The spies of warsaw (28 page)

down, the speeding train hammering along the track between low

hills. She slept on her stomach, curved bottom pale in the light made

by the moon shining on snow. As he ran his fingers up and back, he

watched her come awake, her mouth opened slightly, then widened as

her eyebrows lifted--the delicately wicked face of anticipation.

At Brno station, the sleep of exhaustion.

But after Bratislava, as the train roared through a tunnel, he woke

again, to find her making love to him, very excited, her hand between

his legs, while her lower part, moist and insistent, straddled his thigh.

"Easy . . . easy," she whispered.

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Coming into Budapest, in the first trace of dawn, only a fond

embrace. But very fond.

They went to the dining car for breakfast. The same waiter, discreet as

he could be, yet somehow he made them aware that he knew exactly

how they'd spent the night, and that he was a man who believed in

love. "Do you eat breakfast?" she said.

"No, usually coffee and a cigarette. But I didn't eat yesterday,

so"--he searched the brief menu--"I'll have the Vienna roll, whatever

that might be."

"A sexual act?"

"Perhaps, we'll see. Not much privacy in here so it's probably

cake."

It was, walnuts and apricot filling in butter-laden pastry. "Lord!"

he said. "Try a little bite, anyhow." He fed her.

"What's next? Belgrade?"

"In two hours. Should we talk about Warsaw?"

"Maybe a few words."

"I'm in love with you, Anna. I want you with me."

"I will have to make things final, with Maxim."

"I know."

For a moment, she was lost in thought. Then touched his knee,

beneath the table. "It's just the prospect of working it all out, saying

things, leaving."

He nodded that he understood.

"I think I would have left him anyhow. But, are you sure? That you

want to do this?"

"Yes. You?"

"Very sure. Since the storm. No, a day or two later. Anyhow, we

can talk all this out in Belgrade."

"Not for long. I have to go back tomorrow: Sunday."

"
What?
No rights of national minorities?"

"Which hotel are you staying at?"

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*

A long trip back to Warsaw. After a night together at the Serbski

Kralj--King of Serbia--hotel, she'd accompanied him, late Sunday

afternoon, to the railway station. In his compartment, he'd lowered

the window, and she'd stood on the platform, hands in the pockets of

her long coat, and they'd gazed at each other as the train pulled away,

until he could see her no longer. Then he'd stared out at the winter

dusk for a while, reliving various moments of the time they'd shared.

But, finally, it was Simenon--all too soon finished--and, inevitably,

Stendhal--far more compelling than he'd remembered--followed by

the trout, this time consumed, and, back in his compartment, deep

and dreamless sleep.

Paradise, really, compared to what Monday held in store. He'd gone

directly to the embassy from the station, and into a meeting with Jourdain and the other military attaches. The usual grim business. He

stayed on afterward, to speak privately with Jourdain.

"There's been no signal from the Rozens," Jourdain said. "We've

had our Poles in and out of the post office."

"They missed the meeting on the eighteenth," Mercier said.

Jourdain looked up from his papers. "Has something happened?"

"Perhaps. We'll just have to wait and see."

Jourdain made a small sound of frustration. "We spend our lives

waiting," he said.

"On a different subject, I've had a change in my--ah, personal

life. Somebody I like. What would happen if she were to join me, in

the apartment?"

Jourdain thought for a moment, then said, "I wouldn't, if it were

me. They can't really tell you what to do, in your private life, but I suspect they think of the apartment as a kind of semi-official residence.

Somebody
will write a memorandum, you can count on that, and,

after everything that's gone on the last few weeks, I'm afraid there

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might be a storm. The ambassador likes you, but I wouldn't want to

ask him, if I were you, for protection in this area. Forgive me, JeanFrancois, but it's better if I tell you what I really think."

"I knew. More or less. Just thought I'd ask."

"Anyhow, congratulations. Who is she?"

"Anna Szarbek."

"The League lawyer?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Lucky man," Jourdain said.

Back in his office, a clerk delivered mail from the diplomatic pouch.

Wading through drivel of every degree--a change in the form for filing

certain reports, a new charge d'affaires appointed in Riga--he came

upon a yellow manila envelope. Inside--attached to a note from

Colonel Bruner--a white envelope addressed to "Andre," his work

name in the Edvard Uhl operation, holding a letter, handwritten, in

German:

6 January, 1938

Dear Andre,

I write from Paris, and I am informed that this letter will

reach you in Warsaw. I leave soon, for a new life in Canada, a

new job, with a small company, and a new place to live, a small

town near the city of Quebec. So, I have already started to learn

to speak French. Now, I do not regret what I did. As I look

toward Germany and see what goes on there, perhaps it was for

the best.

I am writing on the subject of the Countess Sczelenska. I

know now that she was not a countess, and her name was not

Sczelenska. This doesn't matter to me. I still have dear memories of our love affair. I don't care how it came to happen--my

feelings for her are undiminished. I miss her. I like to think she

might have some feeling for me, as well. At least I can hope.

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Would you say farewell for me? Tell her of my affection for

her? And that, should this unhappy Europe some day find itself

in better times, perhaps, on that day, we might meet again. I

would be eternally grateful if you would say these things to her

on my behalf.

A flowery German closing was followed by Uhl's signature.

The note from Colonel Bruner stated that the letter was being sent

on to him because it was now felt that the bureau might, in certain circumstances, have further use for Uhl, and they wanted to keep him

happy. Of course Mercier would not reveal to Hana Musser, who'd

played the role of Sczelenska, where Uhl was, or what he was doing,

but it might not be the worst thing to let her know of the letter's existence and Uhl's sentiments. "Just in case, in future, we need to induce

him to undertake new work on our behalf."

Mercier had maintained Hana Musser's small stipend; he might

require her services, and, also, he liked her--though he would never

tell Bruner that. He wrote out a brief dispatch: acknowledged receipt

of the letter and agreed to let Hana Musser know of Uhl's safety, his

affectionate farewell, and his hope to, some day, see her again.

25 January. Mercier's regular meeting with Colonel Vyborg was scheduled for that morning, but there would be no
ponczki
--or so it

seemed--since Vyborg had shifted the meeting from their usual cafe

to his office at General Staff headquarters, in the Tenth Pavilion of the

Warsaw Citadel: a vast fortress, containing the Savka Barracks, built

under the nineteenth-century Russian occupation and located north

of the central city, facing the Vistula. Vyborg's office was down a long

hallway from the room where, famously, Marshal Pilsudski had been

held prisoner, in 1900, by the Russian secret police.

Mercier arrived promptly at eleven, to discover that Vyborg had

ordered the cafe to deliver a dozen
ponczki
s to his office, where they'd

been laid out on a plate from the regimental china service. There was

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coffee in a silver urn, and the cups and saucers were also from the regimental china. Sugar, cream, linen napkins--what sort of news,

Mercier wondered, awaited him? On the wall above Vyborg's desk, a

beautifully drawn map, in colored pencil, of an estate called Perenska,

with some of the surrounding countryside included. Mercier walked

over to the map to have a better look at it.

"My country home," Vyborg explained. "The map was drawn by

Captain de Milja, in our Geographical Section."

"It is very handsome," Mercier said.

"I'm pleased you find it so."

They settled at a table by the window, looking out at the river.

Vyborg poured coffee, Mercier attacked a
ponczki,
and they chatted

for a time, this and that. Mercier knew that Vyborg might soon be

made aware of Soviet networks spying on Poland--if the Rozens

were still alive--but he could say nothing. This information would go

from the
Deuxieme Bureau
to the head of Oddzial II, Polish military

intelligence, the
Dwojka
--protocol, always protocol. And, since a

separate section handled the USSR, the information would not damage Vyborg personally. The discovery of spies was a double-edged

sword--congratulations on finding out, why didn't you know earlier.

When they were done with gossip, Mercier said, "Any special reason to meet in your office?"

"There is, I'm afraid. Something not for a cafe." In Vyborg's voice,

a slight discomfort.

So then, bad news. Mercier lit a Mewa and waited.

"We have reason to believe," Vyborg said, "that certain people are

interested in you."

"Which people, Anton?"

"A woman of Ukrainian origin, who works at a travel agency on

Marszalkowska, was observed, on three occasions, watching the

building where you live. And seen both near your embassy and on your

street, a German of Polish nationality, a nasty-looking character

called Winckelmann. He was using a fancy Opel, black, the 1937

Admiral model"--Vyborg looked down at an open dossier--"Polish

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license plate six, nine-four-nine. For what looked a lot like surveillance. This Winckelmann is known to work, from time to time, as a

driver for SD officers at the German embassy."

"A nasty-looking character, you say. A small fellow, with a pinched

face? Who might remind one--diminutive but fierce--of a weasel?"

Vyborg was delighted. "A weasel! Yes, exactly. Evidently you've

seen him."

"The day of the Uhl abduction. Also, the same car. Did you say

you've
seen him?"

"Not in person." Vyborg produced, from the dossier, a photograph, which he handed to Mercier.

Taken from a window above Ujazdowska avenue with a longrange lens, the slightly blurred image of a man behind the wheel of a

parked automobile, eyes staring up and to the right, apparently watching the street in the rearview mirror.

"The weasel?"

Mercier nodded, then looked up at Vyborg and said, "Your agents

were in a building on my street? And near the embassy? You aren't

going to tell me this is a coincidence, are you?"

Vyborg said, "No, I'm not," quietly, an admission made with only

faint reluctance. "You mustn't be angry, Jean-Francois. The
Dwojka

cares for its French friends and makes sure, every once in a while, that

all goes well with them. It's done by the counterintelligence people--

not my department--and, as you might suppose, the same sort of

thing goes on in Paris, with
our
attaches."

Vyborg wasn't wrong, Mercier suspected, but, even so, he didn't

like it. He took a sip of his coffee.

"None of us are saints, my friend; we all watch each other, sooner

or later. Have another
ponczki.
" Vyborg lifted the platter and extended it toward Mercier.

As Mercier chewed, he watched a barge on the river, working

upstream.

"And, I would say, in this case the practice works to your benefit.

Any idea what's going on?"

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Mercier thought it over. "I don't know. Perhaps the fact that I

spoiled their abduction--"

"Very unlikely. People in this business know that once these little

wars begin, it's very hard to stop them. A silent treaty--we keep our

hands off each other. I don't mean recruitment, that never ends. They

might probe to see if you were gambling, or doing whatever it might

be that could be used for blackmail, but, as far as I know, you lead a

rather respectable life. And if they
were
recruiting, it wouldn't look

like this."

Mercier shrugged. "Uhl wasn't all that important. At least, we

never thought he was. A view into German tank production; surely

they're running similar operations in France."