Alan Furst - The Spies of Warsaw

“Good evening,” Mercier said. “Madame Szarbek? I’m Madame Dupin’s friend, Lieutenant Colonel Mercier.”

“That’s me. Sorry to have kept you. Please, come inside.”

Mercier was immediately relieved-this was not to be an evening spent in his undependable Polish; her French was rapid and fluent, with the barest hitch of an accent at the edges, her voice slightly husky and rough. She was, he guessed, in her late thirties, and very striking: thick hair, the color called dirty blond, swept low across her forehead, then pinned up in back, and a face that suggested, somehow, sensuality-a slight downward curve of the nose, full-lipped mouth, pallid skin, sharp jawline, and deep green eyes, wary and restless, not quite the night animal, but close. For a formal evening, she wore a black silk dress with matching jacket, then, more her true style, added a dark red scarf wound around her throat, pendant earrings with green gemstones, and a cloud of strong perfume, more spice than sugar. For a moment she stared at him, her mouth set in a hesitant smile: will this do? Then said, “I’ll be ready right away,” led him into the apartment, and fled down the hall, calling out, “Please introduce yourselves.”

On the sofa, a burly man with gray hair curling out of the vee of his open shirt rose from a nest of newspapers. “Good evening, general,” he said with a grin and a meaty handshake. “I’m Maxim.” From the grin, Mercier could tell that Maxim knew he wasn’t a general, this was just his way of being lovable. They stood there for a moment, not comfortable, then Anna Szarbek came hurrying out of the hallway, now clutching a small evening purse. “Are we awfully late?” she said.

“No, we’ll be fine,” Mercier said.

Anna kissed Maxim on the cheek and said something private by his ear.

“Not too late, general,” Maxim said, and winked at Mercier. Some dish, hey? Don’t get any ideas.

He followed her down the stairs-she was a little wobbly in very high heels, sliding one hand along the banister-and out onto the sidewalk. As Marek held the door open for Anna, he gave Mercier a conspiratorial lift of the eyebrows. “We’re going to the Europejski,” Mercier said, glancing at his watch.

That gesture was all Marek needed to see-the Buick took off with a squeal of the tires and went hurtling down the narrow street. Anna settled herself in the corner of the backseat, bent over to peer into her purse, brought out a slim tortoiseshell cigarette case, and offered it to Mercier. On the lid, a laughing Bacchus and two pink nymphs were wearing only a grapevine. “Do you smoke?” she said.

“I do, but not right now.”

She took out a cigarette, and Mercier lit it for her with a steel lighter. This she needed-took a deep draw, exhaled two long plumes of smoke from her nose, and sat back in the seat. “Marie didn’t tell me much,” she said, referring to Madame Dupin.

“It’s very kind of you, to do this on short notice.”

“For Saint Marie, anything. She does favors for everybody, so …”

“It’s a dinner given by the Polish General Staff for a delegation from the Renault company; they’ve come in from Paris. Then, after that, a nightclub.”

“A nightclub?”

“Yes, the Adria.”

“Very fancy. I’ve never been there.”

Mercier’s expression said that it was what it was. “A floor show, likely dancing.”

Her nod was grim, but determined-she would handle anything that came her way. “So, you’re at the embassy.”

“I am. The military attache.”

“Yes, that’s what Marie said.” She knew what military attaches did-at least some secret intelligence work-but apparently took it for an inevitable part of life in foreign service.

“A lot of paperwork is what it amounts to. Sometimes attendance at field maneuvers. And, as you would imagine, endless meetings.” She didn’t comment, so he said, “Have you always lived here, in Warsaw?” Marek was driving fast, the Buick’s big engine a heavy purr. They came up close to a trolley and swung boldly around it, skidding on the track.

“No, I’ve been based here for, oh, maybe a year and a half, and I spend a lot of time traveling, mostly down south, and up to Gdansk. I’m a lawyer with the League of Nations, so sometimes I’m in Geneva. Talk about endless meetings.”

“Where’s home, then?”

“I’m Parisian by birth, Polish by heritage.”

“An emigre family.”

“Yes, I grew up speaking Polish at home, French everywhere else.”

“What do you do for the League?”

“Report on legal claims, mostly, a form of arbitration. When the League redrew the Silesian border in 1921, after the third uprising, tens of thousands of Poles and Germans were in a new country, and private citizens continued to submit claims to the League, seeking satisfaction they couldn’t get from local courts. It’s the same up in Danzig, declared by the League a Free City, but what you have is a German population governed by Poles. All this led to local disputes-land ownership, unfair administration, tax problems. We don’t have legal standing, but we try to arbitrate, and sometimes the local courts are responsive. Anyhow it’s a last resort, for Poles and Germans, even though Germany left the League when Hitler came to power. The League is, if nothing else, persistent: war doesn’t work, try the courts.”

“Try anything,” Mercier said.

That caught her attention, and she looked at him. “Not the usual sentiment,” she said, “from someone in uniform.”

“You’d be surprised,” Mercier said. “Once you’ve been in the middle of it …”

She turned away and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the arm of the backseat. “Well, now you’ll be in it again. Spain is just the beginning, it’ll spread from there.”

“Inevitable, you believe?”

“From the people I talk to, yes. Eaten up with grievance, especially the Germans. Getting even is what they think about.”

“You have a difficult job, Madame Szarbek.”

“Anna, please. And it’s mademoiselle, for a while anyhow. Is your job easier than mine?”

“No, not really.”

At the Europejski, they were led up a marble stairway to a private dining room, all wood-paneled walls and polished floor. Beneath crystal chandeliers, a long table was set for thirty; the sheen of the damask tablecloth, the heavy silver, and the gold-rimmed china glowed in the light of a dozen candelabra. They were greeted at the door by an officer of the Polish General Staff and his splendidly bejeweled wife. “We are so very pleased you could join us,” she said, her smile gracious and warm. The room hummed with conversation; officers in uniform, most of the other men in evening wear, most of the women in formal gowns. Anna, perhaps momentarily taken aback by all the glitter, took Mercier’s arm. He was instantly aware of the touch of her hand, resting lightly on his sleeve.

From some distant century, an ancient waiter in a swallowtail coat moved toward them, parchment face lit by a beatific smile, parchment hands holding a silver tray, which trembled slightly, bearing two glasses of champagne. Drinks in hand, they watched him shuffle back toward the kitchen. Anna started to say something, but another officer wife descended on them, leading a small fellow in a dark suit, one of the men from Renault. After the introductions, she swept away, in search of other strays.

“So, Monsieur Blanc,” Mercier said, “a worthwhile visit, so far?”

“Yes, I would say it is; we are making our case. The R-Thirty-five tank is a magnificent machine.”

“And what do you do for the Renault company?”

“I am one of the senior engineers-I concern myself mostly with treads.”