The spies of warsaw (32 page)

some variety of internal politics."

"That would be foolish, Armand."

"Yes, wouldn't it though. Because I suspect this contact was carefully planned and could lead to important information. First of all,

what was Dr. Lapp even doing there? Surely he wasn't invited as a stray

German businessman. No, he was invited as an
Abwehr
officer. So, he

asked the consul--or someone above him asked someone above the

consul--to arrange for both of you to attend the dinner. Don't forget

that Salazar, the Portuguese dictator, is an ally of Germany. May I see

the notes?" Mercier handed the pad to Jourdain, who turned a page

and said, "Yes, here it is. He manages the conversation in such a way

that he makes a seemingly spontaneous reference to the submarine

service in Kiel. And that means he's referring to Admiral Canaris,

head of the
Abwehr
and captain of a submarine in the Great War. Better, if he truly served in Kiel, he is likely a friend of Canaris--a friend

for twenty years. So, he is more than reliable."

"And Canaris is, potentially, disloyal?"

"Maybe. One hears things, wisps, straws in the wind, but who

knows. What is certain is that the
Abwehr
loathes the SD: Hitler,

the Nazis, the whole nasty business. It's as much social as it is poli-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 203

T H E B L A C K F RO N T * 2 0 3

tical, the
Abwehr
see themselves as gentlemen, while the Nazis are

simply gangsters. And the
Abwehr,
as part of the General Staff of the

Wehrmacht,
does not want to go to war."

"Why me, Armand?"

"Why not you? This all came about because your spy lost his nerve

on a train. And then word got around that it was a French officer who

fought off an SD abduction up on Gesia street. So Dr. Lapp wonders,

Who is this Colonel Mercier?
Looks up your
Abwehr
file, sees that you

served with de Gaulle, sees that you're progressive and not part of the

old Petain crowd. Then he goes back to his boss and says, 'Let's

approach Mercier, we think he can be trusted.' "

"Trusted?"

"His balls are in your hand, Jean-Francois--he has to assume you

won't squeeze."

"Why would I?"

"Exactly. They have you figured out."

"I mean, what could I make them tell me? I was up half the night,

thinking about what happened, and I finally realized that the information I most want, from the Guderian bureau, the I.N. Six, is the one

thing I'll never get, not from the Bendlerstrasse--they won't betray

their own."

"Correct."

"He certainly knew my history, prison camp and so forth. Recited

the names of my fellow prisoners."

"Of course he knew. He spent a lot of time, preparing for his

chance meeting,
which is plain old good intelligence work. Really, it's

too bad about the Nazis--if Dr. Lapp and his friends ever took power,

Germany would be a very useful ally." Jourdain extended his index

finger and pointed east, toward Russia.

"Is there any chance of that?"

"None. Blood will flow, then we'll see."

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A

OF WAR

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11 March, 1938. In Warsaw, one lately heard the expression

przedwiosnie
; an ancient term for this time of year, it meant "prior to

spring." The streets were white with snow, but sometimes, early in the

morning or toward evening, there was a certain gentle breeze in the

air--the season wasn't turning yet, but it would. The softening of

winter was not so different in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, an aristocratic

village at the edge of Paris where, in centuries past, the French had

stored royal fugitives from across the Channel, in expectation of the

ascent of Catholic monarchy to the English throne. They'd given that

up, more or less, by March of 1938, and now used one of the former

exile mansions to hide the two Russian spies from Warsaw.

Separately and together, the Rozens had been interrogated. First

the handwritten autobiography, then the questions, and the answers,

and the new questions suggested by the answers. The Rozens told

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2 0 8 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

them everything, revealed a treasure trove of secrets going back to

1917, when, young and idealistic, they'd given themselves to the Russian revolution that would change the world. Which it certainly had--

producing counterrevolutionary fascist regimes in Hungary, Italy,

Roumania, Bulgaria, Spain, Portugal, and Germany. Fine work, Comrade Lenin!

And so, in cities across the continent, quite a number of individuals sipped their coffee on the morning of the eleventh, blissfully

unaware that their names and indiscretions were filling the pages of

Deuxieme Bureau
files and that this information would presently, in

some cases anyhow, be forwarded to the security service of whatever

nation they called home. Therefore, again in some cases, tomorrow

would
not
be a better day.

For instance, the emigre Maxim Mostov, a literary journalist in

Warsaw. At dawn, as the
przedwiosnie
breeze brushed tenderly

against his bedroom window, he slept peacefully with a proprietary

arm thrown over his new mistress, a sexy Polish girl who worked as a

clerk at the Warsaw telephone exchange. Sexy and
young,
this one--

the loss of his previous girlfriend had bruised his self-esteem, so here

in bed with him was some exceptionally succulent compensation.

The four men from the
Dwojka
certainly thought so, giving one

another a meaningful glance or two as she struggled into a bathrobe.

Leaving the bedroom door open--please, no jumping out the window,

not this morning--they permitted the couple to get dressed, then

escorted Maxim back to the Citadel. And if he'd been frightened by

the knock on the door and the appearance of the security service, the

march through the chill stone hallways of the Citadel did nothing to

soothe his nerves. Nor did the two men across the table, military officers who wore eyeglasses; for Maxim, an intimidating combination.

He had, of course, done nothing wrong.

Malka and Viktor Rozen had been--well, not really friends, more

like
acquaintances
. That was the proper word. And did he know that

they were officers of the Soviet spy service? Well, people
said
they

were, and he'd suspected that people might be right--but such rumors

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A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 0 9

often went around, in a city like Warsaw. And what had he told them?

No more than gossip, the very things he wrote about, quite publicly, in

his feuilletons.

So then, had he accepted money?

Maybe once or twice, small loans when he found himself in difficult circumstances.

And had the loans been paid back?

Some of them, he thought, as best he could remember, possibly

not others; his life was chaotic, money came and went, he was always

busy, going about, finding stories, writing them, this and that and the

other thing.

And did he have family in the USSR?

He did, one surviving parent, two sisters, uncles and aunts.

Perhaps the Rozens mentioned them, now and again.

In fact they had. Asked after their health, in the normal way of

people from the same country.

Did they say, for example, that they were
worried
about them--

their health, their jobs?

No, not that he could remember. Maybe once, a long time ago.

At that point, the two officers paused. One of them left the room

and returned with a third, this one rather formidable, tall and thinlipped, with pale brush-cut hair, who wore the boots of a cavalry

officer and was, from their deference toward him, senior to the interrogators. He stood to one side of Maxim, hands clasped behind his

back.

"We will continue," the lead interrogator said. "We want to ask

you about your friends. People you know in the city. Later, we'll

ask you for a list, but for the moment we want to know if they helped

you."

"Helped me?"

"Told you things. Gossip, as you called it, about, for example,

diplomats, or anyone serving in the Polish government--the kind of

people you met at social events."

"I suppose so. Of course they did--when you talk to your friends,

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they always tell you things: where they've been, who they've seen. It's

common human discourse. You have to talk about something besides

the weather."

"And did you pass any of this information on to the Rozens?"

"I might have. There's so much. . . . I can't think of anything specific, not anything . . . secret, not that I can recall."

"Very well. Take, for example, your former friend Pana Szarbek,

who I believe you intended to marry. She is employed by the League of

Nations, did she tell you things about her work? Things about, say,

contacts in foreign governments?"

Here Maxim paused. Evidently, the subject of his former fiancee

was a painful one--he'd been hurt, was now likely angry about her

leaving him for another. Which was, for Maxim, as for much of the

world, quite normal, as it was also normal to feel that those who have

hurt you should themselves be hurt in return, unless you were the sort

of person who didn't care for the idea of spite.

"Well?" the interrogator said. "Do you understand the question?"

"Yes."

"And so?"

"I don't remember her doing that. She didn't often speak about

her work, not in specific terms. If she had a troublesome case she

might say it was difficult, or frustrating, but she never spoke of officials. They--for example, tax authorities--were simply part of her

job."

The interrogator looked past Maxim, at the tall officer standing

to his left, then said, "Now, what contacts did you have with employees of the Polish government?"

In Warsaw, the endgame of the Rozen confessions went on for more

than a week. Senior officers of a major on the Polish General Staff

confronted him when he arrived for work--they were, at least technically, responsible for what he'd done, so the wretched job fell to them.

They spent an hour with him, then placed a revolver on his desk, left

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A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 1 1

the office, and closed the door. Fifteen minutes later he reappeared,

weeping, and trying to
explain
. They sent him back inside and, soon

enough, were rewarded with the sound of a shot. The hotel maids

were visited at home--one didn't want to go stirring up the guests--

where the scenes varied: some tears, some defiance, some absolute

silence, and one case where a young woman slipped out a back door

and was never seen again. As for the rest, from factory workers to a

company director, they were arrested, questioned, tried in secrecy,

and sent to prison. Not all of them; some were actually not guilty--

the Rozens, confessing for their lives, had been somewhat overzealous in the naming of informants. As for Maxim Mostov, he was,

after lengthy discussions within the senior
Dwojka
administration,

deported. Driven to the Russian frontier and put on a train.

21 March. The vernal equinox arrived with a slow, steady rain. The

grimy snow of winter began to wash away, and though Warsovians

ruined their shoes and cursed the slush, they felt their spirits soar

within them. Similarly, Colonel Mercier, who admitted to himself, the

evening of the twenty-first, that he was as happy as he'd ever been.

The apartment Anna Szarbek had found on Sienna street was not

unlike an artist's studio. One large room--with adjoining kitchen and

bath--on the top floor, with grand windows slanted toward the sky.

"Have you ever wanted to be a painter?" he said.

"Never."

"Does this studio not inspire you?"

"Not to paint, it doesn't."

He saw her point. It had become their preference to make this

place home to their love affair. Not that the Ujazdowska apartment

wasn't elegant and impressive, it was, but a private loft better suited

their private hours. Sometimes they ate at the small restaurants of the

quarter, but mostly they lived on cheese and ham--now and then

Anna managed to produce an omelet--drank wine or vodka, smoked,

talked, made love, and had some cheese and ham.

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Mercier's vocational existence had, thank heaven, returned to normalcy. He had reported the contact with Dr. Lapp to
2, bis,
and the

response had been . . . silence. "They're frozen solid," Jourdain had