the time.” He produced a card and handed it to Weisz.
“And you can only hope that the Turks don’t sign on with Germany.”
“That’s it,” Brown said. “But I think they’ll stay neutral—they had all the war they wanted, by 1918.”
“So did we all,” Sparrow said. “Let’s not do that again, shall we?”
“Can’t stop it, once it starts,” Brown said. “Look at Spain.”
“I think we should’ve helped them,” Olivia said.
“I suppose we should’ve,” Brown said. “But we were thinking about 1914 ourselves, y’know.” To Weisz he said, “Haven’t you written something about Spain, Mr. Weisz?”
“Now and then, I have.”
Brown looked at him for a moment. “What did I read, was it recently? I was up in Birmingham, something in the paper there, the Catalonian campaign?”
“Perhaps you did. I filed down there a few weeks ago, end of December.”
Brown finished his drink. “Very nice, shall we try one more? Have you time, Geoffrey? On me, this round.”
Sparrow waved at the waiter.
“Oh Lord,” Olivia said. “And wine with dinner.”
“Got it,” Brown said. “About some Italian fellow, fighting the Mussolini Italians? Was that you?”
“Likely it was. They subscribe to Reuters, in Birmingham.”
“A colonel, he was. Colonel something.”
“Colonel Ferrara.” Tick.
“With a hat, of some sort.”
“You have quite a memory, Mr. Brown.”
“Well, sad to say I don’t, not really, but that stuck, somehow.”
“A brave man,” Weisz said. Then, to Sparrow and Olivia: “He fought with the International Brigades, and stayed on when they left.”
“Much good it will do him now,” Sparrow said.
“What will become of him?” Brown said. “When the Republicans surrender.”
Slowly, Weisz shook his head.
“It must be odd,” Brown said. “To interview people, to hear their story, and then, they’re gone. Do you ever keep track, Mr. Weisz?”
“That’s hard to do, with the way the world is now. People disappear, or think they might have to, tomorrow, next month…”
“Yes, I can see that. Still, he must’ve made an impression on you. He’s quite unusual, in his way, a military officer, fighting for another nation’s cause.”
“I think he saw it as one cause, Mr. Brown. Do you know the line from Rosselli? He and his brother founded an émigré organization in the twenties, and he was murdered in Paris in ’37.”
“I know the Rosselli story, I don’t know the line.”
“‘Today in Spain, tomorrow in Italy.’”
“Which means?”
“The battle is for freedom in Europe; democracy versus fascism.”
“Not communism versus fascism?”
“Not for Rosselli.”
“But for Colonel Ferrara, perhaps?”
“No, no. Not for him either. He is an idealist.”
“That’s very romantic,” Olivia said. “Like a movie.”
“Indeed,” Brown said.
It was almost eight when Weisz left the hotel, passed up the line of taxis at the curb, and headed toward the river. Let the weather, cold and damp, clear his head, he’d find a taxi later. He often told himself this, then didn’t bother, choosing his streets for the pleasure of walking them. He circled place Vendôme, its jewelers’ windows lying in wait for the Ritz clientele, then took rue Saint-Honoré, past fancy shops, now closed, and the occasional restaurant, its sign gold on green, a secret refuge, the scent of rich food drifting through the night air.
Mr. Brown had offered him dinner, but he’d declined—he’d been questioned enough for one evening. Continental Trading, Ltd. said the card, with telephone numbers in Istanbul and London, but Weisz had a pretty good idea of Mr. Brown’s real business, which was the espionage business, he believed, likely the British Secret Intelligence Service. Nothing new or surprising here, not really, spies and journalists were fated to go through life together, and it was sometimes hard to tell one from the other. Their jobs weren’t all that
“And you can only hope that the Turks don’t sign on with Germany.”
“That’s it,” Brown said. “But I think they’ll stay neutral—they had all the war they wanted, by 1918.”
“So did we all,” Sparrow said. “Let’s not do that again, shall we?”
“Can’t stop it, once it starts,” Brown said. “Look at Spain.”
“I think we should’ve helped them,” Olivia said.
“I suppose we should’ve,” Brown said. “But we were thinking about 1914 ourselves, y’know.” To Weisz he said, “Haven’t you written something about Spain, Mr. Weisz?”
“Now and then, I have.”
Brown looked at him for a moment. “What did I read, was it recently? I was up in Birmingham, something in the paper there, the Catalonian campaign?”
“Perhaps you did. I filed down there a few weeks ago, end of December.”
Brown finished his drink. “Very nice, shall we try one more? Have you time, Geoffrey? On me, this round.”
Sparrow waved at the waiter.
“Oh Lord,” Olivia said. “And wine with dinner.”
“Got it,” Brown said. “About some Italian fellow, fighting the Mussolini Italians? Was that you?”
“Likely it was. They subscribe to Reuters, in Birmingham.”
“A colonel, he was. Colonel something.”
“Colonel Ferrara.” Tick.
“With a hat, of some sort.”
“You have quite a memory, Mr. Brown.”
“Well, sad to say I don’t, not really, but that stuck, somehow.”
“A brave man,” Weisz said. Then, to Sparrow and Olivia: “He fought with the International Brigades, and stayed on when they left.”
“Much good it will do him now,” Sparrow said.
“What will become of him?” Brown said. “When the Republicans surrender.”
Slowly, Weisz shook his head.
“It must be odd,” Brown said. “To interview people, to hear their story, and then, they’re gone. Do you ever keep track, Mr. Weisz?”
“That’s hard to do, with the way the world is now. People disappear, or think they might have to, tomorrow, next month…”
“Yes, I can see that. Still, he must’ve made an impression on you. He’s quite unusual, in his way, a military officer, fighting for another nation’s cause.”
“I think he saw it as one cause, Mr. Brown. Do you know the line from Rosselli? He and his brother founded an émigré organization in the twenties, and he was murdered in Paris in ’37.”
“I know the Rosselli story, I don’t know the line.”
“‘Today in Spain, tomorrow in Italy.’”
“Which means?”
“The battle is for freedom in Europe; democracy versus fascism.”
“Not communism versus fascism?”
“Not for Rosselli.”
“But for Colonel Ferrara, perhaps?”
“No, no. Not for him either. He is an idealist.”
“That’s very romantic,” Olivia said. “Like a movie.”
“Indeed,” Brown said.
It was almost eight when Weisz left the hotel, passed up the line of taxis at the curb, and headed toward the river. Let the weather, cold and damp, clear his head, he’d find a taxi later. He often told himself this, then didn’t bother, choosing his streets for the pleasure of walking them. He circled place Vendôme, its jewelers’ windows lying in wait for the Ritz clientele, then took rue Saint-Honoré, past fancy shops, now closed, and the occasional restaurant, its sign gold on green, a secret refuge, the scent of rich food drifting through the night air.
Mr. Brown had offered him dinner, but he’d declined—he’d been questioned enough for one evening. Continental Trading, Ltd. said the card, with telephone numbers in Istanbul and London, but Weisz had a pretty good idea of Mr. Brown’s real business, which was the espionage business, he believed, likely the British Secret Intelligence Service. Nothing new or surprising here, not really, spies and journalists were fated to go through life together, and it was sometimes hard to tell one from the other. Their jobs weren’t all that
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