The Spies of Warsaw

“Not going home?”

“No. To the embassy.”

The ambassador’s residence was in the embassy, and he appeared at the chancery, in velvet smoking jacket over formal shirt and trousers, almost immediately after Mercier telephoned. Jourdain took longer, arriving by taxi a few minutes later. When he entered Mercier’s office, the letter sat alone on a black-topped table. “Have a look,” Mercier said.

Jourdain read the letter and said, “Well, well, a defection. And I thought it was going to be a boring winter. Cleverly managed, isn’t it, not a clue to be found, unless you know which country’s shooting people when they go home. Who wrote it, Jean-Francois, any theories?”

“The Rozens,” Mercier said.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. They told me to expect it, at the Dutch cocktail party.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jourdain said. “Stalin’s killing all the Old Bolsheviks now, cleaning house, installing his Georgian pals.”

“How important are they?” the ambassador asked, reading over the letter once again.

“They’re believed to be GRU officers,” Jourdain said. “Soviet military intelligence. We don’t know their ranks, but I’d suspect they’re senior, just below the military attache.”

“Not NKVD?” the ambassador said.

“No, not the real thugs. Of course they could be anything. Viktor Rozen could be a minor official, and Malka simply his wife.”

“I would doubt that,” Mercier said. “They work together-the invitation to dinner turns into a request for information, something very minor, then they’ll try to give you money.”

“Well, now they’ll take the money,” the ambassador said. “Or at least safety, their lives. And the information comes next. Not a provocation, colonel, is it?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Devious people, the Russians,” the ambassador said. “They see life as chess, draw you into some sort of clandestine rat maze, then shut the trap.”

“I believe it’s a legitimate offer to change sides,” Mercier said. “Viktor Rozen seemed, ah, at least worried, maybe desperate. His wife’s the strong one.”

“Maybe she outranks him,” the ambassador said. “That’s not unknown. As for what’s next, we-I mean you, colonel-cable Paris. Tonight. I’ll want to see the text before it goes to the code clerk.”

“Tonight?” Jourdain said. “Couldn’t we … explore the possibilities?”

The ambassador’s smile was all too knowing. “Your instincts are perfect, Jourdain, but if we dawdle, the bureau in Paris will want to know why. Still, colonel, don’t say more than you have to, just follow the form.”

“They’ll be out here, sir,” Jourdain said. “All over us.”

“Maybe. Can’t be helped.”

“So, five-thirty tomorrow,” Mercier said. “A visit to the post office.”

“One can never have enough stamps,” the ambassador said. “As for me, I’m off to the Biddles’ dinner party, you two work out the details.”

Jourdain and Mercier talked for a long time-what did they want, what could they get, what was the price of salvation, this week?

10 January.

In civilian clothing, but well dressed for the occasion, Mercier strolled around Warecki square in a light snow. Then, precisely at five-thirty, he entered the busy post office, stood on line, and bought a sheet of stamps. Very pretty, they were, the two-groszy issue, blue and gold, with a handsomely engraved portrait of Chopin.

14 January.

At the Spanish embassy, an evening of flamenco. The ambassador represented the Republican, the legal, government of Spain, but it was known that there was a Nationalist, a fascist, ambassador in Warsaw, waiting to present his credentials. Franco’s forces had now cut the country in two parts, holding the larger area, so it was, the diplomatic community believed, just a matter of time.

Mercier arrived at the Spanish embassy precisely at nine and found a seat at the end of a row toward the back. Not quite the usual crowd, he saw, the audience determined by political alliance, so neither the German nor the Italian diplomats were to be seen. But no problem filling the room, because half the Soviet embassy was evidently passionate for Spanish dance. Mercier did find Maxim-that was logical, because an evening of flamenco, political flamenco, was just the thing for Maxim’s clever column in the newspaper-who’d saved the seat next to him with his folded overcoat. Then, as the lights dimmed and the Spanish ambassador took the stage, a familiar silhouette hurried down the aisle and took the saved seat. What went on in Mercier surprised him-only a glimpse of her silhouette. But enough. The Spanish ambassador was speaking, though Mercier never heard a word of it, until the end: “… the old and honored heritage of our nation, tonight gravely wounded and in peril, but which, like the passionate art we bring you this evening, will endure.” Thunderous applause.

Mercier liked the flamenco well enough-the fierce guitar, the hammering rhythms of the dance-but his heart was elsewhere. And as the troupe returned for a second encore, he walked quickly up the aisle and out the door into the room where the reception would be held. On a long table covered with a red cloth, bottles of wine and plates of bread and cheese. He stood to one side and waited as the audience filed out.

Maxim was delighted to see him. He strode over, swung his hand back, then forward, grasping Mercier’s extended hand as though he meant to crush it. “Here’s the general! Say, how goes the war?” Standing slightly behind him, Anna raised her eyes, looked at Mercier, then lowered them.

“It’s going well enough,” Mercier said.

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it, general, keep up the good work.” With a proprietary hand on Anna’s arm, he headed for the wine.

An intense crowd, that night. As Mercier made his way across the room, the conversation was loud, excited, fervent. Opinion on the war in Spain was savagely divided-the battle for an ancient nation had become a battle for the heart of Europe. At last, by the door to the lobby, he spotted the Rozens, being lectured by a comic-opera official, a minister of some state, in tailcoat, pince-nez, and Vandyke beard. As Mercier approached, Viktor said something to the official and began to lead him away, the man making slashing motions with his hand as he talked.

Malka Rozen wasted no time. “It must be soon,” she said, her voice an undertone, her false smile broad and beaming.

“Are you being watched?” Mercier said. “Here? Tonight?”

“I can’t say. They’re very good at it, when they don’t want you to know.”

“Our answer is yes-we’re going to help you get out of Poland.”

“Thank God.”

“But you will have to help us, in return. You will come bearing gifts, as they say.”

“What do you want?” The determination beneath the warm exterior was like steel.

“Photographs, that’s best. Or hand copies. Of documents relating first to France-operations in Poland that involve French interests-and then to Germany.”

“Why do you think we have anything like that? Our work is against Poland, not France, or Germany.”

“Madame Rozen,” Mercier said. He meant: please don’t play games with me.

“And if we can’t get anything you want? Then we die?”

“You work for people, madame, and I work for people. Maybe they’re not so different, the people we work for.”

“I hope they are,” she said.

“Are you saying you won’t try?”

“No, no. No. We’ll try. But we don’t have long. We were directed to return to Moscow last week. We told them we had important meetings in Warsaw, so our return was postponed-two weeks from today. After that, the knock on the door at midnight, and finished. For twenty years of secret work, for twenty