The Spies of Warsaw

“So, no German information.”

“Gossip,” Viktor said. “In an embassy, you hear things.”

“Such as?”

“Surely the Poles already know. Camp Rummelsburg, in Pomerania, where they train spies to work in Poland. It opened in ‘thirty-six, they’re thought to have run about three thousand people through there. And, of course, the Polish branches of I.G. Farben and Siemens-Schuckert are used as espionage centers. But, as for names and dates, this never came our way. Maybe if we’d had some time with the files …”

“Any gossip about the I.N. Six?”

“I.N. Six?” Viktor said.

“Guderian’s office,” Malka said. “In the Bendlerstrasse.” The address of the German General Staff.

“Oh,” Viktor said. He pondered a moment, then shook his head.

“What do I remember about I.N. Six?” Malka said. “Was that CHAIKA? Kovak’s operation?”

“No, no, it wasn’t Kovak, it was Morozov.”

“He’s right,” Malka said. “It was Morozov.”

“What’s CHAIKA?” Mercier said.

“A codename. Means the bird, very common water bird, makes a squawk? In all the harbors, everywhere.”

Mercier came up with seagull, but didn’t know the German. “I’ll look it up,” Mercier said. “What does it have to do with I.N. Six?”

“A GRU officer called Morozov had this operation a few years ago,” Malka said. “Someone who worked in the I.N. Six office, codename CHAIKA, had concealed a political affiliation, from the early thirties. He’d been a member of the Black Front, Adolf Hitler’s opponents in the Nazi party, the left wing. You remember, colonel, the Strasser brothers?”

“I do. Gregor was murdered in ‘thirty-four, the Night of the Long Knives. But his brother Otto survived.”

“He did, went underground, and continued his opposition.”

Mercier knew at least the basic elements of the story. The Nazi party, soon after its birth, had split on ideological lines; some of the original members were committed to the socialist agenda-it was, after all, the National Socialist Party, Nazi the German slang derived from the first word-and proposed sharing German wealth and land with the working class. But the wealthy supporters of the party, Baron Krupp, Fritz von Thyssen, and others, wanted no part of that and Hitler, desperate for money, sided with them, ordered the murders, in 1934, of some of his opponents, and forced the others to pledge support to the right-wing side of the ideology. Otto Strasser, Mercier knew, was still in opposition, operating from Czechoslovakia.

“Anyhow,” Malka continued, “Morozov determined to put pressure on this CHAIKA, to force him to become a Soviet agent.”

“What happened?”

“Morozov was purged. But this operation never really got under way, because …” She stopped, unable to remember the reason.

“Because of the name!” Viktor was delighted with his memory. “Morozov had the name-Kroll? something like that-from a German informant who’d been a member of the Black Front and was now hiding in Poland, but the problem was that the Black Front used false names-after all, they were being hunted by the Gestapo. So the name Kroll, or whatever it was, was meaningless, there was nobody in the I.N. Six with that name.”

“Not Kroll,” Malka said.

“I think it was.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“What then?”

“Kohler, dear. That was it.”

Viktor smiled fondly and said to Mercier, “Isn’t she something?”

30 January, 6:35 A.M. Fully dressed, his Browning automatic on top of his folded overcoat, Mercier telephoned Marek, his wife answered, and the driver was called to the phone. “Good morning,” he said.

“I must go to the embassy, Marek.”

“Yes?” Marek’s voice was cautious, Mercier almost always walked the few blocks to the embassy.

“To prepare for a meeting,” Mercier said.

“When shall I come for you?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Ten minutes,” Marek said, and hung up.

By 6:50, they were under way, the Rozens in the backseat, Mercier sitting beside Marek. Mercier had left the building first, walked up and down the street, then returned for the Rozens. Marek on one side, Mercier on the other, they ran for the idling Buick.

“We’re going to Praga,” Mercier said. “Do you have a weapon?”

Marek patted the side pocket of his bulky coat.

“Don’t hesitate,” Mercier said.

“Who are we expecting?”

“Russians. NKVD Russians.”

“Will be a pleasure.”

They crossed the Vistula, now a sheet of gray ice, wound through the factory district, down a side street, and into the loading yard of a vacant foundry, the smell of scorched brass strong on a windless morning. Jourdain was waiting by his car, slapping his gloved hands against each other to keep the blood moving. “Nice day for a ride in the country,” he said to Mercier, his words accompanied by puffs of white steam. Then, to the Rozens, “Good morning, I’m here to help you.” Formally, they shook hands.

“Where’s Gustav?” Mercier said.

“He should be along in a minute; he’s been trailing your car since you crossed the river.”

A motorcycle pulled into the yard, skidding to a stop on the cinders. The rider’s face was shielded by a wool scarf, worn just below his goggles. He nodded hello and revved his engine by way of greeting.

“No point waiting, Jean-Francois. Gustav leads the way, you follow, I’ll be right behind you.”

As they drove away from the factory, Malka Rozen said, “Where are we going?”

“Konstancin,” Mercier said.

They drove fast through the early morning streets of Praga, past factory smokestacks, the black smoke hanging still in the frozen air, crossed back into Warsaw, turned southeast, and followed the river, the motorcycle slowing, then accelerating, as Gustav watched for idling cars, or trucks moving to block the way. Speed was something of an art, Mercier realized-the traffic policemen gave them a look, but did nothing. Gradually, the city fell away and they moved swiftly along a country road, through the village of Konstancin-elaborate houses and well- groomed gardens-and out the other side.

Mercier saw that Marek was intent on the rearview mirror, shifting his eyes every few seconds. “What’s back there, Marek?”

“A big car; he’s been with us since the outskirts of the city.”

“What kind of car?”

“It has a hood ornament-perhaps the English car, called Bentley?”

Rozen-Russians and Poles understood each other’s languages-said, “Nothing to worry about.”

“You’re sure?”

“Too rich for us.”

Not if it’s been stolen.

But a few minutes later, Marek said, “Now he turns off,” and Mercier relaxed. It was quiet in the car. Up ahead, Gustav leaned over as they sped around the curves, and then he signaled, pointed down a dirt road, and swung into it. They slowed, bouncing over frozen ruts and potholes, turned hard at a sharp corner, and jolted to a stop. Parked in the road: an ancient relic of a truck, its bed holding rows of milk cans. Gustav reached inside his leather coat and produced a cannon of an automatic pistol, a box magazine set forward of the trigger guard. As the motorcycle sped around the truck on the driver’s side, Mercier twisted around to see that the Rozens were staring