Blood of Victory by Alan Furst

Author:Alan Furst
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3, epub, pdf
Tags: Mystery, Extratorrents, Fiction, C429, Historical, Kat, war, Thriller
ISBN: 9780754018926
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2002-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Downstairs, a table in the green salon. Turkish coffee in little cups without handles, cream cakes, toast with butter, Moldavian roll. Outside, beyond the mirrored walls, twilight on a winter afternoon.

Troucelle sprang to his feet when he saw them coming. Under pressure, he was a caricature of himself—too bright, too clever, his smile radiant. “Allow me to present Domnul Petrescu,” he said. The name Petrescu was the Roumanian version of Smith or Jones, the man who stood beside him somebody he would never have known. Pencil mustache, bad teeth, olive green loden jacket.

“So pleased to meet the friends of Jean Paul,” he said. Serebin thought he saw at least one more of them, sitting in a wing chair in the far corner, reading a newspaper.

“Domnul Petrescu is a devotee of the peasant crafts,” Troucelle said. He already regretted what he’d done, Serebin thought. There was a bead of sweat at his hairline, he wiped it away with his thumb.

“It’s your interest?” Petrescu said.

“Our business,” Marie-Galante said.

Petrescu looked at her a certain way. With anticipation. If things went right...Reluctantly, he turned his attention to Serebin. “You are born in France?” Then, an afterthought, “Monsieur?”

“In Russia.”

Marie-Galante put a spoonful of sugar in her coffee, stirred it around, then took a sip.

“Where was that?”

“St. Petersburg. I left as a child.”

“So, you’re a Russian.”

“In Paris a long time,” Serebin said.

“Marchais is a Russian name?”

“Markov, domnul. My father changed it.”

“Your father.”

“A grand old gentleman,” Marie-Galante said. “A poet,” she added, admiration in her voice.

“Of course, once he came to France he had to work in a factory,” Serebin said. “At a lathe.”

“And you, domnul?” Marie-Galante said.

“Me?” He was startled at her impudence.

“Yes. Your father, what did he do?”

Petrescu stared at her, his mouth worked as though something was stuck between his teeth. “We are from the countryside.”

“Ahh,” Marie-Galante said, sentimental for the land.

Troucelle laughed—how pleasant to have a good conversation!

Petrescu needed time to think. He reached for a buttered toast. Serebin could hear him eating it.

“Delicious, don’t you think?” Marie-Galante said.

“Tell me, domnul,” Serebin said, “is there a particular aspect of the peasant crafts that interests you?”

Petrescu put the remainder of the toast triangle back on his plate and patted his lips with a napkin. “Wood carving,” he said.

“I seem to recall,” Troucelle said, “that you were contemplating a visit to Ploesti.”

Serebin and Marie-Galante looked at each other. Us? We were? “I believe it was you who mentioned it,” Serebin said. “No?”

“You need permission to go there, don’t you?” Marie-Galante said.

“You do?” Troucelle said.

“Didn’t someone tell us that?” she asked Serebin.

“It’s no problem,” Petrescu said. “Really, you should go. The craftsmen there are known to do excellent work, and I can help you get a pass, if you like.”

“Something to think about,” Marie-Galante said to Serebin.

“It’s an interesting city,” Troucelle said.

“Maybe on our next trip,” Serebin said.

“But it’s very kind of you to offer to help us,” Marie-Galante said. She looked at her watch, then said to Serebin, “My dear?”

“Yes, you’re right,” Serebin said. He stood, so did Troucelle and Petrescu.

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