The Spies of Warsaw

Mercier and Anna worked their way through the roast, then the macedoine of vegetables, left the quivering tangerine flan on their plates, drank the coffee, and tasted the cognac. Then it was time for the nightclub. The Adria was not far from the Europejski, but one had to arrive in one’s automobile. As they drove away from the hotel, Anna said, “Is this something you do often?”

“Now and then, it’s part of the job.”

“Good lord.”

“Sip the wine, taste the food, find everyone fascinating-a good motto for diplomacy.”

She shook her head. “I guess that’s one way to save the world.”

“Yes, one way,” he said. “After the fish.”

There were tables reserved for them at the Adria, and more place cards, which led to a lighthearted interval of confusion and commentary in the dark, smoky nightclub. Mercier found that Colonel Vyborg had had them seated at his own table, with the director of Renault’s armaments division and a major in the purchasing section of the Polish General Staff, an owlish, balding fellow, and their wives.

After they were settled, Vyborg ordered champagne, three bottles of Veuve Clicquot, and, as the waiter opened the first, a blue spotlight pierced the darkness to reveal, on the small platform that served as a stage, Marko the Magician-so said a card on an easel-in top hat and tails, his face stark white with makeup. And his assistant, a girl in a very brief spangled costume, who opened her mouth, from which Marko began to extract, with immaculate white gloves, a series of red balls. Another, then another, each one producing horrified glances at the audience as she discovered yet one more red ball inside her. The major’s wife, on Mercier’s left, began to giggle, and Mercier guessed she’d more than sampled the dinner wines. The wife of the Renault director whispered, “Next time, darling, don’t eat so many balls.”

“How was your dinner?” Vyborg asked Anna.

“Very good.”

“And the wine?”

“That too, very good.”

Leaning across his wife, the Renault director said to the major, “What did you think of our presentation, in Paris? You were with the purchasing delegation, as I recall.”

“Yes, I was,” said the major. “A strong field trial, I thought. Of course, the ground was dry.”

“Yes, one’s always at the mercy of the weather.”

“As are we,” the major said. “Our infamous roads, you know.”

“It’s very difficult for us,” the major’s wife said. “In this country, we stay home in the bad seasons.”

“That’s changing, is it not?” the director said.

“True,” Vyborg said. “We’re paving some of the roads, but it’s a long process.”

“Better roads in Germany,” the director said, a tease in his voice.

“So I’m told,” the major said. “We hope we don’t have to find that out for ourselves.”

“It’s something they’ve been making bets on,” Vyborg said, “our young tank captains and lieutenants. How many hours to Berlin.”

“To be encouraged, I guess, that sort of spirit,” said the major. “But much better if everyone stays on their side of the frontier.”

“Quite a number of people think the Germans might not,” the director said. “What then?”

On stage, Marko had finished with the red balls, but then, to his surprise, he discovered that his assistant had swallowed a canary, greedy girl. This produced a scattering of applause from the audience and a chirp from the canary. Marko, with a flourish, then wheeled a coffinlike box into the spotlight. The assistant’s eyes widened: oh no, not this.

“I believe she’s to be sawn in half,” Mercier said.

“She does seem pretty frightened,” Anna said. “Acting, I hope.”

Vyborg’s wife laughed. “A new assistant for every performance.”

The director’s wife said, “I’ve heard they do that with birds, sacrifice one for each trick.”

“No, really?” Mercier said.

“It’s true, I’ve heard the same thing,” the major’s wife said.

“As I was saying”-the director’s voice was quiet but firm-“what then? You’ll need all the armoured forces you can deploy.”

“Of course you’re right, monsieur,” the major said, “but our resources are limited. Germany’s industry recovered from the war faster than ours, and they outnumber us in tanks by thirty to one.”

Mercier recalled Jourdain’s meeting at the embassy. “Twenty-five to one,” he’d said, unless Mercier’s memory was failing him, but he didn’t think it was.

“We know Poland isn’t a rich country,” the director said, “but that’s what banks are for.”

The major’s assent was a grim nod. Rather gently he said, “They do expect to be paid back.”

“Of course. But I’ll tell you something, they won’t be so finicky about it if German divisions come across your border.”

“They’ll regret it if they do,” Vyborg’s wife said. “They may overwhelm us, at first, but in time they’ll be sorry. And, while we’re working on that here, they’ll have the French army coming across their other border.”

“That could,” the director said, “take a few weeks, you know. In all fairness. Apologies to Colonel Mercier.”

“You needn’t,” Mercier said. “It took us time to organize ourselves in 1914, and it will again.” No, we’re not coming, we’re going to sit on the Maginot Line.

“I suspect Hitler knows that,” the director said.

Marko’s assistant had now climbed into the coffin, bare feet protruding from one end, head from the other. With a lethal-looking saw in hand, Marko bent over the box and, on the side away from the audience, began to cut. The blade was obviously set between two metal bands that circled the coffin, but the progress of the saw was loud and realistic. Suddenly, the girl squeaked with real terror. Had the trick gone wrong? From the audience, a chorus of gasps. The director’s wife raised her hand to her mouth and said, “Good heavens!”

The magician returned to work, sawing away, while the assistant raised her head and peered over the edge of the coffin. Finally, Marko raised the saw, turned to the audience and then, the grand finale, separated the box. The audience applauded, and the magician wheeled the two halves of his assistant offstage.

“False feet,” Vyborg said.

“Or a second assistant, curled up in the other half,” Anna said.

“And you’ll notice,” said the director’s wife, triumphantly, “not a speck of sawdust.”

The magician was followed by a chanteuse, who sang romantic songs, then three bearded acrobats in saggy tights who turned somersaults through a fiery hoop. Each time they landed they shouted “Hup!” and the Adria’s floor shook. Then a trio-saxophone, drums, and guitar-appeared and began to play dance music. Vyborg stood and offered a hand to his wife, the director and the major followed his example. Mercier was the last to stand. “Shall we?” he said to Anna, his voice tentative, it wasn’t really obligatory.

If I must. “I think we should.”

A slow foxtrot. Mercier, stiff and mechanical, had never advanced much beyond lessons taken as a ten-year- old, girls and boys in white gloves. Anna was not much better, but they managed, going round and round in their private square to the slow beat. Mercier, his arm circled lightly about her, found her back firm, then soft above the hips. And the way she moved, lithe and supple beneath the thin silk of her dress, more than interesting-his arm wanting, almost by itself, to tighten around her waist. As she danced, she smiled up at him, her perfume intense. Was the smile complicit? Knowing? Inviting? He wanted it to be, and smiled back at her. Finally she said, returning to polite conversation, “That man from Renault is something of a bully.”

“Titles and prerogatives aside, he’s a merchant. Selling his wares.”

“Still …” Anna said. The bridge of the song was slow. Anna’s hand, slightly damp, tightened on his. “You’d think he’d be more, oh, subtle about it.”

“Yes, but the major held his own,” Mercier said. As they turned, a woman behind Anna took a dramatic step