Prologue
Paris, France
November 23, 1944
Jack Knight had witnessed some horrific sights in four years as a war photographer, but nothing prepared him for the surreal scene he was about to encounter. After a day of capturing images of a newly liberated Paris, Jack was strolling back to his room at the Hotel Scribe when the hackles rose on the back of his neck. Following his instincts, he deviated from his path and turned down a side street. As always, his trusty Leica rested against his chest, secured by a worn leather strap wound across his body. A significant proportion of Jack's war had been viewed through this camera lens, and several of his award-winning images had featured in newspapers worldwide.
Jack found the source of his unease when he rounded the corner into a cobbled square overlooked by apartment buildings still displaying the vestiges of war; pockmarked, chipped brickwork, cracked windows and flaking paintwork. In the square’s centre, a fountain stood empty, blackened and dirty from years of neglect. On the far side, chairs and small tables were clustered beneath a faded red awning, where an aproned waiter was serving small glasses of pastis to his handful of customers. The bodies of two men swung from a pair of lamp posts. Their mouths hung open as if in disbelief at the manner of their deaths, their tongues distended and black. Their distorted and swollen faces spoke of a sustained beating before their demise. A scrap of paper with the word ‘collaborateur’ was pinned to each of their chests.
Nauseated, Jack dragged his gaze away. Wearing worn, patched clothing, a group of women stood to one side clutching shopping baskets and conversing in rapid French, seeming to ignore the grotesque sight. Small children ran around their mothers' legs, playing chase, giggling, and squealing, showing remarkable resilience to a childhood marred by the violence and fear of recent years. Jack raised his camera and captured the juxtaposition of the laughing children and the legs of the hanging men. Two older men sat at an outdoor table a few doors along, their chess game abandoned as they viewed the corpses, openly pointing and discussing some aspect. This, too, Jack photographed before hearing the whistle of an approaching gendarmerie. He slipped away unnoticed.
It might have seemed harsh, but the French people had their way of dealing with collaborators, those who'd profited from the war or had done nothing to stop the brutality of the Germans against their people. And retribution had been swift. Jack had heard stories of the French mistresses of German officers having their heads shaved, stripped naked, and marched through the streets.
Jack took several more turns before realising that he was a little lost. The sun was setting, and there was still a curfew, so he needed to hurry. He knew the general direction of his hotel and continued walking until he found, with some relief, that the paved street he was on led to the rear of the building. He was about to cross to the opposite side when he spotted two men in the shadows by the kitchen entrance. He recognised one of the men and went to call out, but something in their body language caused him to hesitate.
He watched as they shook hands and murmured a few words before checking their surroundings. Jack crept forward, keeping to the shadows of the shuttered shopfronts, and watched as his acquaintance pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his overcoat and passed it to the other man. Jack raised his camera. Click. The man took the envelope and looked over his shoulder, a look of fear on his face. Click.
"Do Svidaniya."
Jack lowered his camera in disbelief and watched the two men part. The man he knew, hands thrust in his pockets, strolled, whistling, down the side of the hotel towards the main entrance in forced nonchalance. The other man hurried in the opposite direction, swallowed by the shadows.
Jack leaned against the shop wall, a sick feeling in his gut, and wondered why someone he knew and trusted had just had a clandestine meeting with a Soviet.
