The spies of warsaw (29 page)

"Of course they are. Anyhow, as the host country, we have some

responsibility for your well-being--I hope you won't hold it against

us."

"No, Anton, I understand."

Vyborg made a certain gesture, palms brushing across each other,

washing his hands of an unpleasant task. "So now you know," he said

with finality. "May I have my photograph back?"

The following days were not easy. Mercier waited for Anna to call, as

they'd agreed in Belgrade, and for the Rozens, who did not signal.

They lived in a room near the Soviet embassy, but to go anywhere near

there would, he knew, be more than foolish. When he told Jourdain

about his meeting with Vyborg, the second secretary wasn't sure what

the surveillance might mean; all Mercier could do was stay alert and

report the incident to Paris. Technically, a complaint could be made to

the German embassy, through diplomatic channels, but all they would

hear back was polite denial, innocent as dew. And, as a potential

enemy, Germany had to be treated with restraint--one learned more

from smiles than frowns. So Mercier returned to work, now much too

aware of people and automobiles, and trusting the telephone even less

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than usual--a wisp of static on the line implying more than it ever had

before. By the twenty-ninth, a cold front froze the city, temperatures

below zero, the nights dead still under brilliant stars, and Mercier's

life froze with it.

But, not so bad, that life. The evening of the twenty-ninth found him

stretched out on the chaise longue in the study, finishing
The Red and

the Black,
a swing band on the radio, a fire in the fireplace, a brandy at

his side. The cook had left earlier. Wlada had finished washing up and

gone to her room. Mercier turned a page, and somebody pounded on

the street door. He looked up, and heard it again, this time accompanied by a muffled voice. What was this?

He swung his legs off the chaise and put on his slippers. Now the

pounding was louder, and so was the voice--distantly, he thought he

could make out the sound of his name. He went to the window,

cranked it open, the cold air hitting him like a fist, and leaned out.

Whoever was hammering on the door was in the alcove and couldn't

be seen, but the voice was clear as a bell. "Mercier! Please! Let me in!

Please!" A woman, shouting in German. And he recognized the voice:

Malka Rozen.

Mercier ran for the door. Wlada was already there, in her bathrobe, trembling, looking at him desperately. "Calm down, Wlada," he

said, rushing out the door and down the stairs. From above, one of the

upstairs tenants was peering anxiously over the banister. "Colonel?"

he said. "Is everything . . . ?"

"Sorry," Mercier shouted back. "I'll see about it."

From above, an irritated grunt followed by the slamming of a

door.

"Oh God," Malka Rozen said as he let her in. "He's hurt."

"Come upstairs." As they climbed, Mercier held her elbow,

steadying her. She wore an old coat and a shawl over her head.

"You must find Viktor," she said, her voice edged with panic.

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As they reached the apartment, Mercier said, "What happened?"

"It's them. They know."

"
Merde
."

"What?"

"Doesn't matter." He led her inside, past Wlada, who held her

hand over her mouth. Malka turned and grabbed Mercier by the

wrists. "He's in the park, a little park, up at the top of Ujazdowska."

"Why?"

"He fell, on the ice, and hurt his ankle; he couldn't walk. So he

told me to go on ahead."

"The park. Three Crosses Square? In front of a church?"

"Yes. A church."

"Wlada," as Mercier hurried back toward the study, he lost a slipper, "take Pana Rozen into your room and lock the door."

"Yes, sir," she said. Then, to Malka Rozen, "Please, Pana, come

with me." Her voice was shrill with panic.

Mercier kicked off the other slipper, whipped the drawer of his

desk open and took out the 9-millimeter Browning, checked to see if it

was loaded, and put it in the waistband of his trousers. Then he pulled

on his shoes and squirmed into his overcoat. Checking to make sure he

had his keys, he called out to Wlada, "Don't let anybody in here,

Wlada. Wait for me to come back." He had at least one Soviet spy, and

he meant to keep her.

The night was brutal. Mercier shivered and tried to run, but his knee

didn't like the weather any better than he did, so he limped along as

quickly as he could. She hadn't meant Lazienka park, had she? That

was at the
other
end of Ujazdowska. No, she'd said
church
. Saint

Alexander's.
Please God, let her be accurate.
Mercier took the Browning from his waistband and moved it to the pocket of his overcoat.
The

first thug I see--that's it.
He gripped the butt tightly and swore as the

cold worked through his clothing. Curse the stupid war wound--why

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couldn't he go faster? A man attempting to walk a shivering dog took

one look at the expression on Mercier's face and pulled the dog away,

back toward his building.

By the time he saw the cross and dome atop Saint Alexander's,

Mercier was out of breath. The tiny park was enclosed by a line of

evergreen shrubs and an iron railing.
Vault over.
He damned the stupidity of his inner voice and hobbled along the fence, looking for the

gate. Once past the shrubs, he saw a man seated on a bench, hands in

pockets, head almost touching his knees. Gone? It was not unknown.

Dawn in Warsaw would sometimes reveal bodies, glazed with ice,

dead where they'd sat down to rest, or passed out drunk, on a freezing

night.

Mercier found the gate and rushed to the bench.
Yes, Viktor

Rozen
. Eyes closed, mouth open. Mercier said, "Wake up, Viktor,

we must get you away from here," and tugged at Rozen's shoulder.

There was something wrong with him. Mercier said, "Are you ill?

Wounded?" Rozen didn't respond, Mercier gripped him under the

arms and raised him to his feet. Rozen revived, swaying as Mercier

held him upright, then, with Mercier bearing most of his weight, took

a small step, then another.

Out past the shrubs, the engine of a car. A car going very slowly.

Mercier hung on to Rozen with one hand, drew the Browning from his

pocket with the other, and waited for a Russian to appear. But the car

went past.

"Let's go inside, where it's warm," Mercier said, voice gentle.

Rozen took a step, then another, and began walking, with a moan

every time his foot hit the ground.
Sprained ankle.
"Not too far now,"

Mercier said. "Keep walking, we'll be there soon." Viktor didn't

answer; he seemed distant, vague, not completely conscious of where

he was. Had he been drinking? No, something else.

Rozen staggered along. Mercier staggered with him, past the iron

palings and elegant buildings of the avenue. Suddenly, Viktor began to

sing, under his breath. Mercier swore. This was very bad, he'd seen it

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on winter battlefields; soldiers who talked nonsense and did odd

things--taking their boots off in the snow--and died an hour later.

"Viktor?"

Rozen giggled.

Mercier shook him hard.

"Stop! Why do you hurt me?"

"We have to hurry."

"Oh."

Rozen actually managed to move faster, supporting his weight

on Mercier's shoulder. Then, as Mercier searched for a house number,

to see how close they were, a man emerged from the shadow of a doorway, walked quickly out to the avenue, then stopped dead, a few feet

in front of them. Short hair, thick body, a pug face. Mercier moved

to put himself between Rozen and the man, took the Browning out

of his pocket and held it away from his side. The man stared at him,

face without expression, and stayed where he was. When he opened

his mouth--to speak? To call out to his fellow agents?--Mercier

aimed the gun at his heart, finger tight against the trigger. The man

blinked, and his face turned angry, very angry; he wasn't afraid of

guns, he wasn't afraid of Mercier. But then he turned, slowly, all insolence, and walked across the avenue, his footsteps loud in the night

silence.

When they were again under way, Mercier said, "Who was he,

Viktor?"

"Some fellow."

"Someone after you?"

"I wouldn't know."

Mercier was exhausted by the time he got Rozen up the stairs. He fumbled for his keys, opened the door, shoved Rozen inside, leaned him

against the wall, and pulled the door shut behind them. At which

moment Malka emerged from Wlada's room, pushed past him, and

cried out, "Viktor!"

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"He's suffering from exposure," Mercier said. Then he called out

to Wlada, who peered, wide-eyed, from the safety of her room. "Go

run a bath, Wlada, hot water, as hot as you can get it."

"Yes, sir."

Wlada ran ahead of them into the bathroom. Malka and Mercier

held Viktor up between them. He was singing again, a children's song.

"What's wrong with him?" Malka said, horrified.

"It's the cold."

When they reached the bathroom off Mercier's bedroom, Wlada

was already on her knees, finger under a stream of steaming water.

"Get his clothes off," Mercier said. As Malka began to unknot Viktor's tie, Wlada fled.

"She is very nervous, your maid."

"She'll survive. Tell me what happened."

"Someone at the embassy, a friend, a friend from the old days,

suddenly wouldn't talk to me. But it was in his eyes--he'd been questioned, I could
feel
it. So I knew. Then, tonight, we stayed late, but

there were people in the file room, security people, and all I could do

was look at one of my own operations, where I'm permitted to look,

and then I went and got Viktor, and we left. As we walked down the

street to our building, we saw one of their cars, so we went into a little grocery store, where we always shop, and left by the back door.

Nothing new to us, conspirative work. . . ."

"Were you able to take anything from the embassy? From the

files?"

"Yes, it's hidden in our room. But they'll find it soon enough."

"What sort of--" In the study, the whirring ring of the telephone.

"Go ahead, colonel," Malka said. "I'll get him into the tub."

In the study, Mercier stared at the telephone for a moment, looked

at his watch, ten-thirty, then picked up the receiver and, voice tentative, said, "Hello?"

"Hello, Jean-Francois, it's me." She paused, then said, "Anna."

"Are you allright?"

"Is it too late to call? You sound . . . distracted."

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"No, some excitement here, but nothing to worry about."
There's

a naked Russian spy in my bathtub, otherwise . . .

"Well, it's done. I came back on Thursday, and I've found a place

to live. A room and a little kitchen, over on Sienna street. Seventeen

Sienna street. Not much, but all I could afford."

"Don't worry about money, Anna."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have called, you sound--maybe not a good

time to talk?" In her voice, suspicion:
who are you with?

"I'll explain later, it's only work, but, ah, very unexpected."

"I see. It wasn't so good with Maxim. A lot of shouting, but I suppose I knew that would happen."

"I can't blame him. He's losing a lot. A lot."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Can I telephone you at work? Tomorrow morning?"

"You still have the number?"

"Anna!"

"Very well, then. Tomorrow."

"I can't come over there right now. I want to, you don't know how

much, but I have to take care of this--situation."

Her voice softened. "I can imagine."

He laughed. "When I tell you, you'll realize there's no way you

could have imagined. Anyhow, you're my love, and I'll call you, see

you, tomorrow."

"Good night, Jean-Francois."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes. Good night."

Mercier returned to the bathroom. The door was closed. "Do you

need anything?" he said, his voice rising above the running water.

"No," Malka said. "He's taking a bath."

Mercier went back to the study, looked in his address book, and

dialed Jourdain's number at home. The phone rang for a long time

before it was answered. Finally, Jourdain's voice. "Yes?"

"Armand, it's Jean-Francois. Sorry to call you so late."

"I don't mind."

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"The meeting with the ambassador--is it still at eight-thirty?"

"It is, in my office."