The Spies of Warsaw: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  “Nothing we know about.”

  Mercier was supposed to be at Anna’s at seven-thirty, and when he came through the door she was startled, then turned his chin to look at the welt.

  “I was attacked,” he said, before she could ask. “One of them hit me.”

  “Attacked? Who attacked you?”

  “I don’t know who they were.”

  “What did they hit you with? Come into the light.”

  She was very agitated, touching his cheek with her fingers and anxious to care for him. “You sit there. I’ll get a cold cloth.” Mercier doubted it would help but knew better than to say so. She ran cold water on a clean dish towel, then pressed it to his face. “Hold that there,” she said. “What makes such a horrid mark?”

  “A riding crop.”

  “No! Who would do such a thing?”

  How much to tell her? “They were Germans, and I suspect it was revenge of some sort, but please, Anna, don’t ask anything about that

  part of it.”

  “Your work,” she said, angry and disgusted.

  Mercier nodded.

  “They could have killed you, you know.”

  “I’ll have to think up an explanation. I walked into a door—something like that.”

  “A drunkard’s explanation, my dear.”

  “Hmm. Very well, then it was a drunk who hit me.”

  “Dreadful. Will you not tell them the truth, at the embassy?”

  “I can’t,” he said. “There would be endless difficulties.”

  “Then say nothing. An absurd domestic stupidity, too silly to explain.”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “Of course, what else.”

  “Does it feel better?”

  “Yes. The cold helps.”

  She rose abruptly, went looking for her purse, and lit a cigarette—she insisted on buying imported Gitanes at the fancy tobacco shop—and almost immediately the studio smelled like a French café. She did not return to her chair, but walked to the windows, then turned and faced him. “What makes you think they won’t try something again?” she said, her voice now sharpened to a lawyer’s edge. “Or do you believe they were . . . satisfied?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But if I brought this to my superiors as a problem, they might decide to end my assignment here.”

  “They’re not pleased with you?”

  “Not especially. Or, rather, not all of them. It’s sometimes true that the more you succeed, in an organization, the more enemies you make.”

  “Always true,” she said. She returned to the easy chair and shook her hair back. “Know what?”

  “What?”

  “I think you like this kind of war.”

  He shrugged. “Like isn’t the word, but the job has grown into me. I wanted to quit, a few months ago, but not now. Now there’s a particular operation under way. It’s important, possibly very important.”

  She smiled and said, “Is it ever difficult for you that you can’t speak openly of such things?”

  “Very difficult,” he said. “Especially here, with you.”

  “Oh well,” she said. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” She busied herself with the compress, putting more cold water on the towel. “Does this make it feel better?”

  He said it did, and the conversation turned to their evening together—going out, doing something, a change. A search of the newspaper turned up a French film, and an hour later they went to the movies.

  5 April. At last, a response to the contact with Dr. Lapp. But it did not arrive in any of the forms Mercier had anticipated. Not cabled dispatch, not letter by pouch, and not, thank heaven, Bruner’s appearance in Warsaw, which Mercier had feared. No, it came by mail, a personal letter to his apartment, in lovely blue script. Undated, with no heading. A secret communication? Yes, in a way it was.

  My dear colonel,

  Kindly forgive the delay in answering your communication, but it inspired a most disheartening turmoil in these parts—your rural connection will have given you the opportunity to observe chickens in a barnyard beset by a playful dog.

  In any event, it will be my pleasure to continue discussions with the individual in question, and much the best to do so in this city, where we can meet quietly, privately, and in comfort. A telephone call to Auteil 7407—a local call, naturally—will initiate a meeting the same day, and no mention of names will be required. This method of contact is exclusive to the individual in question.

  Please be good enough to destroy this letter, which finds you, I trust, in good health and good spirits.

  With my most sincere good wishes,

  Aristide R. J. de Beauvilliers

  10 April. And then, in time, a second communication. Had Dr. Lapp foreseen the frenzy that his offer would produce within the French General Staff? Mercier suspected he had. Mercier suspected that Dr. Lapp was one of those senior officers in the shadow world with a sophisticated sense of human behavior—not a visionary, a cynic—and a man who understood that, at the end of the day, the Abwehr, the Deuxième Bureau, and all the rest of them worked pretty much the same way. This time the communication came in the form of a note that arrived in a sealed envelope delivered by a private courier. It said simply that it would be good to see Mercier again and suggested the following day, at 5:15 in the afternoon, at the Gorovsky Bookstore, 28, Marszalkowska. And signed, Dr. L.

  For the event—and Mercier informed no one, in the spirit of de Beauvilliers’s letter, where he was going or why—he wore his best suit and a freshly laundered shirt, with somber tie—and made sure to enter the store at precisely 5:15. At this hour, there were only two or three customers, and he found Dr. Lapp, now in his traditional bow tie, in the back. When he looked up and saw Mercier, he said, “Do you know this book?” He held it up, Rosja—Polska, 1815–1830,and said, “Szymon Askenazy, one of their great historians. There are actually quite a few.”

  “Do you read comfortably in Polish, Dr. Lapp?”

  “I do, though I must keep a dictionary at hand.”

  Mercier found this combination—Buster Keaton reading esoteric Polish history—modestly amusing. Dr. Lapp closed the book and put it back in its place on the shelf. “I believe the office will be more comfortable,” he said.

  “The manager won’t mind?”

  Dr. Lapp’s smile was impish. “We own the store, colonel. And it does very nicely.”

  The office had drifted, over the years, to a state of comfortable decay—peeling paint, water stains on the ceiling, furniture worn out years ago—with stacks of books on the desk, in bookcases, on the floor, everywhere. A private world, calm and lost, the view through the cloudy window a courtyard where a wooden bench encircled a giant elm. Only the telephone, an antique from the twenties, told the visitor that he was not in the previous century. On the walls, posters for art exhibitions and concerts—the French were avid for culture, whether they liked it, understood it, paid for it, or not, but the Poles beat them hands down. Dr. Lapp sat in the desk chair, its wheels squeaking as he drew himself up to the desk. “Any luck, colonel?”

  “Yes, though they took their time answering my dispatch.”

  “I rather thought they might.”

  “But very good luck, I believe. I’ve had a communication from a man called de Beauvilliers, General de Beauvilliers.”

  Dr. Lapp allowed Mercier to see that he was impressed, and said, “Indeed.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “I do. The perfect choice.”

  “He suggests that you meet with him in Paris. Would that be satisfactory?”

  “It would.”

  “I’ve brought along a telephone number he sent; he will see you the day you call. And you needn’t mention your name, the number is for your exclusive use.” Mercier placed a slip of paper on the desk.

  “Very thoughtful of him. You couldn’t have made a better choice.”

  “It wasn’t up to me, Dr. Lapp, this was General de Beauvilliers’s personal decision.” />
  “Even better,” Dr. Lapp said. “A General Staff is always a field of divergent opinions—ours is no different—but among these officers there are always two or three who have an intuitive understanding of what the future might hold.”

  “One wouldn’t have to be all that intuitive to understand Herr Hitler’s intentions.”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you, but you’d be wrong. Do you know the Latin proverb Mundus vult decipi, ergo decepiatur? Herr Hitler’s favorite saying: The world wants to be deceived, therefore let it be deceived. And he isn’t wrong. Newspapers on the continent explain every day why there won’t be war. And I assure you there will be, unless the right people determine to stop it.”

  “I can only hope this meeting is a step in that direction,” Mercier said.

  “We shall see.”

  For a moment, Mercier paused. Here was an opportunity—take it, or not? He had from the Rozens a name, Köhler, an affiliation, the Black Front, and a target, the I.N. 6 bureau of the German General Staff. And, if Dr. Lapp couldn’t help him take a step forward, then no one could. “I wonder, Dr. Lapp,” he said slowly, “if I might ask you a favor.”

  “One may always ask, colonel. Are you asking at General de Beauvilliers’s behest?”

  Mercier paused, then said, “No, it’s nothing he suggested, for this conversation, but I don’t believe he’d mind, if he knew.”

  “You’ve been honorable, colonel, which I appreciate. You haven’t . . . taken advantage . . . of a situation that could put me in real danger. So then, what sort of favor do you require?”

  “I’ve become interested, in the course of my work here, in the Black Front, Hitler’s most determined enemies in Germany.”

  Delicately, Dr. Lapp cleared his throat. “I do know who you mean, colonel, and regret that they haven’t been more effective. But I suggest you go carefully with this crowd, those who remain with us—most of them are in the ground, or wherever the Gestapo put them. Very extreme, these people. Captain Röhm, before he was murdered in ’thirty-four, recommended that the conservative industrialists be hanged. Dear me.”

  “I will be careful, Dr. Lapp; I would greatly prefer to remain aboveground. But I cannot move forward on a certain project until I obtain information that only a senior Black Front member might possess.”

  Dr. Lapp leaned toward him and folded his hands on the desk. “Now,” he said, “I must ask you if this project involves German interests, or is it particular to the interests of the Nazi party, the present regime? And, please, colonel, an honest answer.”

  This last was, Mercier understood, a veiled threat. “To the best of my knowledge, the interests of the Nazi party.”

  Dr. Lapp nodded, then looked at Mercier in a way that meant I hope you know what you’re doing. “Have you pen and paper?”

  Mercier produced a small pad and a fountain pen.

  “The man who might help you is hiding in Czechoslovakia, in the town the Poles call Cieszyn and the Czechs Tesin—much-disputed territory, as you’ll know. Presently he uses the name Julius Halbach, because he is hunted by the SD and the Gestapo. As a member of the Black Front, under yet another alias, he served directly under Otto Strasser and was active in the clandestine radio operation that broadcast propaganda into Germany. Last year, the head of that operation was murdered by SD operatives at an inn near the German border, but Otto Strasser and Halbach escaped.

  “Halbach is a man in his mid-fifties, and his story is typical. At one time he was a professor of ancient languages—Old Norse, Gothic, and so forth—at the university in Tübingen. In the late twenties, there was some sort of scandal, and he was forced to resign, his life ruined. Typical, as I said; the Nazi party was built on ruined lives—a failed career, the bitterness that feeds on injustice, redemption promised by a radical political movement.

  “Now comes the difficult part, which is that you may speak with him, and you might wish to offer him money, but you may not threaten him. And that is because we talk to him, through the good offices of an extraordinary woman, the kindest old soul in the world, a piano teacher in Tesin. I doubt he knows that he’s talking to us, but he is forthcoming—so don’t bruise him, agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Currently, he is employed as a teacher at a private academy in Tesin and rents a room in a house at six, Opava street. And, I should add, I don’t know what your plans are but I would not, if I were you, postpone this contact too long. He remains active in the Black Front underground, writing anti-Nazi pamphlets that are smuggled into German Silesia, and, because this infuriates the security services, he is not long for this world.”

  Mercier put away his pad and pen. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I hope it will help.”

  “Surely it will. And, Dr. Lapp, should you require further assistance, you know where to find me. Otherwise, we’ll meet at diplomatic events in the city.”

  “No doubt we shall. With all the formality of sworn enemies.” Dr. Lapp was amused and showed it, the Keaton prune face breaking into a sunny smile.

  Mercier stood, and they shook hands. “I wish all my enemies . . .” he said, not bothering to finish the thought.

  “Indeed.”

  Mercier was in his office early the following morning, laboring away at what he now called, for his personal use only, Operation Halbach. This was not easy, but the excitement of the chase drove him on, hour after hour, until midday, when a luncheon at the Hotel Bristol intervened, followed by a long meeting, and cocktails with the Roumanians at six. Then, to make up for lost time, he took the dossier off to Sienna street, where he sat at the kitchen table while Anna stroked his hair and looked over his shoulder. “Ahh, funny little numbers.”

  “It’s hard to work, at work.”

  “I know too well,” she said.

  “Only an hour.”

  She blew gently on the hair at the back of his neck. “Take your time, my dear, I like conscientious men.”

  He didn’t answer, took a roneo of a Tesin town map, and ran a finger down Opava street.

  Anna went off to bathe, returned in a towel, lay back on the bed—the towel chastely arrayed across her middle—retrieved her book, and turned on the radio. “It appears we’re in for the night.”

  “I fear we are.”

  “When you tire of it, come and say hello.”

  Later, she crawled under the covers and fell asleep, and at mid-night he joined her. But she was restless, lay awake in the darkness, then got out of bed and prowled around the room. “Can’t sleep?” he said, rising on one elbow.

  “Not right now.”

  He lay back down, watched her white shape in the darkness as she paced about, and finally said, “Are you looking for something?”

  “No, no. I’ll come back to bed in a minute.”

  By late morning of the following day, 13 April, he’d finished his plans for the operation and sent a dispatch off to de Beauvilliers, marked for the general’s eyes only. This was no business for 2, bis—not directly from him, it wasn’t. De Beauvilliers would have them provide what was required, but he would not ask, he would simply order, and the internal politics of the bureau would be successfully tamed.

  The response took some time, and it was 17 April when the general’s courier showed up at Mercier’s office in the chancery. A young man in civilian clothes, he introduced himself as an army captain. “I came over on the train,” he said, “and I’m going back on the morning express, so best look through this now, and you’ll have to sign for it.” He removed a few files from a small valise and pried up the false bottom. “German border control, Polish border control, I hope I don’t have to do this again.”

  Mercier did as the captain suggested, licking his thumb as he counted hundred-reichsmark notes.

  “It’s all there,” the captain said. “And there’s a verbal message from General de Beauvilliers. ‘Please be careful, do try very hard not to get caught. And best to avoid a visit to the casino.’ ”

&nbs
p; “Assure him I’ll be careful,” Mercier said. He signed the receipt.

  The captain said, “The valise is for your use, naturally,” wished Mercier Bon courage and good luck, and went off to a hotel.

  19 April. Tesin, Czechoslovakia—Cieszyn to the Poles—the former Duchy of Teschen, held over the years by this prince or that empire, changing sides with European wars and royal marriages as the centuries slid past. Just another small town, the usual statue and fountain in the central square, but grim and poor as one left the center and traveled out toward the edge, in the direction of the coal mines. On Hradny street, rows of narrow houses, women on their knees out on the stoops, with buckets and rags, trying to scrub away the Silesian grime. After Hradny, Opava, where the signs above the shops turned from Czech to Polish, and a tiny bar stood across the street and down the block from number 6. Four stools, two tables, a miniature Polish flag by the cash register.

  Mercier had made his way to Tesin on a series of local trains, sitting in second-class carriages, then taken a room in the hotel by the railway station. And stayed out of sight, keeping to his room, emerging only twice—once to buy a cheap briefcase, then, an hour later, setting out for the long walk to Opava street. He was being as cautious as he could be, for this was no normal operation. A normal operation would have included a supporting cast: cars and drivers, a couple with a child, old men with newspapers under their arms. And of this drama he would have been the star, summoned from his dressing room only when the moment came to take center stage and deliver the grand soliloquy. But not this time. This time he had to do the work by himself.

  He ordered a beer. The man behind the bar brought him a pilsener, then lingered a moment, taking a good long look at him. And who the hell are you? It was that kind of neighborhood. But the beer was very good. He turned on the stool and stared out the window, the melancholy stranger. Out past two well-attended strips of flypaper, the house on Opava street. Where a child now climbed the steps, home from school, swinging a blue lunchbox as she disappeared through the door. Next, a woman came out with a net bag, and returned fifteen minutes later with her marketing. Mercier had a second beer. The barman said, “Warm day, we’re having.”