The spies of warsaw
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unamused, the ache was in both knees, so not so much the condition
of the wounded warrior as that of a tall man who, the previous
evening, had been making love with a short woman in the shower.
Mercier went first to his apartment, changed quickly into uniform,
then walked back to the embassy, a handsome building on Nowy
Swiat, a few doors from the British embassy, on a tree-lined square
with a statue. In his office, he typed out a brief report of his contact
with Uhl. Very terse: the date and time and location, the delivery of
diagrams for the production of the new--1B--version of the Panzer
tank, the payment made, establishment of the next meeting.
Should he include the fact that Uhl was wriggling? No, nothing
had really happened; surely they didn't care, in Paris, to be bothered
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with such trivia. He had a long, careful look at the diagrams to make
sure they were as described--there was potential here for real disaster;
it had happened more than once, they'd told him; plans for a public
lavatory or a design for a mechanical can opener--then gave the
report, the diagrams, and the signed receipt to one of the embassy
clerks for transmission back to the General Staff in Paris, with a copy
of the report to the ambassador's office and another for the safe that
held his office files.
Next he took a taxi--he had an embassy car and driver available
to him, but he didn't want to bother--out to the neighborhood of the
Citadel, where the Polish General Staff had its offices, to a small cafe
where he was to meet with his Polish counterpart, Colonel Anton
Vyborg. He was first to arrive. They came to this cafe not precisely for
secrecy, rather for privacy--it was more comfortable to speak openly
away from their respective offices. That was one reason, there was
another.
As soon as Mercier was seated at their usual table, the proprietor
produced a large platter of ponczkis, a kind of small jelly doughnut, dusted with granulated sugar, light and fluffy, to which Mercier
was gravely addicted. The proprietor, chubby and smiling, in a wellspattered apron, produced also a silver carafe of coffee. It required all
of Mercier's aristocratic courtesy and diplomatic reserve to leave the
warm, damnably fragrant ponczkis on the platter.
Vyborg, thank heaven, was precisely on time, and together they
set upon the pastries. There was something of the Baltic knight in
Colonel Vyborg. In his forties, he was tall and well-built and thinlipped, with webbed lines at the corners of eyes made to squint into
blizzards, and stiff, colorless hair cut short in the cavalry officer fashion. He wore high leather boots, supple and dark, well rubbed with
saddle soap--Mercier always caught a whiff of it in Vyborg's presence, mixed with the smell of the little cigars he smoked.
Vyborg was a senior officer in the intelligence service, the Oddzial
II--the Deuxieme Bureau, named in the French tradition--of the Polish Army General Staff, known as the Dwojka, which meant "the
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two." Vyborg worked in Section IIb, where they dealt with Austria,
Germany, and France; Section IIa occupied itself with the country's
primary enemies--thus the a--Russia, Lithuania, Byelorussia, and
the Ukraine. Did Vyborg's section run agents on French territory?
Likely they did. Did France do the same thing? Mercier thought so,
but was kept ignorant of such operations, at any rate officially ignorant, but it was more than probable that the French SR, the Service des
Renseignements, the clandestine service of the Deuxieme Bureau, did
precisely that. Know your enemies, know your friends, avoid surprise
at all costs. But the discovery of such operations, when they came to
light, was always an unhappy moment. Allies were, for reasons of the
heart more than the brain, supposed to trust each other. And when
they demonstrably didn't, it was as though the state of the human
condition had slipped a notch.
"Have the last one," Vyborg said, refilling Mercier's coffee cup.
"For you, Anton."
"No, I must insist."
Gracefully, Mercier acceded to diplomacy.
Breakfast over, Vyborg lit one of his miniature cigars, and Mercier
a Mewa--a Seagull--one of the better Polish cigarettes.
"So," Vyborg said, "the Renault people will be here the day after
tomorrow." A delegation of executives and engineers was scheduled to
visit Warsaw, a step in the process of selling Renault tanks to the Polish army.
"Yes," Mercier said, "we are ready for them. They're bringing a
senator."
"You'll be at the dinner?"
From Mercier, a rather grim smile: no escape.
Their eyes met, they had in common a distaste for the obligatory
social engagements required for their work. "It will be very boring,"
Vyborg said. "In case you were concerned."
"I was counting on it."
"You'll be accompanied?"
Mercier nodded. With no wife or fiancee, he would be with the
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deputy director of protocol at the embassy, who served as table partner to Mercier, and one other bachelor diplomat, when the need arose.
"You've met Madame Dupin?"
"I've had the pleasure," Vyborg said.
"Where is it?"
"We sent a note to your office," Vyborg said, one eyebrow arched.
Don't you read your mail? "A private dining room at the Europejski,"
Vyborg said. "They're going to watch a field maneuver earlier in the
day, so they're sure to be exhausted, which will make the evening even
more amusing. Then we're going on to a nightclub--the Adria, of
course--for dancing until dawn."
"I can't wait," Mercier said.
"It's obligatory. When the purchasing delegation went to Renault
in Paris, they were taken to some naughty cancan place--they're still
talking about it--so . . ."
"Will you buy anything?"
"We shouldn't, but there's always a possibility. They want to sell
us the R Thirty-five, which was demonstrated when the delegation visited the factory. This visit is supposed to close the deal."
"The R Thirty-five isn't so bad." Mercier, officially loyal to the
national industries, had to say that and Vyborg knew it. "For infantry
support."
Vyborg shrugged. "A thirty-seven-millimeter cannon, one machine
gun. And they only go twelve miles an hour, with a range of eighty
miles. The armour's thick enough, but you don't get much machine
for the money. Truthfully, if it wasn't French, we wouldn't bother, but
this is up to Smigly-Rydz's office." He meant the inspector general of
the Polish army. "And they may have to bow to political pressure, so,
potentially, our tank crews will die for the cancan."
"What do you have now? The last figure I heard was two hundred."
"That's about right, unfortunately. The Russians have two thousand, best we know, and the same for the Germans. The Ursus factory
is working on the Seven TP, our own model, unde
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ers, but Ursus has to make farm tractors as well, and we need those. In
the end, it's always the same problem: money. You've been out to the
Ursus factory?"
"I was. At the end of the summer."
"Maybe that's the answer, maybe not. It really depends on how
much time we have until the next war starts."
Mercier finished his coffee, then refilled both their cups. "Hitler
loves his tanks," he said.
"Yes, we heard that story. 'These are wonderful! Make more of
them!' An infantry soldier in the war, he knows what the British did at
Cambrai, a hundred tanks, all at once. The Germans broke and ran."
"Not like them."
"No, but they did that day."
For a moment, they were both in the past.
"Who else is coming to the dinner?" Mercier said.
"Well, they have a senator, so we'll have somebody from the Sejm.
Then a few people from the French community: the ubiquitous Monsieur Travas, the Pathe agency manager, is coming, with some gorgeous girlfriend, no doubt, and we've asked your ambassador, of
course, but he's declined. We may get the charge d'affaires."
"Who's the senator?"
"Bernand? Bertrand? Something like that. I have it back at the
office. One of the Popular Front politicians. Somebody from Beck's
office will talk with him, though we doubt he'll have anything new to
say."
Josef Beck was the Polish foreign minister, and Vyborg now
referred to the issue that stood between him and Mercier, between
France and Poland. Treaties aside, would France come to Poland's aid
if Poland were attacked?
"Likely he won't," Mercier said.
"We think not," Vyborg agreed. "But we must try."
France's political condition--strikes, communist pressure, a right
wing divided into fascists and conservatives, failure to aid the Spanish
Republic--continued to deteriorate. The most absurd views were held
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sacred, and there was too much deal-making, though all of this was
seen by a tolerant world as a kind of amiable chaos--a British politician had said that a map of French political opinion would look like
Einstein's hair. But, to Mercier, it wasn't so amusing. "You know what
I think, Anton. If the worst happens, and it starts again, you must be
prepared to stand alone. A map of Europe tells the story. It's that, or
alliance with Russia--which we favor but Poland will never do--or
alliance with Germany, which we certainly don't favor, and you won't
do that either."
"I know," Vyborg said. "We all know." He paused, then brightened. "But, nevertheless, we'll see you at the Renault dinner."
"And then at the Adria."
"You will ask my wife to dance?"
"I shall. And you, Madame Dupin."
"Naturally," Vyborg said. "More coffee?"
At eleven, Mercier was back at the embassy for the daily political
meeting. The ambassador presided, touched on political events of the
last twenty-four hours, and looked ahead to the Renault visit--special
care here, don't bother there. Then LeBeau, the charge d'affaires and
first officer, reported on unrest, potential anti-Jewish demonstrations
in Danzig, and a border incident in Silesia. Then the ambassador
moved on to the topic of electricity consumption at the embassy. How
difficult was it, really, to turn off the lights when not in use?
Mercier had a bowl of soup for lunch at a nearby restaurant; half a
bowl--Polish chicken soup was rich and powerful, laden with heavy,
twisted noodles--because the ponczkis had finished his appetite for
the day. He did paperwork in his office until two-thirty, then returned
to his apartment, changed from uniform back into civilian clothes--
gray flannel trousers, dark wool jacket, subdued striped tie--and set
out for his third cafe of the day. This time on Marszalkowska avenue,
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a lively and elegant street with trees, awnings, nightclubs, and smart
shops.
At midafternoon, the Cafe Cleo was a perfect sanctuary: marble
tables, black-and-white tiled floor, a bow window looking out on the
avenue, where a less-favored world hurried by. The small room was
almost full; the customers chattered away, read the papers, played
chess, drank foamy cups of hot chocolate with whipped cream; their
dogs, mostly beagles, lay attentive under the tables, waiting for cake
crumbs. In a corner at the back, Hana Musser, spectacles pushed
down on her pert nose, worked at a crossword puzzle, lost in concentration, tapping her teeth with a pencil.
Mercier liked Hana Musser, a half-Czech, half-German woman of
uncertain age, who, two years earlier, had fled the fulminous Nazi politics of the Sudetenland and settled in Warsaw, where she worked at
whatever she could but found the economic life of the city more than
difficult. She had fine skin and fine features, a mass of brass-colored
hair drawn back in a clip, and wore a bulky, home-knit cardigan
sweater of a dreadful pea-green shade. How Colonel Bruner had discovered her--to play the part of Countess Sczelenska--Mercier did
not know, but he had his suspicions. Was she a prostitute? Never a true
professional, he guessed, but perhaps a woman who, from time to
time, might meet a man at a cafe, with some kind of gift to follow an
afternoon spent in a hotel room. And, if the man had money, the affair
might continue.
As Mercier seated himself, she looked up, took her spectacles off,
smiled at him, and said, "Good afternoon," in German.
"And to you," Mercier said. "All goes well?"
"Quite well, thank you. And yourself?"
"Not so bad," Mercier said. A waiter appeared, Mercier ordered
coffee. "May I get you something?"
"Another chocolate, please."
When the waiter left, Mercier said, "We've made our usual
deposit."
"Yes, I know, thank you, as always."
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"How do you find your friend, these days?"
"Much as usual. Herr Uhl is a very straightforward fellow. His
journeys to Warsaw are the high points of his life. Otherwise, he
labors away, the good family man."
"And you, Hana?"
From Hana, a half smile and a certain sparkle in her eyes--she
always flirted with him, he never minded. "The Countess Sczelenska
never changes. She can be difficult, at times, but is captive to her
heart's desires." She laughed and said, "I rather like her, actually."
The waiter appeared with coffee and hot chocolate; someone,
probably the waiter himself, had added a particularly generous gobbet
of whipped cream atop the chocolate. Hana pressed her hands
together and said, "Oh my!" How not to reward such a waiter? She
spooned up almost all of the cream, then stirred in the rest.
"We are appreciative," Mercier said, "of what you do for us."
"Ye
s?" She liked the compliment. "I suppose there are legions of
us."
"No, countess, there's only you."
"Oh I bet," she said, teasing him. "Anyhow, I think I was born to
be a spy. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Born? I couldn't say. Perhaps more the times one lives in. Circumstance. There's a French saying, ' Ou le Dieu a vous seme, il faut
savoir fleurir. ' Let's see, 'Wherever God has planted you, you must
know how to flower,' " he said in German.
"That's good," she said.
"I've never forgotten it."
She paused, then said, "If you knew what came before, you'd see
that being a countess is much of an improvement. Have you ever been
hungry, Andre? Really hungry?"
"During the war, sometimes."
"But dinner was coming, sooner or later."
He nodded.
"So," she said. "Anyhow, I wanted to say, if Herr Uhl should--
well, if he goes away, or whatever happens to such people, perhaps I
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could continue. Perhaps you would want something--something different."
"We might," he said. "One never knows the future."
"No," she said. "Probably it's better that way."
"Speaking of the future, your next meeting with Herr Uhl will
take place on the fifteenth of November. He doesn't say anything
about me, does he?"
"No, never. He comes to Warsaw on business."
Would she tell him if he did?
"In a week or two he will telephone," she said. "From the Breslau
railway station. That much he does tell me."
"A different kind of secret," Mercier said.
"Yes," she said. "The secret of a love affair." Again the smile, and
her eyes meeting his.
18 October, 4:20 p.m. On the 2:10 train from Warsaw, the first-class
compartment was full, but Herr Edvard Uhl had been early and taken
the seat by the window. The gray afternoon had at last produced a
slow rain over the October countryside, where narrow sandy roads led
away into the forest.
As the train clattered across central Poland, Uhl was not at ease.
He stared at the droplets sliding across the window, or at the brown
fields beyond, but his mind was too much occupied by going home,
going back to Breslau, to work and family. The unease was not unlike that of a schoolboy's Sunday night; the weekend teased you with
freedom, then the looming Monday morning took it away. The