The Spies of Warsaw

Aleppo, in December.”

“Any special reason?”

“I might buy something for the collection, we’ll see. I’m going with a friend of mine, she’s a professor of archaeology at the Sorbonne, so that will give me entree to the local collectors-and the tomb robbers.” She paused, then said, “Have you a secret mission for me, as long as I’m there?”

“I’m not concerned with Syria, dear. And best not to say such things.”

“Oh foo,” she said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

He laughed and said, “Albertine, you are incorrigible.”

Albertine’s eyes wandered, then fixed on a nearby table. Mercier ate some frites, then looked over to see what interested her. A very handsome man was having dinner with his daughter, maybe twelve, who was chattering away while she worked at eating a plate of escargots. She was quite adept, using the shell-holding tool with one hand, probing for the snail morsel with a special fork, yet more than keeping up her end of the conversation. The father listened earnestly. “Yes? … Really? … That must have been interesting.”

Albertine leaned toward Mercier and said, “Are you watching this?”

“What’s going on?”

“Can’t you see?”

“No, what is it?”

“He’s teaching her how to have dinner with a man.”

Mercier took another look. “Yes, I do see, now that you mention it.”

Albertine was amused, and pleased with what she’d discovered. “How I love this quartier,” she said. “And, come to think of it, this country. I mean, where else?”

Back at the apartment, Albertine made sure that Mercier had everything he needed, then went off to her room, down the hall. He tried to read Guderian, but it had been a long day, they’d finished the Saint-Estephe, and German military theory wasn’t the best bedside companion. He thought about the following morning: Bruner, the others. Would he defend himself? Or just sit there and listen? The latter, an easy decision, the best way to keep his job. His pursuit of the Wehrmacht‘s intentions-the abandoned tank trap, a careful reading of Guderian’s book-had changed the chemistry of his assignment in Warsaw. This, along with the abduction of his agent Uhl, had turned a desk job into something very much like a fight, so to walk away now would be to walk away from a fight. He had never done that, and he never would.

It was quiet outside, in the hidden rue Saint-Simon, quiet in the building, and quiet in the apartment; private, cloistered. Warm enough, with the radiators going, the room mostly in shadow, with only a small lamp on the night table lighting his bed. From down the hall, he heard the faint sound of music-Albertine apparently had a radio in her room-a swing orchestra playing a dance tune, then a woman vocalist, singing a song he recognized: “Night and Day.” Was Albertine reading? Or lying in the darkness, listening to her radio? Not, he thought, that he would ever find out. Not that he would walk down the hall and knock at her door. Not that she wanted him to do that. Nor would she-walk down the hall and open his door. Not that he wanted her to, not really. Not that much, anyhow.

29 November. In his best uniform, shoes polished to a high gloss, Mercier walked up the rue de Grenelle, past the walled Soviet embassy, then along avenue des Invalides to the avenue de Tourville. The chill gray morning, typical for the city this time of year, did nothing to soften the official buildings, the heart of military Paris. Saluted by the sentry, he entered 2, bis, climbed the stairs to Bruner’s office, and at ten hundred hours sharp, as ordered, he knocked at the door.

Bruner took his time, and after he got around to calling, “Come in,” his greeting was subdued-polite and cold. “How was your flight, colonel?”

“It was uneventful, sir. On time.”

“When I served in Warsaw, I always found LOT to be dependable.” Bruner took a sheet of paper from his drawer and placed it before him, squaring it up with his fingertips. He had, Mercier sensed, flourished with his promotion to full colonel and his new position. Short and tubby, with a soft face and a dapper little mustache, he virtually glowed with vanity, and its evil twin, the infinite capacity for vengeance when insulted. “So then,” he said. “Our lost spy in Germany.”

“Yes, colonel.”

“How did this happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll have to find out, won’t you.”

“He thought he was under surveillance on the previous trip. Somehow the Gestapo, or a counterespionage unit of the SD, uncovered him. I’ve questioned him at length, and he’s been forthcoming, but he doesn’t have the answer.”

“And what do you propose to do about it? It’s a serious loss, a view on German armaments, which imply tactics, and that is information crucial to our own planning. We’re in the midst of a political conflict these days, the politicians don’t want to spend money on tanks and planes-we still have serious unemployment-but Hitler has no such problem. He spends what he likes.”

“I am aware of this, colonel.”

“Perhaps this position, in Warsaw, is not to your taste, Colonel Mercier. Would you like me to arrange a new assignment?”

“No, colonel. It is my preference to remain in Poland.”

Bruner returned to their lost spy, then spent some time on the shooting incident in Silesia, and around again. He was like a terrier-once he took hold, he wouldn’t let go. But, at last, with a final threat or two, Mercier was dismissed. “There will be more meetings, Colonel Mercier, so please be good enough to stay in contact with my adjutant for the next two days. You are also scheduled to see General de Beauvilliers. Call his office for the details.”

Oh no. Not de Beauvilliers. Now, Mercier thought, he really would be sent off to some fever-ridden island.

When he left Bruner’s office, he badly wanted coffee. There’d been no sign of Albertine when he got up, and he hadn’t bothered to make it for himself, so he descended to the officers’ mess in the basement and found an empty table. There were three officers at the next table, including a major, a fellow military attache he recognized from his training class the previous spring. They acknowledged each other; then, as Mercier ordered coffee from a mess steward, the major resumed telling a story, which the other two were clearly enjoying.

“So they took me to the far end of the palace,” the major said, “to a glorious room: divans, you know, and gauze curtains.”

“Perhaps you were in the harem.”

“Perhaps. But there were no women about. Just the sultan, the chief eunuch, the head of the army-the sultan’s younger brother-and me. For a time, we made small talk: the progress of the new railroad, their war with one of the mountain tribes. Then a servant-turban, dagger tucked in sash, those slippers with the toes turned up- entered with a brass tray. Which held four little pipes, made of silver, filigreed silver, very old and beautiful, and a silver bowl holding four brown-well, lumps, the size of small pebbles.”

“Ah,” said one of the other officers. “Opium.”

“No, hashish. As the honored guest, I was served first. Which meant the servant put a brown lump in the bowl of a pipe and held a taper over it until I managed to get the damn thing to light.”

“You couldn’t decline?”

“I could’ve, but you can’t be rude to sultans. That might have been the end of French concessions in the sultanate.”

“How was it?”

“Harsh. Quite harsh-I had to stop myself from coughing. Then the sultan lit up, followed by the general and the eunuch. The smoke is very fragrant, sweet; not like anything else. When we were done, the servant took the pipes away. And then we began to negotiate. Imagine! I’d memorized a list of objectives-what we wanted, what we could offer in return-”

“And so you offered them Marseille.”