The Spies of Warsaw

knew, be more than foolish. When he told Jourdain about his meeting with Vyborg, the second secretary wasn’t sure what the surveillance might mean; all Mercier could do was stay alert and report the incident to Paris. Technically, a complaint could be made to the German embassy, through diplomatic channels, but all they would hear back was polite denial, innocent as dew. And, as a potential enemy, Germany had to be treated with restraint-one learned more from smiles than frowns. So Mercier returned to work, now much too aware of people and automobiles, and trusting the telephone even less than usual-a wisp of static on the line implying more than it ever had before. By the twenty-ninth, a cold front froze the city, temperatures below zero, the nights dead still under brilliant stars, and Mercier’s life froze with it.

But, not so bad, that life. The evening of the twenty-ninth found him stretched out on the chaise longue in the study, finishing The Red and the Black, a swing band on the radio, a fire in the fireplace, a brandy at his side. The cook had left earlier. Wlada had finished washing up and gone to her room. Mercier turned a page, and somebody pounded on the street door. He looked up, and heard it again, this time accompanied by a muffled voice. What was this?

He swung his legs off the chaise and put on his slippers. Now the pounding was louder, and so was the voice-distantly, he thought he could make out the sound of his name. He went to the window, cranked it open, the cold air hitting him like a fist, and leaned out. Whoever was hammering on the door was in the alcove and couldn’t be seen, but the voice was clear as a bell. “Mercier! Please! Let me in! Please!” A woman, shouting in German. And he recognized the voice: Malka Rozen.

Mercier ran for the door. Wlada was already there, in her bathrobe, trembling, looking at him desperately. “Calm down, Wlada,” he said, rushing out the door and down the stairs. From above, one of the upstairs tenants was peering anxiously over the banister. “Colonel?” he said. “Is everything …?”

“Sorry,” Mercier shouted back. “I’ll see about it.”

From above, an irritated grunt followed by the slamming of a door.

“Oh God,” Malka Rozen said as he let her in. “He’s hurt.”

“Come upstairs.” As they climbed, Mercier held her elbow, steadying her. She wore an old coat and a shawl over her head.

“You must find Viktor,” she said, her voice edged with panic.

As they reached the apartment, Mercier said, “What happened?”

“It’s them. They know.”

“Merde.”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He led her inside, past Wlada, who held her hand over her mouth. Malka turned and grabbed Mercier by the wrists. “He’s in the park, a little park, up at the top of Ujazdowska.”

“Why?”

“He fell, on the ice, and hurt his ankle; he couldn’t walk. So he told me to go on ahead.”

“The park. Three Crosses Square? In front of a church?”

“Yes. A church.”

“Wlada,” as Mercier hurried back toward the study, he lost a slipper, “take Pana Rozen into your room and lock the door.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Then, to Malka Rozen, “Please, Pana, come with me.” Her voice was shrill with panic.

Mercier kicked off the other slipper, whipped the drawer of his desk open and took out the 9-millimeter Browning, checked to see if it was loaded, and put it in the waistband of his trousers. Then he pulled on his shoes and squirmed into his overcoat. Checking to make sure he had his keys, he called out to Wlada, “Don’t let anybody in here, Wlada. Wait for me to come back.” He had at least one Soviet spy, and he meant to keep her.

The night was brutal. Mercier shivered and tried to run, but his knee didn’t like the weather any better than he did, so he limped along as quickly as he could. She hadn’t meant Lazienka park, had she? That was at the other end of Ujazdowska. No, she’d said church. Saint Alexander’s. Please God, let her be accurate. Mercier took the Browning from his waistband and moved it to the pocket of his overcoat. The first thug I see-that’s it. He gripped the butt tightly and swore as the cold worked through his clothing. Curse the stupid war wound-why couldn’t he go faster? A man attempting to walk a shivering dog took one look at the expression on Mercier’s face and pulled the dog away, back toward his building.

By the time he saw the cross and dome atop Saint Alexander’s, Mercier was out of breath. The tiny park was enclosed by a line of evergreen shrubs and an iron railing. Vault over. He damned the stupidity of his inner voice and hobbled along the fence, looking for the gate. Once past the shrubs, he saw a man seated on a bench, hands in pockets, head almost touching his knees. Gone? It was not unknown. Dawn in Warsaw would sometimes reveal bodies, glazed with ice, dead where they’d sat down to rest, or passed out drunk, on a freezing night.

Mercier found the gate and rushed to the bench. Yes, Viktor Rozen. Eyes closed, mouth open. Mercier said, “Wake up, Viktor, we must get you away from here,” and tugged at Rozen’s shoulder. There was something wrong with him. Mercier said, “Are you ill? Wounded?” Rozen didn’t respond, Mercier gripped him under the arms and raised him to his feet. Rozen revived, swaying as Mercier held him upright, then, with Mercier bearing most of his weight, took a small step, then another.

Out past the shrubs, the engine of a car. A car going very slowly. Mercier hung on to Rozen with one hand, drew the Browning from his pocket with the other, and waited for a Russian to appear. But the car went past.

“Let’s go inside, where it’s warm,” Mercier said, voice gentle.

Rozen took a step, then another, and began walking, with a moan every time his foot hit the ground. Sprained ankle. “Not too far now,” Mercier said. “Keep walking, we’ll be there soon.” Viktor didn’t answer; he seemed distant, vague, not completely conscious of where he was. Had he been drinking? No, something else.

Rozen staggered along. Mercier staggered with him, past the iron palings and elegant buildings of the avenue. Suddenly, Viktor began to sing, under his breath. Mercier swore. This was very bad, he’d seen it on winter battlefields; soldiers who talked nonsense and did odd things-taking their boots off in the snow-and died an hour later. “Viktor?”

Rozen giggled.

Mercier shook him hard.

“Stop! Why do you hurt me?”

“We have to hurry.”

“Oh.”

Rozen actually managed to move faster, supporting his weight on Mercier’s shoulder. Then, as Mercier searched for a house number, to see how close they were, a man emerged from the shadow of a doorway, walked quickly out to the avenue, then stopped dead, a few feet in front of them. Short hair, thick body, a pug face. Mercier moved to put himself between Rozen and the man, took the Browning out of his pocket and held it away from his side. The man stared at him, face without expression, and stayed where he was. When he opened his mouth-to speak? To call out to his fellow agents? — Mercier aimed the gun at his heart, finger tight against the trigger. The man blinked, and his face turned angry, very angry; he wasn’t afraid of guns, he wasn’t afraid of Mercier. But then he turned, slowly, all insolence, and walked across the avenue, his footsteps loud in the night silence.

When they were again under way, Mercier said, “Who was he, Viktor?”

“Some fellow.”

“Someone after you?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Mercier was exhausted by the time he got Rozen up the stairs. He fumbled for his keys, opened the door, shoved Rozen inside, leaned him against the wall, and pulled the door shut behind them. At which moment Malka emerged from Wlada’s room, pushed past him, and cried out, “Viktor!”

“He’s suffering from exposure,” Mercier said. Then he called out to Wlada, who peered, wide-eyed, from the