(The United States Embassy Paris, near the Place de la Concorde.)

The US Embassy is an impressive pile of stone located near the bustling Place de la Concord. We were waved through the gate and the Captain slid the black Ford sedan into a parking place near the front entrance. We were waved in by the trim Marine at the entrance and trudged up the grand staircase in massive public lobby to the office of the Naval Attache. First thing upon arriving at his office, Captain DeWolf said “I need to have your passport, because you can’t do the job with the Surete’ with that in your possession. You need to look like you are coming from a Navy ship, not flying into Orly from the States.”

I handed over my passport reluctantly. The Captain could sense my unease.

“Trust me, if anything goes wrong on the project to which I am sending you, the Surete’ will keep you covered. Relax and let them tell you what to do. Don’t go Lemme Caution on us.”

I was puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”

(Eddie Constantine at the height of his fame.)

The Captain laughed. “Lemme is a character played by a Yank named Eddie Constantine. He is from LA, and plays a hard-boiled private dick. He is always getting into impossible situations and getting out of them. The French think he is a sort of Humphrey Bogard, only tougher. He is getting quite a reputation here. That is not what you are here to do.”

“OK, no tough guy stuff. I will just be a sailor on liberty.”

“Bingo. Now, what do you need in the way of support from me?”

“I am going to need some kind of papers to go with my military ID, if I am supposed to be on leave or liberty.”

“I can do that,” he said. “I am the Navy SOPA- Senior Officer Present Ashore- in Paris. Let me cut you some leave orders.”

He found a form and handed it to me as I sat down at the typewriter. I asked him what carrier was assigned to Sixth Fleet at that time. He gave me the name of the carrier and I wrote myself 30 days leave from the Deck Division. I believe I put down that the officer who had approved it was a W. T. Hatch, LCDR, USN, and I asked the Captain to please scrawl some kind of signature that made it look halfway good.

At the time, I did not know there was a CDR Hatch in Naval Intelligence, which could have been inconvenient if it came up. Captain DeWoIfe scrawled a signature on the papers and opened the lower drawer on his desk and handed me a thick envelope. I glanced in it and saw a substantial amount of U.S. currency. “You are going to need this where you are going. Do not get receipts. We do not want it looking like you are on official business.”

“How will I do my travel claim?” I asked.

The Captain looked at me and smiled. “Tom, you are off the books on this mission. We will take care of the reimbursement up front. This cash is not accountable. But don’t waste it. If you need more, call my Executive Assistant Barbara.” He jotted down a couple phone numbers on a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “Here is her office direct line and the phone number at her apartment. Never come to this office again.”

“Roger that,” I said.

“Now, at exactly noon you will be met on the street corner just outside this building. I will take you down now and show you where it is. A man by the name of Christides will pick you up and take you for the first meeting with the Surete,’ I wish you good luck.”

I thanked him for that, and wondered what Eddie Constantine would have said.

From the side door, he pointed out the corner where I was supposed to wait, shook my hand, and vanished back into the building. I dodged my way across the streets, the little cars roaring past, people strolling and peddling madly on bicycles. I smoked a cigarette and tried to look unobtrusive. Just as Captain DeWolfe had said, promptly at noon a little white Citroen pulled to the curb and the window rolled down. The man behind the wheel was wearing a car-coat and a grey fedora. “My name is Christides,” he said. “I am here to you and take you to a meeting we are having with Counterfeit Section of the Surete’. Get in.”

(1952 Citroen.)

I walked around to the passenger side and climbed in. We roared off in a cloud of blue smoke. Christides was smoking one of those Gaulois cigarettes that smell different from real ones made out of Virginia tobacco. I lit up a Lucky and looked at Paris rolled by as the agent drove purposefully through the bustle. We parked haphazardly outside a Moroccan restaurant, and inside there was a large private booth where several men were seated drinking coffee.

Christides pointed to the oldest man there and said, “This is Detective Inspector Benhamou.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

“Bonne journée, monsieur Duval. Je suis le chef de la section counterfiet de la Sûreté;. Comment sont vos compétences linguistiques en français?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I may have a French surname, but I don’t speak the language.”

“Bien. That is perfect. I wanted to be sure. I am chief of the Counterfeit Section of the French Surete.’”  These are my associates,” he said with wave at the other five gentlemen at the table. “You will be working with them in Nice, on the Cote D’Azure.” The men nodded in recognition. “Now for some lunch.” He waved at the dark-skinned waiter and some tasty food emerged presently- succulent lamb, couscous and sautéed vegetables on a bed of white rice with a delicate white wine, crisp and refreshing. I am mostly a beer man, but I could see that I could get to like it here.

As we were eating lunch, now and then Christides would ask me to answer a question that one of them had. I remember distinctly that twice I was asked if were I sure that I did not know any French language. I did not realize at the time what they meant by that, but I would later. Also, from time to time they would tell me what I would be doing to assist them in Nice on the forthcoming project. It was at this point that I realized that I was not there as an advisor on counterfeit problems, obviously, they had the experts.

What they were looking for was a pigeon they could put in with the flock of counterfeiters. Damn, I thought. I might actually wind up having to go Lemme Caution after all, even if the Captain warned me not to.

After a very long lunch, I was given two tickets- a billet and a reservation- that would get me from the Gare du Nord in the 10th Arroundisment to Nice and Christides started writing on scraps of paper. “First, take a cab to the Gare de Nord in the 10th arrondissement as it is written here. When you arrive at the train station, have your ticket in clear view and start walking down the train platform. You will be directed into the car that matches the ticket. Once the train gets underway, from time to time one of the people here will be passing through the train car. Never react to them, or give any indication you know them.”

“Roger that,” I said, realizing I was going undercover.

“Eventually, when the team is certain the train was clear, one of us will approach, stop, and light a cigarette in your clear view.  At half a car distance between you, get and follow to the compartment that the Surete’ had taken over for the trip.”

“Got it,” I said.  I rose from the table, got my coat and walked out onto the boulevard to hail a cab. The train station was no problem, and I was directed to the proper car as I had been told. Apparently the train was clear of counterfeiters, low-lives and other criminals. I linked up with the team, and as we rolled through Provence and toward the coast we enjoyed a fine meal in the dining car and the evening set in. There was a lot of chit-chat in French that I could not follow. Now and then Christides would tell me what they were talking about. What I couldn’t follow I filled in the excellent wine.

When we arrived in Nice, as instructed, the Surete’ members disappeared to various places on the train and I was told to wait a few minutes after arrival and then just walk off and get a taxi. They had given me a scrap of paper with the name of the hotel and said” “ Take a taxi to the hotel and your team members will meet you there.”

I never had such service in a French hotel. When I arrived, obviously, they knew who I was in company with. I was shown a room right up at the top of the flight of stairs from the lobby. It was a very nice room and I noticed that there were doors leading off to the right and left. It didn’t take long to realize that was where Surute’ team were with me were booked up. They instructed me that anytime there was a knock on the door, I was to ensure that both those doors were shut and nobody got the idea that I was associated with them.

I am no fool. I doubt if anyone in the hotel did not at this time fully understand what was going on. That afternoon after lunch, we started the project. I was told that one of the inspectors would be walking down the street and I was to follow him when he left the hotel and keep about a half block distance from him. He would finally stop in front of a bar and light a cigarette. Then I was to follow and just get an idea of where it was located, because that night I was to go to that bar. They were sure this was the hangout of the Corsican counterfeiters.

So there it was. I wasn’t Eddie Constantine. I was going to be a pigeon. I shrugged, laid down on the bed and nodded off for a couple hours. I guess the French live like this- a snap in the afternoon might help me deal with the Corsicans with more energy. The evening was likely to be interesting, I thought.

(Hotels and the beach at Nice, on the lovely Cote D’Azure.)

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com