The Spies of Warsaw

the head of the bed, back against the pillows, legs stretched diagonally down the blanket. A group of Polish and Czech customs officers came walking along the platform, heading for the second-class carriages. One of them glanced in the window.

“Did Marie Dupin tell you about the conference?”

“I heard about it; then I asked her.”

“This was her idea all along, I suspect. Putting us together.”

“She likes to take part in her friends’ lives.”

“True. She does.”

She took the last sip of her drink and put the glass on the shelf below the window. Then she laced her fingers behind her head, closed her eyes, and moved around to get comfortable, sliding forward so that the hem of her skirt slid well above her knees. In the station, someone called out in Czech and a woman laughed.

“A nap?” he said, teasing her.

Very slowly, she shook her head. “Just thinking.”

A porter, pushing a baggage cart that squeaked as it rolled, trudged past the window. Anna opened her eyes, turned to see what was going on, then closed them again. “Ahh, Kravina.”

The locomotive vented steam, a passenger went past in the corridor, a suitcase bumping against the wall, and the train started forward, very slowly, the pillars of the station creeping past the window. Anna extended her leg and put her foot on top of his. Warm and soft, that foot. The train gained a little speed, crossing the town, past snow-covered streets and lamplit squares. A faint smile on her face now, she reached beneath her skirt, left and right, undid her garters, and rolled her stockings down, not far, just enough so that he could see the tops. Mercier turned off the reading lamp, then crawled over to her, and, telling himself not to be awkward, finished the job-his hands sliding over her legs, white and smooth, as the stockings came down. She opened her eyes, met his, and spread her arms. It was very quiet in the compartment, only the beat of the train, but, when he embraced her, she made a certain sound, deep, like ohh, in a way that meant at last. Then they kissed for a while, the tender kind, touch and part-until she raised her arms so he could take her sweater off. Small breasts in a lacy black bra. For a day at the Cracow office?

Madame Dupin, you told.

He kissed her breasts, the lace of the bra against his lips, and they wrestled out of their clothes until she wore only panties-again black and lacy-and he took the waistband in his fingers. They paused, shared a look of exquisite complicity, and she raised her hips.

Somewhere between Kravina and Brno, he woke, cold, the covers down, the speeding train hammering along the track between low hills. She slept on her stomach, curved bottom pale in the light made by the moon shining on snow. As he ran his fingers up and back, he watched her come awake, her mouth opened slightly, then widened as her eyebrows lifted-the delicately wicked face of anticipation.

At Brno station, the sleep of exhaustion.

But after Bratislava, as the train roared through a tunnel, he woke again, to find her making love to him, very excited, her hand between his legs, while her lower part, moist and insistent, straddled his thigh. “Easy … easy,” she whispered.

Coming into Budapest, in the first trace of dawn, only a fond embrace. But very fond.

They went to the dining car for breakfast. The same waiter, discreet as he could be, yet somehow he made them aware that he knew exactly how they’d spent the night, and that he was a man who believed in love. “Do you eat breakfast?” she said.

“No, usually coffee and a cigarette. But I didn’t eat yesterday, so”-he searched the brief menu-“I’ll have the Vienna roll, whatever that might be.”

“A sexual act?”

“Perhaps, we’ll see. Not much privacy in here so it’s probably cake.”

It was, walnuts and apricot filling in butter-laden pastry. “Lord!” he said. “Try a little bite, anyhow.” He fed her.

“What’s next? Belgrade?”

“In two hours. Should we talk about Warsaw?”

“Maybe a few words.”

“I’m in love with you, Anna. I want you with me.”

“I will have to make things final, with Maxim.”

“I know.”

For a moment, she was lost in thought. Then touched his knee, beneath the table. “It’s just the prospect of working it all out, saying things, leaving.”

He nodded that he understood.

“I think I would have left him anyhow. But, are you sure? That you want to do this?”

“Yes. You?”

“Very sure. Since the storm. No, a day or two later. Anyhow, we can talk all this out in Belgrade.”

“Not for long. I have to go back tomorrow: Sunday.”

“What? No rights of national minorities?”

“Which hotel are you staying at?”

A long trip back to Warsaw. After a night together at the Serbski Kralj-King of Serbia-hotel, she’d accompanied him, late Sunday afternoon, to the railway station. In his compartment, he’d lowered the window, and she’d stood on the platform, hands in the pockets of her long coat, and they’d gazed at each other as the train pulled away, until he could see her no longer. Then he’d stared out at the winter dusk for a while, reliving various moments of the time they’d shared. But, finally, it was Simenon-all too soon finished-and, inevitably, Stendhal-far more compelling than he’d remembered-followed by the trout, this time consumed, and, back in his compartment, deep and dreamless sleep.

Paradise, really, compared to what Monday held in store. He’d gone directly to the embassy from the station, and into a meeting with Jourdain and the other military attaches. The usual grim business. He stayed on afterward, to speak privately with Jourdain.

“There’s been no signal from the Rozens,” Jourdain said. “We’ve had our Poles in and out of the post office.”

“They missed the meeting on the eighteenth,” Mercier said.

Jourdain looked up from his papers. “Has something happened?”

“Perhaps. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Jourdain made a small sound of frustration. “We spend our lives waiting,” he said.

“On a different subject, I’ve had a change in my-ah, personal life. Somebody I like. What would happen if she were to join me, in the apartment?”

Jourdain thought for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t, if it were me. They can’t really tell you what to do, in your private life, but I suspect they think of the apartment as a kind of semi-official residence. Somebody will write a memorandum, you can count on that, and, after everything that’s gone on the last few weeks, I’m afraid there might be a storm. The ambassador likes you, but I wouldn’t want to ask him, if I were you, for protection in this area. Forgive me, Jean-Francois, but it’s better if I tell you what I really think.”

“I knew. More or less. Just thought I’d ask.”

“Anyhow, congratulations. Who is she?”

“Anna Szarbek.”

“The League lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Lucky man,” Jourdain said.

Back in his office, a clerk delivered mail from the diplomatic pouch. Wading through drivel of every degree-a