The spies of warsaw

by Alan Furst

  "I suppose I can. I'd almost forgotten, that sort of life."

  "Will you fly to Zurich?"

  "Perhaps tomorrow. The funds will be there?"

  "We are true to our word," Mercier said. "It's all in the account."

  Halbach looked out the window; the two passengers left the customs shed. "And will this," he said, "all this, make any difference, in

  the long run?"

  "It may. Who knows?"

  Halbach climbed out of the car, retrieved his suitcase from the

  trunk, returned to the passenger side, and looked in at Mercier, who

  leaned over and rolled the window down. "Likely I won't see you

  again," Halbach said.

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  "No, likely not."

  Halbach nodded, then walked toward the dock. At the door to the

  customs shed, an older couple, poorly dressed, entered just as he

  arrived. Then, a moment later, Halbach followed them. Mercier

  waited, the Renault engine idling. The ferry creaked as it rose and

  descended on the harbor swell. Mercier checked the time: 11:39. A

  sailor walked down the gangway and stood by one of the bollards that

  held the mooring lines. Now it was 11:42. Somebody in the customs

  shed reached out and closed the door. Had something gone wrong?

  They couldn't get this close, just to . . . Five minutes, six, then ten.

  Should he go to the shed? To do exactly what? Above the door, the

  breeze toyed with the red and black flag. 11:51. The sailor at the bollard began to unhitch the mooring rope, and the ferry tooted its cartoon horn, once, and again. A few passengers had gathered at the

  railing, looking back into Germany. Mercier's hands gripped the

  wheel so hard they ached, and he let go. Now the couple left the shed,

  the man supporting the woman with an arm around her waist. When

  the sailor called out to them the man said something to the woman,

  and they tried to hurry. Mercier closed his eyes and sagged against the

  seat. Not now. Please, not now. The sailor tossed the mooring line

  onto the deck and strolled over to the other bollard. Two crewmen

  appeared at the end of the gangway, ready to haul it aboard.

  Then Halbach came out of the shed, tall and awkward, running,

  holding his hat on his head as he ran. At the end of the gangway, he

  turned and looked at Mercier, then disappeared into the cabin.

  Mercier took a hotel room in Rostock; then, early the following morning, drove back to Berlin and, at the northern edge of the city, parked

  the car. Carefully, he searched the interior and the trunk, found no evidence left behind, and locked the doors. There it would remain. He

  took a taxi to the Adlon and settled in to let the days pass. He felt

  much safer now that Halbach was no longer in the country, and he had

  to work to keep elation at arm's length. Because Elter might not show

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  up at the Birdcage Bar, because the Gestapo might show up instead--

  if he'd been caught in the act, or if he'd been so foolish as to go to his

  superiors. Or, really, was that so foolish? Play the contrite victim, tell

  all, hope for the best.

  No, Mercier told himself. That look of murderous hatred had

  revealed something of Elter's true self--the brute inside the clerk.

  Mercier had not been displeased by that look, far from it. It meant

  secret strength, just what Elter would need to do what he had to. Save

  Otto Strasser? Save Halbach? A joke. Elter would save Elter. And then,

  struggling along on a corporal's pay, war on the horizon, welcome to

  Switzerland.

  The Adlon was busy, only a luxurious double had been available.

  A warm room, and very comforting, lush fabrics in subdued colors,

  soft carpet, soft light. Mercier took off his shoes to stretch out on the

  fancy coverlet, stared at the ceiling, missed Anna Szarbek. The telephone on the desk tempted him sorely, but that was out of the question. Still, there was something about these lovely rooms, not just

  flattering--only success brought you to such places--but seductive.

  Now he wanted her. She liked nice things, nice places. She would

  march about in her bare skin, showing off her curves. He rose from the

  bed, went to the telephone, and ordered dinner brought to the room.

  Better to stay out of sight. Friday.

  28 April. Hotel Excelsior. A vast beehive of a hotel, buzzing with

  guests--the swarm concentrated at the reception counter and spread

  out across the lobby. Mercier waited his turn at the desk, signed

  the register, and handed over the Lombard passport--this was not the

  Singvogel. A bellboy took his valise and they rode the elevator to the

  eighth floor, as the operator, wearing white gloves, called out the floor

  for each stop. In the room, he tipped the bellboy and, after he'd left,

  paused before the mirror: anonymous as he could be, in dark blue

  overcoat, gray scarf, and steel-gray hat. He left the valise in the room

  and descended to the lobby.

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  Across from the reception, the Birdcage Bar. Mercier pushed the

  padded door open, and yes, there it was, as advertised: a gilded cage

  suspended from the ceiling, its floor covered with oriental pillows for

  the comfort of the bird presently in captivity, an indolent maiden, very

  close to nude but for her feathered costume and tight gold cap. At rest

  when Mercier entered, she now rose, circled the cage, went to her

  knees, held the bars, and reached out for a passing guest, who circled

  the outstretched hand with a nervous laugh and rejoined his wife at

  their table.

  Standing at the bar, Mercier surveyed the tables in the room.

  Elter? Not yet, it was only 7:20. Surveillance? No way to tell, dozens of

  people, drinking and talking; it could be any of them. Would this contact have been safer under a railway bridge? Maybe, but too late now.

  Mercier left the bar, and found a chair in the lobby, a potted palm on

  one side, a marble column on the other. Elter came through the door

  at 7:28, wearing hat and overcoat and carrying a large briefcase by its

  leather handle. He peered about him, found the neon sign above the

  door to the bar, and headed across the lobby. Mercier watched the

  entry doors--two dowdy women with suitcases, a young couple, a

  beefy gent holding a newspaper, who walked toward the elevator.

  Mercier stood up and hurried over to the bar. Elter was just inside,

  looking around, not sure what to do next--every table was taken.

  "Herr Elter," Mercier said, "would you please come with me?"

  Mercier led him to the elevator and said, "Eight, please." Above

  the door, a steel semicircle, where an arrow moved over the floor numbers as the car rose. Four. Five. . . . Eight. Mercier got out, Elter followed, and they walked together down a long empty hall. It was very

  still inside 803, a common hotel room with a print of an old sailing

  ship above the bed, and almost dark, but for the ambient light of the

  city outside the window. Mercier left it that way, he could see well

  enough. "Please put the briefcase on the bed," he said. />
  Elter stood at the window. Mercier opened the briefcase. Papers,

  of various sizes, many of them crumpled and straightened out,

  sketches, memoranda, a study of some sort, several pages long. From

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  the pocket of his jacket he brought out a manila envelope, its flap

  unsealed. "You'd best have a look at this," he said to Elter.

  "Very well," Elter said, his voice quiet and firm.

  Mercier opened the envelope and handed Elter a Swiss passport.

  "There is an address in here, a photography studio in Prague. They

  will complete the passport for you. Can you go to Prague?"

  "Yes. I don't see why not."

  "In this envelope is also an account number and the address of a

  bank in Zurich. The account holds five hundred thousand Swiss

  francs, you need only submit the number. Is that clear?"

  "It is."

  "Did you tell anyone about this?"

  "I most certainly did not."

  "Your wife?"

  "No."

  "Best keep it that way, until you leave Germany."

  "I have no intention of leaving."

  "Well, that's up to you." Mercier snapped the briefcase closed and

  picked up his valise. "It would be best," Mercier said, "if you remain

  in this room for fifteen minutes."

  Elter was studying the bank information, hand-printed on a

  square of notepaper. "There is one thing I wanted to ask you," he said.

  "Yes?" Mercier had taken a step toward the door, now he turned

  back.

  In the darkened room, the two men in hats and overcoats stood,

  for a moment, in silence, then Elter said, "Will you seek further information? About the I.N. Six section?"

  Mercier's mind raced. "We might."

  "I've thought about this night and day, since Halbach approached

  me. And I came to a certain conclusion. Which is, if I can be of service, and you are willing to pay . . ."

  It was the last thing Mercier expected to hear, but he recovered

  quickly. "We have your address, Herr Elter. And we always pay people

  who help us."

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  Elter nodded. "Then I'll expect to hear from you."

  "Good night, Herr Elter," Mercier said, turning back toward the

  door. "And be careful."

  "Yes, good night," Elter said.

  Mercier left the room and descended to the lobby. He checked out,

  retrieved his passport, found a taxi at the entry to the hotel, and

  returned to the Adlon.

  The briefcase held seventy-three papers, now laid out on the bed in his

  hotel room. Some of it useless-- Meet with Klaus, 4:30 Thursday--

  some of it valuable. A draft for a report on the fuel consumption of

  Panzer tanks. A hand-drawn sketch of an area within the Ardennes

  Forest, with arrows showing potential attack routes. A roneo copy of

  a forest survey map, made by French military cartographers in 1932,

  according to the legend in the lower corner. This copy bore handwritten symbols and numbers--meaningless to Mercier--which implied

  that copies of the map were being used as worksheets. A draft for a

  memorandum on the ground clearances of various tank models, some

  of the designations unknown to Mercier. Planned? In production? A

  significant proportion of the documents had originated with a certain

  Hauptmann--captain--Bauer, including a note from Guderian himself, thanking Bauer for his contribution to a discussion of meteorological patterns on France's northeast frontier.

  But what particularly interested Mercier was what wasn't there;

  nothing on the subject of the Maginot Line, nothing to do with the

  defense system built on France's eastern frontier--no forts, no bunkers, no pillboxes. If Germany were to invade France, the attack

  would come with tanks, through the Belgian forests. That was the

  position of the I.N. 6, that was the position of the German General

  Staff, that's what was laid out in seventy-three papers on a bed in the

  Hotel Adlon.

  Was this enough? For the generals in Paris? Well, there was more

  to be had; they could go back to Corporal Elter. Surely they would. A

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  gift from the gods--the gods of greed--and entirely unanticipated.

  Nonetheless, a victory.

  But if this was victory, it had taken him somewhere very close to

  exhaustion. Weary beyond strength, Mercier managed to rid himself

  of socks, shirt, and trousers, made sure of the lock on the door, turned

  off the lamp, and lay down on the other bed. He lit a cigarette and

  stared at the papers. In the morning, he would hide them below the

  false bottom of his valise, take a taxi to Tempelhof airport, and fly to

  Le Bourget. A taxi ride to de Beauvilliers's apartment in the Seventh

  Arrondissement, a report to be written, and then back to Warsaw. A

  job well done.

  Or so he thought. In Warsaw, a hero's welcome on Sienna street--

  where Anna went shopping and returned with the best Polish ham, rye

  bread from the Jewish bakery on Nalewki street, and a bottle of Roederer champagne. Then, later on, a black negligee, purchased for the

  hero's return, which turned her shape into a pale image obscured by

  shadow--for as long as it stayed on. At the embassy, the following

  morning, again the hero. They didn't know what he'd been doing,

  but they knew it was some sort of operation, and they could see he

  had returned safe and sound and in a good mood. "It went as you

  wished?" Jourdain said. Mercier said that it had, and Jourdain said,

  "Good to have you back."

  Over the next few days, perfectly content with meetings and paperwork, he waited for word from Paris. It came on a Monday, the eighth

  of May, a telephone call from General de Beauvilliers. A series of

  oblique pleasantries, "Overall, we are quite impressed here," not

  much more than that, one had to be cautious with the telephone. And

  then, finally, "I'd very much like to have a talk with you, I wonder if

  you could come over here. I believe there's an early flight in the morning." Merely a suggestion, of course.

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  Mercier hung up and called Anna at the League office. "I'm flying

  to Paris tomorrow."

  A sigh. "Well, I hate to give you up. Is it for long?"

  "A few days, perhaps."

  "But I'll see you tonight."

  "You will, but that's not why I called. Would you like to come

  along?"

  "To Paris?" She said it casually, but there was delight in her voice.

  "Maybe I could. I'm supposed to be in Danzig on the tenth, but I can

  try to move it back."

  "Do what you can, Anna. There's a LOT flight at eight-thirty. We

  can stay on the rue Saint-Simon, at the apartment. What do you

  think?"

  "Paris? In May? I'll just have to make the best of it, won't I?"

  9 May. At five-thirty, he met with de Beauvilliers in an office at the

  Invalides, in the maze of the General Staff headquarters. Gray and

  Napoleonic as it was, the trees were in
new leaf and birds sang away

  outside the window. "Surely you are the hero of the moment," de

  Beauvilliers said. "I have to admit, the day we had lunch at the

  Heininger, I didn't really believe it was possible, but you did it, my boy,

  you did it to perfection."

  "Some luck was involved. And, without Dr. Lapp--"

  "Oh yes, I know, I know. Credit goes here and there, but we've broken into the I.N. Six, and we'll go back for more."

  "Will you want me to handle the contact with Elter?"

  "We'll see. Anyhow I wanted to congratulate you, and I wanted to

  talk to you before your meeting with Colonel Bruner; he's waiting for

  you in his office. First of all, you're going to be promoted to full

  colonel."

  "Thank you, general."

  "Bruner will tell you again, so you'll have to pretend to be surprised, but I wanted to be the one to give you the good news. And

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  that isn't all. You will want to think this over, but I'm requesting, officially, that you come here and work for me. It's a small section, very

  quiet, but you'll find people like yourself. And what we do is meaningful, sensitive, far beyond the usual staff drudgery. Does it appeal to

  you, colonel, work in the upper atmosphere?"

  "It does. Of course it does."

  "Good, we'll talk again, maybe tomorrow, but best go see Bruner

  and have your meeting."

  Mercier walked over to 2, bis, avenue de Tourville, then waited for fifteen minutes in Bruner's reception before he was admitted to the inner

  sanctum. The colonel's freshly shaved face glowed pink, and he sat at

  attention, puffed up to his grandest hauteur. "Ah, Mercier, here you

  are! A great success, our brightest star. Congratulations are certainly

  in order--bravo! There will be a promotion in it for you, you can

  depend on that, colonel."

  Mercier was dutifully surprised, and grateful.

  "Yes, you've surely given us a view into the I.N. Six," Bruner said.

  "We've had meeting after meeting, and we're still working on the documents. This information will, believe me, be taken into account as

  we make our own plans."

  "That's what I hoped for, colonel."

  "And so you should have. Of course, we do have to consider the

  possibility that we're being misled."

  "Misled?"

  "Well, it's almost too good to be true, isn't it. And a recruitment