The spies of warsaw (39 page)

apparition in the doorway, which searched the room, then waved to

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A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 5 1

him. The weekly meeting of the Kreuzberg Model Railway Club, in the

basement of a local church, was one of the few pleasures in his humdrum existence, but now, even here, his past had returned to haunt

him. "A former acquaintance," he explained to the man beside him, a

stockbroker with an estate in the Charlottenburg district.

Halbach circled the trestle tables, then offered his hand. "Good

evening, Johannes. Your wife said I would find you here."

Elter returned the greeting, a smile frozen on his face.

"Can we speak for a moment?" There was no conspiracy in Halbach's voice, but, in a pleasant way, he meant
privately.

"We can go upstairs," Elter said.

"Don't be too long," the stockbroker said. "We are electing officers tonight."

"I'll be right back," Elter said. Coming directly from work, he

wore the uniform of a
Wehrmacht
corporal.

Halbach, heart pounding, followed Elter up the stairs to the

vestibule. The church beyond was empty, the altar bare. It had been

Lutheran once but now, in line with the dictates of the Nazi regime,

was home to a rather secular denomination known as "German Christian." Elter waited until Halbach climbed the last step, then, his voice

low and strained, said, "What are you
doing
? Coming here like this."

"Forgive me," Halbach said. "I had to come."

"Has something changed? Are you now free to go anywhere?"

"No, they are after me still."

"You could ruin me, Julius. Don't you know that?" Elter's face

was ashen, his hands trembling.

"It was Otto who sent me to see you," Halbach said.

Elter was stunned. "He's alive?"

"He is," Halbach said. "For the time being."

"Where . . . ?"

"I mustn't say, but what's happened is that he's fallen into the

hands of foreign agents."

Silence. Finally Elter said, "Then that's it."

"It need not be. But they will turn him over to the Gestapo and, if

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they do, he'll be forced to tell what he knows. And that
will
be the end,

for me, for you, for all of us who are still alive." Halbach let that sink

in, then said, "Unless . . ."

Elter's voice broke as he said, "Unless
what
?"

"It depends on you. On you alone."

"What could
I
do?"

"They want information, from the office where you work."

"That's espionage! Who are they?"

"They are Swiss, or so they say. And they offer you two things if

you comply: a Swiss passport, in a new name, and five hundred thousand Swiss francs. So you must choose, Johannes, between that and

the Gestapo cellars."

Elter put a hand on his heart and said, "I don't feel well." Down

below, the lights went out and another train began its run, the locomotive tooting its whistle.

Halbach reached out and rested his hand on Elter's arm. "This

was inevitable," he said, not unkindly. "If not today, tomorrow."

"My God, Julius, why do you do this to me? I was always a faithful friend."

"Because of that, I do it."

"But I don't have information. I know nothing."

"Trash. That's what they want. Papers thrown away in the wastebaskets."

"It's burned! Every bit of it, by the janitors."

"When?"

"At nine in the evening, when they come in to clean the offices."

"You must do it before nine."

"But there's too much; how would I carry it out of the building?"

"They want only the material from the section that works on plans

for war with France: three days of it. Leave the rest for the janitors."

"I thought you said they were Swiss."

Halbach grew impatient. "Oh who knows what these people are

up to, they have their own reasons. But the money is real, I know that

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personally, and so is the passport. Here, have a look." Halbach

reached into his jacket and handed Elter the Braun passport.

Elter looked at it, then gave it back. "I don't want to leave Germany, I have a family."

"That's up to you. Your money will be in an account in Zurich.

You'll be given the number and the passport on Friday. You'll have to

put in a photograph, but they will tell you how to manage that."

Elter looked suddenly weary. "I don't know what to do."

"Do you want to die, Johannes?"

Elter's voice was barely audible. "No."

Halbach waited. Finally, Elter shook his head, slowly, sickened by

what life had done to him. "Friday, you said?"

"At the Hotel Excelsior. In the Birdcage Bar. Come in civilian

clothing, put the papers in a briefcase. Seven-thirty in the evening. Can

you remember?"

"Seven-thirty. The Birdcage Bar."

Halbach looked at his watch. "Walk me out, Johannes."

They left the vestibule and stood for a moment in the doorway of

the church. Across the street, Mercier was sitting behind the wheel of

the Renault, clearly visible with the driver's window rolled down.

"Is that one of them?" Elter said.

Halbach nodded. "Old friend," he said, "will you still shake

hands with me?"

Elter sighed as he took Halbach's hand. "I never imagined . . ." he

said.

"I know. None of us did. It's the wisdom of the gods--to keep the

future dark."

In the car, Mercier watched the two men in the doorway. The one

in uniform turned, and stared into his eyes with a look of pure hatred.

Mercier was holding the camera below the window; now he raised it,

looked through the viewfinder, and pressed the button.

*

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Mercier wasted no time. His valise and Halbach's suitcase were

already in the trunk of the Renault. Now he wound his way out of

Kreuzberg and onto the road that ran north to Neustrelitz. Beside

him, Halbach leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes.

"Not very far, is it?"

"Three hours, no more than that."

"Will he be at the bar?"

"I trust he will. Do you agree?"

"I'm not sure. He'll think about it, try to find a way out. And then

. . . well, you'll see, won't you."

A fine spring night. The road was dark and deserted and Mercier

drove fast. It was 11:30 when they reached the city of Rostock and, a

few minutes later, the port of Warnemunde. At the dock, the ferry--a

ferry from a cartoon; its tall stack would pump out puffs of smoke in

time to a calliope--was already taking on passengers, headed across

the Baltic to the Danish port of Gedser. Just up the street, at the edge

of the dock, a customs shed held the border
kontrol,
where two passengers waited at the door, then entered the shed.

"Shall I walk you through the
kontrol
?" Mercier said.

"No, I'll manage."

"There's one last train for Copenhagen tonight, on the other side.

Of course, once you're in Denmark, you may do whatever you like."

"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.