The spies of warsaw (21 page)

"Good night," she said, "Jean-Francois."

"May I see you again?"

"I don't know. Maybe better if we don't."

"Then, good night."

"Yes, good night."

In Paris, during Mercier's meeting with the people at the
Deuxieme

Bureau,
the
Wehrmacht
's planned tank maneuvers at Schramberg had

been discussed at length. And so, on the tenth of December, four German agents of the
Service des Renseignements
had been sent into the

town: an elderly gentleman and his wife, who were to celebrate their

wedding anniversary by walking the low hills of the Black Forest; a

salesman of kitchenwares from Stuttgart, calling on the local shops;

and a representative of UFA, the Berlin film production company, in

search of locations for a new version of the Grimm brothers' fairy

tales.

Not a bad choice for a fairy tale, the older part of Schramberg:

winding streets, half-timbered cottages with sloping rooves, shop

signs in Gothic lettering. Adorable, really. And the townspeople were

eager to talk, to praise their charming Schramberg, understanding

perfectly the benefits to be had from film crews, who famously threw

money about like straw. The best kind of business: they came, they

annoyed everyone, but then they went away and left their money

behind.

So the local dignitaries, the mayor, the councilmen, went on and

on, describing the
gemutlich
delights of the town. Though this was,

please understand, not the best moment to visit. The
Wehrmacht
was

coming, everybody knew it, one of the roads that wound up into the

hills had been closed off, all the rooms at the inn had been reserved,

and a few supply trucks were already there, with more to arrive at

any moment. Oh well. Still, the good gentleman could see for himself

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how picturesque the forest was, and, if the area up on the Rabenhugel,

Raven Hill, was torn up by the army's machines, there were plenty of

other places just as scenic. More scenic! And would the company

be hiring local people to perform in the film? In a crowd, perhaps?

Or even, say, as a mayor? Naturally they would, said the UFA man,

it was always done that way. What about those two hefty fellows,

seated by the window in the Schwarzwald coffeehouse, having their

second breakfast? Oh no,
they
weren't local! They had just arrived,

they were here to make sure that, that--um--that everything went

well. Wink.

For the anniversary couple, in loden-green outfits and matching

alpine hats--a vigorous yodel could not be far in the future--the same

story, as they produced their touring map for the lady who'd rented

them a room. No, no, not there, that was forbidden, until after the

fourteenth. You cannot go east of the town, to the Rabenhugel, but to

the south--ah, there it was even lovelier, the magnificent pines, the

tiny red birds that stayed the winter; south, much better, and would

they care to have her make a picnic to take along? They would?
Ach,

wunderbar!
She would see to it right away.

And so for the salesman, in his Panhard automobile with sample

pots and pans in the backseat, headed over to the town of Waldmossingen. Halted at a sawhorse barrier manned by three soldiers, he

was told that this road was closed, he would have to go back to

Schramberg, and then down to Hardt and circle around. Of course he

knew the way, and only took this road for the scenery. Was this permanent, this road-closing? No, sir, only for a few days. "Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!"

13 December. Mercier took the early LOT flight to Zurich, then the

train to Basel and a taxi to the French consulate. Climbing the stairs to

the consul's office, he was his darkest self, tense and brooding and in

no mood for polite conversation, a pre-combat condition he knew all

too well. But the consul, a Mediterranean Frenchman with a goatee,

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was just what the doctor ordered. "So, colonel, a stroll in the German

woods?"

Maybe the best approach,
Mercier thought, irony in the face of

danger. And it would be dangerous. The
Wehrmacht
wouldn't care

much for a foreign military attache observing maneuvers--there to

discover strengths and weaknesses, what certain tanks could do in the

forest and what they couldn't. Because, if it came to war, such intelligence would lead to casualties, and could be the difference between

victory and defeat.

The people at
2, bis
, in receipt of reports from their German

agents, had acted quickly, sending to Warsaw maps of the Schramberg

district: the roads, the walking paths in the forest, the hill known as

the Rabenhugel, and two nearby hills with a view of the site to be used

for maneuvers. A coded wireless message from the General Staff

Meteorological Service predicted a nighttime temperature of 28

degrees Fahrenheit, reaching 35 degrees by noon, and a possible light

dusting of snow on the morning of the fourteenth. Mercier had his

own field glasses, and the rest of his equipment, as promised in Paris,

had been brought down to Basel by courier; a suitcase stood behind

the consul's office door.

The consul hefted it up onto a table, handed Mercier the key, and

watched with interest as the contents were brought out: a Swiss army

greatcoat--its insignia long ago removed--a peaked wool hat with

earflaps, a blanket roll, a knapsack. When Mercier unwrapped a Pathe

Baby, the 9.5-millimeter movie camera, the consul said, "Thought of

everything, haven't they."

With the camera, a typed sheet of instructions. Simple enough:

one cranked the handle; the action was operated by a spring. One roll

of film was in the camera, ten more could be found in the knapsack;

directions for reloading followed, with a diagram.

"What about distance?" the consul said.

"I would assume the lens has been refitted. Otherwise, they'll have

the march of the tiny toys. But even so, it can be enlarged at the laboratory. At least I think it can."

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"So, just aim and press the button?"

Mercier pointed the camera at the consul, who waved and smiled,

then went to a closet and produced a six-foot walking staff fashioned

from a tree branch. "I won't tell you what we went through to obtain

this, but Paris insisted that you have it."

"War wound."

"Then it will help. But please, colonel, try not to lose it," the consul said. "Now, you'll be leaving at dusk, your driver will arrive in an

hour. If you'd like to rest until then, we've set aside a room for you.

Care for something to eat?"

"No, thank you."

The consul nodded. "It was always that way for me, in
la der-

niere.
" The phrase was common among people who'd been there, it

meant
the last one
. He opened a drawer in his desk, produced a Swiss

passport, and handed it to Mercier. Albert Ducasse, from Lausanne,

thus a French-speaking Swiss. The photograph, applied at
2, bis,
was

a duplicate of the one in his dossier in Paris. The consul cleared his

throat and said, "They've instructed me to ask you to leave your

French passport with this office."

Whose idea was that, Bruner's?
Out of uniform, on foreign

ground, in covert surveillance, he was, by the rules, a spy. But out of

uniform, with a false identity--that made him a
real
spy.

"Of course," the consul said, "if you are caught, in that situation,

you could be shot. Technically speaking, that is."

"Yes, I know," Mercier said. And gave the consul his passport.

In the early dusk of winter, Mercier climbed into an Opel with German plates. The young driver called himself Stefan and said he was

from an emigre family that had settled in Besancon. "In 'thirty-three,"

he added. "The minute Hitler took power, my father got the suitcases

down. He was a socialist politician, and he knew what was coming.

Then, after we settled in France, the people you work for showed up

right away, and they've kept me busy ever since."

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They crossed into Germany easily enough, Stefan using a German

passport, and drove north on the road to Tubingen that passed

through Schramberg. "About an hour and half," Stefan said. "I'll take

you into the town and out on the forest road, where I'll pick you up

tomorrow night, so mark the spot carefully."

"Before the roadblock."

"Well before. It's one-point-six miles from the Schramberg town

hall."

"And then, tomorrow night . . ."

"At nineteen-oh-five hours. Stay in the woods until then, I'll be

there on the minute. Is it only a one-day maneuver?"

"Likely more, but they want me out by tomorrow night."

"A good idea," Stefan said. "Don't be greedy, that's what I always

say. And you'll want to watch out for the foresters."

"Don't worry, I'll keep my head down."

"They're always in the woods, cutting, pruning." After a moment

he said, "It's a strange nation, when you think about it. Fussy. Rules

for everything--the branches of each tree must only just touch the

neighboring branches, and so on."

"How do you come to know that?"

"
Everybody
knows that. In Germany."

They drove on, through pretty Schwabisch villages. Every one of

them had its
Christbaum,
a tall evergreen in the center of town, with

candles lit as darkness fell, and a star on top. There were also candles

in every window, and red-berried holly wreaths hung on the doors. By

the side of the road, at the entry to each village, stood a sign attacking

the Jews. This was, Mercier thought, a kind of competition, for none

of the signs were the same.
Juden dirfen nicht bleiben
--"Jews must

not stay here"--was followed by
Wer die Juden unterstuzt fordert den

Kommunissmus,
"Who helps the Jews helps communism," then the

dramatic "This flat-footed stranger, with kinky hair and hooked nose,

he shall not our land enjoy, he must leave, he must leave."

"Perhaps an amateur poet, that one," Stefan said.

"One publishes where one can," Mercier said.

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"Bastards," Stefan said. "I grew up in the middle of it. Hard to

believe, at first. Then it didn't go away, it grew." He shifted into second

gear, the Opel climbing a grade where forest closed in on the darkening road. He had been rambling along in rough-hewn emigre French,

now he switched to native German and said, quietly, "
Ihr sollt in der

Holle schmoren!
" Burn in hell.

Twenty minutes later, they reached the town of Schramberg. A

few
Wehrmacht
officers wandered along the winding streets, pausing

to look in the shop windows, out for a pre-dinner walk to stir the

appetite. In honor of the army's visit, swastika flags lined the square

in front of the ancient town hall, their deep red a handsome contrast

to the green
Christbaum,
its candles flickering in the evening breeze.

Stefan turned right on the street just past the town hall, took a good

look at the odometer, and then, as the street turned into a narrow

paved road and the town fell away behind them, switched off the headlights. "They don't need to know we're coming," he said, peering into

the gathering darkness, squinting at the odometer. Finally he slowed

and let the car roll to a stop. "At the center of this curve," he said. "See

the rock? That's our mark."

As Mercier reached into the backseat for his walking staff, Stefan

opened the glove compartment and handed him a thick bar of chocolate. "Take this along," he said. "You might want it."

Mercier thanked him and, making sure no headlights were visible,

stepped out of the car and started to cross the road. Stefan rolled the

window down and, his voice close to a whisper, said, "Good hunting.

Remember, nineteen-oh-five hours, by the rock." In two moves he

reversed the car and drove back toward Schramberg.

Pure night
. Mercier thought of it that way. Faint stars, wisps of cloud,

and not a sound to be heard. He reached into his pocket and found his

pencil sketch of the
Deuxieme Bureau
's map. He had to climb the hill

above the road, turn east, and walk a distance just short of two miles,

descending the first hill, climbing a second, and descending again, to a

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point just below the crest, where there would be, presumably, a view of

the tank maneuvers. For the moment he was warm enough, though he

could feel the first bite of the night-borne chill. Wool hat, surplus