by Alan Furst
6 January, 1938
Dear André,
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 café 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 café 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 Deuxième 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 café.” 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-François. 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 attachés.”
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 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 safety of her room. “Go run a bath, Wlada, hot water, as hot as you can get it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wlada ran ahead of them into the bathroom. Malka and Mercier held Viktor up between them. He was singing again, a children’s song. “What’s wrong with him?” Malka said, horrified.
“It’s the cold.”
When they reached the bathroom off Mercier’s bedroom, Wlada was already on her knees, finger under a stream of steaming water. “Get his clothes off,” Mercier
said. As Malka began to unknot Viktor’s tie, Wlada fled.
“She is very nervous, your maid.”
“She’ll survive. Tell me what happened.”
“Someone at the embassy, a friend, a friend from the old days, suddenly wouldn’t talk to me. But it was in his eyes—he’d been questioned, I could feel it. So I knew. Then, tonight, we stayed late, but there were people in the file room, security people, and all I could do was look at one of my own operations, where I’m permitted to look, and then I went and got Viktor, and we left. As we walked down the street to our building, we saw one of their cars, so we went into a little grocery store, where we always shop, and left by the back door. Nothing new to us, conspirative work. . . .”
“Were you able to take anything from the embassy? From the files?”
“Yes, it’s hidden in our room. But they’ll find it soon enough.”
“What sort of—” In the study, the whirring ring of the telephone.
“Go ahead, colonel,” Malka said. “I’ll get him into the tub.”
In the study, Mercier stared at the telephone for a moment, looked at his watch, ten-thirty, then picked up the receiver and, voice tentative, said, “Hello?”
“Hello, Jean-François, it’s me.” She paused, then said, “Anna.”
“Are you allright?”
“Is it too late to call? You sound . . . distracted.”
“No, some excitement here, but nothing to worry about.” There’s a naked Russian spy in my bathtub, otherwise . . .
“Well, it’s done. I came back on Thursday, and I’ve found a place to live. A room and a little kitchen, over on Sienna street. Seventeen Sienna street. Not much, but all I could afford.”
“Don’t worry about money, Anna.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have called, you sound—maybe not a good time to talk?” In her voice, suspicion: who are you with?
