Alan Furst - The Spies of Warsaw

At 8:20, a proper twenty minutes late, Anna Szarbek arrived in a taxi-she’d declined Mercier’s offer to pick her up-and knocked at the street door. Mercier rushed to let her in, and they embraced-tentatively, a faint apprehension on both sides. But then, following her up the staircase, the sway and shift within her soft skirt so intoxicated him that, by the time he reached the landing, he was more than prepared to skip the preliminaries altogether. Nonetheless, after a tour of the apartment, he started the fire, lit the candles, and poured champagne. On the sofa, she looped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. “I hope you weren’t disturbed,” she said, “that I called so late, last night.”

“Not at all.”

“You sounded-absorbed.”

“Too much excitement. Some of my work showed up here, two people, and had to be dealt with. A-how to say-a fugitive situation.”

“They came to your apartment ?”

“They weren’t invited, my love. They needed refuge, and they knew where I lived, so …”

“Did you have the police?”

“No, thank God. I managed without them.”

“You are actually brave, aren’t you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can help it, Jean-Francois, I think it’s in your blood, from what you said in Belgrade.”

At the hotel in Belgrade, they had told their growing-up stories and exchanged family histories, Mercier’s reaching back to the Crusades. “All those warrior ancestors,” she said. She took his hand, studied the signet ring, and said, “It’s this.” She slipped it off, put it on her finger, then spread her hand to admire it. “Now you may address me as countess. ”

“I’m not anything like a count, countess, just a lowly chevalier, a knight in service to the king.”

“Still, a noble.” She put the ring back on his finger. “The only one I’ve ever known.”

“Ever?” This was more than unlikely.

“I mean, as I know you.” She took off her boots, tucked her feet up beneath her, and slid her hand between the buttons of his shirt. “I’m just a Polish girl from Paris.”

“Oh poor you,” he said. “Poor lawyer.”

“Good in school, love. With hardheaded parents-parents with no sons. So, somebody had to do something.” They were silent for a time, and he became aware of her hair, silky against his skin, and her fragrance. “I find it warm in here,” she said, undoing a button on his shirt, then another. “Don’t you?”

The cook, perfectly aware of what was planned for the evening, had done her best-a roasted chicken and boiled carrots left in a warm oven-and later that night, Anna in Mercier’s shirt, he in the bathrobe, they ate-it was a sin to waste food-what they could.

3 February.

All courtesy, the noble Mercier had telephoned Anna and invited her to his next obligation, a dinner party given by the Portuguese consul. “I appreciate your asking me,” she’d said, “but I suspect you are reluctant and, honestly, so am I.” This was, and they both knew it, the social reality of diplomatic Warsaw. Some courageous souls insisted on bringing their “fiancees” to balls and dinner parties, and nobody ever said a word about it, but … Mercier was frankly relieved, and, on the evening of the third, he was accompanied to the consulate by Madame Dupin.

In the library, joining the men for cigars after dinner, Mercier found himself in the company of one Dr. Lapp, believed, by a certain level of local society, to be the senior Abwehr -German military intelligence-man in Warsaw. Officially, he worked as the commercial representative of a Frankfurt pharmaceutical company, but nobody had ever known him to sell a pill. Very much an old-fashioned gentleman, Dr. Lapp-the honorific referred to a university degree; he was not a medical doctor-of slight stature, in middle age, and bearing some resemblance to the sad-faced comedian Buster Keaton. And, like the comedian, he was often to be seen in a natty bow tie, though tonight he wore traditional dinner-party uniform. They had met before, on various occasions, but had never actually spoken at length. “Life going well, for you?” he said to Mercier.

“Not too badly. Yourself?”

“One mustn’t complain. Were you in Paris, for the holidays?”

“I was, then I went down to the south.”

“I envy you that, colonel.”

“The south?”

“Paris. A magnificent city. Would that be your preference, if your career took you there?”

“I like Warsaw well enough, but I wouldn’t mind. And for you, Dr. Lapp, would you prefer Berlin?”

“I only wish I could.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Frankly, I find the situation in the capital not much to my taste.”

This was flagrant, and Mercier showed the edge of surprise. “You don’t care for the present regime?”

“Mostly I don’t. I am a loyal German, of course, and surely a patriot, but that can mean many things.”

“I suppose it can. You are, perhaps, a traditionalist?”

“And why not? The culture of old Europe, civility, stability, was not such a bad thing for Germany. But it’s all gone now, and the people who are in power these days will presently have us at war, and you know what that meant in 1918.”

“Not so much better for us. We called it victory, and marched through the streets in 1918, but victory is a curious word for what happened in France.”

Dr. Lapp nodded, and said, “Yes, I know. Where were you, on that day?”

“In fact I was a prisoner of war at Ingolstadt, Fort Nine.”

“Our most illustrious prison, at any rate. For our most eminent prisoners-the Russian Colonel Tukhachevsky, now sadly executed by his government; your Captain de Gaulle, lately a colonel; France’s most prominent airman, Roland Garros; and plenty of others. So you were, at least, in good company. How many escape attempts, colonel?”

“Four. All of which failed.”

“Of course I would have done the same thing. Honor demands it.”

“And where were you, on the day of the armistice?”

“At my desk, faithful to the last, at the naval General Staff office in Kiel. My section concerned itself with the submarine service.” Dr. Lapp paused, then said, “Tell me, are you still in touch with Colonel de Gaulle?”

Mercier hesitated, unsure where Dr. Lapp was leading him, but more than conscious of being led. Toward some variety of treason, he sensed. But to France? Or Germany? Finally, he could think of nothing to say but the truth; it would have to do. “From time to time, a letter,” he said. “We are more colleagues than friends.”

“And do you subscribe to his theories of warfare? I’ve read his book.”

“I’ve read it as well, and I believe it should be taken seriously. I suspect, the next time around, it will not be trenches and wire.”

From Dr. Lapp, a gracious smile: success. What success was that? “I agree,” he said. “But better, far better, if there is no next time around. I wonder if, sometime, we could speak in a more private setting?”

To this, Mercier had to say yes .

“Some people I know may not be so much the enemies of France as you would think. Do I need to elaborate?”

“No, Dr. Lapp. I believe I perfectly understand you.”

Without speaking, Dr. Lapp acknowledged this understanding. Did he bow? Did his heels come together? Not overtly, yet something in his demeanor implied such gestures without the actual performance.

Mercier left the library, collected Madame Dupin, and hurried her out to the car. “Did something happen?” she said.

“It did.” Before Marek could pull away from the curb, Mercier took a pad from his pocket and feverishly made notes, trying to reproduce the conversation with Dr. Lapp.