by Alan Furst
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Coming into Budapest, in the first trace of dawn, only a fond
embrace. But very fond.
They went to the dining car for breakfast. The same waiter, discreet as
he could be, yet somehow he made them aware that he knew exactly
how they'd spent the night, and that he was a man who believed in
love. "Do you eat breakfast?" she said.
"No, usually coffee and a cigarette. But I didn't eat yesterday,
so"--he searched the brief menu--"I'll have the Vienna roll, whatever
that might be."
"A sexual act?"
"Perhaps, we'll see. Not much privacy in here so it's probably
cake."
It was, walnuts and apricot filling in butter-laden pastry. "Lord!"
he said. "Try a little bite, anyhow." He fed her.
"What's next? Belgrade?"
"In two hours. Should we talk about Warsaw?"
"Maybe a few words."
"I'm in love with you, Anna. I want you with me."
"I will have to make things final, with Maxim."
"I know."
For a moment, she was lost in thought. Then touched his knee,
beneath the table. "It's just the prospect of working it all out, saying
things, leaving."
He nodded that he understood.
"I think I would have left him anyhow. But, are you sure? That you
want to do this?"
"Yes. You?"
"Very sure. Since the storm. No, a day or two later. Anyhow, we
can talk all this out in Belgrade."
"Not for long. I have to go back tomorrow: Sunday."
"What? No rights of national minorities?"
"Which hotel are you staying at?"
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A long trip back to Warsaw. After a night together at the Serbski
Kralj--King of Serbia--hotel, she'd accompanied him, late Sunday
afternoon, to the railway station. In his compartment, he'd lowered
the window, and she'd stood on the platform, hands in the pockets of
her long coat, and they'd gazed at each other as the train pulled away,
until he could see her no longer. Then he'd stared out at the winter
dusk for a while, reliving various moments of the time they'd shared.
But, finally, it was Simenon--all too soon finished--and, inevitably,
Stendhal--far more compelling than he'd remembered--followed by
the trout, this time consumed, and, back in his compartment, deep
and dreamless sleep.
Paradise, really, compared to what Monday held in store. He'd gone
directly to the embassy from the station, and into a meeting with Jourdain and the other military attaches. The usual grim business. He
stayed on afterward, to speak privately with Jourdain.
"There's been no signal from the Rozens," Jourdain said. "We've
had our Poles in and out of the post office."
"They missed the meeting on the eighteenth," Mercier said.
Jourdain looked up from his papers. "Has something happened?"
"Perhaps. We'll just have to wait and see."
Jourdain made a small sound of frustration. "We spend our lives
waiting," he said.
"On a different subject, I've had a change in my--ah, personal
life. Somebody I like. What would happen if she were to join me, in
the apartment?"
Jourdain thought for a moment, then said, "I wouldn't, if it were
me. They can't really tell you what to do, in your private life, but I suspect they think of the apartment as a kind of semi-official residence.
Somebody will write a memorandum, you can count on that, and,
after everything that's gone on the last few weeks, I'm afraid there
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might be a storm. The ambassador likes you, but I wouldn't want to
ask him, if I were you, for protection in this area. Forgive me, JeanFrancois, but it's better if I tell you what I really think."
"I knew. More or less. Just thought I'd ask."
"Anyhow, congratulations. Who is she?"
"Anna Szarbek."
"The League lawyer?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Lucky man," Jourdain said.
Back in his office, a clerk delivered mail from the diplomatic pouch.
Wading through drivel of every degree--a change in the form for filing
certain reports, a new charge d'affaires appointed in Riga--he came
upon a yellow manila envelope. Inside--attached to a note from
Colonel Bruner--a white envelope addressed to "Andre," his work
name in the Edvard Uhl operation, holding a letter, handwritten, in
German:
6 January, 1938
Dear Andre,
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.
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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 cafe
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 cafe to deliver a dozen ponczki s to his office, where they'd
been laid out on a plate from the regimental china service. There was
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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 Deuxieme 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 cafe." 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
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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 longrange 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-Francois. 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 attaches."
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?"
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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
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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.
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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
