chin on folded hands and concentrated on the board. When he saw Weiss, he spoke quietly to his opponent, who rose and left the table. Weiss sat down and studied the board for a moment. “So, Maurice,” he said, “it looks like I’ve just about got you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Renan said. He had a deep voice, hoarse, his words fast and clipped.
“How’s life treating you?” Weiss said, moving a rook.
Renan glanced up at him, almost smiling. He’d obviously made a poor move. “It goes along.”
“And work?”
Renan raised his eyebrows, not much of a gesture but from him it meant a lot. “The boches have their noses everywhere. It’s pretty bad just now.”
“We need some things.”
Renan nodded. Took a pawn with his knight.
“Still making the MAS 38?” Pistolet Mitrailleur MAS Modèle 38 —a 7.65 caliber submachine gun.
“Yes. The word’s around that we’re going to be retooled, for German weapons, but they’re still in production.”
“We need some.”
“How many?”
“All we can get.”
Renan looked doubtful. “Not so easy, these days. They’ve got informants. And there are German guards, field-police types, at the factory gates. Sometimes they make us turn out our pockets. And they control the trucks and railroad cars as they leave.”
“Can you try?”
“Of course.”
Renan took out a pipe and a tin of tobacco, packed the bowl with his index finger, and lit up. He’d been a militant for thirty years. Back in the labor wars of the late thirties, the armament workers at Renault, who built tanks, and at Farman, where they made airplanes, had sabotaged the weapons. Loose nuts and bolts were left in gearboxes and transmissions, iron filings and emery dust in the crankcases. When the tank crews tried to fight in 1940, they discovered saw marks on the oil and gasoline ducts, which made them break open after a few days’ use. At Farman they had snipped brass wires in the engine, allowing aviation gas to drip on hot exhaust pipes. Some of the French fighter planes went down in flames before they ever saw a Messerschmitt.
When Renan had been asked to do the same sort of thing at Evreux, he had followed orders. In fact, he had never said no—not to Weiss, not to the Comintern operative who had preceded him.
“How soon?” Weiss said.
Renan thought it over. “Maybe on the weekend. We have one German, he used to be an ironworker in Essen. We set him up with a girlfriend in town, which is how we talk to him, and we keep him in a good mood with brandy, whatever we can lay our hands on. But then, you understand, we’re talking about one or two pieces, if he’ll agree to look the other way. Some things he can fix with his pals at the gate, tools and so forth, but not this.”
Weiss nodded grimly. It was the same story at Saint-Etienne and the Schneider works—France’s equivalent of Krupp.
“Want us to try it?” Renan said.
“Yes. Do the best you can.”
They sat for a while. Weiss stared at the board. The rook really had been the wrong move. “Well,” he said. “Time to be going.”
“Have somebody stop by the first part of next week.”
“Here?”
Renan nodded.
“Thanks for the help,” Weiss said.
“Don’t mention it.”
Outside, Weiss unlocked his bicycle and pedaled off toward the railroad station. Want us to try it? Quietly, in his own way, Renan had told him it wouldn’t work. Of course he would make the attempt, and take the consequences, he simply wanted Weiss to know that the attempt was going to fail.
But Weiss had no choice. Moscow Center was pressing him harder than it ever had: he must acquire battlefield weapons, he must be prepared to arm partizan units, he must attack German targets in occupied France. He worked with the senior operations officers of Service B— the FTP’s intelligence section—which made him roughly the equivalent of a colonel in the army, and he had been ordered to send troops into combat.
What he had, in Paris, were
“Don’t be so sure,” Renan said. He had a deep voice, hoarse, his words fast and clipped.
“How’s life treating you?” Weiss said, moving a rook.
Renan glanced up at him, almost smiling. He’d obviously made a poor move. “It goes along.”
“And work?”
Renan raised his eyebrows, not much of a gesture but from him it meant a lot. “The boches have their noses everywhere. It’s pretty bad just now.”
“We need some things.”
Renan nodded. Took a pawn with his knight.
“Still making the MAS 38?” Pistolet Mitrailleur MAS Modèle 38 —a 7.65 caliber submachine gun.
“Yes. The word’s around that we’re going to be retooled, for German weapons, but they’re still in production.”
“We need some.”
“How many?”
“All we can get.”
Renan looked doubtful. “Not so easy, these days. They’ve got informants. And there are German guards, field-police types, at the factory gates. Sometimes they make us turn out our pockets. And they control the trucks and railroad cars as they leave.”
“Can you try?”
“Of course.”
Renan took out a pipe and a tin of tobacco, packed the bowl with his index finger, and lit up. He’d been a militant for thirty years. Back in the labor wars of the late thirties, the armament workers at Renault, who built tanks, and at Farman, where they made airplanes, had sabotaged the weapons. Loose nuts and bolts were left in gearboxes and transmissions, iron filings and emery dust in the crankcases. When the tank crews tried to fight in 1940, they discovered saw marks on the oil and gasoline ducts, which made them break open after a few days’ use. At Farman they had snipped brass wires in the engine, allowing aviation gas to drip on hot exhaust pipes. Some of the French fighter planes went down in flames before they ever saw a Messerschmitt.
When Renan had been asked to do the same sort of thing at Evreux, he had followed orders. In fact, he had never said no—not to Weiss, not to the Comintern operative who had preceded him.
“How soon?” Weiss said.
Renan thought it over. “Maybe on the weekend. We have one German, he used to be an ironworker in Essen. We set him up with a girlfriend in town, which is how we talk to him, and we keep him in a good mood with brandy, whatever we can lay our hands on. But then, you understand, we’re talking about one or two pieces, if he’ll agree to look the other way. Some things he can fix with his pals at the gate, tools and so forth, but not this.”
Weiss nodded grimly. It was the same story at Saint-Etienne and the Schneider works—France’s equivalent of Krupp.
“Want us to try it?” Renan said.
“Yes. Do the best you can.”
They sat for a while. Weiss stared at the board. The rook really had been the wrong move. “Well,” he said. “Time to be going.”
“Have somebody stop by the first part of next week.”
“Here?”
Renan nodded.
“Thanks for the help,” Weiss said.
“Don’t mention it.”
Outside, Weiss unlocked his bicycle and pedaled off toward the railroad station. Want us to try it? Quietly, in his own way, Renan had told him it wouldn’t work. Of course he would make the attempt, and take the consequences, he simply wanted Weiss to know that the attempt was going to fail.
But Weiss had no choice. Moscow Center was pressing him harder than it ever had: he must acquire battlefield weapons, he must be prepared to arm partizan units, he must attack German targets in occupied France. He worked with the senior operations officers of Service B— the FTP’s intelligence section—which made him roughly the equivalent of a colonel in the army, and he had been ordered to send troops into combat.
What he had, in Paris, were
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