by Alan Furst
used for the new tank bodies, as Mercier had requested. "It's in here,"
Uhl said, gesturing toward his newspaper. "I had to copy it by hand,
the roneo machine was in use all morning." Otherwise, not much new
in Breslau: design work on the Ausf B version of the Panzerkampf-
wagen 1 continued, none of the specifications had changed, the final
engineering blueprints would soon be completed.
"Our next meeting will be the fourteenth of December," Mercier
said, feeling for the envelope of zloty in the pocket of his battered
overcoat. "I will look forward to copies of the blueprints."
"The fourteenth?" Uhl said.
Here we go again.
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 84
8 4 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
"Not the fourteenth, I'm afraid," Uhl said. "I cannot come to
Warsaw until the night of the seventeenth."
"Why not the fourteenth?"
"I must go to Schramberg, on business."
"Schramberg?"
"In the Black Forest. There are three of us going, from the ironworks, all engineers. We are to observe tank exercises; then we will be
asked for opinions and recommendations. There will be a dinner that
night, at the inn in Schramberg, with Wehrmacht officials, technical
people, and we leave the following morning, the fifteenth. So, you see
I cannot come to Warsaw until the night of the seventeenth, and we
can meet the following morning."
"Where is there terrain for tanks, Herr Uhl, in the Black Forest?"
To Mercier, it sounded like a story--this little sneak of a man was up
to something. What?
"I don't know where, exactly, but I was told the maneuvers will
take place in the forest."
"Tanks don't go in forests, Herr Uhl. There are trees in the forest,
tanks can't get through."
"Yes, so I thought. Perhaps they wish to have us suggest modifications that might make it possible. The fact is, I don't know what
they're doing, but, in any case, I've been ordered to attend, so I must."
Surely you must. "You'll write us a report, Herr Uhl, about the
exercises. Be thorough, please: formations, speeds, angles of ascent
and descent, how long it takes to go a certain distance. And, also, the
names of the Wehrmacht officials. Do you need to make a note to
yourself?"
Uhl shook his head. "I know what you want."
"Then we'll meet again on the morning of the eighteenth."
Uhl agreed, though Mercier sensed a growing reluctance, as
though the day would come, soon enough, when these meetings would
end. He slid the envelope into his newspaper and received the steel formula in return. Uhl signed the receipt, then left the bar.
Mercier lit a Mewa, his mind working on what Uhl had told him.
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 85
O N R AV E N H I L L * 8 5
Just precisely what forest were the Germans thinking about? The
mountains on the border with Czechoslovakia, the Sudetenland
region? There was no forest on the frontier between Germany and
Denmark, as far as he knew. And the Polish steppe had virtually been
made for tank formations. Where else? The forests between Germany
and France? Under the artillery of the Maginot Line forts? Suicide.
Austria? Hitler might attack Austria, but it would be a political, not a
military, invasion.
That left what? That left the Ardennes, in Belgium, north of the
Maginot Line. No. For a thousand reasons, a very remote possibility.
But, he thought, somewhere.
Mercier finished his coffee, bad as it was. The bar felt oppressive; he
disliked waiting for Uhl to leave the area and kept glancing at his
watch. Finally, twenty minutes--well, almost. The doctrine on agent
meetings said last to arrive, first to leave, but Mercier did it his own
way, and, to date, nothing had gone wrong.
Out in the street, he hurried through the floating snowflakes,
heading toward the tram stop. He was anxious to return to the apartment, to change out of his disguise, this old coat and hat, and be off
to the embassy, where he could look at his maps. He peered ahead, to
make sure he didn't catch up to Uhl, though anyone dawdling in this
weather seemed unlikely, and Uhl had to get his train back to Breslau.
Did he use the same tram stop? Mercier couldn't decide; the alley lay
almost midway between two stops. As he neared the corner where he
took the trolley, he heard its bell ringing behind him and broke into as
much of a run as he could manage. In the event, the motorman saw
him loping along and waited, and Mercier thanked him as he climbed
aboard.
He started to move through the standing crowd toward the rear
platform, then stopped dead. Uhl! At the center of the car. Well, they
would just have to ignore each other. Evidently, Uhl had gone to the
other stop, and the trolley was running late. Mercier found room on
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 86
8 6 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
the opposite side of the aisle and stared out the grimy window, then
chanced one fast look at Uhl. What was this? He wasn't alone. Holding the back of a wicker seat with one hand, briefcase under his arm,
he was engaged in animated conversation with--who? An angel. That
was the word that sprang into his head. Because she stood on Uhl's
left and was turned toward him, Mercier could see her face, could see
that she was very young, barely twenty, and, even in a city of striking
blond women, extraordinary--innocent as a child, the rabbit-fur collar of her coat turned up, her long flaxen hair set off by a knit cap,
sky blue, with a tassel. Standing close to Uhl, face upturned, she was
rapt, transfixed by what he was saying, laughing, gloved hand over her
mouth, then giving her hair a seductive shake. Had this just begun?
On the trolley? Mercier guessed not--it had started at the tram stop.
Again she laughed, leaning toward Uhl, almost, but not quite, touching him. Was she a prostitute? No sign of that, to Mercier's eyes.
Or, if she was, an extremely rare version of the breed, not the sort
who would pick up a man at a tram stop at six-thirty on a snowy
morning.
Immediately, Mercier sensed that something was wrong. He
forced himself to look away, at a row of brick factories sliding past the
window, until the trolley slowed for the next stop. Then he stole
another glance. If they got off together, what would he do?
But they stayed on the tram. Which rolled over the bridge that crossed
the Vistula, the snow swirling in the wind above the dark river. Now it
was her turn to talk, her face concentrated, wanting the man she'd
met, older, experienced, to take her seriously. Was she speaking Polish? Did Uhl speak the language? Breslau had forever been a disputed
city--Wroclaw, as far as the Poles were concerned--and it was possible that Uhl spoke some Polish. A woman standing next to Mercier--
he could smell the damp wool of her coat--caught him staring and
gave him a look: mind your own business. He turned back to the window. The trolley was now approaching his stop, in central Warsaw,
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 87
O N R AV E N H I L L
* 8 7
and, as the motorman pulled on the cord that rang the bell, Mercier
glanced up the aisle and saw that Uhl and the blond girl were moving
toward the rear platform.
Mercier left by the front door, circled the tram--thus shielded
from Uhl and the girl--headed quickly for the shops across the street,
and chose one with a set-back entry. Like some sly private detective, he
thought, lurking in a doorway. A fancy perfume shop, as it happened,
great clouds of scent rolling out each time the door opened. When the
trolley pulled away, he spotted the blue cap in the crowd waiting to
transfer to another line. Where the hell were they going? Not to the
Europejski. A taxi drove up to the front of the shop, a pair of women
in the back, and Mercier arrived in time to hold the door as they
emerged. "Oh, why thank you," the first one said. Mercier mumbled
"You're welcome" and slid into the seat.
"Sir?" the driver said. He was in his twenties, with a well-oiled
pompadour.
"Don't go anywhere, not just yet," Mercier said. "Some friends of
mine are waiting for a trolley; we'll just follow along behind."
"Friends?" A wise-guy grin, who are you kidding?
"Yes, it's a surprise."
The driver snickered. Mercier peeled twenty zloty off the wad in
his pocket--for agent meetings, one carried plenty of money. The
driver thanked him, and they waited together, the ill-tuned engine
coughing away in neutral.
Waited for ten very long minutes. At last, a trolley arrived and the
blue cap climbed aboard, followed by Uhl. "That's the one we want,"
Mercier said.
As the driver put the taxi in gear and fell in behind the tram, he
said, "It's the number four line. Up to Muranow."
Not bad at this, the driver, he'd evidently done it before, pulling
over well to the rear of the trolley each time it stopped. The tram
tracks curved into Nalewki, the main street of the Jewish quarter:
kosher butchers, pushcarts piled with old clothes or pots and pans,
men in caftans and fur hats, hurrying along through the snow. Mercier
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 88
8 8 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
could see that the crowd of passengers inside the trolley had thinned
out--had Uhl and the girl somehow gotten away? No, the next stop
was Gesia, Goose street, and they appeared on the rear platform as the
trolley slowed. Mercier put his head down.
"That them?"
"Yes."
"Jesus, look at her."
Mercier handed over more zloty and climbed out. He found himself in front of an open stall on the cobblestones, a chicken-seller,
scrawny birds hung by their heads from hooks, and a smell that
almost made his eyes tear. To Mercier, it now seemed that the girl was
leading the way, her arm looped in Uhl's, walking quickly. Mercier
hung back, close to the buildings, ready to step into a doorway if one
of them turned around. Gesia was an old street--three-story buildings, some wood, others gray stone darkened by time and coal
smoke--where every shop called out to potential customers: a clock
hung out over the sidewalk advertised a watchmaker; a painted sign
showed a pair of eyes wearing spectacles; m. perlmutter--fine
gloves.
hotel orla.
Now Mercier knew where they were going. He dropped back well
behind them as they crossed the street, past a crowd of schoolboys
with curly sideburns and yarmulkes, past a horse-drawn coal wagon,
the driver, wearing a long leather apron, shoveling coal down a chute
that led into the hotel's cellar. The Orla--eagle--had the look of
hourly rates and no questions asked; as Warsaw slang put it, a Paris
hotel. Mercier stationed himself where he could see the entry, using
the doorway of a shop with stacks of old books piled high in the window, some with Hebrew writing on their spines. After a time, the proprietor of the shop came to his door and had a look at Mercier, then
nodded to himself, a faint look of disgust on his face--so here's
another one, the watchers of the Hotel Orla.
*
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 89
O N R AV E N H I L L * 8 9
It was now after nine in the morning, and Uhl, having to return to the
Europejski for his valise, would miss the express to Breslau. Well,
there was always another train, and Uhl, who had fallen to the charms
of the Countess Sczelenska, now took advantage of a new opportunity, but that was the way of the world--Uhl's world, at any rate. An
opportunity much too good to be true, Mercier thought, but maybe he
was seeing the same phantoms that had spooked the engineer on his
last trip to Warsaw.
The Orla was busy--a couple hurried out of the hotel, and, a
minute later, another. An officious little fellow, all business, came
striding down Gesia, looked left and right-- feeling guilty, monsieur? --
then went inside. A luxurious black Opel, a German car with Polish
license plates, drew up in front of the hotel and waited there, engine
idling. Mercier shifted his stance, stared at the books in the window,
watched the morning shoppers go by, the women's heads covered with
shawls, string bags in hand.
Then, suddenly, the blond girl came out of the hotel.
What now? She was very pale, and grim-faced, as she looked
around, then walked, almost ran, to a taxi parked a little way down
the street. The snow made it hard to see, but Mercier thought there
might be a silhouette in the rear window. He couldn't be sure, because
the girl was still closing the door when the taxi took off and sped away
down the street.
Mercier tensed; now he had to go in there and find Uhl. He was
halfway across the street when a fat man with a red face came out of
the Orla, struggling with the weight of a parcel wrapped in a bed coverlet and flung over his shoulder. A step at a time, he moved toward the
Opel. The driver, a sinister little weasel of a man with tinted glasses,
jumped out and ran around the car to open the trunk.
For an instant, Mercier didn't know what he was looking at, and
then he did. He ran the last few steps and planted himself in front of
the man with the parcel. "Put it down." He said it in German.
And so he was answered. "Get out of my way." The weight on the
man's shoulder made him take a step to the side.
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 90
9 0 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
The weasel came from behind the car and, with a hand like a claw,
took Mercier roughly by the elbow. "Better get out of here, my friend,
this doesn't concern you."
The man with the parcel tried to brush past him, but Mercier
moved to block him. From the corner of his eye, he could see that a
few people had stopped to see what was going on. Suddenly enraged,
the red-faced man swung his free hand at Mercier and hit him under
the eye. Not very hard. Mercier was knocked backward, recovered,
and punched the man in the mouth. From behind, the weasel hit him
with a blackjack.
Mercier's legs collapsed and he fell to his knees. But the blackjac
k
had been a mistake. Mercier heard a loud clang--the coalman had
dropped his shovel--and now, like an avenging giant, face black with
coal dust, he grabbed the red-faced man by the back of the collar.
When he growled something in Polish, the weasel ran away, jummped
into the car, and gunned the engine. The red-faced man broke free,
tried to keep his balance, lost it, and, as he fell, the parcel slid off his
shoulder and landed on the sidewalk with a soft thump. The red-faced
man, now scarlet, rose to a sitting position and reached inside his
jacket, but a shout from the car stopped him, and he scrambled to his
feet as the coalman walked toward him. Then the passenger-side door
flew open, the red-faced man got in and, with a look toward Mercier
of pure and absolute hatred, slammed the door as, tires squealing, the
Opel drove away.
Now the man that Mercier had seen striding down Gesia came
sprinting out of the Orla, shrieked at the departing car, and chased
after it. The Opel jerked to a stop, the pursuer got in the back and the
car sped off, trunk lid flapping as the wheels bounced over the cobblestones.
Mercier tried to get to his feet, somebody helped him, and the
coalman handed him his hat. Fearing the worst, he knelt over the
parcel, discovered a strong chemical smell, and saw that the coverlet,
yellow daisies on a red field, had been tied shut with two lengths of
cord. He worked at the first knot as the crowd closed in around him.
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 91
O N R AV E N H I L L * 9 1
Somebody said, "Get a scissors." Finally, Mercier managed to undo
the first knot, then the coalman, impatient, reached down and broke
the second cord with his hands. As Mercier unfolded the coverlet, the
chemical smell grew stronger. Chloroform, he thought. Something
like that.
Uhl was dead. Eyes closed, mouth slack, snowflakes falling on his
face. A voice in the crowd said, "Finished," and several people hurried
away. Mercier put his fingers on Uhl's neck and probed for a pulse.
Nothing. A woman knelt beside him and said, "Excuse me, please,"
gently removing Mercier's fingers and replacing them with her own.
"No," she said. "It's faint, but it's there. Better get the ambulance."
"Brazen," Jourdain said. "Unbelievable. In broad daylight." They
were in the chancery, in Jourdain's office; photographs of diplomats
