The Spies of Warsaw

They were then taken back downstairs, to table fourteen, which bore a reserve sign on a silver stand. Papa Heininger, with a dramatic flourish, whipped it away and said, “Our most-requested table. And please allow me to have a bottle of champagne brought over, with my compliments.”

“As you wish,” the general said. Then, to Mercier, as he slid onto the banquette, “The infamous table fourteen.” He nodded his head toward the mirror on the wall, which had a small hole with crackled edges in its lower corner.

“That can’t be what it looks like.”

“In fact it is. A bullet hole.” From de Beauvilliers, a tolerant smile. In his sixties, he had the face of a sad hound, long and mournful, with the red-rimmed eyes of the insomniac and a shaggy gray mustache. He was famously the intellectual of the Conseil Superieur de la Guerre, the high committee of military strategy, and was said to be one of the most powerful men in France, though precisely what he did, and how he did it, remained almost entirely in shadow. “A few months ago,” he continued, “June, I think it was, they had a Bulgarian head-waiter here who played at emigre politics and got himself assassinated while hiding in a stall in the ladies’ WC. The gang also shot up the dining room, and all the mirrors had to be replaced. All but this one, kept as a memorial. Makes for a good story, anyhow. Personally, I come here for the choucroute-I’ve seen enough bullet holes in my life.”

The champagne arrived in a silver bucket, and both men ordered the choucroute. “You may put an extra frankfurter on mine,” de Beauvilliers said. The waiter twisted out the champagne cork and poured two glasses. When he’d hurried off, de Beauvilliers said, “I would’ve preferred beer, but life has a way of thwarting simple pleasures.” He tasted the champagne and had a look at the label. “Not so bad,” he said. “Did Bruner give you hell?”

“He did.”

“Don’t worry about him, he has his place, in the scheme of things, but he’s kept on a short leash. I want you in Warsaw, colonel.”

“Thank you,” Mercier said. “There’s work to be done there.”

“I know. Too bad about the Poles, but they’ve got to be made to understand we aren’t coming to help them, no matter what the treaties say. We might be able to, if de Gaulle and his allies-like Reynaud-had their way, but they won’t get it. French military doctrine is in the hands of Marshal Petain, de Gaulle’s enemy, and he won’t let go.”

“Defense. And more defense. The Maginot Line.”

“Precisely. De Gaulle’s up at Metz, commanding the Five-oh-seventh Tank Regiment. But there won’t be many more, no armoured divisions, not until nineteen-forty, if then.”

“May I ask why?” Mercier said.

“It’s what I ask myself,” de Beauvilliers said. “What some of us have been asking since Hitler marched into the Rhineland in ‘thirty-six. But the answer isn’t complicated. Petain, and his allies, are committed to the theory of Methodical Battle. Hitler to be appeased-to gain time, to cement our alliance with Great Britain-then a battle of attrition. The British navy blockades, the Germans starve, and we launch a counteroffensive in two to three years. It worked in nineteen-eighteen, after the Americans showed up.”

“It won’t work again, general. Hitler is committed to armoured regiments. He was there, in nineteen- eighteen, he saw what happened.”

“He did. And he knows that if the Germans don’t win in six months, they don’t win period. But France feels it can’t compete: political constraints, lack of money, a shaky procurement system, not enough men, not enough training areas. Gamelin, the chief of staff, has nothing but excuses.”

“The Germans are building tanks,” Mercier said. “I was watching them, until I lost an agent. And they’re planning maneuvers in Schramberg-in the Black Forest. They are, I believe, thinking hard about the Ardennes Forest, in Belgium, where the Maginot Line ends.”

“We know. Of course we know. And we’ve conducted war games based on a tank thrust through the Ardennes. But what matters in war games is the conclusion, the lesson drawn.”

“Can you tell me what that was, general?”

De Beauvilliers took a moment to consider his answer. “We are, in France, obsessed by the idea of great men-nobody else would build the Pantheon. So Marshal Petain, the hero of Verdun, much honored, idolized, even, has persuaded himself that he is omniscient. In a recent pamphlet, he wrote, ‘The Ardennes forest is impenetrable; and if the Germans were imprudent enough to get entangled in it, we should seize them as they came out!’ “

“That’s nonsense, sir,” Mercier said. “Forgive my brevity, general, but that’s what it is.”

“I believe I used the same word, colonel. And worse. But now, what can we do about it?”

“Les choucroutes!” The waiter served them-for each a mound of sauerkraut, pork cutlet, thick, lean slices of bacon, and a frankfurter-two for the general. A small pot of fiery mustard was set between them. “A perfect dish for a discussion of Germany,” de Beauvilliers said to Mercier. Then, to the waiter, “Bring me a glass of your best pilsener.”

“One should have what one wants,” Mercier said.

“At lunch, anyhow, one should. Tell me what’s going on in Poland.”

As the general attacked his first frankfurter, Mercier said, “You know I lost an agent-almost lost him to the Germans, but we have him hidden away in Warsaw for the moment. Otherwise it’s quiet. The Poles are doing their best to buy weapons, but it’s a slow process; the Depression still cripples their economy. But they remain confident. After all, they won their war with the Russians, and resolved their border disputes in Silesia and Lithuania, and they haven’t forgotten any of it. They’re still fighting the Ukrainian nationalists in the east, who are secretly armed by the Germans, but they’re not going to give away territory.”

“Confidence isn’t always the best thing.”

“No, and Pilsudski’s death hurt them. After he died, the government swung to the right, and there’s a strong fascist presence in the universities-actions against the Jews-but the fascists remain a minority. I should add that I’m not expert here. Mostly I concentrate on the army, not the politics.”

De Beauvilliers nodded that he understood, then said, “One bit of gossip that came my way is the retrieval of von Sosnowski, traded for a German spy.”

“It came my way as well.”

“Really? From where?”

“Russians. Intelligence types from the Warsaw embassy. At a cocktail party.”

“You’ll want to go carefully, there.” De Beauvilliers paused, a forkful of sauerkraut in midair, then a fond smile was followed by, “Jurik von Sosnowski, the Chevalier von Nalecz, yes; now there was a good spy.” He ate the sauerkraut and said, “He had a long reach, did Jurik. Right into Section I.N. Six- Intelligenz Nachforschung, intelligence research-of the German General Staff, Guderian’s office. And brought out the plan of attack, with tank regiments, for the invasion of Poland. But, in the end, the Poles suspected that the Germans knew what he was doing and were feeding him false information.”

“That seems odd, to me,” Mercier said. “It implies that the true plan was something else. But what could that have been? Artillery bombardment of the border fortifications and a slow advance? I would doubt that, myself.”

“He may have gotten his hands on the invasion plans for us as well, but nobody ever told us he did. Anyhow, he was active for a few years, and arrested in ‘thirty-four, so it’s likely the details have all been reworked.”

“Yes, likely they have.”

“Only one way to find out, of course,” de Beauvilliers said. A certain expression-rueful amusement, perhaps- flickered over his face for an instant, then vanished. “Invasion plans,” he said. “Many gems in this murky business, colonel, all sorts of rubies and emeralds, always worth stealing if you can. Ahh, but invasion plans, now you have diamonds. And they only come from one mine, the same I.N. Six that Sosnowski penetrated with his German girlfriends. But, alas, that probably can’t be done again.”

“Probably not.”

“Still, if by circumstance, the right person, the right moment …”

“In that case, it could be tried.”

“Surely it could. Well worth it, I’d think. But I doubt seduction is the answer, not anymore, not with the Gestapo and the SD. And old von Sosnowski was one of a kind, wasn’t he-a hundred women a year, that was the