The spies of warsaw (36 page)

briefcase.

It was quiet in Tesin, a warmish evening of early spring. When

Mercier pulled the shade down, a streetlamp threw a shadow of

tree branches on the yellowed paper. He turned on the light, a bulb

dangling from the ceiling, and worked at the newspaper--what he

wouldn't give for a
Paris Soir
! Still, he could manage, once he got

going. Henlein, the leader of the Sudetenland German minority in

Czechoslovakia, had given a speech in Karlsbad, making eight demands on the government. Basically, he called for the Czechs to allow

German-speaking areas to have their own foreign policy, in line with

"the ideology of Germans": a demand that surely came directly from

Adolf Hitler, a demand that could never be met. The fire under the pot

was being stoked, soon it would boil.

Then, on the same page, news that the
Anschluss,
joining Austria

to Germany, had been approved in a plebiscite by Austrian voters. A

triumph--nearly all the Austrians had voted, ninety-nine to one in

favor. Now there was a victory that deserved the word
rousing
! Just

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below that, a correspondent reporting from the Spanish civil war;

the city of Vinaroz had been taken by Franco's forces, isolating the

government-held city of Castile from Catalonia. Another victory for

fascist Europe. Mercier turned the page. A grisly murder, a body

found in a trunk. And the soccer team had lost again. Followed by a

page of obituaries. Mercier threw the newspaper on the floor.

He lay there, smoked, stared at the ceiling. He had no desire to

read, and sleep was a long way off. On the other side of the wall, a

man and a woman in the adjacent room began to argue, in a language

Mercier couldn't identify. They kept it quiet, secretive, almost a whisper, but the voices were charged with anger, or desperation, and neither one would give in. When it didn't stop, he got up, went to the

window, and raised the shade. Across the square, the outdoor
terrasse

of the cafe was busy--a warm night, spring in the air, the usual couples with drinks, a few customers alone at tables, eating a late dinner.

Then the barman walked over to a large radio set on a shelf and began

fiddling with the dials. Mercier couldn't hear anything, but most of

the patrons rose from their tables and gathered in front of the radio.

He rolled the shade back down, undid the straps on his briefcase, and

made sure of its contents.

20 April. Mercier strolled up Opava street at 5:10 p.m., but Halbach

was nowhere to be seen. Keeping the house in sight he walked to the

corner, then started back the other way. He felt much too noticeable,

so turned into a cross street where he discovered a tram stop. Was this

how Halbach returned from work? He waited for ten minutes, then

walked back out onto Opava, and there he was, almost at the house.

Mercier moved as quickly as he could and caught up to him just as he

reached the door. "Herr Halbach?"

Frightened, Halbach spun around and faced him, ready to fight or

run. "What is it? What do you want?"

"May I speak with you a moment?"

"Why? Is it about the bill?"

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"No, sir, not that at all."

Halbach calmed down. Mercier was clearly alone; the secret

police came always in pairs, and late at night. "Then what? Who

are you?"

"Is there somewhere we can speak? Privately? I have important

things to tell you."

"You're not German."

"No, I'm from Basel--a French Swiss."

"Swiss?" Now he was puzzled.

"Can we go inside?"

"Yes, all right. What's this about?"

"Inside? Please?"

Downstairs, the family was at dinner. Mercier could smell garlic.

Halbach called out "Good evening," in Polish, then climbed the stairs

and opened a door just off the landing. "In here," he said. "Just leave

the door open."

"Of course," Mercier said.

A small room, meagerly furnished and painted a hideous green.

On one wall, a clothes tree held a shirt and a pair of trousers; on the

other, a narrow cot covered by a blanket, and a nightstand with four

books on top. At the foot of the cot, a single rickety chair completed

the furnishings. The window looked out on the plaster wall of the

adjacent building, so the room lay in permanent twilight. Halbach put

his briefcase down and sat on the edge of the cot, while Mercier took

the chair. When he was settled, Halbach opened the drawer in the

nightstand, then gave him a meaningful look, saying, "Just keep your

hands where I can see them."

Mercier complied immediately, resting his hands atop the briefcase held on his knees. Was there a pistol in the drawer? Likely there

was. "I understand," he said. "I understand completely."

For a moment, Halbach stared at him. He was, Mercier thought,

perhaps the homeliest man he'd ever seen: a long narrow face, with

pitted skin, and small protruding ears emphasized by a Prussian

haircut--gray hair cut close on the sides and one inch high on top.

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His Hitler-style mustache was also gray, his neck a thin stem--circled

by a collar a size too large--his restless eyes suspicious and mean.

"Well?" he said. "Who are you?"

"My name is Lombard. I represent a chemical company in Basel.

My card."

Mercier drew a packet of cards from his pocket and handed one of

them to Halbach, who said, "Solvex-Duroche?"

"Solvents for the metals industry."

Halbach studied the card, then put it on the nightstand. "What

would you want with me?" Suspicion was slowly giving way to curiosity. "I'm a teacher."

"But not always. Or, rather, that is your vocation. It is your political history that brings me here."

Halbach's hand moved toward the drawer, Mercier feared he was

about to be shot. "Please, no violence," he said softly. "I'm here to

make an offer, nothing more than that, and if you're not interested I'll

go away and that will be the end of it."

"You said politics . . . meaning?"

"Your resistance to the present government in Berlin."

"You know who I am," Halbach said, an accusation.

"Yes, I do know that."

"So, you're no chemical salesman, Herr Lombard, are you."

"Actually, I am, but that's no part of our business today."

"Then who sent you?"

"That I can't tell you. Suffice to say, powerful people, but not your

enemies."

Halbach waited for more, then said, "How did you find me?"

"As I said, powerful people. Who know things. And, I feel I should

point out, it wasn't all that difficult to find you."

"In other words, spies."

"Yes."

"Not the first I've encountered, Herr
Lombard
. And no doubt

working for the Swiss government."

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"Oh, we never say such things out loud, Herr Halbach. And, in the

end, it doesn't matter."

"To me it does." He had suffered for his politics, he wasn't about

to compromise his ideals.

"Then let me say this much--a neutral government is not a disinterested government, and, as I said before, in this instance on
your

side."

Now Halbach was intrigued--he'd spent enough time with

Mercier to sense he needn't be afraid of him, and felt the first flush of

pride that "powerful people" were interested in him. Which, of course,

they should be, despite his present misery.

Now Mercier advanced. "Tell me, Herr Halbach, this life you live

now, as a fugitive, how long do you expect it to last?"

"For as long as it does."

"Months?"

"Certainly."

"Years?"

"Perhaps." A shadow settled on Halbach's face. He knew it

couldn't be years.

"You read the newspapers, you're aware of Hitler's intentions in

Czechoslovakia--what's going on in the Sudetenland."

"
Casus belli.
" Halbach flipped the tactic away with his hand, his

voice rich with contempt.

"True, a reason for war, and perfectly transparent to those who

understand what's going on. Still, Hitler may well send his armies

here. What then? Where will you go?"

"To a cellar somewhere."

"For months? Or days?"

Halbach would not give him the satisfaction of an answer, but the

answer hung unspoken in the air.

"You asked why I was here, Herr Halbach. I'm here to offer you

sanctuary."

"Sanctuary," Halbach said. The word had its effect.

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"That's correct. The people I represent want you to continue your

resistance, but you cannot do so in Czechoslovakia. The Gestapo will

find you, today or tomorrow, and the result for you will be very

unpleasant. Very, very unpleasant. With the best of luck, it's only a

matter of time."

"What is this sanctuary?"

"Money, and a new nationality."

"How much money?"

"Five hundred thousand Swiss francs."

"That's a fortune!"

Mercier's brief nod meant,
of course it is, but not for us.

"Five hundred thousand, you said?"

"I did. And a Swiss passport. The passport of a Swiss citizen, not

the papers of a foreign resident."

"For nothing more than writing a few pamphlets?"

"No, there is more."

Silence in the little room--quiet enough to hear the family eating

dinner below them. Halbach lowered his voice. "And what would that

be, Herr Lombard?"

"A visit to an old friend, a request--a request accompanied by the

same offer I've made to you, so you will not go empty-handed, a few

days' work on his part, a successful result, and then, for both of you,

new lives. Wealthy lives. Safe lives."

Now Halbach saw the trick. "All this you offer would be in the

future, naturally, and conditional. Just around the corner, just up the

road."

"No, sir, it doesn't work like that. Simply agree, and I will hand

you a hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs."

"Now? This minute?" Halbach stared at the briefcase.

"Yes."

"How do you know I won't accept the money and disappear?"

"Because then you will have stolen it, Herr Halbach. Stolen it

from us." Again, silence. Mercier waited, the soul of patience; he

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could almost see Halbach's mind working, back and forth. Finally

Mercier said, "What will it be, sir, shall I be on my way?"

Halbach's voice was barely audible. "No," he said.

"Then we are in agreement?"

Halbach nodded. He'd begun to grasp the very sudden turn his life

had taken, and he didn't like it, his expression sour and resigned, but,

really, what choice did he have?

"Please understand," Mercier said, his hands now holding the

sides of the briefcase, ready to hand it over, "that your actions will be

directed against the Hitler regime, not against the German people, not

against your homeland. We know you would never agree to harm your

country, misguided though it might be."

Halbach didn't answer, but Mercier sensed that he'd accepted the

distinction--this wasn't treason, this was resistance. From the foot of

the stairs, a woman's voice. "Herr Halbach? Will you be having your

dinner?"

"Not tonight, thank you," Halbach called out.

Mercier handed him the briefcase. It was heavy and full: thirty

packets, bound with rubber bands, of fifty hundred-franc notes. Halbach unbuckled the straps and opened the flap, took out one packet,

counted twenty, riffled the rest, and put it back. When he looked up at

Mercier his face had changed; the reality of the banknotes had struck

home.

"And three hundred and fifty thousand more, Herr Halbach, when

the work is completed."

"In cash?"

"There's a better way, a bank transfer, but I'll explain that in

time."

Halbach again looked in the briefcase. No, he wasn't dreaming.

"What do I have to
do,
for all this? Kill somebody?"

"A train ride to Berlin. A conversation."

Halbach stared, opened his mouth, finally said, "But . . ."

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ish. With a Swiss passport, hiding in a small hotel, you'll be reasonably safe. And I'll be there with you. Of course, danger is always part

of this business. For me to come here today is dangerous, but here

I am."

"I'm a wanted criminal, in Germany."

"You won't be in Berlin for more than a week, and, except for

arrival and departure, you will be visible for only one evening. We

want you to contact a man who used the alias 'Kohler,' an old comrade of yours, from the Black Front, now serving in a section of the