The Spies of Warsaw

She turned away and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the arm of the backseat. “Well, now you’ll be in it again. Spain is just the beginning, it’ll spread from there.”

“Inevitable, you believe?”

“From the people I talk to, yes. Eaten up with grievance, especially the Germans. Getting even is what they think about.”

“You have a difficult job, Madame Szarbek.”

“Anna, please. And it’s mademoiselle, for a while anyhow. Is your job easier than mine?”

“No, not really.”

At the Europejski, they were led up a marble stairway to a private dining room, all wood-paneled walls and polished floor. Beneath crystal chandeliers, a long table was set for thirty; the sheen of the damask tablecloth, the heavy silver, and the gold-rimmed china glowed in the light of a dozen candelabra. They were greeted at the door by an officer of the Polish General Staff and his splendidly bejeweled wife. “We are so very pleased you could join us,” she said, her smile gracious and warm. The room hummed with conversation; officers in uniform, most of the other men in evening wear, most of the women in formal gowns. Anna, perhaps momentarily taken aback by all the glitter, took Mercier’s arm. He was instantly aware of the touch of her hand, resting lightly on his sleeve.

From some distant century, an ancient waiter in a swallowtail coat moved toward them, parchment face lit by a beatific smile, parchment hands holding a silver tray, which trembled slightly, bearing two glasses of champagne. Drinks in hand, they watched him shuffle back toward the kitchen. Anna started to say something, but another officer wife descended on them, leading a small fellow in a dark suit, one of the men from Renault. After the introductions, she swept away, in search of other strays.

“So, Monsieur Blanc,” Mercier said, “a worthwhile visit, so far?”

“Yes, I would say it is; we are making our case. The R-Thirty-five tank is a magnificent machine.”

“And what do you do for the Renault company?”

“I am one of the senior engineers-I concern myself mostly with treads.”

From Anna, an appreciative, encouraging nod. Treads!

“Yes, that’s me. And you, colonel?”

“I’m the military attache, at the embassy.”

“Ah, then you must support us-these Poles can be stubborn. Don’t you think, Madame Mercier?”

“Oh yes, indeed, terribly stubborn.”

“Tell me, Major Kulski,” Anna said, “do you favor the Renault machine?”

“Mmm, well …”

“Oh, perhaps you are unpersuaded.”

“Mm. And how do you come to be here tonight, Pana Szarbek?”

“I’m accompanying Colonel Mercier. He’s over there, by the pillar.”

“Then you must live in the city.”

“Yes, I do, major.”

“I wondered. You see, when I’m done with the army for the day, I’m something of an artist; that’s my real passion in life. So, allow me to say that you would make a superb model, for a life drawing. Truly, superb.”

Mercier shook hands with Colonel Vyborg and said, “How goes the visit?”

“Not too badly. This afternoon I had a talk with Habich’s assistant-you know Habich?”

“I’ve met him.”

“The best armaments designer in Europe. Anyhow, his assistant believes that if we buy this worm of an R- Thirty-five, the engineers can do something to improve it.”

“That’s encouraging. Are they thinking about numbers?”

“No, not yet. We need to get our hands on one of them and Habich’s people will tear it to pieces, then we’ll see what can be done, and then we’ll talk about numbers.”

“So, you’re with the League of Nations.” The woman was in her seventies, Anna thought; her husband, with grand white cavalry mustaches, at least in his eighties. “Such a hopeful notion, my dear, really. A league, of nations! How far we’ve come, in this dreadful world. My husband here, the general, was the late-life son of a colonel in the Hussars. In 1852, that was. A great hero, my husband’s father, he fought in the Battle of Leipzig and was decorated for bravery-we still have the medal.”

“At Leipzig, really.”

“That’s right, my dear, with Napoleon.”

“At last,” Mercier said, appearing at Anna’s side. “It’s time for dinner. Are you hungry?”

“Yes. I had a little caviar.”

“You seem to have found people to talk to, I kept an eye on you.”

“All sorts of people. I met a major who asked me to pose for a life drawing.”

“The hound. And will you?”

“Oh certainly, wouldn’t miss it. I think I’ll need a feather boa. Or maybe not.”

From the table, a woman called out, “Colonel Mercier? You’re over here.”

“Thank you.” Mercier drew back a gilded chair and Anna seated herself, brushing her dress forward as she sat. “Here’s the menu,” he said.

Anna hunted around in her evening bag and came up with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. “At last, I can see.”

The grand menu-both hands required-was printed in spidery italic, with gold cord and tassel down the middle, and simply named the courses to be served. As he watched her reading, it occurred to Mercier that Anna’s long, searching glances were precisely that-not personality, myopia. “There’s sole meuniere,” he said. “I’ve had that here, and it’s good. Then a roast. Abundant, the roast.”

“Abundant is the word,” she said. “Six courses.”

“That’s the Europejski. And you should at least taste the wines, the cellar is famous.”

From Anna, a wry smile. Champagne, three wines-imagine.

“Yes,” Mercier said, falling in with her mood, “all of it rich and elaborate. And be sure to leave room for the tangerine flan.”

On Mercier’s right, the placement card said Madame de Michaux: a formidable woman, with low-cut neckline and a circle of rubies at her heavy throat. Evidently, she’d also read his card. “Mercier de Boutillon,” she mused. “And your home, where is that?”

“Down in the Drome, about an hour from Montelimar.”

“I believe there’s an Albertine, Mercier de Boutillon, in Paris. Is that the same family?”

“My cousin. A friend of yours?”

“Well, we’ve met. My husband is on the Renault board of directors, also the opera. I believe that’s how I know her. A very engaging woman, a collector of certain antiquities-is that so?”

“It is. Objets, in onyx. Mostly cameos, I believe.”

“You must tell her we sat together, at a dinner in Warsaw. Amusing, no?”

“Certainly I will, the next time I’m in Paris.”

“Do you come often, colonel?”

After the duck pate, the consomme, and the sole, as plates were brought with great red slices of roasted beef, the rules of the formal dinner dictated a turn to the other partner. For Mercier, a welcome turn, Anna Szarbek seemed easy and comfortable after the determined Madame de Michaux-one of those upper-class women who, polite as could be, worked like a beaver at discovering one’s personal life. Anna reported that the man on her left, Julien Travas, the manager of the Pathe newsreel agency in Warsaw, had been extremely entertaining. Something of an adventurer, he’d traveled, as a young man, from Shanghai to Siam by foot and oxcart, and told a good story.