The Spies of Warsaw

Blume.‘ “

“Which means?”

” ‘Hush, speak through a flower.’ Don’t say anything about the government unless you praise it.”

Gabrielle made a sound of disgust.

Enough of that, Mercier thought. “Can you stay through the new year?”

“Alas, I can’t. I travel the last day of December; I’ll see the new year in at the apartment. But I don’t care, Papa, I wanted to see you, and I have vacation for the holidays.”

Lisette had roasted a capon for dinner and Mercier found a Chateau Latour in the cellar, a 1923, which turned out-one never knew-to be perfect. They took the last of it into the parlor, where Mercier built an oakwood fire, using grapevine prunings for kindling. The dogs sat patiently, watching him as he worked, then lay on their sides in front of the fireplace and went to sleep.

“I’ve been wondering,” Gabrielle said.

“Yes?”

“Are you seeing anyone, in Warsaw?”

“No, dear. Not really.”

“You should, you know. It’s not good for you to be alone.”

“It’s not so easy, Gabrielle, after a certain age.”

“I would imagine, but still … you’ve surely met somebody, that you liked.”

“I have, but she’s taken.”

“Married?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well then, perhaps you should pursue her.”

“Oh, I have, in a way.”

Gabrielle looked dubious. “Really? Because, you know, if you had-well, many women would find you hard to resist.”

“Mmm. I suspect you are biased, Gabrielle, love, but you’re kind to say that.”

“I’m not being kind, Papa. It’s true.”

“So then,” he said. He took a sip of wine, then rose and added a log to the fire. “Any new paintings? At the national museum?” Gabrielle was the curator for western Europe, outside Scandinavia.

She shook her head at the change of subject and made a what a difficult man face. “Oh, all right, I’ll leave you alone,” she said. Then, “As for new paintings, there’s too much to buy, that’s my sad news. We’re approached constantly by dealers who represent Jews. So, it’s a buyer’s market. You wouldn’t believe what’s become available.”

Gabrielle went on. A wealthy Viennese, forced to sell his kitchenware company, had managed to smuggle a wonderful Flemish master, a de Hooch, into Copenhagen, and now …

Mercier was attentive-the time with his daughter was not to be wasted-but, deep within, he was very angry. It doesn’t go away. You twisted and turned, spoke of this or that, but then there it was, waiting for you.

In time, they talked about Beatrice, his older daughter in Cairo. “How she loves it!” Gabrielle said. “You’ll see, I brought along some of her letters. Her students are eager to learn, and Maurice works at the archaeological sites, the tombs, the buried villages. It would be perfect, she says, but she only hopes they can stay there. Because of the political situation, in Egypt….”

Gabrielle left on the thirty-first. Mercier had to spend the New Year celebration chez Uncle Hercule. Keeping to tradition, the collected Mercier de Boutillons went out into the garden at midnight, in drizzling rain, to bang pots and pans in honor of the new year. Then, on the third of January, he took the train back to Paris and returned to Warsaw the following day, to find the city white and frozen.

On the fifth, his first day at the embassy, he found two cables awaiting him. The first, from Colonel Bruner, was very terse, little more than an acknowledgment of his report on the Wehrmacht tank maneuvers at Schramberg, with faint praise to be read between the lines. The second cable, from General de Beauvilliers, was rather more generous, particularly on the subject of two of the bureau’s agents who had recorded radio traffic during the exercise. The general cited, specifically, one instance-“Q-24, a ravine up ahead of you, about six hundred feet”-where the pilot of the Fieseler Storch worked by radio with the tanks below. The French General Staff had little interest in this concept-air-to-ground communication-though de Beauvilliers believed it would be crucial in future warfare. “The marshal”-he meant Petain-“and his clique think only of naval blockade and static defense.”

Mercier was flattered to be so taken into the general’s confidence, but, as he reached the end of the cable, found that such flattery would have its price.

Of course you will recall our interest in the Wehrmacht General Staff, specifically the section I.N. 6, and, shouldan opportunity present itself, we expect you will take fulladvantage of it, by any means necessary, in order to advanceour knowledge of their thinking.

But, what if an opportunity did not present itself? Clearly, the general assumed he would know what to do about that.

At the intelligence meeting on the seventh, Jourdain began with his usual summary of recent political developments. And there was, as usual, no good news. Late in December, King Carol of Roumania had appointed the fascist poet Octavian Goga to head the government as virtual dictator. Anti-Semitic measures began immediately, and the Czechs had reinforced border units at Sighet, where refugees were trying to get out of the country.

In Vienna, the trial of twenty-seven Austrian Nazis, accused of antigovernment activities, was now under way. German diplomats had tried to stop it, which led to a speech by the Austrian chancellor Schuschnigg, saying in effect that Austria wished to retain its independence as a nation. “He is holding firm,” Jourdain said. “But we’ll see how long that lasts.” In Spain, Republican forces had taken the city of Teruel, but fascist forces were expected to counterattack, as soon as frontline units could be resupplied. In the USSR, the purges continued; longtime Bolsheviks arrested, interrogated, and shot. There was to be a new public trial, of Bukharin, Rykov, and Yagoda, the former head of the NKVD. “I expect they’ll admit to their guilt, on the witness stand,” Jourdain said dryly, and added that their own Jean-Paul Sartre had recommended suppression of public statements about the trial, since that might discourage the French proletariat. “Certainly discourages the Russians,” the naval attache said.

“And next, you’ll recall Hitler’s statement in December that Germany would never rejoin the League of Nations. However, Germany and Poland have reaffirmed their commitment to protect the rights of Poles and Germans living in each other’s countries. Meanwhile, the League will be holding a conference in Belgrade, on the twentieth of this month, on the protection of ethnic minority rights in all European states, and on the progress of legal claims. It’s an important conference-no laughing, gentlemen-the ambassador is invited, the charge d’affaires will attend.”

So, Mercier thought, legal claims. That meant the lawyers would be there, and that meant Anna Szarbek would be there.

Did he dare? The memory of Gabrielle, urging him on to pursuit, said he should. When the meeting ended, he had a look at his calendar-the twentieth fell on a Saturday, the League people would have a weekend in Belgrade, then begin talking on Monday. He walked from the chancery over to the public part of the embassy and climbed to the third floor, where the ambassador had installed a water cooler, just outside Madame Dupin’s office. Mercier always took a cup of water when he happened to find himself there, not caring so very much for water, but liking, despite his forty-six years, the bubble that floated to the top and made a noise.

He liked also, that morning, the fact that Madame Dupin never closed her door; her office was open to the world. “Jean-Francois? Come and say hello!”