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The spies of warsaw

Page 32

by Alan Furst


  as well. No doubt the future material will support what we already

  have."

  "No doubt? Why do you say that, colonel?"

  "The Germans are clever people, not in any way above misleading

  an opponent. It's the oldest game in the world: guide your enemy away

  from your true intentions. Are you unable to look at it from that perspective?"

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  "I suppose I can, still . . ."

  "Now see here, Mercier, nobody's taking anything away from

  what you've done. You deserve credit for that, and, as a full colonel,

  you'll have it. But you must accept that we have to take other possibilities into consideration, and that includes an Abwehr operation using

  rogue Nazis, supposedly rogue Nazis, to send us down the wrong

  path."

  Mercier worked hard to conceal his reaction from Bruner, but he

  failed. "Halbach was the real thing, Colonel Bruner."

  "Yes, so your report suggested, but how can you be sure? Was

  the Halbach you found the real Halbach? Or an Abwehr officer

  playing the role of Halbach? Well, I can't pretend to know that for a

  certainty--can you?"

  "Not for a certainty. Nothing is ever certain, particularly in this

  work."

  "Ah-ha! Now you're on to the game! I'm not saying this is final,

  but it's one view, and we would be negligent if we didn't take it seriously. No? Not true?"

  "Yes, sir," Mercier said, now eager to be anywhere but Bruner's

  office. "I understand."

  "I'm glad of that. We know you have ability, colonel, you are an

  excellent officer, that's been proven. Surely wasted on an attache

  assignment in that Warsaw rats' nest. General de Beauvilliers has

  asked for your transfer, and you can pretty much count on our agreement. Does that please you? Colonel?"

  Mercier nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  "Well then, I won't keep you. I expect you'd like to go out and celebrate."

  Mercier walked home through a rich spring afternoon, a Parisian

  spring, that mocked him in every way. Amid chestnut blossoms fallen

  on the sidewalk, the outdoor tables of a cafe were at full throb with

  city life--the lovers, with their hands on each other; conversing busi-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 264

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  nessmen, afloat on a sea of genial commerce; the newspaper readers,

  solemn, intent on the politics of the day and a favored journalist's acid

  comments; and the women, lovely in their spring outfits, alone with an

  aperitif, and perhaps, perhaps, available. A wondrous theatre, Mercier

  thought, each and every spring, now, next year, forever.

  As he walked, his soldier's heart steadied him. Bruner and his

  cronies, all the way up to Petain and his cronies, had denied him,

  would not have their version of military doctrine spoiled by what he'd

  learned--there would be no German tanks, no attack through the

  forests. The current thinking could not be wrong, because they could

  not be wrong.

  Had they betrayed France? Or just betrayed Mercier? He would, in

  time, find a way to accept their decision and in the future, working for

  de Beauvilliers, he would certainly press on, trying to prove that his

  discovery had been true. That's what an officer did, forever, down

  through the ages. If an attack failed, you gathered your remaining

  troops and attacked again. And again, until they killed you or you

  took their position. He knew no other way. Yes, he was angry, and

  stung. No, it didn't matter. He could only remain true to himself, there

  was no other possibility.

  And the people on these lovely old streets? The crowd at the cafe?

  Would they be forced to live with a lost war? He hoped not, oh how

  deeply he hoped not, he'd seen the defeated, the occupied, the lost--

  that could not come here, not to this city, not to this cafe.

  Then he sped up, walking faster now. Now he wanted to be back

  with people who cared for him, his private nation.

  Back on the rue Saint-Simon, as Mercier let himself in the door, he

  heard a raucous laugh from the parlor. Then Albertine's voice. "Is that

  you, Jean-Francois?"

  Mercier walked down the hall to the parlor.

  "Welcome back, love," Anna said. "We've been having the best

  time." Clearly they were. On a glass-topped bar cart, a half bottle of

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  gin stood next to a seltzer bottle, alongside a squeezed-out lemon and

  a sugar bowl.

  "We've taught ourselves to make gin fizzes, right here at home,"

  Albertine said. Both she and Anna were flushed, the latter sitting sideways in an easy chair, her legs draped over the arm.

  "The conqueror has returned," Anna said. "Covered in laurels."

  Mercier collapsed in the corner of the sofa, took his officer's hat

  by its stiff brim and sailed it across the room, where it landed on a

  brocaded loveseat. "They fired me," he said. "The bastards."

  "What?" Anna said.

  "We'd best make a new batch," Albertine said, rising unsteadily

  and making her way to the drinks cart.

  "I gave them treasure," Mercier said. "They threw it on the dung

  pile."

  "Oh, those people," Albertine said. "I'm sorry if they've treated

  you badly, but you ought not to be so shocked."

  "What happened?" Anna said, twisting around in order to sit

  properly.

  "I found a way to acquire important information. They, the officers of the General Staff, have chosen not to believe it."

  "Half of them are in the Action Francaise, " Albertine said, naming the high-brow French fascist organization. She worked a cut lemon

  around a glass corer, then poured the juice into a highball glass. "They

  want France to be allied with Germany, the only enemy they think

  about is Russia."

  "Who knows what they want," Mercier said. "They tossed me a

  promotion and they're transferring me back to Paris."

  "And that's so bad?" Albertine said.

  "My highly placed ally likely went to war, but he didn't win. Now

  he's rescued me, I'm going to work for him. I guess that's a promotion

  as well."

  "Nothing quite like winning and losing at once," Albertine said,

  adding sugar to the glass. "You'll feel better in a moment, dear."

  "You're leaving Warsaw?" Anna said.

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  "Yes. I don't suppose you'd care to come along, would you?"

  "Am I de trop?" Albertine said.

  "No, no. Stay where you are," Mercier said. "Could you do that,

  Anna? Move to Paris?"

  "If you want me to. I'd have to resign from the League."

  "They hire lawyers in Paris," Albertine said. "Even woman

  lawyers."

  "Well, we don't have to decide all this tonight," Mercier said. "But

  I'm not going to have us living in two places."

  "Ah, good for you," Albertine said. Then, to Anna, "He's the best

  cousin, dear, is he not? And he might do for a husband."

  "Albertine, " Mercier said. "We'll talk about it in the mor
ning. For

  now, where's my gin fizz?"

  "Just ready," Albertine said. She brought Mercier his drink and

  settled down at the other end of the sofa. Then she raised her glass.

  "Anyhow, salut, and vive la France, " she said. "It's the good side, and

  I do mean the three of us, who will win in the end."

  They didn't.

  Twenty-four months later, with Guderian in command, a massive

  German tank attack through the Ardennes Forest breached the French

  defenses, and--on 22 June, 1940--France capitulated. The former

  Colonel Charles de Gaulle, by then promoted to general, left France

  and led the resistance from London. After many adventures, Colonel

  Mercier de Boutillon and his wife, Anna, also made their way to London, where Mercier went to work for de Gaulle, and Anna for the

  Sixth Bureau, the intelligence service of the Polish resistance army.

  And on 25 June, 1940, Marshal Philippe Petain accepted the leadership of the Vichy government.

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  A B O U T T H E A U T H O R

  Alan Furst is widely recognized as the master of the

  historical spy novel. Now translated into seventeen

  languages, he is the author of Night Soldiers, Dark

  Star, The Polish Officer, The World at Night, Red

  Gold, Kingdom of Shadows, Blood of Victory, Dark

  Voyage, and The Foreign Correspondent. Born in

  New York, he now lives in Paris and on Long Island.

  Visit the author's website at www.alanfurst.net.

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  A B O U T T H E T Y P E

  This book was set in Sabon, a typeface designed by

  the well-known German typographer Jan Tschichold

  (1902-74). Sabon's design is based on the original

  letterforms of Claude Garamond and was created

  specifically to be used for three sources: foundry type

  for hand composition, Linotype, and Monotype.

  Tschichold named his typeface for the famous

  Frankfurt typefounder Jacques Sabon, who died in

  1580.

  Document Outline

  COVER

  ALSO BY ALAN FURST

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  EPIGRAPH

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TYPE

 

 

 


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