―    John le Carré,    Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

It was going to be a lovely late fall day  in Paris, the kind of day that brought out the best in the City of Light. The mighty chestnut trees lining the broad avenues and the grand boulevards were proudly showing off their fall foliage  hinting that winter's approach might just be around the corner. With the morning chill, one found that a smart tweed or maybe a light sweater was indeed a perfect companion. By mid-day, the  gentle warmth of an autumnal sun could almost fool you into believing that it was spring not winter that was around the corner.  It felt good just to be in Paris. 

The man passed through the heavy wrought-iron front gates of the American Embassy at 4 avenue Gabriel. The Marine security guard stood at attention as he passed through the gates for indeed the man worked in the Embassy and held the official title of Vice-Consul, American Embassy, Paris. Those facts were indisputable and true however any other similarities with the Consular Service ended there. His work behind the walls of the embassy was quite different to say the least as he did not concern himself with visas, lost passports, stranded Americans or those who found themselves at odds with the French police. To a certain extent, it could be said that his work was really just a continuation of his wartime service and more often than not with many of the same men and women who had been part of the "Oh-So-Social" club. But with the onset of the cold war, some things had clearly changed. Old war enemies were now friends while some of and yesterday's allies were not be trusted today. The game had become more complex with ever greater ambiguity than  before. The only constant was that it remained quite deadly.

The American was in his early forties, of medium build and height, with curly black hair and a receding hairline. He would not be expected to normally stand out in the crowd as someone who was an American and glaringly so. If anything one would have thought the man to be just another European, French most likely or perhaps a Swiss. His command of the French language was second to none and could easily have any French person believing he was who he said he was.  The American was well dressed that morning but in that understated prep-school, Ivy manner that spoke volumes to a well trained eye. A muted tweed jacket (tailored by Gardiner and Woolley, London SW1) with a silk cream colored pocket square, a white linen shirt, collar bar and regimental tie, grey flannels with a perfect crease and cuffs that barely covered a pair of argyle socks and highly polished loafers, the copper pennies left out. The American glanced at his elegant paper-thin Cartier tank watch, it was almost noon. He hurried to the Metro and and within minutes was at the George V stop from there only  a short walk home to the apartment at 11 avenue Victor Hugo. He made a quick stop at their local Boulangerie Patisserie. Oui merci, he answered the bubbly serveuse behind the county,  his wife was resting but otherwise feeling fine. She had taken an intense interest in his wife's condition and was always full of homespun advice. Getting her to the country for some good fresh air was her favorite remedy. In point of fact it was her only remedy. It was always something to do with "the air."

He enjoyed being home for lunch especially now with his wife who was expecting their first child. Their apartment building was a stately Haussmanian with a pair of giant double doors and on each of balconies above, extensive and ornate iron work. The American couple lived on the 4th floor, apartment 4-B to be exact; he closed the grated cage door shut as the elevator jerked up and began its painful rise, creaking and groaning as it slowly moved up to the fourth floor. The apartment was elegantly furnished with a tasteful assortment of French and English antiques, many of which had belonged to his parents when they had lived in Auteuil. A large Persian covered the living room and a well worn but smaller Chinese rug covered the floor in the dining area. Over the fireplace hung an ornate framed painting of his mother as a young lady circa 1914 just before she was to visit Paris in time for fall social season. She would see Sarah Bernhardt on stage.  Bookshelves, floor to ceiling, framed either side of the windows and were filled with any number of first editions in beautiful leather binding. There would never ever be enough room for all his books. He kissed his wife ever so gently noticing that she seemed pale and in his humble opinion, had not fully recovered from her mother's extended visit. He had personally given his mother-in-law the gold plated tour of the Paris he loved and knew so well. He presented his wife with a box of marrons glacés (glazed chestnuts) from their favorite patisserie hoping it would bring smile and indeed it did.  As for him, he found those "things" far too sweet to his liking. Their femme de ménage,  Amélie, announced that lunch was ready; the housemaid had prepared an easy meal of cold roast beef and roasted potatoes, green salad a cheese plate. After a glass of Beaujolais, two demi-tasse, and endless cigarette he left. A kiss, à bientôt ma chérie,and was gone. She would stand by the door and listen to the elevator creaking and groaning as it made it way down to the rez-de-chaussez; straining her ear, she could just make out his footsteps in the hall, then the sound of the massive front door slamming shut.  

Out on the avenue Victor Hugo, the American easily waved down a taxi  and got in, direction l'Eglise d'Auteuil.  He looked at his watch there was plenty of time before the rendez-vous. In his mind, he ran through once again,  the file on André Valient, real name Dimitri Vasilievich, code name "Lambert." Dimitri occupied the post of Special Assistant to the Acting Secretary General of the Parti Communiste Français better known as the PCF or the French Communist Party. Dimitri was born of a Russian father and French mother. Before the Second World War he had served in one of the International Brigades sent to Spain to fight against Franco. In France, the father had served in a liaison capacity with one of the many French communist resistance splinter groups who claimed that only they carried the true mantle of Soviet socialism. After the war Dimitri's father, by then well along in his years, at the invitation of the Party, returned to Moscow as a hero of the Soviet state. He was tried on unspecified crimes against the party and the Soviet state, found guilty and summarily shot. Dimitri had been approached and befriended by the  Americans who gave him an opportunity to channels his bitterness and anger toward  the Soviets. Dimitri, rapidly became one the best sources of information for the Americans on the inner-workings, political infighting and key figures in the PCF as they worked to support non-revolutionary communists in France and offset an-ever growing Soviet influence on the more radical elements in the PCF.

One thing was clear to the American, and for that matter most of his colleagues at the Paris station, that as an asset, "Lambert" was for the moment, invaluable and the required caring and feeding to nurture him along was just part and parcel of the business of working an asset, any asset for that matter. It was trade craft 101. You befriended them,  became their confidant, you shared in their happiness and comforted  them in their moments sorrow,  and you reassured them in their moments of uncertainty and doubt, which was often. Yes, you worked them, urged them along, lectured them or used the carrot and stick approach when necessary. Then one day, they outlived their usefulness and the strings were cut. If they were compromised, you cut your looses realizing they would met a sure and certain fate.  The American knew this all too well. It was a cold hard fact and it was a reality. He had run agents and set up networks in Paris during and after the war. He had won some and lost some. It was the nature of the business. These days, it seemed, it wasn't always the Soviets that bothered him though but the French intelligence service, or the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire (DST) (Directorate of Territorial Surveillance) that more often than not was the source of his frustrations. They were fair weather friends and allies who enjoyed playing both sides of the fence and were remarkably good at it. They would share lunch with you one day and the next they traded information on one of your assets to the Russian intelligence service in return for information. Trust, in this business, was always a commodity in short supply and it seemed more so these days.

The American pointed to the Eglise and asked the driver to stop in front. He waited a moment then entered the church and exited by the side door. He strolled to the news kiosk and payed for a copy of Le Monde, a relative newcomer to the cut-throat newspaper business but rapidly becoming the preferred daily of French intellectuals, civil servants, academics,  particularly those in the higher echelons. Within minutes the American was descending the steps to the metro and two stops later he got off  at Porte d'Auteuil. Once more he took his time stopping occasionally and giving the impression of carefully inspecting a storefront window. The American liked Auteuil for the simple reason that it brought back memories of his Paris days when he was a young student. The area is considered as one of the richest in Paris, with calm, select and very expensive neighbourhoods, including any number of mansions. Recalling his French schooling, he knew that the village dated back to somewhere between the thirteenth and seventeenth centuries and had once been a fashionable country retreat for the French elite during the reign of Louis XV. Auteuil, once home to Victor Hugo, and Molière and the birthplace of Marcel Proust, had been incorporated into the city of Paris around 1860. The American walked along the boulevard  until he reached the specific park bench and sat down while carefully placing the folded newspaper to his right side and he waited. With his back to the Bois de Boulogne he surveyed the grand buildings along the boulevard, but the one that he inevitably returned to was 43 boulevard Suchet.  He recalled that the building had been designed in 1925 by the then well known architect Charles Labro.

The American looked at his watch and waited. He light a cigarette and stared at number 43. He thought to himself, "Auteuil 12-06" he knew that number by heart just as he would always remember his dog tag number. For just a moment, he allowed himself to go back to another time. He watched the front door of the building swing open wide as two young boys charged out swinging their book bags at each other, having an imaginary sword fight then  running down the boulevard and on the school. The other boy was Fred,  his very best of friend who lived on the third floor while he was two floors up on the fifth. He could visualize everything, almost as if it were yesterday, one of the family's gleaming Rolls Royce pulling up to the curb as he watched Pierre, their chauffeur, swiftly coming around and opening the back door holding it ready as mother, elegant and  dressed in her finest would be followed by Papa in a somber three piece banker's suit, hat and gloves and forever checking his gold pocket watch mindful of the stock market's opening bell on Wall Street.  How would the market open today, would they continue to slide or was the worst over he wondered almost daily.  The market would never recover in time the American though to himself. Never in time. The course of world financial events would change their lives forever.    

He looked at his watch, they were having friends over for cocktails that evening. He'd pick up a bottle of Scotch on the way home. 

"Never trade a secret, you'll always get the short end of the bargain"

―    John le Carré, The Mission Song