The spies of warsaw (7 page)

seated at a small table, another with an Alsatian shepherd on a

braided leash. Three were in uniform, their holstered sidearms worn

high, and two were civilians, standing so they could see a sheaf of

papers on the table. A list.

Uhl's heart was pounding as he stepped down onto the platform.

You have nothing to fear,
he told himself. If they searched him they

would find only a thousand zloty. So what? Everyone carried money.

But they have a list.
What if his name was on it? A few months earlier

he'd seen it happen, right here, at Glogau station. A heavy man, with

a red face, led quietly away, a guiding hand above his elbow. Now he

saw the two businessmen; they were ahead of him on the line that led

to the passport
kontrol
. One of them looked over his shoulder, then

said something, something private, to his friend.
Yes, he's just back

there, behind us.
And then Uhl discovered the man in the black leather

coat. He was
not
on the line, he was sitting on a bench by the wall of

the station, hands in pockets, legs crossed, very much at ease. Because

he did not have to go through passport
kontrol,
because he was
one of

them,
a Gestapo man, who'd followed him down from Warsaw, making sure he didn't get off the train. And now his job was done, work

over for the day. Tomorrow, a new assignment. Uhl felt beads of sweat

break out at his hairline, took off his hat, and wiped them away.
Run
.

"
Ach,
" he said, to the man behind him in the line, "I have forgotten

my valise."

He left the line and walked back toward the train, his briefcase

clamped tightly beneath his arm. At the door to the train, where

second-class passengers were gathering, waiting in a crowd to join the

line, the conductor was smoking a cigarette. "Excuse me," Uhl said,

"but I have forgotten my suitcase."

No you haven't.
The conductor's face showed perfectly what he

knew: there was no suitcase. And Uhl saw it.
So now my life ends,
he

thought. Then, quietly, he said, "Please."

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3 8 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

The conductor shifted his eyes, looking over Uhl's shoulder

toward the SS troopers, the civilians, the flag, the dog, the list. His

expression changed, and then he stepped aside, just enough to let Uhl

pass. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Ahh, fuck these

people." Uhl took a tentative step toward the iron stair that led up to

the carriage. The conductor, still watching the Germans and their

table, said, "Not yet." Uhl felt a drop of sweat break free of his hatband and work its way down his forehead; he wanted to wipe it away

but his arm wouldn't move.

"Now," the conductor said.

19 October, 3:30 p.m. The weekly intelligence meeting was held in the

conference room of the chancery--the political section of the

embassy--secured from public areas, away from the seekers of travel

documents, replacements for lost passports, commercial licenses, and

all other business that brought the civilian world to the building. The

code clerks were in the basement--which they didn't like, claiming the

dampness was hard on their equipment--along with the mailroom

that handled sealed embassy pouches, while Mercier's office was on

the top floor.

The meeting was chaired by Jourdain, the second secretary and

political officer--which meant he too scurried about the city to dark

corners for secret contacts--and Mercier's best friend at the embassy. Sandy-haired and sunny, in his mid-thirties, Jourdain was a

third-generation diplomat--his father due to become ambassador to

Singapore--with three young children in private academies in Warsaw. Across the table from Mercier was the air attache, at one end the

naval attache, at the other, Jourdain's secretary, who took shorthand

notes, which Jourdain would turn into a report for the Quai d'Orsay,

the foreign ministry in Paris.

"Not much new," the air attache said. He was in his fifties, corpulent and sour-faced. "The production of the Pezetelkis is going full

steam ahead." Pezetelki was the nickname, taken from initials, of the

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H OT E L E U RO P E J S K I * 3 9

PZT-24F, Poland's best fighter plane, four years earlier the most

advanced pursuit monoplane in Europe. "But the air force won't get

near them; that hasn't changed either. For export only."

"The same orders?" Jourdain said.

"Yes. Turkey, Greece, and Yugoslavia."

"They'll regret that, one of these days," the naval attache said.

The air attache shrugged. "They're trying to balance the budget,

the country's damn close to broke. So they sell what people will buy."

"I guess they know best," said Jourdain, who clearly didn't believe

that at all.

"Otherwise, very little new." The air attache studied his notes.

"They had an accident, last Wednesday, over Okecie field. One of their

P-Sevens clipped the tail of another. Both pilots safe, both planes

badly banged up, one a loss--he parachuted--the other landed."

Again he shrugged. "So we can say"--the air attache looked toward

the secretary--"that their numbers are reduced by one, anyhow."

"Just note," Jourdain said to the secretary, "that we should repeat

the fact that the relation of the Polish air force to the
Luftwaffe

remains twenty-five to one in favor of the Germans." Then he turned

to the naval attache and said, "Jean-Paul?"

As the naval attache lit a cigarette and shuffled through his papers,

there were two sharp knocks at the door, which opened to reveal one

of the women who worked the embassy switchboard. "Colonel

Mercier? May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Excuse me," Mercier said. He went out into the corridor and

closed the door behind him. The operator, a middle-aged Frenchwoman, was, like many who worked at the embassy, the widow of an

officer killed in the 1914 war. "A Monsieur Uhl has telephoned your

apartment," she said. "He left a number with your maid. I hope it's

correct, sir, she was very nervous."

"Poor Wlada," Mercier said.
Now what?
The operator handed

him a slip of paper, and Mercier went up the stairs to his office. Looking in his drawer, he found a list of German telephone exchanges,

dialed the switchboard, and asked for a foreign operator. When she

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4 0 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

came on the line he gave her the number. "Can you put it through right

away?" he said, his Polish slow but correct.

"I can, sir, it's quiet this afternoon."

As Mercier waited, he stared out his window onto the square in

front of the embassy. Beneath the bare branches of a chestnut tree, a

man with a wagon was selling a sausage on a roll to a father with a

small child. Far away, a telephone rang once. "Hello? Hello?" Uhl's

voice was tense and high.

"Yes, I'm here. Herr Uhl?"

"Hello? Andre?"

"Yes. What's wrong?"

"I'm at the railway station." Mercier could hear a train. "I had a

problem yesterday, on the way back. In Glogau."

"What problem?"

"I was being watched, on the train."

"How do you know?"

"I--ah, I sensed it. Two businessmen, and a Gestapo man."

"Did they question you? Search you?" Mercier had to make himself relax the grip of his hand on the phone.

"Oh no. I eluded them."

"Really. How did you do that?"

"At the border
kontrol,
in Glogau station, I left the line and went

back into the Warsaw train, climbed down between carriages, and

crawled
. Along the track. At the end of the train there is Glogau

bridge, but I found a stairway that led down to the bank of the river. I

walked back toward the city and took a taxi to the next station on the

line, where I got on the local train to Breslau."

"Good work," Mercier said.

"What?"

"I said,
good work
."

"It was very close. They almost had me, in the station."

"Perhaps they did. Tell me, Herr Uhl, what happened this morning?"

"This morning? I went to the office."

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H OT E L E U RO P E J S K I * 4 1

"Did someone question you? Were you confronted?"

"No. All was normal."

"Then you're in the clear. Did the people on the train say anything

to you?"

"No. But they looked at me. They behaved, in a furtive manner."

"I would doubt that German surveillance operatives would be

furtive, Herr Uhl. Perhaps your imagination . . . misled you."

"Well, maybe. But maybe not. In any event, I think I shouldn't

continue our meetings."

"Oh, let's not be scared off so easily. Believe me, if the Gestapo

had any reason to suspect you, you wouldn't be talking to me on the

telephone. By the way, you mentioned a Gestapo man. How did you

know that? I presume he was in uniform."

"He wasn't. He wore a leather coat. It was the way he looked."

Mercier laughed. "The way he looked?"

"Well . . ."

"Your work is important, Herr Uhl, and we don't lose people who

help us; we can't afford that. Would you like me to do some checking?

To see if you're being watched?"

After a silence, Uhl said, "You're able to do that?"

"We are a resourceful service," Mercier said. "We're able to do all

sorts of things. Why don't I ask some people to see what's going on;

then I'll send you a postal card, if everything is normal."

"And what if it isn't?"

"I'll find a way to let you know. What time do you leave your

office?"

"At six, generally."

"Every night?"

"Yes, almost every night."

"Then we'll know how to find you. For the moment, I expect to

see you in November. You recall the information I requested."

"Yes."

"Just remember, it's in our interest to keep you safe, and it's in

your interest to continue your work."

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4 2 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

After a time, Uhl said, "Very well, we'll see. If everything is--as it

was. . . ."

"You did very well, Herr Uhl. If nothing else, you erred on the side

of caution, and we admire that. Clearly, you have a gift for this sort of

business."

Uhl didn't answer.

"On the fifteenth," Mercier said, "we can talk it over, if you like.

We want you safe and sound, do keep that in mind. And, after all, you

do have other interests that bring you to Warsaw--would you simply

remain in Germany?"

"No, but--"

"Then it's settled. I'll be waiting for you. Or, if there's a problem,

I'll make sure you know about it."

"All right," Uhl said. He wasn't happy but he would, Mercier

thought, hold up. For a while, anyhow.

Mercier said goodby, hung up the phone, and wrote himself a

note:
Send Uhl a postcard.
"All going well here, hope to see you soon,

Aunt Frieda." There was no possibility of finding out if Uhl was under

Gestapo surveillance--maybe the
Deuxieme Bureau
had spies inside

the German security apparatus, but Uhl was not important enough for

such an effort. The lie had been recommended at his training class and

it had evidently worked the way they'd said it would. From the telephone call, Mercier sensed that Uhl had frightened himself.

He returned to the conference room, where the meeting continued, in a fog of cigarette smoke. "Everything all right?" Jourdain said,

concern in his voice.

"A problem with an agent," Mercier said.

"Not going to lose him, are we?"

"I don't think so. I suspect he saw phantoms."

"They like what he's bringing, at
deux bis,
" Jourdain said. He

referred to the
Deuxieme Bureau
by its Paris address, 2 bis, rue de

Tourville.

Mercier nodded. Perhaps they liked it at the General Staff as

well--they never said, simply took what there was, then asked for

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H OT E L E U RO P E J S K I * 4 3

more. Nevertheless, you didn't want to lose agents, you'd find yourself

transferred to some fever-ridden island in a distant ocean--
far-flung

barely described the remote outposts of the French colonial empire.

"I'm just finishing up," the naval attache said. "Baltic maneuvers

off the Gdynia coast. A destroyer squadron."

"They hit their targets?" Mercier said.

"Now and then. They almost hit the towing ship, but we all do

that."

Mercier finished his paperwork at six, then headed back to his apartment. He had the Renault dinner at eight-thirty, with Madame Dupin,

the deputy director of protocol at the embassy. He sighed, inside, at

the prospect of a long, boring, political dinner, where one said nothing much and could only hope it was the right nothing much. As for

Madame Dupin, she was a noble soul, able to sparkle and chatter endlessly at social functions, an ability that some might find frivolous,