The spies of warsaw (8 page)

until they joined the diplomatic service.

He appreciated her efforts, but the evening reminded him of what

had been--of Annemarie, his wife, who'd died three years earlier. He

recalled how, as they'd dressed for the evening, they would banter

about the awful people they would meet, would have to
entertain.

That made it easier, theatre for husband and wife, shared misery and

the instinct to find it some way, somehow, amusing.

The apartment provided for the military attache was on the

second floor of 22, aleja Ujazdowska--Ujazdowska avenue--the

Champs-Elysees of Warsaw, though not so broad, a street of elegant

five-story buildings, exteriors lavishly wrought with every sort of decorative stonework, set well back behind trees and shrubbery, which

was fronted by ornamental iron palings that ran the length of the

block. The French embassy had for a long time been on Ujazdowska

but had moved, two years earlier, to Nowy Swiat. Still, it was only a

fifteen-minute walk from his apartment, just enough to clear the fog

of work from his mind.

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

The apartment came with a maid, Wlada, thin and nervous, who

lived in the maid's room, a cook, heavy and silent, who came every day

but Sunday, and a driver, Marek, a tough old bird who'd served as a

sergeant in Pilsudski's Polish Legion and drove Mercier around in

what he persisted in calling the "Biook," in fact a 1936 S41 Buick

sedan. The choice of the French and several other embassies, it was a

heavily sprung eight-cylinder bear of an automobile, with a bulbous

trunk, that negotiated Polish roads as long as you kept at least two

spare tires with you, though nobody went anywhere in the spring and

autumn rains--Poland's seasonal barrier against German expansion.

Entering the apartment, Mercier glanced at the mail on the foyer

table, then headed for his dressing room. This took time. The place

was enormous; ten vast rooms with high ceilings, plaster medallions

at every corner, and, thanks to the inordinately wealthy wife of a previous tenant, sumptuously furnished. Better to have private means if

you were a diplomat of higher rank, the salary didn't begin to pay for

the necessary show. Thus the heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes at the windows, couches covered in damask, ebony drum tables, exotic oriental

lamps with creamy silk shades, and a silver service to sink a small ship.

In the apartment, Mercier felt forever a temporary guest. The rough,

weary, mostly ancient furnishings of his country house in central

France--dog hair everywhere, how did they still have coats?--the only

style that felt, to him, comfortable.

In the dressing room, Wlada had laid out his best uniform, perfectly cleaned and ironed, and his kepi, visored military hat, which

she'd ruthlessly brushed. The damn thing was expensive, but there

was, in such matters, no interfering with Wlada. The more she

thought it important, the harder she punished it. Opening the bottom

drawer of his dresser, he brought out a square of blue felt with cardboard backing, which bore his service decorations, pinned in neat

rows. There were a lot of them; twenty-eight years in the military

brought medals. For the Renault crowd, much the best to go top

class, so Mercier unpinned his
Croix de Guerre
and
Virtuti Militari

and set them on the dresser. A bath? No, it could wait. He took off

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H OT E L E U RO P E J S K I * 4 5

his work uniform, shoes, and socks, put on a wool bathrobe, walked

into the adjoining bedroom, and stretched out on a settee by the window.
Twenty minutes, no more
. Outside, the avenue was quiet under

the streetlamps, a horse-drawn cab went clopping past, a dog barked,

a couple spoke in gentle voices as they walked by.
Peace.
Another

nineteenth-century evening on the Ujazdowska.

As he often did, Mercier thought of Annemarie as he drifted off.

He was lonely for her, three years gone with influenza--thought at

first, and for too long, to be a winter grippe. Despite all the time he'd

spent away from her, they'd been a close couple, given to the small,

continual affections of married life. They'd had two daughters, both

now in their early twenties, one married to an archaeologist and living

in Cairo, the other working at a museum in Copenhagen: adventurers

like their father and, alas, like him, terribly independent. It was what

he'd wished for, and what he got--so life went. Every now and then, a

newsy letter, but it had been a long time since he'd seen either one of

them. They were attractive, not beautiful, and moderately celestial,

floating just above the daily world, not unlike Annemarie.
Annemarie.

Now and then, with a late supper for two planned, after the girls left

home, they would make love at this time--that seductive hour

between afternoon and night,
l'heure bleu,
in the French tradition,

named for its deepening shadow. Sometimes she would . . .

From the study, several rooms away, the rattling bell of the telephone. He heard Wlada scurrying across the chestnut parquet, a

breathless "
Rezydencja panstwa Mercier,
" a few more words of Polish, then the footsteps headed his way. "Colonel?" she said. "Are you

awake?"

"Yes?"

"It is Madame Du-peen."

"All right. I'm coming."

He tied the belt of his bathrobe as he journeyed toward the study.

"Madame Dupin?"

"Good evening, Colonel Mercier. Forgive me, please, for calling so

late."

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

"Of course, no problem."

"I'm afraid there is, I'm unwell. Something"--she paused; how to

say it?--"something I ate."

"I am sorry. Do you need anything? I can send Marek to the pharmacy."

"That is very kind of you, but no, thank you. What it means is that

I can't attend the dinner tonight."

"It's nothing to worry about, I can go alone."

"Oh no, that won't do at all. I've found a substitute, a friend of

mine. She lives with some Russian, a journalist, but he won't care.

Anyhow, she's agreed to go, my dear friend. Otherwise, an empty

place, an unbalanced table, it simply can't be done. Do you have something to write on?"

"A moment," he said, then found a tablet and a pen on the antique

desk. "Yes?"

She gave him a name, Anna Szarbek, and an address. "Your driver

will know where it is," she said.

"Just feel better, Madame Dupin, I'm sure we'll manage."

"You'll like my friend," she said. "She's terribly bright."

"I'm sure I will," he said.

Promptly at eight, he climbed into the back of the "Biook" and gave

Marek the address. "Yes," Marek said, "I'll find it."

But it wasn't so easy. Mumbling curses to himself, Marek worked

back and forth through tiny streets north of the central city. Mercier

had a street map--in his desk at the office, naturally. He looked at his

watch, trying to keep it below the back of the front seat, but Marek

caught him at it and mumbled louder. Finally, at twenty minutes past

eight, they found the building. Now they would be late--which might,

for some, be fashionable, but Mercier wasn't fashionable.

The building was two stories high, and the janitor, when it suited

him, answered his knock at the street door and swung an ill-tempered

hand toward the staircase. On the second floor, two doors, and a pow-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 47

H OT E L E U RO P E J S K I * 4 7

erful fragrance of boiled cabbage. He knocked at the first door, waited

thirty seconds, then, as he knocked at the second door, the first one

opened.

"Good evening," Mercier said. "Madame Szarbek? I'm Madame

Dupin's friend, Lieutenant Colonel Mercier."

"That's me. Sorry to have kept you. Please, come inside."

Mercier was immediately relieved--this was not to be an evening

spent in his undependable Polish; her French was rapid and fluent,

with the barest hitch of an accent at the edges, her voice slightly husky

and rough. She was, he guessed, in her late thirties, and very striking: thick hair, the color called dirty blond, swept low across her forehead, then pinned up in back, and a face that suggested, somehow,

sensuality--a slight downward curve of the nose, full-lipped mouth,

pallid skin, sharp jawline, and deep green eyes, wary and restless, not

quite the night animal, but close. For a formal evening, she wore a

black silk dress with matching jacket, then, more her true style, added

a dark red scarf wound around her throat, pendant earrings with green

gemstones, and a cloud of strong perfume, more spice than sugar. For

a moment she stared at him, her mouth set in a hesitant smile:
will this

do?
Then said, "I'll be ready right away," led him into the apartment,

and fled down the hall, calling out, "Please introduce yourselves."

On the sofa, a burly man with gray hair curling out of the vee of

his open shirt rose from a nest of newspapers. "Good evening, general," he said with a grin and a meaty handshake. "I'm Maxim." From

the grin, Mercier could tell that Maxim knew he wasn't a general, this

was just his way of being lovable. They stood there for a moment, not

comfortable, then Anna Szarbek came hurrying out of the hallway,

now clutching a small evening purse. "Are we awfully late?" she said.

"No, we'll be fine," Mercier said.

Anna kissed Maxim on the cheek and said something private by

his ear.

"Not too late, general," Maxim said, and winked at Mercier.

Some dish, hey? Don't get any ideas.

He followed her down the stairs--she was a little wobbly in very

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4 8 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW

high heels, sliding one hand along the banister--and out onto the

sidewalk. As Marek held the door open for Anna, he gave Mercier a

conspiratorial lift of the eyebrows. "We're going to the Europejski,"

Mercier said, glancing at his watch.

That gesture was all Marek needed to see--the Buick took off

with a squeal of the tires and went hurtling down the narrow street.

Anna settled herself in the corner of the backseat, bent over to peer

into her purse, brought out a slim tortoiseshell cigarette case, and

offered it to Mercier. On the lid, a laughing Bacchus and two pink

nymphs were wearing only a grapevine. "Do you smoke?" she said.

"I do, but not right now."

She took out a cigarette, and Mercier lit it for her with a steel

lighter. This she needed--took a deep draw, exhaled two long plumes

of smoke from her nose, and sat back in the seat. "Marie didn't tell me

much," she said, referring to Madame Dupin.

"It's very kind of you, to do this on short notice."

"For Saint Marie, anything. She does favors for everybody, so . . ."

"It's a dinner given by the Polish General Staff for a delegation

from the Renault company; they've come in from Paris. Then, after

that, a nightclub."

"A nightclub?"

"Yes, the Adria."

"Very fancy. I've never been there."

Mercier's expression said that it was what it was. "A floor show,

likely dancing."

Her nod was grim, but determined--she would handle anything

that came her way. "So, you're at the embassy."

"I am. The military attache."

"Yes, that's what Marie said." She knew what military attaches

did--at least some secret intelligence work--but apparently took it

for an inevitable part of life in foreign service.

"A lot of paperwork is what it amounts to. Sometimes attendance

at field maneuvers. And, as you would imagine, endless meetings." She

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didn't comment, so he said, "Have you always lived here, in Warsaw?"

Marek was driving fast, the Buick's big engine a heavy purr. They

came up close to a trolley and swung boldly around it, skidding on the

track.

"No, I've been based here for, oh, maybe a year and a half, and I

spend a lot of time traveling, mostly down south, and up to Gdansk.

I'm a lawyer with the League of Nations, so sometimes I'm in Geneva.

Talk about endless meetings."

"Where's home, then?"

"I'm Parisian by birth, Polish by heritage."

"An emigre family."

"Yes, I grew up speaking Polish at home, French everywhere else."

"What do you do for the League?"

"Report on legal claims, mostly, a form of arbitration. When the

League redrew the Silesian border in 1921, after the third uprising,

tens of thousands of Poles and Germans were in a new country, and

private citizens continued to submit claims to the League, seeking

satisfaction they couldn't get from local courts. It's the same up in

Danzig, declared by the League a Free City, but what you have is a German population governed by Poles. All this led to local disputes--

land ownership, unfair administration, tax problems. We don't have