The spies of warsaw (34 page)

impact produced only a thud, and the man sat down on the brick

walkway and held his head. Meanwhile the tall one, with a dueling

scar on his cheek, had grabbed Mercier's arm and hung on to it as his

friend swung again, a downstroke that landed on Mercier's shoulder.

Mercier kicked at the man with the riding crop, lost his balance, and

fell on his back, the tall one landing on top of him. The man was panting, his breath foul and reeking of alcohol. As Mercier tried to push

him off, he growled, "Stay still, you French bastard."

"Fuck you," Mercier said, and tried to hit him with his forearm.

The man with the riding crop, cursing wildly, stumbled around

Mercier, trying to find an angle for another blow. Then, from the

direction of Zelazna street, a gunshot, and he stopped dead, riding

crop frozen at the top of its swing. The tall one rolled off Mercier and

struggled to his feet. "Time to go," he said. The two of them went to

help their friend--he groaned as they stood him upright--and, moving

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 219

A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 1 9

quickly, trotted around the corner of the building and disappeared.

Mercier's instinct to pursue them was immediately suppressed.

Looking toward the direction of the shot he saw a broad shape

running across the railway tracks--Marek--who arrived a moment

later, extended a hand to Mercier, and said, "Where did they go?"

"Was that your shot?" Mercier retrieved his stick and hat.

"It was. When I parked on Zelazna there was another car there,

and a little man jumped out and aimed a pistol at me. Said something

like
Halt!
"

"And?"

"I took the Radom from my coat and shot him."
What else?
Out

in the darkness, the sound of a powerful engine, accelerating as the

driver shifted up through the gears, then fading into the distance.

Marek said, "Do you need help, colonel?"

Mercier shook his head, one finger cautiously touching the burning welt on his cheek. "What happened next?" he said.

Marek shrugged. "You know. He fell down."

Slowly, they walked across the tracks toward the Buick, Mercier's

knee aching with every step. "Who were they?" Marek said.

"No idea," Mercier said. "They spoke German."

"Then why . . . ?"

Mercier couldn't answer.

They climbed into the car and Marek drove up Zelazna, then took the

first right into a long street, dark and empty, wet pavement shining in

the headlights. Peering through the cleared space made by the windshield wipers, Mercier saw what looked like a mound of discarded

clothing, half on the sidewalk, half in the street. Marek nudged the

brake and, when the mound became a man, stopped the car and they

both got out. The factory wall that met the sidewalk had windows

covered with wire mesh and, from somewhere inside, came the slow,

rhythmic drumming of a machine. For a moment, they stared down at

the body, its face wedged into the gutter, then Marek slid his foot

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 220

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

beneath the man's waist and turned him over. "That's him," he said. A

flowered tie lay over to one side, and there was a small red hole in the

pocket of the shirt. "What did they do? Throw him out of the car?"

"Looks like it."

"Afraid of being stopped, I guess. With a body in the trunk."

The face was blank, eyes open. Like the others, he wasn't anybody

Mercier had ever seen. Marek bent over and patted the man's pockets,

found a wallet, and handed it to Mercier. Inside, a Polish identity card

with the name Winckelmann--a name he'd heard from Vyborg--and

a photograph of the man he'd come to think of as
the weasel
. He

looked down at Winckelmann's face and realized that in death he'd

become a different self.

"What now, colonel? The police?"

"No. Just put the wallet back."

"So, nothing we know about," Marek said, clearly relieved.

"Nothing we know about."

Mercier was supposed to be at Anna's at seven-thirty, and when he

came through the door she was startled, then turned his chin to look

at the welt.

"I was attacked," he said, before she could ask. "One of them hit

me."

"Attacked? Who attacked you?"

"I don't know who they were."

"What did they hit you with? Come into the light."

She was very agitated, touching his cheek with her fingers and

anxious to care for him. "You sit there. I'll get a cold cloth." Mercier

doubted it would help but knew better than to say so. She ran cold

water on a clean dish towel, then pressed it to his face. "Hold that

there," she said. "What makes such a horrid mark?"

"A riding crop."

"No! Who would do such a thing?"

How much to tell her? "They were Germans, and I suspect it was

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 221

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

revenge of some sort, but please, Anna, don't ask anything about that

part of it."

"Your work," she said, angry and disgusted.

Mercier nodded.

"They could have killed you, you know."

"I'll have to think up an explanation. I walked into a door--

something like that."

"A drunkard's explanation, my dear."

"Hmm. Very well, then it was a drunk who hit me."

"Dreadful. Will you not tell them the truth, at the embassy?"

"I can't," he said. "There would be endless difficulties."

"Then say nothing. An absurd domestic stupidity, too silly to

explain."

He thought for a moment, then said, "Of course, what else."

"Does it feel better?"

"Yes. The cold helps."

She rose abruptly, went looking for her purse, and lit a cigarette--

she insisted on buying imported Gitanes at the fancy tobacco shop--

and almost immediately the studio smelled like a French cafe. She did

not return to her chair, but walked to the windows, then turned and

faced him. "What makes you think they won't try something again?"

she said, her voice now sharpened to a lawyer's edge. "Or do you

believe they were . . . satisfied?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But if I brought this to my superiors as a

problem, they might decide to end my assignment here."

"They're not pleased with you?"

"Not especially. Or, rather, not all of them. It's sometimes true

that the more you succeed, in an organization, the more enemies you

make."

"Always true," she said. She returned to the easy chair and shook

her hair back. "Know what?"

"What?"

"I think you like this kind of war."

He shrugged. "
Like
isn't the word, but the job has grown into me.

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 222

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

I wanted to quit, a few months ago, but not now. Now there's a particular operation under way. It's important, possibly very important."

She smiled and said, "Is it ever difficult for you that you can't

speak openly of such things?"

"Very difficult," he said. "Especially here, with you."

"Oh well," she said. "I guess it doesn't matter." She busied herself

with the compress, putting more cold water on the towel. "Does this

make it feel better?"

He said it did, and the conversation turned to their evening

together--going out, doing something, a change. A search of the

newspaper turned up a French film, and an hour later they went to the

movies.

5 April. At last, a response to the contact with Dr. Lapp. But it did not

arrive in any of the forms Mercier had anticipated. Not cabled dispatch, not letter by pouch, and not, thank heaven, Bruner's appearance in Warsaw, which Mercier had feared. No, it came by mail, a

personal letter to his apartment, in lovely blue script. Undated, with

no heading. A secret communication? Yes, in a way it was.

My dear colonel,

Kindly forgive the delay in answering your communication,

but it inspired a most disheartening turmoil in these parts--

your rural connection will have given you the opportunity to

observe chickens in a barnyard beset by a playful dog.

In any event, it will be my pleasure to continue discussions

with the individual in question, and much the best to do so in

this city, where we can meet quietly, privately, and in comfort.

A telephone call to Auteil 7407--a local call, naturally--will

initiate a meeting the same day, and no mention of names will

be required. This method of contact is exclusive to the individual in question.

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 223

A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 2 3

Please be good enough to destroy this letter, which finds

you, I trust, in good health and good spirits.

With my most sincere good wishes,

Aristide R. J. de Beauvilliers

10 April. And then, in time, a second communication. Had Dr. Lapp

foreseen the frenzy that his offer would produce within the French

General Staff? Mercier suspected he had. Mercier suspected that Dr.

Lapp was one of those senior officers in the shadow world with a

sophisticated sense of human behavior--not a visionary, a cynic--

and a man who understood that, at the end of the day, the
Abwehr,

the
Deuxieme Bureau,
and all the rest of them worked pretty much the

same way. This time the communication came in the form of a note

that arrived in a sealed envelope delivered by a private courier. It said

simply that it would be good to see Mercier again and suggested the

following day, at 5:15 in the afternoon, at the Gorovsky Bookstore, 28,

Marszalkowska. And signed,
Dr. L.

For the event--and Mercier informed no one, in the spirit of de

Beauvilliers's letter, where he was going or why--he wore his best suit

and a freshly laundered shirt, with somber tie--and made sure to

enter the store at precisely 5:15. At this hour, there were only two or

three customers, and he found Dr. Lapp, now in his traditional bow

tie, in the back. When he looked up and saw Mercier, he said, "Do you

know this book?" He held it up,
Rosja--Polska, 1815-1830,
and said,

"Szymon Askenazy, one of their great historians. There are actually

quite a few."

"Do you read comfortably in Polish, Dr. Lapp?"

"I do, though I must keep a dictionary at hand."

Mercier found this combination--Buster Keaton reading esoteric

Polish history--modestly amusing. Dr. Lapp closed the book and put

it back in its place on the shelf. "I believe the office will be more comfortable," he said.

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 224

2 2 4 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

"The manager won't mind?"

Dr. Lapp's smile was impish. "We own the store, colonel. And it

does very nicely."

The office had drifted, over the years, to a state of comfortable

decay--peeling paint, water stains on the ceiling, furniture worn out

years ago--with stacks of books on the desk, in bookcases, on the

floor, everywhere. A private world, calm and lost, the view through the

cloudy window a courtyard where a wooden bench encircled a giant

elm. Only the telephone, an antique from the twenties, told the visitor

that he was not in the previous century. On the walls, posters for art

exhibitions and concerts--the French were avid for culture, whether

they liked it, understood it, paid for it, or not, but the Poles beat them

hands down. Dr. Lapp sat in the desk chair, its wheels squeaking as he

drew himself up to the desk. "Any luck, colonel?"

"Yes, though they took their time answering my dispatch."

"I rather thought they might."

"But very good luck, I believe. I've had a communication from a

man called de Beauvilliers, General de Beauvilliers."

Dr. Lapp allowed Mercier to see that he was impressed, and said,

"Indeed."

"You know who he is?"

"I do. The perfect choice."

"He suggests that you meet with him in Paris. Would that be satisfactory?"

"It would."

"I've brought along a telephone number he sent; he will see you

the day you call. And you needn't mention your name, the number is

for your exclusive use." Mercier placed a slip of paper on the desk.

"Very thoughtful of him. You couldn't have made a better choice."

"It wasn't up to me, Dr. Lapp, this was General de Beauvilliers's

personal decision."

"Even better," Dr. Lapp said. "A General Staff is always a field of

divergent opinions--ours is no different--but among these officers

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 225

A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 2 5

there are always two or three who have an intuitive understanding of

what the future might hold."

"One wouldn't have to be all that intuitive to understand Herr

Hitler's intentions."

"You would think so, wouldn't you, but you'd be wrong. Do you

know the Latin proverb
Mundus vult decipi, ergo decepiatur
? Herr

Hitler's favorite saying:
The world wants to be deceived, therefore let

it be deceived.
And he isn't wrong. Newspapers on the continent