Red Crystal (10 page)

On the memo pad the bank director made a further note to tell the director of the import-export company that a back-up request for additional funds had been made.

A board meeting of Aide et Solidarité was held that evening. There were more than twenty people on the board, including a Dominican priest, a Protestant pastor, a famous left-wing political philosopher, and various Paris intellectuals. It was fashionable to be a member of the Aide et Solidarité organization. It showed that you cared about the worldwide anti-colonial struggle, the current cause beloved by the radical chic.

Many who sat round the table that evening chose not to think about how Aide et Solidarité was funded. For them it was enough that it existed at all. And although some of them knew that the organization regularly produced false papers for those in need, only two of them were aware that arms, explosives, training and liaison were also provided. One of those people was, of course, Duteil, alias Raymond, and the other his deputy.

The meeting had originally been called to discuss two items: the accommodation of foreign refugees, and the next anti-Vietnam war demonstration.

However, not surprisingly, the discussion quickly turned to the revolt. Despite its rapid progress the final outcome was far from certain, everyone agreed. Admittedly the workers had latched on to the student movement very quickly and had been quick to come out on strike, but their motives were dubious. A great number of them, far from challenging the capitalist state, were perfectly happy with it. All they wanted was a larger slice of the cake. If the government dangled higher wages and the promise of greater representation in front of them the revolt might easily fall apart.

Horror was expressed at this possibility. The radical chic liked the idea of the workers sticking to their principles even if it meant turning down higher wages.

The discussion then turned to support for the revolt. It was pointed out that the organization had many safe houses. Could they not be offered to students being sought by the police?

Duteil interrupted immediately. ‘You all know that Aide et Solidarité cannot and must not help them. If we assist those who are fighting the French government, we will be closed down. We are only tolerated as long as we stay out of French affairs.’ He offered a palliative. ‘What you do as individuals, however, is your own affair.’ Duteil shot a meaningful glance at the Dominican priest. The priest acknowledged it with a blink, unnoticed by the others.

The matter was dropped and the discussion moved on to other matters. Half an hour later Duteil brought the meeting to a close.

The priest stayed behind after the others had gone.

Duteil shook his head and said wryly, ‘I have broken my own rules. I hope I’m not going to regret it.’

‘The girl knows nothing.’

‘I hope not.’

They walked the short distance from the luxurious offices which were lent to them for board meetings, to the offices of Aide et Solidarité, which were somewhat less well appointed. In accordance with its role as supporter of the poor and oppressed, Aide et Solidarité possessed three shabby rooms, two almost empty and the third with the bare minimum of furniture, including two battered desks, some chairs, two filing cabinets, and a couple of ancient typewriters.

The photographer was waiting for them. His role in the organization was an important one. Quite apart from taking photographs, he was a master-forger. He could produce French identity papers and driving licences that were indistinguishable from the real thing. But for the most part his skills were used to produce passports. The organization possessed a stock of well over four hundred blank passports stolen from various consulates around the world. The master-forger used his special talents to produce the embossing tools and stamps of authentication required. He enjoyed his job very much. Duteil saw to it that the job also paid well.

‘What passport are you giving the English girl?’ Duteil asked.

‘Dutch.’

‘You don’t have a British one for her?’

‘Not at the moment.’

Duteil thought for a moment. He didn’t like the idea of the girl using the Dutch passport in France. She might well be arrested for a second time. The police would then discover she wasn’t really Dutch. Worse still, they might match her face to that of the missing British girl. Either way, they would know the passport was a fake. And then they would want to know where it had come from.

Duteil decided his first duty was to cover himself. He had already broken his rules by helping someone who had been ‘subverting’ the French state. The only thing in his favour was that she was not a French citizen; that really would have been asking for it.

He didn’t regret helping her. Her speech at the Mutualité, though rather flippant, had been different – funny, impressive. It had stayed in the mind. Just like the girl herself.

Also she was British. There were two reasons why this made a difference. The first was that there were no hardliners active in Britain at that time, and he rather liked the notion of encouraging one. The second – and more important – reason was that, though a Jew, he had been born and brought up in Egypt, and there were few educated Egyptians of his age who hadn’t despised the British occupation of their country.

No: he didn’t regret helping her. But his first duty was to himself.

‘I think we must be careful,’ he said. ‘I think we must only provide her with the passport as she is about to leave the country.’

‘I said she could have it tomorrow,’ the photographer replied.

‘Well, you’ll have to say it is no longer possible.’

‘If she stays in Paris she’ll need papers of some sort,’ the priest pointed out.

‘We’ll have to persuade her not to stay in Paris.’

There was a rapping at the outer door. Unhurriedly Duteil went to answer it. He wasn’t expecting anyone, but there was nothing unusual about casual callers from among the many refugees living in the city under the organization’s wing.

Duteil turned the latch and swung open the outer door.

It was the girl.

He took a deep breath. ‘Good evening,’ he said eventually. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘The gentleman from the Studio Vincenne. Is he here?’

So that was how she had found the place. He stood back. ‘You had better come in.’

He closed the door behind her and led the way down the passage into the main office. The girl entered the room and, seeing the priest, looked surprised. Then she smiled slightly as if his presence confirmed something.

‘We were just talking about you,’ Duteil began immediately. ‘I’m afraid we think it unwise for you to remain in France.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the authorities know all about you. They have your passport. If they arrest you again, they will soon realize your new passport is not genuine. It would get us into a great deal of trouble. We – are reluctant to let that happen.’

She nodded. ‘I understand.’ She did not look too unhappy at the thought of leaving.

Duteil asked softly, ‘Why did you follow us here?’

‘I wanted to talk to you.’

‘Yes?’

She chose her words carefully. ‘I was hoping you could help me. In the long term.’

There was a silence.

‘Ah.’ Duteil nodded slowly. He turned to the other two men. ‘We will meet another day.’

When the priest and the photographer had gone Duteil sat down opposite her and lit a cigarette. ‘What sort of help did you have in mind?’

‘Papers. Passports. Contacts … You see, I don’t know how to go about – organizing myself.’

‘What exactly are you hoping to achieve?’

She gathered her thoughts. ‘I want to – activate groups in England. Freedom groups. To operate against organized repression. To –
expose
the repressiveness of the Establishment. To show people what the system is
really
doing. The anger is there,’ she added, ‘the injustice, the repression. People just can’t
see
it. The situation needs to be polarized –
crystallized
.’

‘You follow Petrini.’

A flicker of surprise crossed her face.

Duteil smiled. ‘Petrini is an old friend of mine.’ He asked thoughtfully, ‘You have no training?’

She stared at him. She obviously wasn’t certain of what he meant. She said uncertainly, ‘No.’

He considered for a moment. Her philosophy was raw and undigested. She had little idea of what was involved in being an activist. Yet she had qualities that impressed him: determination and straightforwardness.

‘Then may I suggest something?’ he said eventually. ‘Why don’t you join an existing group – a group who share your ideals – and learn from them?’

‘There are none in England.’

‘Quite so. I was thinking of Italy.’

‘I speak hardly any Italian.’

He shrugged. ‘That may be an advantage. You can always pass as a tourist.’

She blinked. ‘What would they teach me?’

‘A great deal, I think.’

‘Who are these people?’

‘Well … They have a name of sorts. Lotta – “struggle”. But the name is not important. What is important is that they have been active for some time – a year or more. They have experience.’

She thought hard. ‘I have no money.’

‘I will give you some travelling expenses.’

‘Oh – and when I’m there?’

‘The group will look after you. They have – er – benefactors.’

She nodded, slowly absorbing the idea. ‘Then – when I come back – you’ll help me?’ she asked.

‘As far as I can. But you must understand there’ll be no money. You will have to do your own fund-raising.’ He could see that she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Nodding briskly, she said, ‘That’s fine.’

It was a firm rule of Duteil’s – one he never broke – that, apart from small amounts of cash handed out to refugees, he provided no money, and certainly not to hard political groups. He was happy to provide logistical support and training free of charge, and weapons at very reasonable prices. But large quantities of cash were out of the question. For one thing, there would be no end to the financial demands of the groups. For another, the money would be traced back to him sooner or later and eventually – God forbid – to its source. There would be an almighty international row. He would be closed down and considerable embarrassment would be caused to Moscow.

But as long as these new groups financed operations by robbing banks in their own countries, then he could not be accused of direct interference.

Indicating the poorly furnished room, he said, ‘As you see, we are not a wealthy organization. We rely on our friends for financial support.’ It was true up to a point – voluntary subscriptions were always welcome. However, they covered only a small amount of the running costs.

Duteil decided that further discussion was best avoided: the less the girl knew about Aide et Solidarité at this stage the better. He stood up. Catching the hint, she got to her feet and they shook hands.

She said, ‘You won’t help any other British group, will you? I mean, before me?’

Duteil shook his head.

They walked to the door. He said, ‘You will get some travelling money, an air ticket and an address in Milan from the priest.’

At the door she turned and faced him. She was a very striking woman. She said, ‘I want to do it properly, you understand that?’

‘I understand. That’s why I have agreed to help you. That’s why I think you should go to Italy first.’

She paused. ‘I don’t know your name.’

‘I’m known as Raymond.’

She shook his hand again. ‘Goodbye, Raymond. I’ll be back.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I have no doubt of that.’

When she had gone Duteil considered what he had promised, and was satisfied. He would not offer help to any other British activists because apart from a single group of unpredictable anarchists there
were
none. Even if a new group did spring up he doubted any leader would be quite as ambitious or determined as this girl. When she returned he would give her all the help he could.

She might not return, of course, but then she would not have been worth the trouble anyway.

But he had a feeling about her. She would return. He gave her six months.

‘Y
OU WERE INJURED
in the fighting?’

Henry Northcliff said with emphasis, ‘Only slightly.’ He didn’t want any false heroics creeping into the article.

‘And where was that?’

‘At Jarama, during the battle for Madrid. In February ’36.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Just eighteen.’

The young journalist scribbled on the pad and referred to his list of questions. They were sitting outside, under the copper beech tree. Henry turned his face to the sun and thought how nice the garden was looking. Caroline had worked very hard on it. The borders were a bright mass of colour and the lawn had lost its patchy uneven look.

It was July. The summer recess was only a week away. Then at long last he and Caroline would have a holiday.

The journalist cleared his throat. ‘What influenced you to go to Spain? Was it entirely your own idea, or were you one of a group?’

Henry made the effort to think back. It was such a long time ago that he could barely remember all the reasons for his decision. Eventually he replied, ‘I came from a family who were very politically aware –
involved
. My parents felt very passionately about it.’