Baker found the Moroccan and his American friend fascinating, even more so after he checked his List of Americans Known to Be Living in German-Occupied France and found no Fulmar on it.
Baker dispatched, that same night, a report of the encounter. Item #1 on the report was the most significant item, he knew: If Generalmajor von Handleman-Bitburg was in Paris with his wife and daughter, it was unlikely his division would be folding its tents to load on trains for movement to the eastern front. Item #2, that it was likely a German-American named Eric Fulmar was successfully smuggling valuables out of occupied France in consort with Sidi Hassan el Ferruch, elder son of the pasha of Ksar es Souk, was not, obviously, of importance. But it was the sort of thing that should be on file somewhere.
The idea of recruiting Fulmar as an agent had, of course, immediately occurred to Baker. He was an American with highly placed German friends and contacts. His friendship with the Moroccan could prove valuable. The problem was that Fulmar would probably not look with favor at any attempt to recruit him. Agents often live shorter lives than other people. And Fulmar did not seem to Baker eager for a short life.
He would, of course, make the attempt to feel Fulmar out, but he was not at all optimistic. And if he went too far, Fulmar was entirely capable of telling his German friends that Baker was more than a caretaker for the empty U.S. embassy.
A few days later—not entirely by chance—he encountered Fulmar at the urinal in the men’s room off the bar in the Hôtel Crillon.
‘‘Hello, Fulmar, how are you?’’ he said, in English. The conversation in Fouquet’s restaurant had all been in German.
‘‘All right,’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘How’re you?’’
He looked at Baker uneasily. But the tension almost instantly faded, and a smile as engaging as a Raphael Madonna’s spread over his face. Fulmar now had a look so unfeignedly open and warm that Baker dropped his hand on his wallet pocket.
‘‘If I’d known you were American, I would have spoken to you in English in Fouquet’s,’’ Baker said.
‘‘It didn’t matter,’’ Fulmar said.
‘‘I’ve been curious about you,’’ Baker said.
‘‘Is that so?’’ Fulmar said. ‘‘I’m thrilled that so many people I don’t know well show so much curiosity about me.’’
‘‘You’re not on my list,’’ Baker said.
‘‘What list is that?’’ Fulmar asked as he washed his hands.
‘‘My list of Americans in occupied France,’’ Baker said.
‘‘I don’t live in occupied France,’’ Fulmar said.
‘‘Well, that explains that, doesn’t it?’’ Baker said. He decided to push him a little. ‘‘You know, of course, that when your passport comes up for renewal, it’ll be stamped ‘Not Valid for Travel to Occupied France.’ Unless, of course, you have a reason to be here.’’
‘‘I’ll be out of France before my passport expires,’’ Fulmar said.
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Baker asked.
‘‘What is this, anyway?’’ Fulmar asked.
‘‘Nothing. I was just curious. I don’t see many Americans in Paris these days.’’
‘‘I suppose not,’’ Fulmar agreed.
‘‘So you’ll let me buy you a drink?’’
Fulmar hesitated, then nodded.
They went into the bar and took a table against the wall.
Fulmar knew several of the young German officers and spoke to them in German. There was dialect and slang. Fulmar was perfectly fluent in that language, so fluent that he could obviously be mistaken for a German. His French was impeccable, too.
‘‘I think they’re about out of American whiskey,’’ Baker said.
‘‘I drink fin de l’eau,’’ Fulmar said, in English. ‘‘I can’t stand French beer.’’
‘‘Bring us a siphon and ice,’’ Baker ordered. ‘‘And some cognac.’’
When they had mixed the drinks, Baker raised his.