The spies of warsaw (33 page)

theorized. "Either that, or they're fighting over the bone." This was

all well and good, Mercier thought, but somewhere down the road

there would be a telephone call or a letter and he would have to bid or

fold his cards--he couldn't pass. But if
2, bis
wasn't in a hurry, neither

was he.

Anna stood at the window, watching the raindrops slide down the

glass, her mood pensive. "I did hear something disquieting," she said.

"I ran into the janitor's wife at the market--the janitor who works

where I used to live--and she said that Maxim had been taken away by

some sort of civilian police, returned, with an escort, to pack whatever he could, and left. He told her he was being sent back to Russia."

"I'm sorry to hear it," Mercier said.

"It can't be true, I tell myself, that you had anything to do with

this."

Mercier was startled, but didn't show it. It took only a few seconds for him to work out the sequence of events, beginning with the

Rozens' defection. "I have no need to do such things," he said.

"No, it's not like you," she said slowly, as much to herself as to

him.

"It sounds as though he's been deported. Maybe he was selling

information--to the wrong people, as it turned out."

"Maxim? A spy? That's what you're saying, isn't it?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. Foreign journalists will sometimes

take money, from, as I said, the wrong people."

She left the window and sat in an easy chair. "I suppose he might

have done something like that. He never had enough money, felt he'd

never reached his proper place in the world. He was desperate to be

important--loved, respected--and he wasn't."

"What I can tell you is, if he's been deported, he's lucky not to be

in prison."

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Anna nodded. "Still, I feel sorry for him," she said. Then, looking

back at the window, "Will this stop soon, do you think? I wanted to go

for a walk."

"We can take the umbrella."

"It's not very big."

"It will do." Mercier stood. "I think we left it by the door."

The vernal equinox came to Glogau as well, but there, in the SD office

above the toy shop, it rained bad news. That morning, Sturmbannfuhrer August Voss received a formal letter from his superior in Berlin.

In the next room, the lieutenants heard a prodigious oath and, faces

tense, looked up from their work and stared at each other.
What

now?
On the other side of the wall, Frogface Voss tore the letter into

strips, then had to piece them back together to make sure his eyes had

not deceived him. They hadn't. The axe had fallen; he was being transferred to Schweinfurt.
Schweinfurt!
What was in
Schweinfurt
? Nothing. A ballbearing factory. Such an office would handle internal matters

only. A visitor from Holland? Follow him! A complaint about the government, overheard in a tavern? Haul the traitor in! Filthy, silly, local

nonsense--Gestapo country, the SD little more than a spectator. And,

to drain his cup of humiliation down to the last miserable dreg, his chief

lieutenant was to be promoted and would supervise the Glogau office.

The reorganization to be completed in thirty days from this date
.

So, now that French bastard had really done it. With trembling

hand, he snatched up the telephone receiver and called Major Meinhard Peister, his friend Meino, in Regensburg.

27 March. Meino and Willi and Voss rode the train up to Warsaw.

They'd wanted to drive in Willi's new Mercedes, but the Polish roads

in March could be more than an adventure, so they took a first-class

compartment on the morning express. They weren't alone, a young

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couple had the seats by the window, but something about the three

men made them uncomfortable, so they got their valises down and

went looking for somewhere else to sit. "That's better," Willi said,

with a wink, once they were gone.

"We'll need a car, up there," Meino said. He'd put on weight, now

more than ever the gross cherub.

"It's all arranged," Voss said. "They'll pick us up at the station."

From his briefcase, Meino produced a bottle of schnapps. "Something for the trip." He pulled the cork, took a sip, and passed the bottle to Willi, who said "
Prost
" before he drank. Then he said, "What do

you have in mind, Augi?"

"Give him something to remember," Voss said. He nodded up at

his valise.

"What's in there?"

"You'll see."

"Been a long time since we did this," Meino said.

"A few years," Willi said. "But I haven't forgotten how."

"Remember that giant pig, up in Hamburg?" Voss said.

"Tried to run away? That one?"

"Who?" Meino said.

"The communist--the schoolteacher."

"Screamed for his mama," Willi said.

Meino laughed. "That one."

"We'll want to get him alone somewhere," Willi said.

"Don't worry about that," Voss said, taking a turn with the

schnapps. "My people up there have been watching him. It may take a

day or two, but he'll be alone sooner or later. Or he'll be with his

doxy."

"Nothing like an audience," Willi said.

"Better," Voss said. "For what I have in mind."

In Warsaw, they were picked up by Winckelmann, driving the Opel

Admiral, and taken to a commercial hotel south of the station.

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"Likely he's home for the night," Winckelmann said. "But we'll see

about tomorrow."

"I can't stay here forever," Willi said.

"He's at the embassy a lot of the time, but he goes out to meetings.

That would be the best, if you want to get him alone."

"That's what we want," Voss said.

"See you in the morning," Winckelmann said. "Eight-thirty."

They went out that evening, to a nightclub up on Jasna street

called the Caucasian Cave that Winckelmann had suggested--one of

the so-called "padded nightclubs," walls covered with heavy fabric to

keep the riotous noise inside. The club was in a cellar, with a doorman

who wore the big fur hat common to the Caucasus. They ate lamb on

skewers, an old Jew played the violin, and a few of the girls got up to

dance--girls in heavy makeup, gold earrings, and low-cut peasant

blouses. One of them sat on Willi's knees and tickled his chin with a

feather. "Care to go outside?" Willi said, in German. "To the alley?"

"The alley! You must be kidding me," she said. "You boys come

over from Germany?"

"That's right."

"Don't see many, in here."

"We go where we want."

"I guess you do. Staying at a hotel? I might come up and visit you."

"Not tonight."

"With your wife, Fritz?"

"Not me."

"Well, I'm not an alley girl," she said, hopping off. She walked

away, flipping the back of her skirt up to reveal her thighs. "See you

later," she said, over her shoulder, "unless you find a cat."

"Quite a mouth, on that one," Meino said.

"Maybe we'll come back here," Willi said, "with twenty divisions.

Then she'll sing a different tune."

They ordered another round of vodkas, told stories, and roared

with laughter. This was the life! But as the evening wore on, the clientele changed, and Jews in sharp suits, with slicked-down hair, began

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to appear, well known in the club, greeted heartily. They looked sideways at the three Germans, and one of them whispered with the girl

who'd sat on Willi's knees.

Voss sniffed the air and said, "It's starting not to smell so good in

here."

"Time to move on," Meino said.

They tried one more place, the Hairych, on Nalewki street, but

there they overheard the gangster types talking about them in Yiddish,

so they went back to the hotel, drank for a time, and went to their

rooms. The next morning they drove around with Winckelmann, got a

glimpse of the Frenchman, walking to work, then spent the rest of the

day in the car, bored and irritated. They stayed at the hotel on the

twenty-eighth, waiting for a telephone call from Winckelmann, but it

never came. Willi began to complain, he'd taken time off from work,

but he couldn't hang around Warsaw forever. "Maybe we'll just go see

him tonight," he said. "At his apartment."

But Voss didn't like that idea, and neither did Meino.

A cold, mean little drizzle on the morning of the twenty-ninth, the

worst weather possible for Mercier's aching knee, and a dreary day in

store. He had correspondence to answer, dispatches to write, a meeting in the morning, another in the afternoon, and then, at five, he had

to go out to Wola, the factory district at the western edge of the

city, to the Ursus Tractor Company on Zelazna street, which manufactured automobiles and armoured vehicles. There would be a tour

of the plant; then he was to meet with the managing director in his

office. Walking to work, leaning on his stick, Mercier grumbled to

himself, "Fine day to visit a factory." The dispatches took forever--

information had to be looked up--and, at the meetings, he could

barely force himself to concentrate. It was just the kind of day when

one didn't care about anything.

At twenty minutes to five, Marek picked him up outside the

embassy and set off for Wola. It wasn't all that far, but the drive

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seemed to take forever. Finally they reached the Wola district, deserted

at this hour, the night shifts at the factories already at work. Set well

back from Zelazna street, across a railroad track, the Ursus plant: vast

buildings of soot-colored brick, beneath a low gray sky at twilight.

Marek stopped the car and said, "When shall I pick you up?"

Mercier calculated. "Come back at seven. I know this will take at

least two hours."

"I can stay, colonel, if you like."

"No, don't bother. See you at seven."

With a sigh in his heart, Mercier walked across the tracks, then

down a brick walkway to the administration building. A senior manager was waiting for him and took him off to the production sheds.

Pure industrial hell. Giant machinery, banging away to wake the dead,

rattling chains, showers of sparks, and the manager shouting over the

din: here the armoured cars are assembled; they weigh this much; the

clearance is this high. Mercier peered at the engines while the workers,

in grease-stained overalls, smiled and nodded. He dutifully made

notes and was eventually shown a completed vehicle, where he sat in

the turret, cranked the handle and, lo and behold, the thing swiveled.

Slowly, but it worked. Still, he knew what could happen to these

cars--blown over on their sides, pouring smoke and flame--if they

ever went to war. He'd seen it.

They walked for what felt like miles, then he was taken to see the

managing director. An amiable gentleman, in a handsome suit, anxious to impress the French visitor. Again the weight, the speed, the

thickness of plate, the firing rate of the gun. Coffee was served, with a

plate of dry cookies. Skillfully, Mercier played the role of honored

guest, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Lately, he liked to imagine

Anna Szarbek, down at his house in the Drome, dogs in front of the

fireplace, everything he cared for, gathered up together, safe at night.

The director accompanied him to the front door; he left the building and took a few steps along the brick walkway. Now where was

Marek? Across the tracks, Zelazna street was empty and dark, lit only

by a single lamp at a distant intersection. He looked at his watch, 6:48,

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and thought about going back inside; the drizzle would have him

soaking wet if he stood there until the Buick appeared. Then three

men came around the corner of the building, and the one in the middle raised a hand and said, in German, "Good evening, colonel, we

want a word with you."

What was this?

The one in the middle suddenly moved faster, and Mercier could

see something in his hand. For a moment, it didn't make sense, not at

a factory, this time of night, for it looked like a riding crop, the leather

loop at the end circling the man's wrist. He ran the last few steps

toward Mercier, his face contorted with rage, and swung the riding

crop, which lashed Mercier across the cheek and knocked his hat off.

Mercier stepped backward and raised his hands, taking the next blow

on his palms. For a second, no feeling; then it burned like fire.

"Get his hands," the man said.

The other two advanced, Mercier swung at them with his stick,

which hit the one on the right--the one with a big belly--across the

forehead. Mercier had swung as hard as he could, using both hands,

and he thought the stick might break, but ebony was a hard wood; the