The Spies of Warsaw

First, in the gravest and most observed of French traditions: what did you do on the holidays? She’d been to Switzerland, she said, at a ski lodge. Cheese fondue! Villagers in costume! Folk dancing! And, Mercier thought, his attentive smile firmly in place, God knows what else. When his turn came, he dutifully reported on his visit to Boutillon.

And then, attacked.

“I’m told there’s a League of Nations conference in Belgrade, in two weeks.”

Madame Dupin shuffled through some papers, then said, “Yes, there is, a conference on legal rights, and ethnic minorities. Of interest to you?” She seemed skeptical.

“Perhaps. I understand the charge is going.”

This time she rummaged in her out box. Along with her duties as deputy director of protocol, Madame Dupin also managed embassy travel arrangements. “Here he is. Taking the night express on Friday-it only runs twice a week.” She looked up, slightly puzzled at his question, then not. “Oh, of course! Now I see, Jean-Francois! You are, well, more than interested, aren’t you.” Her eyes glittered with conspiracy.

“I’d suppose your friend Anna will be there,” he said, smiling.

“I presume she will be, as a League lawyer. Perhaps I should ask her.”

“No, please don’t. I just thought …”

“Shall I book your ticket?”

“I’ll do it. The embassy shouldn’t pay.”

“Such an honorable fellow, our Jean-Francois.” Her sly grin meant: you devil!

9 January.

Slowly, the social wheels of diplomatic Warsaw began to grind once more. A cocktail party at the Dutch embassy, at six, to meet the new commercial attache, Mynheer de Vries. Mercier pinned on his medals and trudged downstairs, where Marek and the Biook awaited him. They crept along the icy streets, high banks of shoveled snow on either side, a rather dispirited Mercier smoking his Mewa in the backseat. He’d booked a first-class room on the night express to Belgrade, expensive enough, and likely pointless. Anna Szarbek had made a decision that evening in the carriage, and now he was going to make a great fool of himself. Why had he allowed Gabrielle to provoke him into this? There were other women in Warsaw, among the restless wives of the diplomatic community, and the social set that fished in the same waters. Merde, he thought. I’m too old for this.

The cocktail party wasn’t as grim as he’d feared. He avoided the Dutch gin, held a glass of champagne in his hand, and sampled the smoked salmon and pickled herring. Touring the room, he looked for Anna Szarbek, but she wasn’t there, nor was Maxim. He did find Colonel Vyborg, standing alone, and he and the Polish intelligence officer exchanged news of their holidays. When Mercier mentioned his discoveries about German tank formations in the Wehrmacht journals, Vyborg just frowned and shook his head. “A bad dream,” he said. “They write books and articles about what they intend to do, but nobody seems to notice, or care.”

Then Mercier spent a few minutes with Julien Travas, the Pathe News manager, who had a luscious girl by his side. “A full house tonight,” Mercier said. “All the usual characters, including us.”

Travas shrugged. “They seem to ask me, I seem to go, and so they ask me again-they must have bodies to fill the room. And Kamila here has never been to one of these things. Enjoying it, dear?”

“I think it is very interesting,” Kamila said. “Mynheer de Vries has met Greta Garbo.”

“And thinks you look just like her. Am I right?” Travas said.

“Well, yes, he did say that. Exactly that.”

“Colonel Mercier is a war hero,” Travas said.

“Oh yes? You must tell me your story, colonel.”

“Someday,” Mercier said. “At the next party.”

Oh no! Here came the Rozens, everybody’s favorite Russian spies, the sweet old couple bearing down on him like feeding sharks. “I think you’re in demand,” Travas said, steering his prize away. “A bientot,” he said with a grin.

“So here you are!” Malka Rozen said, patting his cheek. “I told Viktor you’d be here, didn’t I, Viktor.”

Viktor Rozen looked up at her from his permanent stoop and said, “You did. It’s true. Here he is.”

“Now see here, my French comrade,” Malka said. “Don’t you like us? The most delicious dinner awaits you at our apartment, and you must eat sooner or later, no? You can’t live on canapes.”

“I’ve been very busy, Madame Rozen. The holidays-”

“Naturally,” Viktor said. “But now it’s January, the long freeze, time to visit friends, have a drink, a nice chicken-is that so bad?”

“Not at all,” Mercier said, charmed in spite of himself. “Tell me,” he said, “how are things back in the motherland?” That ought to do it. A shadow crossed Viktor’s well-lined face. Was he actually, Mercier wondered, going to say something?

“The trials-”

“The trials of winter.” Malka cut him off, and gave him a look.

“That’s it,” Viktor said. “Always difficult, our winter, but we seem to survive.”

“Did you go home for the holidays?” Mercier said.

“No.” Viktor’s voice was excessively sharp. “I mean no, it’s such a long train ride. To Moscow. Maybe in the spring, we’ll go back.”

Malka changed the subject. “You know what I think, Viktor? I think that Colonel Mercier won’t come to dinner unless he gets an invitation. A written invitation.”

“You’re right,” Viktor said. “That’s what we should do. Send him a letter.”

“You needn’t do that,” a puzzled Mercier said. “Of course I am so very busy, this time of year-”

“But it will make a difference,” Malka said. “I’m sure it will.”

Mercier looked around the room. Had Anna Szarbek arrived? No, but Colonel de Vezenyi, the Hungarian military attache, caught his eye and waved him over, so Mercier excused himself. And, oddly, the Rozens seemed happy enough to let him go.

For the next half hour, he circulated, visiting briefly with the usual people, saying nothing important, hearing nothing interesting, then thanked his hosts, told Mynheer de Vries they’d see each other soon, and gratefully headed out the door into a cold, clear evening.

The gleaming diplomatic cars stood in a long line outside the embassy; he found the Buick, and Marek held the door for him. As he slid into the back, he saw an edge of yellow paper on the floor, tucked beneath the driver’s seat. As Marek pulled out of line and drove down the street, Mercier bent over and retrieved the paper-a square envelope. “Marek?” he said.

“Yes, colonel?”

“Did you stay in the car, while I was inside?”

“No, sir. I joined some friends, other drivers, and we sat in one of the cars and had a smoke.”

Mercier turned the envelope over, then back. It was cheaply made, of rough paper, not a kind he remembered seeing. The flap was sealed, and there was no writing to be seen. “Is this yours?” Mercier said.

Marek turned halfway around, glanced at the envelope, and said, “No, colonel.”

“Did you lock the doors, Marek? When you joined your friends?”

“Always, colonel. I don’t fail to do that, not ever.”

Carefully, Mercier inserted an index finger beneath the flap and opened the envelope. The paper inside had been torn from a school-child’s copybook, grayish paper with blue lines. The writing was block-printed, with a pencil, in French. There was no salutation.

We are in great difficulty, recalled home, and we cannot go there, because we will be arrested, and executed. Please help us leave this city and go somewhere safe. If you agree, visit the main post office on Warecki square, at 5:30 tomorrow. You won’t see us, but we will know you agree. Then we will contact you again.

Please help us

Mercier read it once more, then said, “Change of plans, Marek.”