by Alan Furst
she insisted on buying imported Gitanes at the fancy tobacco shop--
and almost immediately the studio smelled like a French cafe. She did
not return to her chair, but walked to the windows, then turned and
faced him. "What makes you think they won't try something again?"
she said, her voice now sharpened to a lawyer's edge. "Or do you
believe they were . . . satisfied?"
"Maybe, maybe not. But if I brought this to my superiors as a
problem, they might decide to end my assignment here."
"They're not pleased with you?"
"Not especially. Or, rather, not all of them. It's sometimes true
that the more you succeed, in an organization, the more enemies you
make."
"Always true," she said. She returned to the easy chair and shook
her hair back. "Know what?"
"What?"
"I think you like this kind of war."
He shrugged. "Like isn't the word, but the job has grown into me.
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I wanted to quit, a few months ago, but not now. Now there's a particular operation under way. It's important, possibly very important."
She smiled and said, "Is it ever difficult for you that you can't
speak openly of such things?"
"Very difficult," he said. "Especially here, with you."
"Oh well," she said. "I guess it doesn't matter." She busied herself
with the compress, putting more cold water on the towel. "Does this
make it feel better?"
He said it did, and the conversation turned to their evening
together--going out, doing something, a change. A search of the
newspaper turned up a French film, and an hour later they went to the
movies.
5 April. At last, a response to the contact with Dr. Lapp. But it did not
arrive in any of the forms Mercier had anticipated. Not cabled dispatch, not letter by pouch, and not, thank heaven, Bruner's appearance in Warsaw, which Mercier had feared. No, it came by mail, a
personal letter to his apartment, in lovely blue script. Undated, with
no heading. A secret communication? Yes, in a way it was.
My dear colonel,
Kindly forgive the delay in answering your communication,
but it inspired a most disheartening turmoil in these parts--
your rural connection will have given you the opportunity to
observe chickens in a barnyard beset by a playful dog.
In any event, it will be my pleasure to continue discussions
with the individual in question, and much the best to do so in
this city, where we can meet quietly, privately, and in comfort.
A telephone call to Auteil 7407--a local call, naturally--will
initiate a meeting the same day, and no mention of names will
be required. This method of contact is exclusive to the individual in question.
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Please be good enough to destroy this letter, which finds
you, I trust, in good health and good spirits.
With my most sincere good wishes,
Aristide R. J. de Beauvilliers
10 April. And then, in time, a second communication. Had Dr. Lapp
foreseen the frenzy that his offer would produce within the French
General Staff? Mercier suspected he had. Mercier suspected that Dr.
Lapp was one of those senior officers in the shadow world with a
sophisticated sense of human behavior--not a visionary, a cynic--
and a man who understood that, at the end of the day, the Abwehr,
the Deuxieme Bureau, and all the rest of them worked pretty much the
same way. This time the communication came in the form of a note
that arrived in a sealed envelope delivered by a private courier. It said
simply that it would be good to see Mercier again and suggested the
following day, at 5:15 in the afternoon, at the Gorovsky Bookstore, 28,
Marszalkowska. And signed, Dr. L.
For the event--and Mercier informed no one, in the spirit of de
Beauvilliers's letter, where he was going or why--he wore his best suit
and a freshly laundered shirt, with somber tie--and made sure to
enter the store at precisely 5:15. At this hour, there were only two or
three customers, and he found Dr. Lapp, now in his traditional bow
tie, in the back. When he looked up and saw Mercier, he said, "Do you
know this book?" He held it up, Rosja--Polska, 1815-1830, and said,
"Szymon Askenazy, one of their great historians. There are actually
quite a few."
"Do you read comfortably in Polish, Dr. Lapp?"
"I do, though I must keep a dictionary at hand."
Mercier found this combination--Buster Keaton reading esoteric
Polish history--modestly amusing. Dr. Lapp closed the book and put
it back in its place on the shelf. "I believe the office will be more comfortable," he said.
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"The manager won't mind?"
Dr. Lapp's smile was impish. "We own the store, colonel. And it
does very nicely."
The office had drifted, over the years, to a state of comfortable
decay--peeling paint, water stains on the ceiling, furniture worn out
years ago--with stacks of books on the desk, in bookcases, on the
floor, everywhere. A private world, calm and lost, the view through the
cloudy window a courtyard where a wooden bench encircled a giant
elm. Only the telephone, an antique from the twenties, told the visitor
that he was not in the previous century. On the walls, posters for art
exhibitions and concerts--the French were avid for culture, whether
they liked it, understood it, paid for it, or not, but the Poles beat them
hands down. Dr. Lapp sat in the desk chair, its wheels squeaking as he
drew himself up to the desk. "Any luck, colonel?"
"Yes, though they took their time answering my dispatch."
"I rather thought they might."
"But very good luck, I believe. I've had a communication from a
man called de Beauvilliers, General de Beauvilliers."
Dr. Lapp allowed Mercier to see that he was impressed, and said,
"Indeed."
"You know who he is?"
"I do. The perfect choice."
"He suggests that you meet with him in Paris. Would that be satisfactory?"
"It would."
"I've brought along a telephone number he sent; he will see you
the day you call. And you needn't mention your name, the number is
for your exclusive use." Mercier placed a slip of paper on the desk.
"Very thoughtful of him. You couldn't have made a better choice."
"It wasn't up to me, Dr. Lapp, this was General de Beauvilliers's
personal decision."
"Even better," Dr. Lapp said. "A General Staff is always a field of
divergent opinions--ours is no different--but among these officers
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there are always two or three who have an intuitive understanding of
what the future might hold."
"One wouldn't have to be all that intuitive to understand Herr
Hitler's intentions."
"You would think so, wouldn't you, but you'd be
wrong. Do you
know the Latin proverb Mundus vult decipi, ergo decepiatur? Herr
Hitler's favorite saying: The world wants to be deceived, therefore let
it be deceived. And he isn't wrong. Newspapers on the continent
explain every day why there won't be war. And I assure you there will
be, unless the right people determine to stop it."
"I can only hope this meeting is a step in that direction," Mercier
said.
"We shall see."
For a moment, Mercier paused. Here was an opportunity--take
it, or not? He had from the Rozens a name, Kohler, an affiliation, the
Black Front, and a target, the I.N. 6 bureau of the German General
Staff. And, if Dr. Lapp couldn't help him take a step forward, then no
one could. "I wonder, Dr. Lapp," he said slowly, "if I might ask you a
favor."
"One may always ask, colonel. Are you asking at General de
Beauvilliers's behest?"
Mercier paused, then said, "No, it's nothing he suggested, for this
conversation, but I don't believe he'd mind, if he knew."
"You've been honorable, colonel, which I appreciate. You haven't
. . . taken advantage . . . of a situation that could put me in real danger. So then, what sort of favor do you require?"
"I've become interested, in the course of my work here, in the
Black Front, Hitler's most determined enemies in Germany."
Delicately, Dr. Lapp cleared his throat. "I do know who you mean,
colonel, and regret that they haven't been more effective. But I suggest
you go carefully with this crowd, those who remain with us--most of
them are in the ground, or wherever the Gestapo put them. Very
extreme, these people. Captain Rohm, before he was murdered in
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'thirty-four, recommended that the conservative industrialists be
hanged. Dear me."
"I will be careful, Dr. Lapp; I would greatly prefer to remain
aboveground. But I cannot move forward on a certain project until I
obtain information that only a senior Black Front member might possess."
Dr. Lapp leaned toward him and folded his hands on the desk.
"Now," he said, "I must ask you if this project involves German interests, or is it particular to the interests of the Nazi party, the present
regime? And, please, colonel, an honest answer."
This last was, Mercier understood, a veiled threat. "To the best of
my knowledge, the interests of the Nazi party."
Dr. Lapp nodded, then looked at Mercier in a way that meant I
hope you know what you're doing. "Have you pen and paper?"
Mercier produced a small pad and a fountain pen.
"The man who might help you is hiding in Czechoslovakia, in the
town the Poles call Cieszyn and the Czechs Tesin--much-disputed territory, as you'll know. Presently he uses the name Julius Halbach,
because he is hunted by the SD and the Gestapo. As a member of the
Black Front, under yet another alias, he served directly under Otto
Strasser and was active in the clandestine radio operation that broadcast propaganda into Germany. Last year, the head of that operation
was murdered by SD operatives at an inn near the German border, but
Otto Strasser and Halbach escaped.
"Halbach is a man in his mid-fifties, and his story is typical. At
one time he was a professor of ancient languages--Old Norse,
Gothic, and so forth--at the university in Tubingen. In the late twenties, there was some sort of scandal, and he was forced to resign, his
life ruined. Typical, as I said; the Nazi party was built on ruined
lives--a failed career, the bitterness that feeds on injustice, redemption promised by a radical political movement.
"Now comes the difficult part, which is that you may speak with
him, and you might wish to offer him money, but you may not threaten
him. And that is because we talk to him, through the good offices of
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an extraordinary woman, the kindest old soul in the world, a piano
teacher in Tesin. I doubt he knows that he's talking to us, but he is
forthcoming--so don't bruise him, agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Currently, he is employed as a teacher at a private academy in
Tesin and rents a room in a house at six, Opava street. And, I should
add, I don't know what your plans are but I would not, if I were you,
postpone this contact too long. He remains active in the Black Front
underground, writing anti-Nazi pamphlets that are smuggled into
German Silesia, and, because this infuriates the security services, he is
not long for this world."
Mercier put away his pad and pen. "Thank you," he said.
"I hope it will help."
"Surely it will. And, Dr. Lapp, should you require further assistance, you know where to find me. Otherwise, we'll meet at diplomatic events in the city."
"No doubt we shall. With all the formality of sworn enemies." Dr.
Lapp was amused and showed it, the Keaton prune face breaking into
a sunny smile.
Mercier stood, and they shook hands. "I wish all my enemies . . ."
he said, not bothering to finish the thought.
"Indeed."
Mercier was in his office early the following morning, laboring away at
what he now called, for his personal use only, Operation Halbach.
This was not easy, but the excitement of the chase drove him on, hour
after hour, until midday, when a luncheon at the Hotel Bristol intervened, followed by a long meeting, and cocktails with the Roumanians
at six. Then, to make up for lost time, he took the dossier off to Sienna
street, where he sat at the kitchen table while Anna stroked his hair
and looked over his shoulder. "Ahh, funny little numbers."
"It's hard to work, at work."
"I know too well," she said.
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"Only an hour."
She blew gently on the hair at the back of his neck. "Take your
time, my dear, I like conscientious men."
He didn't answer, took a roneo of a Tesin town map, and ran a finger down Opava street.
Anna went off to bathe, returned in a towel, lay back on the bed--
the towel chastely arrayed across her middle--retrieved her book, and
turned on the radio. "It appears we're in for the night."
"I fear we are."
"When you tire of it, come and say hello."
Later, she crawled under the covers and fell asleep, and at midnight he joined her. But she was restless, lay awake in the darkness,
then got out of bed and prowled around the room. "Can't sleep?" he
said, rising on one elbow.
"Not right now."
He lay back down, watched her white shape in the darkness as she
paced about, and finally said, "Are you looking for something?"
"No, no. I'll come back to bed in a minute."
By late morning of the following day, 13 April, he'd finished his plans
for the operation and sent a dispatch off to de Beauvilliers, marked for
the general's eyes only. This was no business for 2, bis--not directly
from him, it wasn't. De Beauvilliers would have them provide what
was required, but he would
not ask, he would simply order, and the
internal politics of the bureau would be successfully tamed.
The response took some time, and it was 17 April when the general's courier showed up at Mercier's office in the chancery. A young
man in civilian clothes, he introduced himself as an army captain. "I
came over on the train," he said, "and I'm going back on the morning
express, so best look through this now, and you'll have to sign for it."
He removed a few files from a small valise and pried up the false bottom. "German border control, Polish border control, I hope I don't
have to do this again."
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Mercier did as the captain suggested, licking his thumb as he
counted hundred-reichsmark notes.
"It's all there," the captain said. "And there's a verbal message
from General de Beauvilliers. 'Please be careful, do try very hard not
to get caught. And best to avoid a visit to the casino.' "
"Assure him I'll be careful," Mercier said. He signed the receipt.
The captain said, "The valise is for your use, naturally," wished
Mercier Bon courage and good luck, and went off to a hotel.
19 April. Tesin, Czechoslovakia--Cieszyn to the Poles--the former
Duchy of Teschen, held over the years by this prince or that empire,
changing sides with European wars and royal marriages as the centuries slid past. Just another small town, the usual statue and fountain in the central square, but grim and poor as one left the center and
traveled out toward the edge, in the direction of the coal mines. On
Hradny street, rows of narrow houses, women on their knees out on
the stoops, with buckets and rags, trying to scrub away the Silesian
grime. After Hradny, Opava, where the signs above the shops turned
from Czech to Polish, and a tiny bar stood across the street and down
the block from number 6. Four stools, two tables, a miniature Polish
flag by the cash register.
Mercier had made his way to Tesin on a series of local trains, sitting in second-class carriages, then taken a room in the hotel by the
railway station. And stayed out of sight, keeping to his room, emerging only twice--once to buy a cheap briefcase, then, an hour later, setting out for the long walk to Opava street. He was being as cautious as
he could be, for this was no normal operation. A normal operation
would have included a supporting cast: cars and drivers, a couple with
