The Foreign Correspondent

The Foreign Correspondent by Alan Furst

Book: The Foreign Correspondent by Alan Furst Read Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Furst
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Thrillers, Espionage
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on the pad and pencil in Weisz’s hand.
    “Yes, I’m based in Paris now.”
    “Are you. Well, that can’t be too bad.”
    “Did you come over for the conference?” Weisz said, a journalist’s version of what the hell are you doing here?
    “Oh, actually not. We sneaked away for a long weekend, but, this morning, we just couldn’t face the Louvre, so…just for a lark, you know, we thought we’d have a look.” His smile turned rueful, it hadn’t really been all that much fun. “But damned if I thought I’d see someone I knew!” He turned to Olivia and said, “Carlo and I were at university together. Uh, what was it, Harold Dowling’s course, I think, right?”
    “Yes, that’s right. Very long lectures, I recall.”
    From Sparrow, a merry laugh. They’d had such fun together, hadn’t they, Dowling, all that. “So, you’ve left Italy?”
    “I did, about three years ago. I couldn’t stay there any longer.”
    “Yes, I know, Mussolini and his little men, damn shame, really. I do see your name on a Reuters dispatch, now and again, and I knew there couldn’t be two of you.”
    Weisz smiled, graciously enough. “No, it’s me.”
    “ Well, a foreign correspondent,” Olivia said.
    “He is, the rogue, while I sit in a bank,” Sparrow said. “Actually, now that I think about it, I have a friend in Paris who’s rather a fan of yours. Damn, what was it he mentioned? Some story from Warsaw? No, Danzig! About Volksdeutsche militia training in the forest. Was that yours?”
    “It was—I’m surprised you remember it.”
    “I’m surprised I remember anything, but my friend went on about it—fat men in short pants with old rifles. Singing around the campfire.”
    Weisz was, despite himself, flattered. “Frightening, in its way. They mean to fight the Poles.”
    “Yes, and here comes Adolf, to help them out. Say, Carlo, have you got plans for this afternoon? We’re booked for dinner, damn it all, but what say you to drinks? At six? Maybe I’ll call my friend, I’m sure he’d want to meet you.”
    “Well, I do have to write this story.” He nodded toward the hall, where a woman’s voice was building to a crescendo.
    “Oh that won’t take long,” Olivia said, her eyes meeting his.
    “I’ll try,” Weisz said. “Where are you staying?”
    “At the Bristol,” Sparrow said. “But we won’t drink there, maybe the Deux Magots, or watchamacallit next door. Drinks with old Sartre!”
    “It’s the Flore,” Weisz said.
    “Please, darling,” Olivia said. “No more filthy beards—can’t we go to Le Petit Bar? We’re not here every day.” Le Petit Bar was the much-more-chic of the two bars at the Ritz. Turning to Weisz, she said, “Ritz cocktails, Carlo!” And when I’m tiddly I just don’t care what goes on under the table.
    “Done!” Sparrow said. “The Ritz at six. Can’t be too bad.”
    “I’ll call if I can’t make it,” Weisz said.
    “Oh do try, Carlo,” Olivia said. “Please?”
      
    Weisz, clacketting steadily away at the Olivetti, was done by four-thirty. Plenty of time to call the Bristol and cancel the drinks. He stood up, ready to go downstairs and use the telephone, then didn’t. The prospect of an hour with Sparrow and Olivia and friend appealed to him as, at least, a change. Not another evening of gloomy politics with fellow émigrés. He knew perfectly well that Sparrow’s girlfriend was only flirting, but flirting wasn’t so bad, and Sparrow was bright, and could be amusing. Don’t be such a hermit, he told himself. And if the friend thought he was good at what he did, well, why not? He heard few enough compliments, absent Delahanty’s backhanded ironies, a few kind words from a reader wouldn’t be the end of the world. So he put on his cleanest shirt and his best tie, his silk red-and-gray stripe, combed his hair with water, left his glasses on the desk, went downstairs at five-forty-five, and had the not inconsiderable pleasure of telling a taxi

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