Chapter 1: Bar Talk - Paris, June 1940

June 13th, 1940. Barely three weeks after the evacuation of British troops from Dunkirk was completed, German forces were pressing closely on the outskirts of Paris.

In the cellar of a small café in Montmartre, one Englishman was hard at work.

Freddie Clegg tightened the rope that held Mademoiselle Louise Barchant to the solid wooden chair on which she was seated, ignoring the gagged groans of Louise and those of her friend Annette Coursonne as she struggled against her own restraints. Clegg fussed at each knot, checking the tension of the rope, the lay of the cords, the way in which the ropes wound securely around the limbs of his victim and the rungs and struts of the chair. It was, Clegg, concluded, still the part of his work that he most enjoyed; the simple craft of restraining a captive so that she is held securely, unable to escape, and yet with no more discomfort than was absolutely desirable. It made a pleasant change in some ways, Clegg thought, He'd been disappointed to have to break up the old organisation but, with the war, it was all getting too big and too complicated. There were some benefits, however, he reflected. It meant he could go back to this; doing what he was good at, what he enjoyed.

Louise gave a frustrated groan of impotence as her struggles failed to make any impression on her captivity, her evident anger and frustration stifled by the cloth that filled her mouth. Freddie smiled, pleased that she was still showing such spirited resistance. That was the good thing about girls from the night clubs; they were used to working hard for their living. The Trocadero made it so easy too. It was never any problem for an ardent admirer to get to see the girls. And with all the uncertainty and panic in the city no one was going to miss them. Freddie waved at Louise and Annette with a mock salute and headed off towards the stairs that led up and out of the cellar prison. The girls scowled at him as he left them. He picked his way through the wine cases and barrels that were piled, untidily around the room. Most of the good stuff had been drunk. There was no point in leaving that for the Germans. Clegg locked the door behind him., ignoring the plaintive muffled groans of the girls.

He emerged into the bar of La Belle Aurore. Rick, the owner, was sitting at a table near the bar. On the far side of the room Sam, the bar's pianist and one of the finest jazz musicians in Paris, was chatting with the small knot of girls that had gathered around him as he improvised a short tune at the keyboard.

Clegg leant on the bar and ordered a Pastis. He turned to Rick. "One for you?" he asked.

Richard Blaine looked up from the table and shook his head. "Come on Freddie," he said. "You know I never drink with customers."

Freddie looked apologetic. "Sorry," he said. "I guess you've got other things on your mind right now, too."

"Haven't we all?" Rick nodded towards the open door of the café. Outside the streets were quiet except for the not so distant thump of German artillery. The sound of the shell fire was louder, closer, than it had been that morning. Clegg looked down at the milky coloured drink, pondering for a few moments whether he preferred the smoother French take on aniseed flavoured alcohol over the Greek or the Turkish. There wasn't much to choose, he decided, sinking the contents of the glass.

Sam was closing the lid on his piano; the girls waving as they left. He came across to where Rick was sitting. "Time to go, Boss," he said. "You don't want to keep Miss Ilsa waiting and the Marseilles train ain't gonna wait for either of you."

Freddie reflected on the impact that "Miss Ilsa" had had on his friend. He was just disappointed that he hadn't had the chance to meet the woman that seemed to have made such a change in Rick's life.

"Sure Sam," Rick said getting to his feet. He turned to Freddie. "It's good of you to close things up here."

"That's OK," Freddie replied raising his glass of pastis. "I guess the Germans don't have quite as much interest in meeting me as they do you and i've got a few loose ends to tidy up. It will be another day before they're in the city anyhow."

"Well, make sure you get yourself out of here soon. Paris isn't going to be too healthy, even for a man of your resources."

Freddie acknowledged Rick's remarks with a nod as he downed the last of his drink. "Well, thanks for the use of the cellar," he said.

Rick shook his head. "I don't want to know," he said. "Somehow, Freddie, I don't feel everything you get up to is quite legal." He smiled as he grabbed his hat and trench coat. "Come on Sam," he said moving to the door.

Sam was trying to collect up his sheet music. "You go on, Mr Richard," he said. "i'll catch you up." Rick pulled his hat on and stepped out onto the streets of Montmartre as they glistened in the late afternoon rain of a summer storm. Sam pushed the piano back against the wall. He disappeared upstairs for a while and then came back down with a small battered suitcase. He went back to the piano to retrieve his music.

Freddie watched as Sam pulled the sheets of music together into a bundle. "Rick's changed," he said.