The Spies of Warsaw: A Novel

by Alan Furst

“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-François.”

  “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-François. Sorry to call you so late.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “The meeting with the ambassador—is it still at eight-thirty?”

  “It is, in my office.”

  “There was some talk of moving it to nine-thirty.”

  “No, eight-thirty, bright and early.”

  “Very well, I’ll see you then. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “Don’t be concerned. Good night, Jean-François.”

  There was no meeting. The telephone call was a signal—operations could now begin to take two Russian spies out of Poland.

  1:45 A.M. Outside, the silence of a winter night, so cold that frost flowers whitened the windows of the study. Viktor Rozen, now apparently recovered, sat near the fire, wearing Mercier’s bathrobe, his heaviest sweater, and two pairs of his socks. He warmed his hands around a glass of hot tea laced with brandy, sipping it Russian-style, through a cube of sugar held between his teeth. Malka sat by his side, smoking one cigarette after another.

  “There wasn’t much to do with France,” Viktor said. “Our agents in Polish factories reported on armaments produced under French license, and we tried to reach your diplomats. . . .” Both Rozens gave Mercier a glance. And you see how that turned out.

  “Our own operations worked against the Poles,” Malka said. “A major on the General Staff, a director of the telephone company, maids at the hotels, a few factory workers. And significant penetration of the socialist parties—Moscow Center is obsessed with this, so that’s where we spent money.”

  “What were the maids doing?” Mercier asked.

  “Going through briefcases. Foreign diplomats, businessmen, anyone important. Including the Renault delegation from Paris, back in October. One of them kept a diary, foolish man, a, how shall I say, a very frank diary. His conquests.”

  “Did you use it? Against him?”

  “Who knows, what Moscow does. We just sent the photographs of the pages.”

  “Well, try to remember the name—you’ll go through all that in Paris,” Mercier said.

  “When do we leave?” Viktor said.

  “Tomorrow,” Mercier said. “That is, today.”

  “They’ll be watching everywhere,” Viktor said. “You’d better be armed.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re prepared for, eventualities.”

  “I hope so,” Malka said.

  They sat for a time and watched the fire, logs glowing red, a fire-fall of sparks. Viktor said, “Mostly, we did what everyone does—war plans, arms production, political personalities, border defenses.” He shrugged. “I doubt it’s very much different from what you do, colonel.”

  Mercier nodded—that was likely true. “Any German networks?”

  “Quite a number of them,” Malka said. “But we didn’t handle them. That was the preserve of the elite.”

  “Not you?”

  She smiled. “Once upon a time, a few years ago, but the Jews in the service aren’t so favored, these days. They no longer trust us, the Old Bolsheviks—look what they were going to do to Viktor and me. Don’t tell the world, but Stalin’s just as bad as Hitler.”

  “Why not tell the world?”

  “Because they won’t believe it, dear colonel.” She threw the end of her cigarette into the fire and lit a new one.

  “So, no German information.”

  “Gossip,” Viktor said. “In an embassy, you hear things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Surely the Poles already know. Camp Rummelsburg, in Pomerania, where they train spies to work in Poland. It opened in ’thirty-six, they’re thought to have run about three thousand people through there. And, of course, the Polish branches of I.G. Farben and Siemens-Schuckert are used as espionage centers. But, as for names and dates, this never came our way. Maybe if we’d had some time with the files . . .”

  “Any gossip about the I.N. Six?”

  “I.N. Six?” Viktor said.

  “Guderian’s office,” Malka said. “In the Bendlerstrasse.” The address of the German General Staff.

  “Oh,” Viktor said. He pondered a moment, then shook his head.

  “What do I remember about I.N. Six?” Malka said. “Was that CHAIKA? Kovak’s operation?”

  “No, no, it wasn’t Kovak, it was Morozov.”

  “He’s right,” Malka said. “It was Morozov.”

  “What’s CHAIKA?” Mercier said.

  “A codename. Means the bird, very common water bird, makes a squawk? In all the harbors, everywhere.”

  Mercier came up with seagull, but didn’t know the German. “I’ll look it up,” Mercier said. “What does it have to do with I.N. Six?”

  “A GRU officer called Morozov had this operation a few years ago,” Malka said. “Someone who worked in the I.N. Six office, codename CHAIKA, had concealed a political affiliation, from the early thirties. He’d been a member of the Black Front, Adolf Hitler’s opponents in the Nazi party, the left wing. You remember, colonel, the Strasser brothers?”

  “I do. Gregor was murdered in ’thirty-four, the Night of the Long Knives. But his brother Otto survived.”

  “He did, went underground, and continued his opposition.”

  Mercier knew at least the basic elements of the story. The Nazi party, soon after its birth, had split on ideological lines; some of the original members were committed to the socialist agenda—it was, after all, the National Socialist Party, Nazi the German slang derived from the first word—and proposed sharing German wealth and land with the working class. But the wealthy supporters of the party, Baron Krupp, Fritz von Thyssen, and others, wanted no part of that and Hitler, desperate for money, sided with them, ordered the murders, in 1934, of some of his opponents, and forced the others to pledge support to the right-wing side of the ideology. Otto Strasser, Mercier knew, was still in opposition, operating from Czechoslovakia.

  “Anyhow,” Malka continued, “Morozov determined to put pressure on this CHAIKA, to force him to become a Soviet agent.”

  “What happened?”

  “Morozov was purged. But this operation never really got under way, because . . .” She stopped, unable to remember the reason.

  “Because of the name!” Viktor was delighted with his memory. “Morozov had the name—Kroll? something like that—from a German informant who’d been a member of the Black Front and was now hiding in Poland, but the problem was that the Black Front used false names—after all, they were being hunted by the Gestapo. So the name Kroll, or whatever it was, was meaningless, there was nobody in the I.N. Six with that name.”

  “Not Kroll,” Malka said.

  “I think it was.”

  “No, it wasn
’t.”

  “What then?”

  “Köhler, dear. That was it.”

  Viktor smiled fondly and said to Mercier, “Isn’t she something?”

  30 January, 6:35 A.M. Fully dressed, his Browning automatic on top of his folded overcoat, Mercier telephoned Marek, his wife answered, and the driver was called to the phone. “Good morning,” he said.

  “I must go to the embassy, Marek.”

  “Yes?” Marek’s voice was cautious, Mercier almost always walked the few blocks to the embassy.

  “To prepare for a meeting,” Mercier said.

  “When shall I come for you?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Ten minutes,” Marek said, and hung up.

  By 6:50, they were under way, the Rozens in the backseat, Mercier sitting beside Marek. Mercier had left the building first, walked up and down the street, then returned for the Rozens. Marek on one side, Mercier on the other, they ran for the idling Buick.

  “We’re going to Praga,” Mercier said. “Do you have a weapon?”

  Marek patted the side pocket of his bulky coat.

  “Don’t hesitate,” Mercier said.

  “Who are we expecting?”

  “Russians. NKVD Russians.”

  “Will be a pleasure.”

  They crossed the Vistula, now a sheet of gray ice, wound through the factory district, down a side street, and into the loading yard of a vacant foundry, the smell of scorched brass strong on a windless morning. Jourdain was waiting by his car, slapping his gloved hands against each other to keep the blood moving. “Nice day for a ride in the country,” he said to Mercier, his words accompanied by puffs of white steam. Then, to the Rozens, “Good morning, I’m here to help you.” Formally, they shook hands.

  “Where’s Gustav?” Mercier said.

  “He should be along in a minute; he’s been trailing your car since you crossed the river.”

  A motorcycle pulled into the yard, skidding to a stop on the cinders. The rider’s face was shielded by a wool scarf, worn just below his goggles. He nodded hello and revved his engine by way of greeting.

  “No point waiting, Jean-François. Gustav leads the way, you follow, I’ll be right behind you.”

  As they drove away from the factory, Malka Rozen said, “Where are we going?”

  “Konstancin,” Mercier said.

  They drove fast through the early morning streets of Praga, past factory smokestacks, the black smoke hanging still in the frozen air, crossed back into Warsaw, turned southeast, and followed the river, the motorcycle slowing, then accelerating, as Gustav watched for idling cars, or trucks moving to block the way. Speed was something of an art, Mercier realized—the traffic policemen gave them a look, but did nothing. Gradually, the city fell away and they moved swiftly along a country road, through the village of Konstancin—elaborate houses and well-groomed gardens—and out the other side.

  Mercier saw that Marek was intent on the rearview mirror, shifting his eyes every few seconds. “What’s back there, Marek?”

  “A big car; he’s been with us since the outskirts of the city.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “It has a hood ornament—perhaps the English car, called Bentley?”

  Rozen—Russians and Poles understood each other’s languages—said, “Nothing to worry about.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Too rich for us.”

  Not if it’s been stolen.

  But a few minutes later, Marek said, “Now he turns off,” and Mercier relaxed. It was quiet in the car. Up ahead, Gustav leaned over as they sped around the curves, and then he signaled, pointed down a dirt road, and swung into it. They slowed, bouncing over frozen ruts and potholes, turned hard at a sharp corner, and jolted to a stop. Parked in the road: an ancient relic of a truck, its bed holding rows of milk cans. Gustav reached inside his leather coat and produced a cannon of an automatic pistol, a box magazine set forward of the trigger guard. As the motorcycle sped around the truck on the driver’s side, Mercier twisted around to see that the Rozens were staring at each other, and Malka had taken Viktor’s hands in hers. “Get on the floor,” Mercier said, turned back, drew his own weapon, and opened the door a crack. From the right-hand side of the truck, a path ran up a hillside and disappeared. A dairy farm up there? Maybe. Maybe not.

  Gustav came skidding to a stop by the driver’s window of the Buick. He said, his words muffled by the scarf, “Nobody in there. What do you want to do?”

  “Wait.” Mercier left the Buick and, keeping his eyes on the hillside, walked backward to Jourdain’s car. “No driver,” he said.

  “They’d have been on us by now,” Jourdain said.

  “I think so too.”

  Mercier walked back past the Buick and, as he did, Marek got out of the car and started to follow him, but Mercier motioned for him to stay with the Rozens. Reaching the truck, he yanked the front door open and looked inside. On the seat, a newspaper and half a sandwich in a piece of brown paper. Planting one foot on the running board, he hauled himself up and slid behind the wheel, searched the dashboard, flipped the starter switch, and gave the engine some gas. When it coughed, Mercier pulled out the choke and it rumbled to life. He shifted into first gear and raised the clutch, driving forward a few yards, then turning the wheel hard. The truck went bumping into a pasture. Mercier looked back, made sure he’d left room for the cars to get by, then turned off the engine.

  As Mercier walked back toward the Buick, a man pushing a handcart loaded with milk cans appeared on the crest of the hill, dropped the handles, and came running, shouting and waving a clenched fist.

  Mercier was then next to the motorcycle and Gustav waggled his huge pistol and said, “Shall I calm him down?”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “He is quite upset.”

  “So would you be.”

  Jourdain was leaning against the hood of the Buick. He raised an eyebrow, his expression ironic and amused. “Vive la France,” he said.

  A mile down the dirt road, a hand-painted sign said Konstancin Flying Club. Since the 1918 rebirth of the country, flying had become immensely popular, and private clubs dotted the countryside surrounding the wealthier villages. Not much to look at: a few old planes parked in a field of dead weeds, a limp wind sock on a pole, and a tinroofed shack. Watching the treeline, Mercier and Jourdain hurried the Rozens inside. One of the embassy guards was waiting for them, stoking a potbelly stove with a poker.

  “All quiet?” Jourdain said.

  “All quiet,” the guard answered. “Too cold to fly.”

  “Any idea when they’ll be here?” Mercier said to Jourdain.

  “I was at the embassy around midnight, sent the signal, and got a confirmation. So, they’re on the way.”

  The Rozens sat on lawn chairs, Malka found a tin ashtray from a Warsaw café and lit a cigarette. Viktor sighed and looked mournful. The desperation of flight had given way to the reality of the future, Mercier thought. The Rozens would never again go home. “Tell me, colonel,” Viktor said, “where do you think we might live?”

  “I don’t know,” Mercier said. “In a city, somewhere. It will be worked out later.”

  “They won’t stop looking for us,” Malka said.

  “You’ll have to keep that in mind,” Jourdain said. “Wherever you go.”

  “We will,” Viktor said. “Forever.”

  “Still, a better fate than what lay in store for you,” Mercier said.

  Viktor nodded: yes, but not all that much better.

  When Mercier heard a drone in the distance, he checked his watch—just after eleven—went outside, and saw a plane descending on the northern horizon. He watched it for a time, then returned to the shack. Malka Rozen was looking out the window. “Stay inside until we’re sure,” Mercier said. Gustav, dozing in a kitchen chair, awoke and joined Malka at the window. Mercier went back out, Jourdain followed him. A trimotor Bréguet circled the field, then landed, bouncing ac
ross the uneven ground, coming to rest close to the shack.

  Mercier shivered in the cold. The door of the plane opened and a man in a flying overall hopped out, then offered a hand to someone behind him, but the hand was not taken. A moment later, Colonel Bruner appeared in the doorway, dressed in full uniform and standing at attention, as though he expected to be photographed. Mercier swore under his breath.

  “Ah, the hero arrives,” Jourdain said. “Well, they belong to him now—he’s bringing the prize home to Paris, to be the envy of all eyes.”

  The three men greeted each other, Bruner his most formal self, drawn up to his full height, such as it was, and ruddy-cheeked with excitement. “So,” he said, “where are my spies?”

  “They’re inside,” Mercier said.

  They went into the shack, and Bruner was introduced to the Rozens; he was silent, his hands clasped behind his back, his greeting a bare nod. “You can put their luggage on the plane,” he said to Mercier.

  “We have nothing,” Viktor said.

  This, for some reason, Bruner found irritating. “Oh? Well, let’s hurry along, shall we?”

  They filed out the door and walked to the airplane. A co-pilot appeared at the entry and helped Viktor climb up, then it was Malka Rozen’s turn. Looking back at Mercier, she said, “Thank you, colonel,” took a deep breath, and wiped her eyes. “It’s the cold air,” she explained, as the co-pilot helped her aboard.

  “Very well, then,” Bruner said, triumphant, savoring his success. He entered the plane and was followed by the pilot, who closed the door behind them. The Bréguet made a tight turn, taxied down the field, lifted at last, cleared the trees, and headed west, soon a black dot in the sky, its drone fading, then gone.

  Back at the embassy, in the midst of writing a dispatch describing the exfiltration of the Rozens, Mercier telephoned Anna Szarbek and invited her for dinner at his apartment. He completed the dispatch, took it down to the code clerk, then went back to Ujazdowska avenue. The coming evening called for planning and logistics: a shopping list for the cook, Wlada to spend the night at her sister’s house.