Red Gold by Alan Furst

Author:Alan Furst
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Mystery, Thriller, Historical
ISBN: 9780753818312
Publisher: Phoenix
Published: 1999-03-23T00:00:00+00:00

MAS MODELE 38

10 JANUARY, 1942 .

Casson boarded the night train to Marseilles at 8:25, at the Gare de Lyons, but they didn't get under way until 10:40--sabotage on the track at Bourg-la-Reine, according to the conductor.

The train slowed to a crawl and switched over to the north-bound track. Casson rested his forehead against the cold window, saw twisted rails that glowed for an instant in the moonlight and a crowd of railwaymen warming their hands at a fire in an iron barrel. A few minutes later they were out in the countryside; patches of snow on the hills, the rivers under the railway bridges frozen to sheets of gray ice.

Just after four in the morning they passed Moulins, on the river Allier. It had become a border town, where the Occupied Zone met the area ruled by Vichy, a few kilometers down the river. By then only one passenger, perhaps a commercial traveler, remained in the compartment. Casson had waded over a branch of the Allier a year earlier, guided by the son of a local aristocrat. April of 1941, Citrine waiting for him in a hotel in Lyons.

The German exit Kontrol, leaving what was now called Frank-reich, was located at a small station on the northern edge of the city. It was typical, Casson thought. The Germans always seemed to choose isolated, anonymous areas for their operations--you didn't know where you were, there was nowhere to run, whatever happened there was invisible.

But, this time, not too bad. Degrave had made sure he had all the right papers. A few German noncoms boarded the train, tired at that time of night. They glanced at his identity card, peered at the underwear and socks in his valise, then stamped his passport. He was sweating by the time they left the compartment--sometimes they arrested people for no apparent reason.

The train rolled slowly into the main station in Moulins, where the French border police ordered everybody onto the platform and made them stand in line. From all the muttering and grumbling that went on it was clear to Casson that this wasn't the usual procedure.

The line, heading to a table manned by uniformed officers, barely moved. The passengers breathed plumes of steam and stamped their feet. When Casson reached the table, he handed over his identity card with his travel and work permits folded in the middle. The officer took a long, careful look, then said, "This one out." He was escorted to a room inside the station, where a civilian official sat at an old metal desk.

He sat down as directed, and handed over his papers. They were spread out, slowly examined, notes were made on a sheet of paper. Outside, he heard the hiss of steam, then the slow progress of the Marseilles train as it moved out of the station.

The official was young, savagely combed and brushed and shaved, wore steel-framed eyeglasses and hair freshly clipped to a perfect line across the back of the neck. He had a sulky mouth, set against the world--born angry and meant to stay that way.

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