The Spies of Warsaw: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  21 March. The vernal equinox arrived with a slow, steady rain. The grimy snow of winter began to wash away, and though Warsovians ruined their shoes and cursed the slush, they felt their spirits soar within them. Similarly, Colonel Mercier, who admitted to himself, the evening of the twenty-first, that he was as happy as he’d ever been. The apartment Anna Szarbek had found on Sienna street was not unlike an artist’s studio. One large room—with adjoining kitchen and bath—on the top floor, with grand windows slanted toward the sky. “Have you ever wanted to be a painter?” he said.

  “Never.”

  “Does this studio not inspire you?”

  “Not to paint, it doesn’t.”

  He saw her point. It had become their preference to make this place home to their love affair. Not that the Ujazdowska apartment wasn’t elegant and impressive, it was, but a private loft better suited their private hours. Sometimes they ate at the small restaurants of the quarter, but mostly they lived on cheese and ham—now and then Anna managed to produce an omelet—drank wine or vodka, smoked, talked, made love, and had some cheese and ham.

  Mercier’s vocational existence had, thank heaven, returned to normalcy. He had reported the contact with Dr. Lapp to 2, bis, and the response had been . . . silence. “They’re frozen solid,” Jourdain had theorized. “Either that, or they’re fighting over the bone.” This was all well and good, Mercier thought, but somewhere down the road there would be a telephone call or a letter and he would have to bid or fold his cards—he couldn’t pass. But if 2, bis wasn’t in a hurry, neither was he.

  Anna stood at the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass, her mood pensive. “I did hear something disquieting,” she said. “I ran into the janitor’s wife at the market—the janitor who works where I used to live—and she said that Maxim had been taken away by some sort of civilian police, returned, with an escort, to pack whatever he could, and left. He told her he was being sent back to Russia.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Mercier said.

  “It can’t be true, I tell myself, that you had anything to do with this.”

  Mercier was startled, but didn’t show it. It took only a few seconds for him to work out the sequence of events, beginning with the Rozens’ defection. “I have no need to do such things,” he said.

  “No, it’s not like you,” she said slowly, as much to herself as to him.

  “It sounds as though he’s been deported. Maybe he was selling information—to the wrong people, as it turned out.”

  “Maxim? A spy? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. Foreign journalists will sometimes take money, from, as I said, the wrong people.”

  She left the window and sat in an easy chair. “I suppose he might have done something like that. He never had enough money, felt he’d never reached his proper place in the world. He was desperate to be important—loved, respected—and he wasn’t.”

  “What I can tell you is, if he’s been deported, he’s lucky not to be in prison.”

  Anna nodded. “Still, I feel sorry for him,” she said. Then, looking back at the window, “Will this stop soon, do you think? I wanted to go for a walk.”

  “We can take the umbrella.”

  “It’s not very big.”

  “It will do.” Mercier stood. “I think we left it by the door.”

  The vernal equinox came to Glogau as well, but there, in the SD office above the toy shop, it rained bad news. That morning, Sturmbannführer August Voss received a formal letter from his superior in Berlin. In the next room, the lieutenants heard a prodigious oath and, faces tense, looked up from their work and stared at each other. What now? On the other side of the wall, Frogface Voss tore the letter into strips, then had to piece them back together to make sure his eyes had not deceived him. They hadn’t. The axe had fallen; he was being transferred to Schweinfurt. Schweinfurt! What was in Schweinfurt? Nothing. A ballbearing factory. Such an office would handle internal matters only. A visitor from Holland? Follow him! A complaint about the government, overheard in a tavern? Haul the traitor in! Filthy, silly, local nonsense—Gestapo country, the SD little more than a spectator. And, to drain his cup of humiliation down to the last miserable dreg, his chief lieutenant was to be promoted and would supervise the Glogau office. The reorganization to be completed in thirty days from this date.

  So, now that French bastard had really done it. With trembling hand, he snatched up the telephone receiver and called Major Meinhard Peister, his friend Meino, in Regensburg.

  27 March. Meino and Willi and Voss rode the train up to Warsaw. They’d wanted to drive in Willi’s new Mercedes, but the Polish roads in March could be more than an adventure, so they took a first-class compartment on the morning express. They weren’t alone, a young couple had the seats by the window, but something about the three men made them uncomfortable, so they got their valises down and went looking for somewhere else to sit. “That’s better,” Willi said, with a wink, once they were gone.

  “We’ll need a car, up there,” Meino said. He’d put on weight, now more than ever the gross cherub.

  “It’s all arranged,” Voss said. “They’ll pick us up at the station.”

  From his briefcase, Meino produced a bottle of schnapps. “Something for the trip.” He pulled the cork, took a sip, and passed the bottle to Willi, who said “Prost” before he drank. Then he said, “What do you have in mind, Augi?”

  “Give him something to remember,” Voss said. He nodded up at his valise.

  “What’s in there?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Been a long time since we did this,” Meino said.

  “A few years,” Willi said. “But I haven’t forgotten how.”

  “Remember that giant pig, up in Hamburg?” Voss said.

  “Tried to run away? That one?”

  “Who?” Meino said.

  “The communist—the schoolteacher.”

  “Screamed for his mama,” Willi said.

  Meino laughed. “That one.”

  “We’ll want to get him alone somewhere,” Willi said.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Voss said, taking a turn with the schnapps. “My people up there have been watching him. It may take a day or two, but he’ll be alone sooner or later. Or he’ll be with his doxy.”

  “Nothing like an audience,” Willi said.

  “Better,” Voss said. “For what I have in mind.”

  In Warsaw, they were picked up by Winckelmann, driving the Opel Admiral, and taken to a commercial hotel south of the station. “Likely he’s home for the night,” Winckelmann said. “But we’ll see about tomorrow.”

  “I can’t stay here forever,” Willi said.

  “He’s at the embassy a lot of the time, but he goes out to meetings. That would be the best, if you want to get him alone.”

  “That’s what we want,” Voss said.

  “See you in the morning,” Winckelmann said. “Eight-thirty.”

  They went out that evening, to a nightclub up on Jasna street called the Caucasian Cave that Winckelmann had suggested—one of the so-called “padded nightclubs,” walls covered with heavy fabric to keep the riotous noise inside. The club was in a cellar, with a doorman who wore the big fur hat common to the Caucasus. They ate lamb on skewers, an old Jew played the violin, and a few of the girls got up to dance—girls in heavy makeup, gold earrings, and low-cut peasant blouses. One of them sat on Willi’s knees and tickled his chin with a feather. “Care to go outside?” Willi said, in German. “To the alley?”

  “The alley! You must be kidding me,” she said. “You boys come over from Germany?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t see many, in here.”

  “We go where we want.”

  “I guess you do. Staying at a hotel? I might come up and visit you.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “With your wife, Fritz?”

  “Not me.”

&nb
sp; “Well, I’m not an alley girl,” she said, hopping off. She walked away, flipping the back of her skirt up to reveal her thighs. “See you later,” she said, over her shoulder, “unless you find a cat.”

  “Quite a mouth, on that one,” Meino said.

  “Maybe we’ll come back here,” Willi said, “with twenty divisions. Then she’ll sing a different tune.”

  They ordered another round of vodkas, told stories, and roared with laughter. This was the life! But as the evening wore on, the clientele changed, and Jews in sharp suits, with slicked-down hair, began to appear, well known in the club, greeted heartily. They looked sideways at the three Germans, and one of them whispered with the girl who’d sat on Willi’s knees.

  Voss sniffed the air and said, “It’s starting not to smell so good in here.”

  “Time to move on,” Meino said.

  They tried one more place, the Hairych, on Nalewki street, but there they overheard the gangster types talking about them in Yiddish, so they went back to the hotel, drank for a time, and went to their rooms. The next morning they drove around with Winckelmann, got a glimpse of the Frenchman, walking to work, then spent the rest of the day in the car, bored and irritated. They stayed at the hotel on the twenty-eighth, waiting for a telephone call from Winckelmann, but it never came. Willi began to complain, he’d taken time off from work, but he couldn’t hang around Warsaw forever. “Maybe we’ll just go see him tonight,” he said. “At his apartment.”

  But Voss didn’t like that idea, and neither did Meino.

  A cold, mean little drizzle on the morning of the twenty-ninth, the worst weather possible for Mercier’s aching knee, and a dreary day in store. He had correspondence to answer, dispatches to write, a meeting in the morning, another in the afternoon, and then, at five, he had to go out to Wola, the factory district at the western edge of the city, to the Ursus Tractor Company on Zelazna street, which manufactured automobiles and armoured vehicles. There would be a tour of the plant; then he was to meet with the managing director in his office. Walking to work, leaning on his stick, Mercier grumbled to himself, “Fine day to visit a factory.” The dispatches took forever—information had to be looked up—and, at the meetings, he could barely force himself to concentrate. It was just the kind of day when one didn’t care about anything.

  At twenty minutes to five, Marek picked him up outside the embassy and set off for Wola. It wasn’t all that far, but the drive seemed to take forever. Finally they reached the Wola district, deserted at this hour, the night shifts at the factories already at work. Set well back from Zelazna street, across a railroad track, the Ursus plant: vast buildings of soot-colored brick, beneath a low gray sky at twilight. Marek stopped the car and said, “When shall I pick you up?”

  Mercier calculated. “Come back at seven. I know this will take at least two hours.”

  “I can stay, colonel, if you like.”

  “No, don’t bother. See you at seven.”

  With a sigh in his heart, Mercier walked across the tracks, then down a brick walkway to the administration building. A senior manager was waiting for him and took him off to the production sheds. Pure industrial hell. Giant machinery, banging away to wake the dead, rattling chains, showers of sparks, and the manager shouting over the din: here the armoured cars are assembled; they weigh this much; the clearance is this high. Mercier peered at the engines while the workers, in grease-stained overalls, smiled and nodded. He dutifully made notes and was eventually shown a completed vehicle, where he sat in the turret, cranked the handle and, lo and behold, the thing swiveled. Slowly, but it worked. Still, he knew what could happen to these cars—blown over on their sides, pouring smoke and flame—if they ever went to war. He’d seen it.

  They walked for what felt like miles, then he was taken to see the managing director. An amiable gentleman, in a handsome suit, anxious to impress the French visitor. Again the weight, the speed, the thickness of plate, the firing rate of the gun. Coffee was served, with a plate of dry cookies. Skillfully, Mercier played the role of honored guest, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Lately, he liked to imagine Anna Szarbek, down at his house in the Drôme, dogs in front of the fireplace, everything he cared for, gathered up together, safe at night.

  The director accompanied him to the front door; he left the building and took a few steps along the brick walkway. Now where was Marek? Across the tracks, Zelazna street was empty and dark, lit only by a single lamp at a distant intersection. He looked at his watch, 6:48, and thought about going back inside; the drizzle would have him soaking wet if he stood there until the Buick appeared. Then three men came around the corner of the building, and the one in the middle raised a hand and said, in German, “Good evening, colonel, we want a word with you.”

  What was this?

  The one in the middle suddenly moved faster, and Mercier could see something in his hand. For a moment, it didn’t make sense, not at a factory, this time of night, for it looked like a riding crop, the leather loop at the end circling the man’s wrist. He ran the last few steps toward Mercier, his face contorted with rage, and swung the riding crop, which lashed Mercier across the cheek and knocked his hat off. Mercier stepped backward and raised his hands, taking the next blow on his palms. For a second, no feeling; then it burned like fire.

  “Get his hands,” the man said.

  The other two advanced, Mercier swung at them with his stick, which hit the one on the right—the one with a big belly—across the forehead. Mercier had swung as hard as he could, using both hands, and he thought the stick might break, but ebony was a hard wood; the impact produced only a thud, and the man sat down on the brick walkway and held his head. Meanwhile the tall one, with a dueling scar on his cheek, had grabbed Mercier’s arm and hung on to it as his friend swung again, a downstroke that landed on Mercier’s shoulder. Mercier kicked at the man with the riding crop, lost his balance, and fell on his back, the tall one landing on top of him. The man was panting, his breath foul and reeking of alcohol. As Mercier tried to push him off, he growled, “Stay still, you French bastard.”

  “Fuck you,” Mercier said, and tried to hit him with his forearm.

  The man with the riding crop, cursing wildly, stumbled around Mercier, trying to find an angle for another blow. Then, from the direction of Zelazna street, a gunshot, and he stopped dead, riding crop frozen at the top of its swing. The tall one rolled off Mercier and struggled to his feet. “Time to go,” he said. The two of them went to help their friend—he groaned as they stood him upright—and, moving quickly, trotted around the corner of the building and disappeared. Mercier’s instinct to pursue them was immediately suppressed.

  Looking toward the direction of the shot he saw a broad shape running across the railway tracks—Marek—who arrived a moment later, extended a hand to Mercier, and said, “Where did they go?”

  “Was that your shot?” Mercier retrieved his stick and hat.

  “It was. When I parked on Zelazna there was another car there, and a little man jumped out and aimed a pistol at me. Said something like Halt!”

  “And?”

  “I took the Radom from my coat and shot him.” What else? Out in the darkness, the sound of a powerful engine, accelerating as the driver shifted up through the gears, then fading into the distance. Marek said, “Do you need help, colonel?”

  Mercier shook his head, one finger cautiously touching the burning welt on his cheek. “What happened next?” he said.

  Marek shrugged. “You know. He fell down.”

  Slowly, they walked across the tracks toward the Buick, Mercier’s knee aching with every step. “Who were they?” Marek said.

  “No idea,” Mercier said. “They spoke German.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  Mercier couldn’t answer.

  They climbed into the car and Marek drove up Zelazna, then took the first right into a long street, dark and empty, wet pavement shining in the headlights. Peering through the cleared space made by the windshield wi
pers, Mercier saw what looked like a mound of discarded clothing, half on the sidewalk, half in the street. Marek nudged the brake and, when the mound became a man, stopped the car and they both got out. The factory wall that met the sidewalk had windows covered with wire mesh and, from somewhere inside, came the slow, rhythmic drumming of a machine. For a moment, they stared down at the body, its face wedged into the gutter, then Marek slid his foot beneath the man’s waist and turned him over. “That’s him,” he said. A flowered tie lay over to one side, and there was a small red hole in the pocket of the shirt. “What did they do? Throw him out of the car?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Afraid of being stopped, I guess. With a body in the trunk.”

  The face was blank, eyes open. Like the others, he wasn’t anybody Mercier had ever seen. Marek bent over and patted the man’s pockets, found a wallet, and handed it to Mercier. Inside, a Polish identity card with the name Winckelmann—a name he’d heard from Vyborg—and a photograph of the man he’d come to think of as the weasel. He looked down at Winckelmann’s face and realized that in death he’d become a different self.

  “What now, colonel? The police?”

  “No. Just put the wallet back.”

  “So, nothing we know about,” Marek said, clearly relieved.