The spies of warsaw (41 page)

nessmen, afloat on a sea of genial commerce; the newspaper readers,

solemn, intent on the politics of the day and a favored journalist's acid

comments; and the women, lovely in their spring outfits, alone with an

aperitif, and perhaps, perhaps, available. A wondrous theatre, Mercier

thought, each and every spring, now, next year, forever.

As he walked, his soldier's heart steadied him. Bruner and his

cronies, all the way up to Petain and
his
cronies, had denied him,

would not have their version of military doctrine spoiled by what he'd

learned--there would be no German tanks, no attack through the

forests. The current thinking could not be wrong, because they could

not be wrong.

Had they betrayed France? Or just betrayed Mercier? He would, in

time, find a way to accept their decision and in the future, working for

de Beauvilliers, he would certainly press on, trying to prove that his

discovery had been true. That's what an officer did, forever, down

through the ages. If an attack failed, you gathered your remaining

troops and attacked again. And again, until they killed you or you

took their position. He knew no other way. Yes, he was angry, and

stung. No, it didn't matter. He could only remain true to himself, there

was no other possibility.

And the people on these lovely old streets? The crowd at the cafe?

Would they be forced to live with a lost war? He hoped not, oh how

deeply he hoped not, he'd seen the defeated, the occupied, the lost--

that could not come here, not to this city, not to this cafe.

Then he sped up, walking faster now. Now he wanted to be back

with people who cared for him, his private nation.

Back on the rue Saint-Simon, as Mercier let himself in the door, he

heard a raucous laugh from the parlor. Then Albertine's voice. "Is that

you, Jean-Francois?"

Mercier walked down the hall to the parlor.

"Welcome back, love," Anna said. "We've been having the best

time." Clearly they were. On a glass-topped bar cart, a half bottle of

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A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 6 5

gin stood next to a seltzer bottle, alongside a squeezed-out lemon and

a sugar bowl.

"We've taught ourselves to make gin fizzes, right here at home,"

Albertine said. Both she and Anna were flushed, the latter sitting sideways in an easy chair, her legs draped over the arm.

"The conqueror has returned," Anna said. "Covered in laurels."

Mercier collapsed in the corner of the sofa, took his officer's hat

by its stiff brim and sailed it across the room, where it landed on a

brocaded loveseat. "They fired me," he said. "The bastards."

"What?" Anna said.

"We'd best make a new batch," Albertine said, rising unsteadily

and making her way to the drinks cart.

"I gave them treasure," Mercier said. "They threw it on the dung

pile."

"Oh,
those
people," Albertine said. "I'm sorry if they've treated

you badly, but you ought not to be so shocked."

"What happened?" Anna said, twisting around in order to sit

properly.

"I found a way to acquire important information. They, the officers of the General Staff, have chosen not to believe it."

"Half of them are in the
Action Francaise,
" Albertine said, naming the high-brow French fascist organization. She worked a cut lemon

around a glass corer, then poured the juice into a highball glass. "They

want France to be allied with Germany, the only enemy they think

about is Russia."

"Who knows what they want," Mercier said. "They tossed me a

promotion and they're transferring me back to Paris."

"And that's so bad?" Albertine said.

"My highly placed ally likely went to war, but he didn't win. Now

he's rescued me, I'm going to work for him. I guess that's a promotion

as well."

"Nothing quite like winning and losing at once," Albertine said,

adding sugar to the glass. "You'll feel better in a moment, dear."

"You're leaving Warsaw?" Anna said.

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2 6 6 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

"Yes. I don't suppose you'd care to come along, would you?"

"Am I
de trop
?" Albertine said.

"No, no. Stay where you are," Mercier said. "Could you do that,

Anna? Move to Paris?"

"If you want me to. I'd have to resign from the League."

"They hire lawyers in Paris," Albertine said. "Even woman

lawyers."

"Well, we don't have to decide all this tonight," Mercier said. "But

I'm not going to have us living in two places."

"Ah, good for you," Albertine said. Then, to Anna, "He's the best

cousin, dear, is he not? And he might do for a husband."

"
Albertine,
" Mercier said. "We'll talk about it in the morning. For

now, where's my gin fizz?"

"Just ready," Albertine said. She brought Mercier his drink and

settled down at the other end of the sofa. Then she raised her glass.

"Anyhow,
salut,
and
vive la France,
" she said. "It's the good side, and

I do mean the three of us, who will win in the end."

They didn't.

Twenty-four months later, with Guderian in command, a massive

German tank attack through the Ardennes Forest breached the French

defenses, and--on 22 June, 1940--France capitulated. The former

Colonel Charles de Gaulle, by then promoted to general, left France

and led the resistance from London. After many adventures, Colonel

Mercier de Boutillon and his wife, Anna, also made their way to London, where Mercier went to work for de Gaulle, and Anna for the

Sixth Bureau, the intelligence service of the Polish resistance army.

And on 25 June, 1940, Marshal Philippe Petain accepted the leadership of the Vichy government.

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Alan Furst is widely recognized as the master of the

historical spy novel. Now translated into seventeen

languages, he is the author of
Night Soldiers, Dark

Star, The Polish Officer, The World at Night, Red

Gold, Kingdom of Shadows, Blood of Victory, Dark

Voyage,
and
The Foreign Correspondent
. Born in

New York, he now lives in Paris and on Long Island.

Visit the author's we
bsite at www.alanfurst.net.

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This book was set in Sabon, a typeface designed by

the well-known German typographer Jan Tschichold

(1902-74). Sabon's design is based on the original

letterforms of Claude Garamond and was created

specifically to be used for three sources: foundry type

for hand composition, Linotype, and Monotype.

Tschichold named his typeface for the famous

Frankfurt typefounder Jacques Sabon, who died in

1580.

• COVER
  
• ALSO BY ALAN FURST
  
• TITLE PAGE
  
• COPYRIGHT
  
• EPIGRAPH
  
• CHAPTER 1
  
• CHAPTER 2
  
• CHAPTER 3
  
• CHAPTER 4
  
• ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
• ABOUT THE TYPE