The Spies of Warsaw

change in the form for filing certain reports, a new charge d’affaires appointed in Riga-he came upon a yellow manila envelope. Inside-attached to a note from Colonel Bruner-a white envelope addressed to “Andre,” his work name in the Edvard Uhl operation, holding a letter, handwritten, in German: 6 January, 1938

Dear Andre,

I write from Paris, and I am informed that this letter will reach you in Warsaw. I leave soon, for a new life in Canada, a new job, with a small company, and a new place to live, a small town near the city of Quebec. So, I have already started to learn to speak French. Now, I do not regret what I did. As I look toward Germany and see what goes on there, perhaps it was for the best.

I am writing on the subject of the Countess Sczelenska. I know now that she was not a countess, and her name was not Sczelenska. This doesn’t matter to me. I still have dear memories of our love affair. I don’t care how it came to happen-my feelings for her are undiminished. I miss her. I like to think she might have some feeling for me, as well. At least I can hope.

Would you say farewell for me? Tell her of my affection for her? And that, should this unhappy Europe some day find itself in better times, perhaps, on that day, we might meet again. I would be eternally grateful if you would say these things to her on my behalf.

A flowery German closing was followed by Uhl’s signature.

The note from Colonel Bruner stated that the letter was being sent on to him because it was now felt that the bureau might, in certain circumstances, have further use for Uhl, and they wanted to keep him happy. Of course Mercier would not reveal to Hana Musser, who’d played the role of Sczelenska, where Uhl was, or what he was doing, but it might not be the worst thing to let her know of the letter’s existence and Uhl’s sentiments. “Just in case, in future, we need to induce him to undertake new work on our behalf.”

Mercier had maintained Hana Musser’s small stipend; he might require her services, and, also, he liked her- though he would never tell Bruner that. He wrote out a brief dispatch: acknowledged receipt of the letter and agreed to let Hana Musser know of Uhl’s safety, his affectionate farewell, and his hope to, some day, see her again.

25 January. Mercier’s regular meeting with Colonel Vyborg was scheduled for that morning, but there would be no ponczki-or so it seemed-since Vyborg had shifted the meeting from their usual cafe to his office at General Staff headquarters, in the Tenth Pavilion of the Warsaw Citadel: a vast fortress, containing the Savka Barracks, built under the nineteenth-century Russian occupation and located north of the central city, facing the Vistula. Vyborg’s office was down a long hallway from the room where, famously, Marshal Pilsudski had been held prisoner, in 1900, by the Russian secret police.

Mercier arrived promptly at eleven, to discover that Vyborg had ordered the cafe to deliver a dozen ponczkis to his office, where they’d been laid out on a plate from the regimental china service. There was coffee in a silver urn, and the cups and saucers were also from the regimental china. Sugar, cream, linen napkins-what sort of news, Mercier wondered, awaited him? On the wall above Vyborg’s desk, a beautifully drawn map, in colored pencil, of an estate called Perenska, with some of the surrounding countryside included. Mercier walked over to the map to have a better look at it.

“My country home,” Vyborg explained. “The map was drawn by Captain de Milja, in our Geographical Section.”

“It is very handsome,” Mercier said.

“I’m pleased you find it so.”

They settled at a table by the window, looking out at the river. Vyborg poured coffee, Mercier attacked a ponczki, and they chatted for a time, this and that. Mercier knew that Vyborg might soon be made aware of Soviet networks spying on Poland-if the Rozens were still alive-but he could say nothing. This information would go from the Deuxieme Bureau to the head of Oddzial II, Polish military intelligence, the Dwojka-protocol, always protocol. And, since a separate section handled the USSR, the information would not damage Vyborg personally. The discovery of spies was a double-edged sword- congratulations on finding out, why didn’t you know earlier.

When they were done with gossip, Mercier said, “Any special reason to meet in your office?”

“There is, I’m afraid. Something not for a cafe.” In Vyborg’s voice, a slight discomfort.

So then, bad news. Mercier lit a Mewa and waited.

“We have reason to believe,” Vyborg said, “that certain people are interested in you.”

“Which people, Anton?”

“A woman of Ukrainian origin, who works at a travel agency on Marszalkowska, was observed, on three occasions, watching the building where you live. And seen both near your embassy and on your street, a German of Polish nationality, a nasty-looking character called Winckelmann. He was using a fancy Opel, black, the 1937 Admiral model”-Vyborg looked down at an open dossier-“Polish license plate six, nine-four-nine. For what looked a lot like surveillance. This Winckelmann is known to work, from time to time, as a driver for SD officers at the German embassy.”

“A nasty-looking character, you say. A small fellow, with a pinched face? Who might remind one-diminutive but fierce-of a weasel?”

Vyborg was delighted. “A weasel! Yes, exactly. Evidently you’ve seen him.”

“The day of the Uhl abduction. Also, the same car. Did you say you’ve seen him?”

“Not in person.” Vyborg produced, from the dossier, a photograph, which he handed to Mercier.

Taken from a window above Ujazdowska avenue with a long-range lens, the slightly blurred image of a man behind the wheel of a parked automobile, eyes staring up and to the right, apparently watching the street in the rearview mirror.

“The weasel?”

Mercier nodded, then looked up at Vyborg and said, “Your agents were in a building on my street? And near the embassy? You aren’t going to tell me this is a coincidence, are you?”

Vyborg said, “No, I’m not,” quietly, an admission made with only faint reluctance. “You mustn’t be angry, Jean-Francois. The Dwojka cares for its French friends and makes sure, every once in a while, that all goes well with them. It’s done by the counterintelligence people-not my department-and, as you might suppose, the same sort of thing goes on in Paris, with our attaches.”

Vyborg wasn’t wrong, Mercier suspected, but, even so, he didn’t like it. He took a sip of his coffee.

“None of us are saints, my friend; we all watch each other, sooner or later. Have another ponczki.” Vyborg lifted the platter and extended it toward Mercier.

As Mercier chewed, he watched a barge on the river, working upstream.

“And, I would say, in this case the practice works to your benefit. Any idea what’s going on?”

Mercier thought it over. “I don’t know. Perhaps the fact that I spoiled their abduction-”

“Very unlikely. People in this business know that once these little wars begin, it’s very hard to stop them. A silent treaty-we keep our hands off each other. I don’t mean recruitment, that never ends. They might probe to see if you were gambling, or doing whatever it might be that could be used for blackmail, but, as far as I know, you lead a rather respectable life. And if they were recruiting, it wouldn’t look like this.”

Mercier shrugged. “Uhl wasn’t all that important. At least, we never thought he was. A view into German tank production; surely they’re running similar operations in France.”

“Of course they are. Anyhow, as the host country, we have some responsibility for your well-being-I hope you won’t hold it against us.”

“No, Anton, I understand.”

Vyborg made a certain gesture, palms brushing across each other, washing his hands of an unpleasant task. “So now you know,” he said with finality. “May I have my photograph back?”

The following days were not easy. Mercier waited for Anna to call, as they’d agreed in Belgrade, and for the Rozens, who did not signal. They lived in a room near the Soviet embassy, but to go anywhere near there would, he