a hurry. He heard the door open—its knob hit the wall. He heard them walking around, directly above his head, the old wooden flooring creaked under the weight. He stared at the ceiling, so did the woman behind the bar. He saw that her hand was shaking. In the café it was quiet, none of the little sounds, cups and spoons, and nobody talked. Up above, he could hear voices.

It went on for a few minutes. Then he heard them coming back down the stairs. They threw the door open and slammed it shut. A car started up in the street, and drove away. Casson could hear it for a long time, the driver shifting up through the gears as the sound of the engine faded into the distance.

The woman behind the bar took a deep breath. “That will be two francs, monsieur,” she said.

Monsieur Levaux arrived at his office on the Champs-Elysées punctually at ten on Monday morning. In his perfect suit and perfect shoes, with his perfect shave, he was the local god. On the way to his office he accepted obeisance—“Bonjour, Monsieur Levaux,” “ Bonjour, Monsieur Levaux”—with profound disdain. A cold, polite face, it gave nothing away. You are not in favor. Neither are you. Phones rang, typewriters clattered. At the end of the room, his office. He went in and closed the door. His secretary gave him a few minutes, then knocked discreetly and entered. Levaux told her what he wanted, and away she went.

Life had not always been so easy. His father had been a railroad clerk, he had not shone in school, but he had worked hard, very hard, over the years, and, in time, the Agence Levaux was a place where people went when they needed to travel. By train or ship, to a commercial hotel or a resort, the agency was pleased to suggest the appropriate route, to make the reservation, write the ticket, collect the money. It was not the grandest agency in Paris, but it was not the smallest either. It made money, year in and year out. It made Monsieur Levaux a rich man.

He lived well, belonged to a club, lived in a fine apartment. But this was Paris, where money mattered but wasn’t everything. It didn’t, for instance, buy membership in the upper classes. It was pleasant to be rich, he thought, and it would just have to be sufficient. To rise any further—one had to be a realist about such things—was unlikely.

Or so he’d thought. Then, one Tuesday afternoon, a telephone call. A competitor, a man who owned many more offices than he ever would. They’d known each other for years, a distant relationship, a favor this way, a favor that way, one was flattered to be asked. But this call was different—a dinner party, in the 16th Arrondissement, could Monsieur and Madame Levaux possibly attend? Or was it, perhaps, inconvenient?

Oh no, they would certainly attend. Chez Levaux, ecstasy. Madame in a flurry, off to the shops. For monsieur, a new suit. They arrived at 8:30 precisely, with damp palms and flushed faces. They talked, they ate, they drank, they were as charming as they knew how to be. And, in the middle of the evening, one of the guests, a grand personnage of the Sorbonne—asked of him a small favor. Would it be possible . . . ? Oh yes. He’d been considering it himself, in fact. He had? The personnage was pleased, said thank you and meant it.

A knock at the office door. The woman he’d summoned was shown in, he directed her to sit down. She was very nervous, he thought. Was he such a fearsome presence? Well, perhaps he overdid it, but far better to err on the side of authority.

Not unattractive. He’d suspected from the beginning a romantic entanglement lay at the heart of this business, but that didn’t matter. Dark, he thought, dark eyes, a generous mouth, seductive. He smiled, she returned the smile. Calm yourself, he thought, my dear—he consulted the file—my dear Hélène.

He made a show of what he was going to do. Opened her dossier, paged through it, remarked on her years of service. “What I need,” he said, “is someone like yourself, who knows the agency, who knows how we do business, and has a good feel for the Levaux clientele.” Someone, above all, dependable. Well, how did she feel about that. Good? Bon. What he was offering was a job as the assistant office manager, in the Lisbon office. Quite a way from Paris, it was true, but an advancement in salary, and position. Would she consider it? Yes, she would.

On an April morning, Monsieur Marin settled his account at the Hotel du Commerce and moved to the Hotel Moncey, on the square of the same name near Nôtre Dame de Lorette. No special reason, he thought, it was simply time to go. Too long in one place, too many nods from the other fugitives in the endless hallways.

He had received, the last week in March, two unsigned postcards. The first sent from Vera Cruz. “I’m living now,” it began, “at the Hotel Alcalà.” There was probably no such hotel—the name from the title of a book by Alexander Kovar—but the message was clear. “I’m with old friends,” it continued, “and I am in good health.” The second card, with a photograph of a Moorish garden, came from Lisbon. “I will never forget you,” it said.

Monsieur Marin spent the day settling in to his new quartier. He had one meeting—with a man who’d worked before the war as a surveyor around Caen—then he stopped at a bookstore, and picked up an envelope that held the production schedule of an aluminum refinery in the south.

He woke early the next morning and opened the window, watching the night fade from the Paris sky. The rain had stopped, a few black puddles in the cobbled square, and the air smelled like spring. He heard someone in the corridor, then a light knock at the door.

“Yes?” he said.