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“I think so,” Goldfarb answered. “I am not a spy. I am a soldier, and not so used to sneaking here and there.”
“Then you may well die before your time,” Pierre Dutourd remarked. He took from his belt a gadget probably of Lizard manufacture. After glancing at it, he relaxed a little. “I do not detect any electronics planted in or aimed at this place. That means-I hope that means-no one is listening to us. Very well, then-say your say.” Even speaking the Lizards’ language, Dutourd sounded like a Frenchman.
“Good,” Goldfarb said, though he wasn’t sure how good it was. “My friends back in Britain want to see if they can return you to doing business for yourself. They do not think you should have to subordinate yourself to the Reich.” The Race’s language was made for distinguishing subtle gradations of status. The relationship Goldfarb described was one of menial to master.
Dutourd caught the shade of meaning and grimaced at it. “They do not treat me quite so badly as that,” he said, then paused and shook his head. “They say they will not treat me so badly as that. Whether it proves true remains to be seen.”
“Anyone who trusts the Germans-” Goldfarb began.
“Trust them? Do I look like such a fool as that?” Pierre Dutourd sounded offended. “But I did and do trust the Race to kill me if I did not have the Reich protecting me. And so…” He shrugged. Still aiming the pistol in David’s general direction, he pointed with his free hand. “What can your English friends do to keep me going without the Germans and without getting myself killed?”
Goldfarb would have asked exactly that question had he worn Dutourd’s shoes. It was a question for which he had no good answer. He did his best to disguise that, saying, “They will do whatever proves necessary to keep you afloat.”
Dutourd’s lip curled. “As the Royal Navy did at Oran, when your ships opened fire on and sank so many of the ships of France? Why should I trust Englishmen? With the Germans and with the Race, one is always sure of what one gets. With the English, who can say? I sometimes think you do not know that yourselves.”
“We can give you money,” Goldfarb said. “We also have good connections with the Lizards. They can help take the pressure off you.”
“A likely story,” Dutourd said, unconvinced. “Next you will tell me of a tunnel from London to Marseille, so the Germans will not be able to tell what ginger you bring me. If these are the best stories you can tell, better you should go back to England.”
“These are not just stories,” Goldfarb said. Miserable frog, he thought. He’s lived under the Nazis so long, he’s used to it. Aloud, he went on, “My cousin in Jerusalem is Moishe Russie, of whom you may have heard. Did Monique tell you that?”
“Yes, she told me. And my cousin is Marie Antoinette, of whom you may have heard,” Dutourd answered. “More lies. Nothing else.”
Goldfarb pulled out his wallet and displayed a picture he carried in it. “Here is a photograph of Cousin Moishe and me. I should very much like to see a photograph of you and Cousin Marie.”
Pierre Dutourd bared his teeth in something close to a smile. “I must say that I have not got one with me. If you are a liar, you are a thoroughgoing liar. I know of this Moishe Russie, as who with a hearing diaphragm”-using the Lizards’ language could produce some odd images-“does not? I am surprised to find his cousin, if you are his cousin, working with the ginger smugglers, I must also say.”
“Why?” Goldfarb asked. “If you think I love the Race, you are mistaken. My empire might have beaten Hitler. Thanks to the Race, that did not happen. And Britain is not a friendly home for Jews any more.”
“It could be,” Dutourd said, “that you are telling the truth after all. Whether this matters in the slightest, however, remains to be seen.”
“How can I do more to convince you?” Goldfarb asked, though he had already come closer to convincing the Frenchman than he’d thought he would.
“By showing me that-” The ginger smuggler abruptly broke off, for the device on his belt let out a warning hiss. With surprising speed and silence, he disappeared back into the weeds.
That left David Goldfarb out in the open by himself as he listened to someone crunching through the plants by the side of the synagogue as he had done. He wished for a pistol more than ever. His hand darted into his pocket. It closed on the best single protection he did have: his British passport. Against certain kinds of danger, it was sovereign. Against others, though…
“Jesus!” a woman said in American English, “why in hell would anybody want to set up a meeting in this goddamn place?”
A man laughed hoarsely. “You just covered the waterfront there, Penny,” he said, pausing for breath every few words. “But I don’t reckon the Jews’d reckon you got ’em wet once.”
“Am I supposed to care?” the woman-Penny-asked. “The tracer gadget says that Frenchman’s in there, so we’ve got to keep going.”
“You’ll get yourself killed if you charge ahead like that,” the man remarked. His accent, while still from the other side of the Atlantic, was different from Penny’s. “Let me get out in front of you.”
He came out from around the corner with a soldier’s caution-and with a pistol in his hand. None of that would have kept Dutourd from spotting him, as David Goldfarb knew very well. Before any fireworks started, Goldfarb said, “Good day, there. Lovely weather we’re having, eh?”
“You must be the limey. We’ve heard something about you.” The man leaned on a stick, but the gun in his other hand remained very steady. “Don’t tell me you don’t have that Frenchman around here somewhere.”
The woman, a brassy blond, came into sight behind him. She also carried a pistol. Goldfarb didn’t think either of their weapons would do them much good if Pierre Dutourd opened up: he’d be able to get off at least a couple of shots before they realized just where he was.
For the moment, Dutourd stayed hidden. Goldfarb asked, “What do you want with him? And who are you, anyway?”
“Name’s Rance Auerbach-U.S. Army, retired,” the man answered. “This here’s Penny Summers. We’ll talk about what we want when we see Dutourd. And just whose side are you on, buddy? Come on, speak up.” He gestured with the pistol, a large, heavy weapon.
Goldfarb gave his name. “As for whose side I’m on, my own is the answer that springs to mind.”
“You can tell whose side he’s on, Rance,” Penny said. “He’s got to be hooked up with those British smugglers-probably that Roundbush fellow, the guy you wrote a letter to for me. Only thing they ever wanted was to keep more ginger going through to the Lizards.”
“You know Group Captain Roundbush?” Goldfarb asked in surprise.
“Yeah,” the American named Rance answered. “We used to do some business together, a long time ago. I haven’t been in that business for a while-I haven’t been much in the way of any business for a while-but we’ve sorta stayed in touch. I suppose he reckoned he could get some use out of me sooner or later.”
That sounded very much like Basil Roundbush, damned if it didn’t. “And what’s wrong with getting more ginger through to the Lizards?” David asked. He could think of several things offhand, but, much against his will, felt compelled to take the side of those from whom he was also compelled to take orders. He wondered if Dutourd spoke English. The Frenchman had given no sign of it, but that didn’t necessarily signify.
“Not a damn thing as far as we’re concerned-not personally, anyhow,” Auerbach said. “But we’ve got to do what those little scaly bastards tell us to do. And so…” He took a step forward.
Knowing the Lizards would oppose anything that had to do with ginger, Goldfarb got ready to throw himself to one side, with luck escaping the firefight bound to break out in a moment. Before anyone could start shooting, the back door to the synagogue burst open. Germans in SS uniforms with submachine guns stormed out and covered Goldfarb and the two Americans. Others aimed into the undergrowth. The officer who emerged behind them spoke in the language of the Race:
“Come forth, Dutourd. If you do not, we will have to kill you.” Sullenly, Pierre Dutourd stood up and raised his hands high. The SS Sturmbannfuhrer nodded. “Very good. In the name of the Greater German Reich, you are all under arrest.”
Pshing came into Atvar’s private office. “Excuse me for interrupting, Exalted Fleetlord, but the Tosevite Moishe Russie is attempting to reach you by telephone. Shall I put him off?”
“No, I will speak to him,” Atvar answered. “The situation in India remains too muddled to offer any easy or quick solution. I am willing to put aside consideration of it for the time being.” He was, in fact, eager to put aside consideration of it for the time being, but Pshing did not have to know that. “Transfer the call to my terminal,” he told his adjutant.
