The spies of warsaw (26 page)

life as chess, draw you into some sort of clandestine rat maze, then

shut the trap."

"I believe it's a legitimate offer to change sides," Mercier said.

"Viktor Rozen seemed, ah, at least worried, maybe desperate. His

wife's the strong one."

"Maybe she outranks him," the ambassador said. "That's not

unknown. As for what's next, we--I mean you, colonel--cable Paris.

Tonight. I'll want to see the text before it goes to the code clerk."

"Tonight?" Jourdain said. "Couldn't we . . . explore the possibilities?"

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 163

T H E B L A C K F RO N T * 1 6 3

The ambassador's smile was all too knowing. "Your instincts are

perfect, Jourdain, but if we dawdle, the bureau in Paris will want to

know why. Still, colonel, don't say more than you have to, just follow

the form."

"They'll be out here, sir," Jourdain said. "All over us."

"Maybe. Can't be helped."

"So, five-thirty tomorrow," Mercier said. "A visit to the post

office."

"One can never have enough stamps," the ambassador said. "As

for me, I'm off to the Biddles' dinner party, you two work out the

details."

Jourdain and Mercier talked for a long time--what did they want,

what could they get, what was the price of salvation, this week?

10 January. In civilian clothing, but well dressed for the occasion,

Mercier strolled around Warecki square in a light snow. Then, precisely at five-thirty, he entered the busy post office, stood on line, and

bought a sheet of stamps. Very pretty, they were, the two-groszy issue,

blue and gold, with a handsomely engraved portrait of Chopin.

14 January. At the Spanish embassy, an evening of flamenco. The

ambassador represented the Republican, the legal, government of

Spain, but it was known that there was a Nationalist, a fascist, ambassador in Warsaw, waiting to present his credentials. Franco's forces

had now cut the country in two parts, holding the larger area, so it

was, the diplomatic community believed, just a matter of time.

Mercier arrived at the Spanish embassy precisely at nine and

found a seat at the end of a row toward the back. Not quite the usual

crowd, he saw, the audience determined by political alliance, so neither the German nor the Italian diplomats were to be seen. But no

problem filling the room, because half the Soviet embassy was evidently passionate for Spanish dance. Mercier did find Maxim--that

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 164

1 6 4 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

was logical, because an evening of flamenco,
political
flamenco, was

just the thing for Maxim's clever column in the newspaper--who'd

saved the seat next to him with his folded overcoat. Then, as the

lights dimmed and the Spanish ambassador took the stage, a familiar silhouette hurried down the aisle and took the saved seat. What

went on in Mercier surprised him--only a glimpse of her silhouette.

But enough. The Spanish ambassador was speaking, though Mercier

never heard a word of it, until the end: ". . . the old and honored heritage of our nation, tonight gravely wounded and in peril, but which,

like the passionate art we bring you this evening, will endure." Thunderous applause.

Mercier liked the flamenco well enough--the fierce guitar, the

hammering rhythms of the dance--but his heart was elsewhere. And

as the troupe returned for a second encore, he walked quickly up the

aisle and out the door into the room where the reception would be

held. On a long table covered with a red cloth, bottles of wine and

plates of bread and cheese. He stood to one side and waited as the

audience filed out.

Maxim was delighted to see him. He strode over, swung his hand

back, then forward, grasping Mercier's extended hand as though he

meant to crush it. "Here's the general! Say, how goes the war?" Standing slightly behind him, Anna raised her eyes, looked at Mercier, then

lowered them.

"It's going well enough," Mercier said.

"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it, general, keep up the good work."

With a proprietary hand on Anna's arm, he headed for the wine.

An intense crowd, that night. As Mercier made his way across the

room, the conversation was loud, excited, fervent. Opinion on the war

in Spain was savagely divided--the battle for an ancient nation had

become a battle for the heart of Europe. At last, by the door to the

lobby, he spotted the Rozens, being lectured by a comic-opera official,

a minister of some state, in tailcoat, pince-nez, and Vandyke beard. As

Mercier approached, Viktor said something to the official and began

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 165

T H E B L A C K F RO N T * 1 6 5

to lead him away, the man making slashing motions with his hand as

he talked.

Malka Rozen wasted no time. "It must be soon," she said, her

voice an undertone, her false smile broad and beaming.

"Are you being watched?" Mercier said. "Here? Tonight?"

"I can't say. They're very good at it, when they don't want you to

know."

"Our answer is yes--we're going to help you get out of Poland."

"Thank God."

"But you will have to help us, in return. You will come bearing

gifts, as they say."

"What do you want?" The determination beneath the warm exterior was like steel.

"Photographs, that's best. Or hand copies. Of documents relating

first to France--operations in Poland that involve French interests--

and then to Germany."

"Why do you think we have anything like that? Our work is

against Poland, not France, or Germany."

"Madame Rozen," Mercier said. He meant:
please don't play

games with me
.

"And if we can't get anything you want? Then we die?"

"You work for people, madame, and I work for people. Maybe

they're not so different, the people we work for."

"I hope they are," she said.

"Are you saying you won't try?"

"No, no.
No.
We'll try. But we don't have long. We were directed

to return to Moscow last week. We told them we had important meetings in Warsaw, so our return was postponed--two weeks from today.

After that, the knock on the door at midnight, and finished. For

twenty years of secret work, for twenty years of faith and obedience,

nine grams." The weight of a revolver bullet, Soviet slang for execution.

"We'll meet again, in four days," Mercier said. "There's a talk

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 166

1 6 6 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

being given at the Polish Economic Ministry, 'The Outlook for 1938.'

Surely you won't want to miss that. But, in an emergency, you can

signal us. At the central post office, you'll find a Warsaw telephone

directory in the public booth, the one by the window. On page twentyseven, underline the first name in the left-hand column. Do this at nine

in the morning or three in the afternoon, and we'll pick you up at the

cafe on the other side of Warecki square, thirty minutes later."

"Page twenty-seven? Left-hand column?"

"That's correct. But I expect to see you on the eighteenth. And I

expect you'll have something for us by then. At least a beginning."

She thought a moment, then said, "So, allright, we'll look through

the files." Her mood had changed: to resignation, and something like

disappointment. Yes, she knew all too well what his job entailed, but

she'd sensed in him some basic decency she'd hoped might play to

their advantage and so had approached him and not the British--the

other logical choice. But now, she discovered, he was like all the rest,

and would play by the rules. When he didn't answer immediately, she

said, "Maybe there's something."

"You'll do what you have to do, Madame Rozen. You know what's

at stake."

Viktor returned, having shed the talkative official. "Playing nicely,

children?"

Her look, sour and grim, told him what he needed to know.

Mercier nodded a formal goodby, walked away, and out the door.

On the eighteenth, Mercier was among the first to arrive at "The Outlook for 1938," but the Rozens never appeared. He tried, sitting on a

hard wooden chair, to keep his imagination in check, but it didn't

work. As the economic minister droned on--"With the reopening of

the Slawska mine, Silesian coal production . . ."--he could see them,

as in a movie, opening the door at midnight, led to a waiting car,

driven up to Danzig, then put under guard on a Soviet ship bound for

Leningrad. Then the Lubyanka prison, the brutal interrogation, and

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 167

T H E B L A C K F RO N T * 1 6 7

the nine grams in the back of the neck. Mercier knew also that not all

Stalin's victims got that far; the lucky ones died early, from rough

treatment, or purely from fright. He hoped he was wrong--there had

been no signal, and there were all sorts of explanations for the Rozens'

absence--but feared he was right.

With Jourdain supervising the watch on the post office, Mercier left

the embassy on the afternoon of the nineteenth. At home, he packed

carefully, then dressed even more carefully, choosing a shirt on the

fourth try--a soft one, thick and gray, with a maroon tie, and a

subdued tweed sport jacket. Then he considered the supposedly

"woodsy" cologne he'd bought the previous day, but decided against

it. He was determined--strange, how desire worked--to be as much

his usual self as he could be. And he guessed, given burly Maxim, that

Anna Szarbek wasn't the type who liked men who wore scent. What

did
she like? What did she like about
him
?

Such obsession was better than brooding about the Rozens. There

had been a flood of cables from Paris: someone in the bureau wanted

double agents, the great prize of their profession, who would reveal

what the Russians knew, and tell the Russians what the French wanted

them to believe. The classic game of spies. But there was no time for

that, and Mercier and Jourdain wound up
defending
them, like lions

with a kill. The Rozens would give up their agent networks, Polish and

possibly German, when they were interrogated in Paris, and would,

before they were taken out of the country, steal from the Soviet

embassy whatever they could. That is, Mercier thought,
if
they were

still free. Or
if
they were still alive. Because there were occasions when

these affairs ended very quickly.

Marek drove him to the Warszawa-Wiedenski station at 4:45 p.m.,

early for the 5:15 departure. His plan was to watch Anna Szarbek

arrive--making sure that Maxim had not come to see her off--then

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 168

1 6 8 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

"discover" her as they waited to board the train. At first, he was

excited. From a vantage point by a luggage cart piled with trunks, he

watched the platform; the locomotive, venting white steam with a

loud hiss, and the smell of trains, scorched iron and coal smoke, suggesting journey, adventure. But then, as the hands of the platform

clock moved to 5:10, excitement was replaced by anxiety. Where
was

she? When the conductor stationed himself by the steps to the firstclass
wagon-lit,
Mercier realized he had to get on the train. Was he to

travel by himself? In white letters on a blue enameled panel by the

door, the train's route was announced:

Warszawa - Krakow - Brno

Bratislava - Budapest - Beograd

Beograd--the Serbo-Croatian name for Belgrade--was some seventeen hours away. Hours to be spent alone, apparently, in the splendor of his expensive compartment. Had she somehow managed to

board the train without his seeing her? Perhaps she'd never even

planned to attend the conference. But there was nothing to be done

about it, and on the chance he simply hadn't noticed her arrival, he

climbed the steps and a waiting porter showed him to his compartment. Splendid it certainly was. All dark-green plush and mahogany

paneling, the shade of the reading lamp made of green frosted glass

in the shape of a tulip, a vase in a copper bracket holding three white

lilies. When night fell, the porter would open out the long seat and

make the bed.

He raised the window and looked out on the platform, where a

few passengers were running for the train as the conductor shooed

them along, but not the one he was looking for. Then the whistle

sounded, the train jerked forward, and a very chastened Mercier

slammed the window shut and fell back on the seat. As the train left

the city and gathered speed, the porter appeared, asking if he preferred the first or second seating in the dining car.

"Which seating has Pana Szarbek chosen?"

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 169

T H E B L A C K F RO N T * 1 6 9

The porter peered at his list, down, up, and down again. "The

lady is not listed, Pan," he said.

"Then, the second."

After the porter moved on, Mercier walked along the broad corridor, glancing at the occupants of each compartment, finding an