The spies of warsaw (27 page)

assortment of passengers, reading, talking, already dozing, but not

the one he was seeking. He reached the end of the car and entered the

next--also a first-class sleeper--but saw only the embassy charge

d'affaires, thankfully absorbed in a newspaper as Mercier hurried

past.

He returned to his own compartment, soon tired of the January

countryside, lowered the tasseled silk shade, and, with a sigh, took a

novel out of his valise,
The Red and the Black,
Stendhal, which he'd

found in the library at the apartment, a book he hadn't read in years.

It was, according to one of his instructors at Saint-Cyr, a political

novel, very nearly a spy novel, one of the first ever written. But Mercier

had not chosen the book for that reason--rather, it was akin to the

tweed jacket, an adjunct of his traveling costume, and meant for Anna

Szarbek's eyes. He had always an instinct for something improving,

demanding, but by page fourteen he gave up and brought out what he

really wanted to read, a Simenon
roman policier, The Bar on the Seine,

which he'd found in the French section of a Warsaw bookstore.

At eight-thirty, the train making steady progress across the dark

fields, the porter rang his triangle, two chimes, signaling that the second seating would now be served. As Mercier followed his fellow travelers to the door at the end of the corridor, the conductor collected his

passport--a courtesy to first-class passengers that kept their sleep

from being disturbed as they crossed borders through the night and, in

addition, a courtesy often exploited by secret agents.

The dining car, each table lit by candles, was even more romantic

than his compartment--well-dressed couples and foursomes gathered

over white tablecloths, conversation low and intimate, the rhythmic

beat of wheels on rails perfecting a luxuriant atmosphere of sus-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 170

1 7 0 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

pended time. Seated at a table for one, Mercier immediately noticed

a handsome woman at the adjacent table, also alone, in black velvet

jacket, her face lean and imperious beneath ash-blond hair going gray.

The waiter arrived immediately and addressed her as
Baronin,
the

German form of baroness, and, after he'd taken her order, she and

Mercier exchanged an appreciative glance of recognition:
here we

both are, how interesting
. When the waiter reappeared, he brought

an apple on a plate--nowhere to be found on the menu--which she

ate slowly, with knife and fork, her every motion precise and graceful

and, somehow, suggestive. Meanwhile, Mercier abjured the cream of

asparagus soup and toyed with a trout fillet in wine sauce. Too forlorn

to eat, he sent the fish away and ordered a brandy. And so did the

baroness.

A few minutes after nine o'clock, Cracow. As the locomotive idled

in the station, the baroness finished her brandy, rose from the table,

smiled at Mercier, and made for the door to the first-class
wagon-lit
.

Well, he was done with his brandy as well, waited until she'd left the

dining car, then headed in the same direction. Walking down the corridor, he saw that she was just entering her compartment, Compartment
C,
and her door closed gently as he passed.

Back in his own compartment, he found that the bed had been

made up, the Polish National Railways blanket turned down at a crisp

angle. He stretched out on top of it, raised the shade, and turned

off the reading lamp. Outside, southern Poland in moonlight. They

were going west now, a few miles above the border, the train rattling along at high speed. The little station at Oswiecim flew past,

followed by Strumien, as they neared Karvina, where they would enter

Czechoslovakia. Mercier was hard on himself. No more wild fantasies, he thought, that would never see the light of reality. Restless

and unhappy, he realized he could not sleep in this condition, and

decided to go for as much of a walk as the train would allow. He

went out into the corridor, where, to the right, lay only a few compartments, from
H
to
A,
including
C,
and turned left.

Past the other first-class
wagons-lits,
a succession of second-class

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 171

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

carriages, where the passengers sat on faded leather seats. Very smoky

here, some travelers already asleep, others, lost in their thoughts, gazing into the darkness beyond the windows. He walked the length of

the carriage, and was halfway down the next, when he saw a woman

in a long gray coat, severely cut. She wore soft leather boots and a

black beret, set slantwise on dark-blond hair pinned up in back.

Engaged in conversation with a young woman in the seat by the window, she was facing away from the aisle. As Mercier paused by the

seat, the young woman looked up at him. "Hello," he said. "Anna?"

She turned, startled to see him there, and said, "Oh." For a

moment, she froze, eyes wide with surprise, lips apart. Finally she

said, in Polish, "Ursula, this is Colonel Mercier."

The young woman acknowledged him with a formal nod and

said, "Pleased to meet you, colonel."

"Ursula used to work at our office in Danzig," Anna said. "We

met at the station in Cracow."

Mercier looked at his watch. "One can have a drink in the dining

car now, the second seating has ended. Would you and your friend care

to join me?"

"Ursula?" Anna said. "Want to come for a drink?"

Ursula thought it over, but her sense of the situation was sharp

enough. "I don't think so. Why don't you go?"

"Are you sure?"

"Oh . . ."

"Don't be shy, you'll enjoy it! Ursula?"

"Thank you, but you go ahead, Pana Szarbek. Maybe later, I

might join you."

As they walked toward the forward part of the train, Mercier said,

"Do you have a suitcase?"

"I dropped it off--my compartment's up here somewhere--then I

went back to visit with Ursula."

"Your own compartment?"

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 172

1 7 2 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

"A double. I've got the upper berth."

They reached the dining car and were shown to a table by a window. When they were settled, Anna said, "This is a surprise. Are you

going to the conference?"

"Well, I could. The subject is certainly interesting."

Her eyes searched his, uncertain.

The waiter appeared, and Mercier said, "What would you like? A

cocktail?"

"Maybe I would. Yes, why not."

"It's a long night ahead, might as well do what you like."

"Then I'll have a gin fizz."

"For me a brandy," Mercier said to the waiter.

Anna looked around, then said, "Very luxurious. You always seem

to be in nice places."

Mercier nodded. "I'm fortunate, I think. My fellow officers are

either in barracks or stuck on an island somewhere, taking malaria

pills."

"You
are
fortunate."

"Well, not always, but sometimes. It depends."

She was again uncertain, hesitated, then said, "What interests

you, colonel, about the conference?"

He went on about it for a time--national minorities, political

tensions--until their drinks arrived. She took a sip of the gin fizz, then

a second. "Good," she said. "They know how to make these."

"You can have another, if you like."

She grinned and said, "Don't tempt me."

"No? I shouldn't?"

"You were saying, about the conference."

"I really don't care about the conference, Anna."

"Perhaps you have--ah, a
professional
reason, to go there."

"I don't."

"Then . . . ?"

"I'm on this train because I found out about the conference, and

guessed, hoped, that you would be on this train."

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 173

T H E B L A C K F RO N T * 1 7 3

She hunted around in her handbag and found her cigarette case--

Bacchus and the naked nymphs--put a cigarette between her lips, and

leaned forward as he lit it. "So," she said, "an adventure on a train."

"No," he said. "More."

She looked out the window, then said, voice husky, her faint accent

stronger, "There's no need to say such things, colonel." When she

turned back toward him it was clear that she didn't at all mind the idea

of an adventure.

"But it isn't just something to say." He paused, then added, "And,

by the way, it's Jean-Francois. I think we agreed on that."

Suddenly, she was amused. "If I had a pocket mirror . . ."

He didn't understand.

"Well, you look quite a bit like a colonel, at the moment," she

said. "Jean-Francois."

The tension broke. His face relaxed, and he put his hand on the

table, palm up. After a pause, she took it, then inhaled on her cigarette

and blew the smoke out like a sigh of resignation. "Oh Lord," she

said. "I'd bid all of this goodby, you know, after the night of the

storm." She waited a little, then said, "I suppose you've taken a fancy

room, all to yourself."

"I have."

"And there we shall go."

"Yes. Now?"

"I'd like that second gin you suggested, if you don't mind."

"Why would I? I'll have another brandy."

She squeezed his hand.

He beckoned to the waiter.

They carried their drinks back to his compartment. "My, my," she

said. "Lilies." He helped her off with her coat, inhaling her perfume,

and hung it on a hook as she put her beret on the luggage shelf. The

compartment was almost entirely filled by the bed, so she sat across

the far end, her back against the panel by the window. She took her

Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 174

1 7 4 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

boots off, revealing black stockings, wiggled her toes, and sighed with

relief.

Unlacing his shoes, Mercier said, "A long day?"

"Dreadful. All sorts of people to see in Cracow."

The train slowed, then entered a small station and, with a hiss of

steam, came to a halt.

"What's this?" she said. "Not Brno, not yet."

"Kravina. Border control. Did you give your passport to the conductor?"

"Yes. When I got on."

Mercier took his jacket off and folded it on the luggage rack above

him, put his tie on top of it, and settled at the head of the bed, back

against the pillows, legs stretched diagonally down the blanket. A

group of Polish and Czech customs officers came walking along the

platform, heading for the second-class carriages. One of them glanced

in the window.

"Did Marie Dupin tell you about the conference?"

"I heard about it; then I asked her."

"This was her idea all along, I suspect. Putting us together."

"She likes to take part in her friends' lives."

"True. She does."

She took the last sip of her drink and put the glass on the shelf

below the window. Then she laced her fingers behind her head, closed

her eyes, and moved around to get comfortable, sliding forward so

that the hem of her skirt slid well above her knees. In the station,

someone called out in Czech and a woman laughed.

"A nap?" he said, teasing her.

Very slowly, she shook her head. "Just thinking."

A porter, pushing a baggage cart that squeaked as it rolled,

trudged past the window. Anna opened her eyes, turned to see what

was going on, then closed them again. "Ahh, Kravina."

The locomotive vented steam, a passenger went past in the corridor, a suitcase bumping against the wall, and the train started for-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 175

T H E B L A C K F RO N T * 1 7 5

ward, very slowly, the pillars of the station creeping past the window.

Anna extended her leg and put her foot on top of his. Warm and soft,

that foot. The train gained a little speed, crossing the town, past snowcovered streets and lamplit squares. A faint smile on her face now, she

reached beneath her skirt, left and right, undid her garters, and rolled

her stockings down, not far, just enough so that he could see the tops.

Mercier turned off the reading lamp, then crawled over to her, and,

telling himself not to be awkward, finished the job--his hands sliding

over her legs, white and smooth, as the stockings came down. She

opened her eyes, met his, and spread her arms. It was very quiet in the

compartment, only the beat of the train, but, when he embraced her,

she made a certain sound, deep, like
ohh,
in a way that meant
at last
.

Then they kissed for a while, the tender kind, touch and part--until

she raised her arms so he could take her sweater off. Small breasts in a

lacy black bra. For a day at the Cracow office?

Madame Dupin, you told.

He kissed her breasts, the lace of the bra against his lips, and they

wrestled out of their clothes until she wore only panties--again black

and lacy--and he took the waistband in his fingers. They paused,

shared a look of exquisite complicity, and she raised her hips.

Somewhere between Kravina and Brno, he woke, cold, the covers