Alan Furst - The Spies of Warsaw

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 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!”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.