Blood of Victory Read Online Free PDF Page B

could.”
    Was the
Néréide,
he wondered, a kind of Flying Dutchman, doomed to wander the seas, from neutral port to neutral port, for a fascist eternity?
    Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, more of the same. “I certainly considered resigning,” Labonniere said. “But then, what?”
    “A life in opposition,” Enid said. A silence, rather a long one. Then she said, “In London, with de Gaulle.”
    It was Marie-Galante who answered, choked-back tears of anger in her voice. “De Gaulle hates him,” she said. “
Hates
him.”
    Labonniere cleared his throat. “We do what we can.”
    “What can any of us do?” Della Corvo defended his friend.
    Enid retreated. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I finally heard from my sister, in Copenhagen. It’s the first time since the occupation—just the fact of a postcard getting through felt like a great victory.”
    “What did she say?” Madame Della Corvo asked.
    “On the card, she wrote that I need not worry about her, the Danes are treated with respect by their German allies. Between the lines she’s miserable, but Denmark will never die.”
    “Between the lines?”
    “Yes. Someone told me to check, and there it was. Invisible writing.”
    “Secret ink?” Della Corvo asked. At least three people at the table glanced at Bastien.
    Enid hesitated, then answered. “Weewee.”
    Hilarity. “How did you...?”
    “Well, with a hot iron, there was a certain, oh, you know.”
    Marrano didn’t think it was funny. “You could use plain water,” he said.
    Marie-Galante started to laugh. “Oh but really, why
would
you?”
    Two in the morning. Serebin waited on the pier at the foot of the gangway. It was immensely quiet, the water shining like metal in the light of a quarter moon. Serebin had mentioned going back on a ferry, but Anna Della Corvo wouldn’t hear of it. “You mustn’t. André came in a motor launch, he’ll have you dropped off at a dock near your hotel.”
    Serebin heard the rumble of an engine, the launch appeared a moment later. He sat in the stern next to Bastien. A million stars above, the air cool and damp, to be out in the night the only cure for a dinner party.
    Bastien lit a cigar. “Will you stay in Istanbul?”
    “Forever, you mean.”
    “Yes.”
    “No, I’ll go back.”
    “And stay out of trouble?”
    “So far, the French do nothing.”
    “It will come.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Difficult, that sort of decision.”
    “For you also, no?”
    “Oh yes, like everybody else.”
    They were silent, after that. Sometime later the launch slowed, and pulled in to a dock in the Beyoglu district. Bastien took a card from his wallet. Serebin read it in the moonlight, a trading company, with offices in Istanbul, then put it in his pocket.
    “When you’re ready,” Bastien said.
    In Haskoy, 3:20 on a rainy afternoon. Serebin watched the drops run down the grimy windows of the IRU office, a glass of pink lemonade in his hand. The larger of the two rooms was set up like a theatre—desks shoved against the wall, chairs side by side. On stage: Goldbark, General de Kossevoy, and the guest of honor, I. A. Serebin.
    So far, nothing had gone right. Goldbark, hair standing out from the sides of his head, ran around like a harassed waiter. Kubalsky had not returned from wherever he’d gone, nobody could find the
Welcome!
banner, there was a commotion out on Rasim street that began with a beaten donkey and ended with shouted insults, and poor old Madame Ivanova dropped a tray of glasses and had to be consoled.
    “My God”—Goldbark shook his head in slow anguish—“why are we like this?”
    “Just enjoy it,” Serebin said. “It’s a
party
.”
    True enough: frosted cake, lemonade, loud talk, laughter, two or three arguments, a hot, smoky room, a sad autumn day. “Like home, Chaim Davidovich. What can be so bad?”
    General de Kossevoy clapped his hands, pleaded for their kind attention, and eventually got everybody to shut up and sit