The spies of warsaw (38 page)

"In his forties, precise, finicky. Bald, with a monk's fringe, eyeglasses, not at all remarkable, the office clerk. Much absorbed in hobbies, as I recall, stamp and coin collections, model trains, that sort of

thing."

"Perhaps a dog? He walks at night?"

"He had a bird. A little green thing--he would whistle to make it

sing."

"You last saw him when?"

"A year ago, he came to Czechoslovakia to report to Otto--they'd

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discovered a spy in the organization. Two of our people almost arrested by the Gestapo. They shot through the door, the Gestapo shot

back, and taunted them as they died."

"How did he know that?"

"A neighbor."

"Was Elter in the war?"

"Not in combat. He was a supply clerk, in the rear echelon. And

a clerk he remains at the General Staff office, in charge of buying

paper and pencils, typewriter ribbons, paper clips, and what have you,

and keeping track of it all. They may be Germany's great warriors,

on the Bendlerstrasse, but, if they want a pencil, they must ask little

Elter."

"Does he gamble, perhaps? Visit prostitutes?"

"Gamble? Never, he pinches every pfennig. As for prostitutes,

maybe now and then, when things are difficult at home."

"Herr Halbach, here is an important question: do you believe he

will cooperate with you, as an old friend, seeking his help?"

Halbach took his time, finally saying, "There must be a better reason, I fear."

"Then we will provide one," Mercier said.

The photography studio was in a quiet residential district, a small

shop, dark inside, with a little bell that jingled merrily when the door

was opened. Inside, painted canvas flats with a hole for the jocular

customer's head, allowing him to be photographed as a golfer, a

clown, or a racing car driver. Halbach's photo was added to the passport in an office at the back of the shop, where a radio at low volume

played a Mozart symphony. It was a well-used passport, with several

entry and exit stamps, that gave the bearer's profession as "sales representative" and so completed Halbach's cover identity. Mercier was

relieved to see that the photographer worked with infinite care, consulting a notebook that specified the proper form for every sort of

document used by the the nations of the continent. When the job was

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done, the man addressed Halbach as
Herr Braun
and wished him

good luck.

Next, a men's clothing store where Halbach was outfitted, the sort

of suit, hat, and raincoat appropriate for a representative of the fine

old Solvex-Duroche company. He now looked prosperous, but he was

still Julius Halbach, not only homely but distinctive. Mercier fretted

over this but could do nothing. False beard? Wig? Tinted spectacles?

No, theatrical disguises would make Halbach look like a spy, surely

the last thing Mercier wanted.

The people at the bank, a large room on the fourth floor of a commercial building, were genteel and all business--this was simply the

transmission of currency, and Mercier suspected it went on all day

long. They did not ask to see a passport, simply wrote out a receipt,

having deducted their commission from the amount to be wired. As

Mercier and Halbach descended in the elevator, Mercier handed over

a hundred reichsmark, to use as pocket money, and told Halbach to

rip up the receipt and, when opportunity provided a trash can, to

throw it away. After lunch, they took the train back to Tesin, then

crossed easily into Poland. There followed another train ride, to

Katowice, where they stayed at the railway hotel.

On the morning of 23 April, a taxi took them to the outskirts of

the city, where, at a garage that was little more than an old shed,

Mercier bought a car. Not new, but well cared for, a 1935 Renault

Celtaquatre, a two-door saloon model. Not too bad from the front--

a fancy grille--but the bulbous passenger compartment ruined

the look of the thing. "Very practical," the garageman said, "and the

engine is perfect." Mercier drove around the corner and removed the

last two items from beneath the false bottom of his valise: a Swiss

license plate and the accompanying registration. After changing

plates--he had to work at the rusty screws with a coin--they drove

into Germany.

They stopped only briefly at the German border
kontrol,
two

Swiss salesmen traveling on business, but Halbach stiffened as the

guard had a look at his passport. "So now we spend an afternoon

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looking at the scenery," Mercier said, as the striped crossarm was lowered behind them. But Halbach was not to be distracted, he sat rigid

in the passenger seat, and Mercier could hear him breathing.

A good road, heading north to Berlin; all the roads in Germany were

good now, a military necessity for a country with enemies east and

west. Mercier drove at normal speed; it would take some six hours to

reach Berlin, and he did not want to arrive in daylight. Halbach maintained his brooding silence, lost in his own world. Earlier, with a new

life ahead of him and one last mission to be accomplished, he'd been

expansive and relaxed, but now came the reality of Germany, and it

had reached him. For Mercier, it was not so different from the drive to

Schramberg--town after town with signs forbidding Jews, swastika

flags, uniformed men on every street. The symbols of power, raw

power, the state transcendent. Halbach ought to be used to it, he

thought--he was, after all, a member of the Nazi party, a left Nazi but

a Nazi nonetheless--but now it meant danger, and the possibility, the

likelihood,
that his new life would be destroyed before it had barely

begun. Once again, he would lose everything.

A typical April day for Central Europe, changeable and windy.

The skies darkened, raindrops appeared on the windshield, the wipers

squeaked as they rubbed across the glass. From Gleiwitz they traveled

north to Breslau, a three-hour drive. As they crossed the Oder, the sun

broke through the clouds and sparkled on the dark current. On to

Glogau, where Mercier stopped at a cafe, bought liverwurst sandwiches and bottles of lemonade, and they had lunch in the car. When

they stopped for gas in Krossen, the teenager who worked the pump

stared at Halbach, who turned away and pretended to look for something in the glove compartment. At dusk: Frankfurt. Mercier's knee

began to throb--too long in one position--but Halbach, it turned

out, had never learned to drive. Mercier got out and walked around

the car, which helped not at all. In the center of Frankfurt, a policeman directing traffic glowered at them and waved angrily:
move!
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bach swore under his breath. A coal delivery truck broke down in

front of them, the driver signaling for them to go around, and Mercier

almost hit a car coming the other way. He was sweating by the time

they reached the western edge of the city. Then, finally, at 7:30, the

eastern suburbs of Berlin.

"Where do we stay?" Halbach said. "The Adlon?"

Berlin's best, and just the sort of place where Halbach might

encounter somebody from his past. Dangerous, so de Beauvilliers, or

his trusted ally at
2, bis,
had specified Der Singvogel, the Hotel Bluebird, out in the slum district of Marianfelde. Mercier had never been

in Berlin. Halbach had visited a few times, but the Tubingen professor

of Old Norse was useless when it came to directions. They stopped,

asked for help, got lost, but finally found their way to Ostender

Strasse, parked the car, and, baggage in hand, entered the Singvogel.

"My God," Halbach said. "It's a brothel."

It was. To one side of the reception desk, a blond Valkyrie with

rouged cheeks, wrapped tight in the streetwalker's version of an

evening gown, was flirting with two SS sergeants, splendid in their

black uniforms and death's-head insignia. One of them whispered in

her ear and she punched him in the shoulder and they both had a

merry laugh. The other SS man took a long look at Mercier and Halbach. Drunk, he swayed back and forth, steadying himself with a

meaty hand on the counter. He turned to the woman behind the desk

and said, "Such fancy gents, Traudl. Better see what they want."

Traudl was big and flabby, with immense upper arms that trembled when she moved and chopped-off hair dyed jet black. "Staying

the night, boys?"

"That's right," Mercier said. "Maybe a few days."

The SS men whooped. "That's the thing!" the drunken one said.

"Get your prick good and red!" He caught Halbach staring at him and

said, "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"The girls are in the bar," Traudl said, before this went any further. "When you're in the mood."

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"Watch out for the skinny one," the Valkyrie said. "I know that

type."

Traudl looked at the keys on the board behind her. "I give you

thirty-one and thirty-seven . . ."

"Maybe they want to share," the SS man said, his voice suggestive.

". . . five reichsmark a night, pay now and I'll show you upstairs."

Mercier paid for three nights and Traudl led them to the staircase.

She more skated than walked, her carpet slippers sliding over the

scuffed linoleum floor.

The rooms were cubicles, partitions ending a foot below the

ceiling, with chicken wire nailed over the open space. "Toilet down

there," Traudl said. "Enjoy yourselves, don't be shy." She gave Halbach a big wink and pinched his cheek. "We're all friends here."

Mercier had worked in worse places--by candlelight in muddy

trenches--but the Singvogel was well up the list. It was the SS men,

Mercier suspected, who led the songfest in the bar below, starting with

the Horst Wessel song, the classic Nazi anthem, and moving on to the

SS favorite, the tender "If Your Mother Is Still Alive. . . ." Only a prelude. As the night wore on, the bordello opera was to lack none of its

most memorable moments: the breaking glass, the roaring laughter,

the female screams--of mock horror and, once, the real thing, God

only knew why--as well as the beloved duet for grunts and bedsprings, and the artful cries of the diva's finale.

Still, they had to work. It helped that Halbach knew where Elter

lived, in a tenement in the Kreuzberg district. It was also time, at last,

to tell Halbach what he needed from the I.N. 6 office. "But only two

contacts, between you and Elter," he said. "Of course we must be

especially careful the second time, when documents will be delivered.

If you are betrayed, that's when it will happen." Downstairs, the

shouts and crashing furniture of a good fight.

"That will bring the police," Halbach said.

"Not here. They'll take care of it."

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They listened for the high-low siren, but it never came. "Remember this," Mercier said. "It is Hitler and his clique who want to take

the country into war, but there could be nothing worse for Germany.

Remind Elter of that. His work on our behalf will provide information that can impede their plans, which would be the highest possible

service to the German people. If war comes here, they are the ones

who will suffer."

"Yes, the moral argument," Halbach said sourly, not at all convinced.

"You know what to do if it doesn't work."

And, to that end, the following afternoon, Mercier and Halbach

left the hotel and drove to the central area of the city, where the former

bought a camera, and the latter made a telephone call.

24 April, 6:20 p.m. In darkness, but for the lights twinkling on the station platform, the train clattered down the track. A freight train, eight

cars long: two flatcars bearing tanks, an oil tanker, a mail car, its lit

windows revealing canvas bags and a brakeman smoking a cigar, and

finally a caboose. The train sped past the station--the stationmaster

held a green flag--slowed for a curve, then accelerated down a long

straightaway, through a field with grazing cows. Smoke rose from the

stack of the locomotive, which blew its whistle, two mournful cries in

the night. Ah, the railway crossing. The bar came down; a produce

truck waited on the road. Then a sharp grade, climbing to a bridge

that crossed a stream, a descent, and a long curve, which led to

another station. The train slowed and rolled to a perfect stop beneath

a water tower.

There followed a moment of appreciative applause, and someone

turned on the lights. "Well done," said a man with a beard, squatting

down to examine the locomotive at eye level. Others agreed. "Quite

perfect." "A good run."

Johannes Elter said nothing. Only stared, wide-eyed, at the