The Statement Read Online Free PDF

wrapped in grey fog, at people waiting for the 63 bus across the street. Why here? Why this particular café, a tourist place full of foreigners eating salads and drinking beer? Maybe that was why. There were no regular patrons in a place like this. It was his second visit. Yesterday, when they made the first rendezvous with him, he had been told that his contact would carry an English newspaper, The Times .
    A 63 bus came down Avenue Président Wilson and stopped opposite. And suddenly he sat up straight, for there was the contact getting off the bus, the same man, carrying the newspaper. Security, they called it. Someone had been reading too many romans policiers . Why can’t I know this guy’s name, why can’t I meet him without all this fucking around? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?
    The contact, carrying the newspaper, came into the café, walked along among the booths and tables and stopped as if by chance. ‘May I?’
    T nodded. ‘Of course.’
    The contact was a man in his fifties; he could be a doctor or a lawyer, respectable, bourgeois, with a snob accent which T found irritating.
    ‘You got them all right?’
    T took the little plastic envelope out of his anorak. The contact slipped the three photographs out of the plastic and looked at them carefully. ‘You made sure of the size?’
    ‘Of course,’ T said.
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ T hated these questions about his age. OK, so he looked like a kid. He was not.
    The contact sighed. ‘For the passport,’ he said.
    ‘Sorry. Twenty-five.’
    ‘Good,’ the contact said. He slipped the photographs into his pocket. A waiter came and the contact ordered an express .
    ‘And for you, Monsieur?’ the waiter asked.
    ‘Same thing,’ T said.
    As the waiter walked off, the contact looked around. T could see that he wasn’t used to this. He probably was a doctor or a lawyer. Somebody’s uncle.
    ‘I’ve been told to give you an address,’ the contact said. ‘Memorize it and, after tonight, forget it. We’re taking a risk, a security risk, by putting you in touch with this person but he wants to meet you. What he tells you may be a help. The address is 6 Rue St  Thomas d’Aquin in the seventh arrondissement. It’s behind a church. The Métro is Rue de Bac  –  ’
    ‘I’ll find it!’ T said.
    ‘It’s apartment 5, on the fourth floor. If you arrive at seven, exactly seven, and ring the bell, you can go straight up. Oh, by the way. I hear you’ll be leaving at once. Maybe tonight?’
    ‘One thing,’ T said. ‘I don’t want to ask questions, that’s understood. But those photos. Does that mean I’ll be leaving France?’
    ‘You’ll get your instructions tonight. The passport will be ready. We’ll work on it this afternoon. Got that address?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Good. I’ll leave you now. Pay for my coffee, will you? Good luck.’
    What had luck got to do with it? You had to know what you were doing. As Pochon said, you’d better grow eyes in the back of your head. Pochon wasn’t like this contact today, he’d never say, ‘Good luck.’ What Pochon said was, ‘Look. I’m the one who’s working with this organization, not you. The less you know about them, the better. They aren’t in the milieu. They’re politicals. I’ve told them you can do this job, that’s all they need to know. I’m your contact. If you’re arrested I’m the only one you can get into trouble.’
    Pochon was in his sixties, an ex- flic . Retired with the rank of inspector. He’d break your legs if you got him in trouble. ‘I’m behind you,’ he said. ‘All the way. But remember. Do as I say. Obedience saves lives.’
    When T left the Place de l’Alma, he went to Janine’s apartment in the Rue St Joseph. Janine worked in Le Printemps, in the glove department. He thought that was stupid. She didn’t need to work in a boring job. Her parents were in couture, they owned a firm that made fancy buttons for