The spies of warsaw

by Alan Furst

  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

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  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

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  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!"

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  "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-Francois, it's me." She paused, then said, "Anna."

  "Are you allright?"

  "Is it too late to call? You sound . . . distracted."

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  "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?

  "I'll explain later, it's only work, but, ah, very unexpected."

  "I see. It wasn't so good with Maxim. A lot of shouting, but I suppose I knew that would happen."

  "I can't blame him. He's losing a lot. A lot."

  "Yes?"

  "Yes. Can I telephone you at work? Tomorrow morning?"

  "You still have the number?"

  "Anna!"

  "Very well, then. Tomorrow."

  "I can't come over there right now. I want to, you don't know how

  much, but I have to take care of this--situation."

  Her voice softened. "I can imagine."

  He laughed. "When I tell you, you'll realize there's no way you

  could have imagined. Anyhow, you're my love, and I'll call you, see

  you, tomorrow."

  "Good night, Jean-Francois."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Yes. Good night."

  Mercier returned to the bathroom. The door was closed. "Do you

  need anything?" he said, his voice rising above the running water.

  "No," Malka said. "He's taking a bath."

  Mercier went back to the study, looked in his address book, and

  dialed Jourdain's number at home. The phone rang for a long time

  before it was answered. Finally, Jourdain's voice. "Yes?"

  "Armand, it's Jean-Francois. Sorry to call you so late."

  "I don't mind."

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  "The meeting with the ambassador--is it still at eight-thirty?"

  "It is, in my office."

  "There was some talk of moving it to nine-thirty."

  "No, eight-thirty, bright and early."

  "Very well, I'll see you then. Sorry if I disturbed you."

  "Don't be concerned. Good night, Jean-Francois."

  There was no meeting. The telephone call was a signal--

  operations could now begin to take two Russian spies out of Poland.

  1:45 a.m. Outside, the silence of a winter night, so cold that frost flowers whitened the windows of the study. Viktor Rozen, now apparently

  recovered, sat near the fire, wearing Mercier's bathrobe, his heaviest

  sweater, and two pairs of his socks. He warmed his hands around a

  glass of hot tea laced with brandy, sipping it Russian-style, through a

  cube of sugar held between his teeth. Malka sat by his side, smoking

  one cigarette after another.

  "There wasn't much to do with France," Viktor said. "Our agents

  in Polish factories reported on armaments produced under French

  license, and we tried to reach your diplomats. . . ." Both Rozens gave

  Mercier a glance. And you see how that turned out.

  "Our own operations worked against the Poles," Malka said. "A

  major on the General Staff, a director of the telephone company,

  maids at the hotels, a few factory workers. And significant penetration

  of the socialist parties--Moscow Center is obsessed with this, so

  that's where we spent money."

  "What were the maids doing?" Mercier asked.

  "Going through briefcases. Foreign diplomats, businessmen, anyone important. Including the Renault delegation from Paris, back in

  October. One of them kept a diary, foolish man, a, how shall I say, a

  very frank diary. His conquests."

  "Did you use it? Against him?"

  "Who knows, what Moscow does. We just sent the photographs

  of the pages."

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  "Well, try to remember the name--you'll go through all that in

  Paris," Mercier said.

  "When do we leave?" Viktor said.

  "Tomorrow," Mercier said. "That is, today."

  "They'll be watching everywhere," Viktor said. "You'd better be

  armed."

  "Don't worry, we're prepared for, eventualities."

  "I hope so," Malka said.

  They sat for a time and watched the fire, logs glowing red, a firefall of sparks. Viktor said, "Mostly, we did what everyone does--

  war plans, arms production, political personalities, border defenses."

  He shrugged. "I doubt it's very much different from what you do,

  colonel."

  Mercier nodded--that was likely true. "Any German networks?"

  "Quite a number of them," Malka said. "But we didn't handle

  them. That was the preserve of the elite."

  "Not you?"

  She smiled. "Once upon a time, a few years ago, but the Jews in

  the service aren't so favored, these days. They no longer trust us, the

  Old Bolsheviks--look what they were going to do to Viktor and me.

  Don't tell the world, but Stalin's just as bad as Hitler."

  "Why not tell the world?"

  "Because they won't believe it, dear colonel." She threw the end of

  her cigarette into the fire and lit a new one.

  "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 SiemensSchuckert 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 . . ."

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  "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.

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  "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.

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  "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