The spies of warsaw (31 page)

parked in a field of dead weeds, a limp wind sock on a pole, and a tinroofed shack. Watching the treeline, Mercier and Jourdain hurried the

Rozens inside. One of the embassy guards was waiting for them, stoking a potbelly stove with a poker.

"All quiet?" Jourdain said.

"All quiet," the guard answered. "Too cold to fly."

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"Any idea when they'll be here?" Mercier said to Jourdain.

"I was at the embassy around midnight, sent the signal, and got a

confirmation. So, they're on the way."

The Rozens sat on lawn chairs, Malka found a tin ashtray from a

Warsaw cafe and lit a cigarette. Viktor sighed and looked mournful.

The desperation of flight had given way to the reality of the future,

Mercier thought. The Rozens would never again go home. "Tell me,

colonel," Viktor said, "where do you think we might live?"

"I don't know," Mercier said. "In a city, somewhere. It will be

worked out later."

"They won't stop looking for us," Malka said.

"You'll have to keep that in mind," Jourdain said. "Wherever you

go."

"We will," Viktor said. "Forever."

"Still, a better fate than what lay in store for you," Mercier said.

Viktor nodded:
yes, but not all that much better.

When Mercier heard a drone in the distance, he checked his watch--

just after eleven--went outside, and saw a plane descending on the

northern horizon. He watched it for a time, then returned to the

shack. Malka Rozen was looking out the window. "Stay inside until

we're sure," Mercier said. Gustav, dozing in a kitchen chair, awoke and

joined Malka at the window. Mercier went back out, Jourdain followed him. A trimotor Breguet circled the field, then landed, bouncing

across the uneven ground, coming to rest close to the shack.

Mercier shivered in the cold. The door of the plane opened and a

man in a flying overall hopped out, then offered a hand to someone

behind him, but the hand was not taken. A moment later, Colonel

Bruner appeared in the doorway, dressed in full uniform and standing

at attention, as though he expected to be photographed. Mercier

swore under his breath.

"Ah, the hero arrives," Jourdain said. "Well, they belong to him

now--he's bringing the prize home to Paris, to be the envy of all eyes."

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The three men greeted each other, Bruner his most formal self,

drawn up to his full height, such as it was, and ruddy-cheeked with

excitement. "So," he said, "where are my spies?"

"They're inside," Mercier said.

They went into the shack, and Bruner was introduced to the

Rozens; he was silent, his hands clasped behind his back, his greeting

a bare nod. "You can put their luggage on the plane," he said to

Mercier.

"We have nothing," Viktor said.

This, for some reason, Bruner found irritating. "Oh? Well, let's

hurry along, shall we?"

They filed out the door and walked to the airplane. A co-pilot

appeared at the entry and helped Viktor climb up, then it was Malka

Rozen's turn. Looking back at Mercier, she said, "Thank you, colonel," took a deep breath, and wiped her eyes. "It's the cold air," she

explained, as the co-pilot helped her aboard.

"Very well, then," Bruner said, triumphant, savoring his success.

He entered the plane and was followed by the pilot, who closed the

door behind them. The Breguet made a tight turn, taxied down the

field, lifted at last, cleared the trees, and headed west, soon a black dot

in the sky, its drone fading, then gone.

Back at the embassy, in the midst of writing a dispatch describing the

exfiltration of the Rozens, Mercier telephoned Anna Szarbek and

invited her for dinner at his apartment. He completed the dispatch,

took it down to the code clerk, then went back to Ujazdowska avenue.

The coming evening called for planning and logistics: a shopping list

for the cook, Wlada to spend the night at her sister's house.

At 8:20, a proper twenty minutes late, Anna Szarbek arrived in a

taxi--she'd declined Mercier's offer to pick her up--and knocked at

the street door. Mercier rushed to let her in, and they embraced--

tentatively, a faint apprehension on both sides. But then, following her

up the staircase, the sway and shift within her soft skirt so intoxicated

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him that, by the time he reached the landing, he was more than prepared to skip the preliminaries altogether. Nonetheless, after a tour of

the apartment, he started the fire, lit the candles, and poured champagne. On the sofa, she looped her arm through his and rested her

head on his shoulder. "I hope you weren't disturbed," she said, "that I

called so late, last night."

"Not at all."

"You sounded--absorbed."

"Too much excitement. Some of my work showed up here, two

people, and had to be dealt with. A--how to say--a fugitive situation."

"They came to your
apartment
?"

"They weren't invited, my love. They needed refuge, and they

knew where I lived, so . . ."

"Did you have the police?"

"No, thank God. I managed without them."

"You are actually brave, aren't you?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Oh, I don't think you can help it, Jean-Francois, I think it's in

your blood, from what you said in Belgrade."

At the hotel in Belgrade, they had told their growing-up stories

and exchanged family histories, Mercier's reaching back to the Crusades. "All those warrior ancestors," she said. She took his hand, studied the signet ring, and said, "It's this." She slipped it off, put it on her

finger, then spread her hand to admire it. "Now you may address me

as
countess.
"

"I'm not anything like a count, countess, just a lowly
chevalier,
a

knight in service to the king."

"Still, a noble." She put the ring back on his finger. "The only one

I've ever known."

"Ever?" This was more than unlikely.

"I mean, as I know you." She took off her boots, tucked her feet

up beneath her, and slid her hand between the buttons of his shirt.

"I'm just a Polish girl from Paris."

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"Oh poor you," he said. "Poor lawyer."

"Good in school, love. With hardheaded parents--parents with

no sons. So, somebody had to do something." They were silent for a

time, and he became aware of her hair, silky against his skin, and her

fragrance. "I find it warm in here," she said, undoing a button on his

shirt, then another. "Don't you?"

The cook, perfectly aware of what was planned for the evening,

had done her best--a roasted chicken and boiled carrots left in a

warm oven--and later that night, Anna in Mercier's shirt, he in the

bathrobe, they ate--it was a sin to waste food--what they could.

3 February. All courtesy, the noble Mercier had telephoned Anna and

invited her to his next obligation, a dinner party given by the Portuguese consul. "I appreciate your asking me," she'd said, "but I suspect you are reluctant and, honestly, so am I." This was, and they both

knew it, the social reality of diplomatic Warsaw. Some courageous

souls insisted on bringing their "fiancees" to balls and dinner parties,

and nobody ever said a word about it, but . . . Mercier was frankly

relieved, and, on the evening of the third, he was accompanied to the

consulate by Madame Dupin.

In the library, joining the men for cigars after dinner, Mercier

found himself in the company of one Dr. Lapp, believed, by a certain level of local society, to be the senior
Abwehr
--German military

intelligence--man in Warsaw. Officially, he worked as the commercial

representative of a Frankfurt pharmaceutical company, but nobody

had ever known him to sell a pill. Very much an old-fashioned gentleman, Dr. Lapp--the honorific referred to a university degree; he was

not a medical doctor--of slight stature, in middle age, and bearing

some resemblance to the sad-faced comedian Buster Keaton. And,

like the comedian, he was often to be seen in a natty bow tie, though

tonight he wore traditional dinner-party uniform. They had met

before, on various occasions, but had never actually spoken at length.

"Life going well, for you?" he said to Mercier.

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"Not too badly. Yourself?"

"One mustn't complain. Were you in Paris, for the holidays?"

"I was, then I went down to the south."

"I envy you that, colonel."

"The south?"

"Paris. A magnificent city. Would that be your preference, if your

career took you there?"

"I like Warsaw well enough, but I wouldn't mind. And for you, Dr.

Lapp, would you prefer Berlin?"

"I only wish I could."

"Really? Why is that?"

"Frankly, I find the situation in the capital not much to my taste."

This was flagrant, and Mercier showed the edge of surprise. "You

don't care for the present regime?"

"Mostly I don't. I am a loyal German, of course, and surely a

patriot, but that can mean many things."

"I suppose it can. You are, perhaps, a traditionalist?"

"And why not? The culture of old Europe, civility, stability, was

not such a bad thing for Germany. But it's all gone now, and the people who are in power these days will presently have us at war, and you

know what that meant in 1918."

"Not so much better for us. We called it victory, and marched

through the streets in 1918, but
victory
is a curious word for what happened in France."

Dr. Lapp nodded, and said, "Yes, I know. Where were you, on that

day?"

"In fact I was a prisoner of war at Ingolstadt, Fort Nine."

"Our most illustrious prison, at any rate. For our most eminent

prisoners--the Russian Colonel Tukhachevsky, now sadly executed by

his government; your Captain de Gaulle, lately a colonel; France's

most prominent airman, Roland Garros; and plenty of others. So

you were, at least, in good company. How many escape attempts,

colonel?"

"Four. All of which failed."

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"Of course I would have done the same thing. Honor demands it."

"And where were you, on the day of the armistice?"

"At my desk, faithful to the last, at the naval General Staff office

in Kiel. My section concerned itself with the submarine service." Dr.

Lapp paused, then said, "Tell me, are you still in touch with Colonel

de Gaulle?"

Mercier hesitated, unsure where Dr. Lapp was leading him, but

more than conscious of being led. Toward some variety of treason, he

sensed. But to France? Or Germany? Finally, he could think of nothing to say but the truth; it would have to do. "From time to time, a letter," he said. "We are more colleagues than friends."

"And do you subscribe to his theories of warfare? I've read his

book."

"I've read it as well, and I believe it should be taken seriously. I suspect, the next time around, it will not be trenches and wire."

From Dr. Lapp, a gracious smile:
success.
What success was that?

"I agree," he said. "But better, far better, if there is no next time

around. I wonder if, sometime, we could speak in a more private setting?"

To this, Mercier had to say
yes
.

"Some people I know may not be so much the enemies of France

as you would think. Do I need to elaborate?"

"No, Dr. Lapp. I believe I perfectly understand you."

Without speaking, Dr. Lapp acknowledged this understanding.

Did he bow? Did his heels come together? Not overtly, yet something

in his demeanor implied such gestures without the actual performance.

Mercier left the library, collected Madame Dupin, and hurried her

out to the car. "Did something happen?" she said.

"It did." Before Marek could pull away from the curb, Mercier

took a pad from his pocket and feverishly made notes, trying to reproduce the conversation with Dr. Lapp.

"Something good, I hope."

"Maybe," Mercier said. "It won't be up to me."

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*

The following morning, he was in Jourdain's office as the second secretary was hanging up his coat. When they were settled at the table,

Mercier read from his notes. "Astonishing," Jourdain said. "It sounds

like he wants to open some sort of secret channel between us and the

Abwehr.
"

"Shall I report the contact?"

Jourdain drummed his fingers on his desk. "You're taking a

chance either way. If you report immediately, they may say
no.
But, if

you don't do it now, eventually you will, and then they'll have a

tantrum."

"Why on earth would they say
no
?"

"Caution. Fear of provocation, false information, trickery. Or