Alan Furst - The Spies of Warsaw

The director accompanied him to the front door; he left the building and took a few steps along the brick walkway. Now where was Marek? Across the tracks, Zelazna street was empty and dark, lit only by a single lamp at a distant intersection. He looked at his watch, 6:48, and thought about going back inside; the drizzle would have him soaking wet if he stood there until the Buick appeared. Then three men came around the corner of the building, and the one in the middle raised a hand and said, in German, “Good evening, colonel, we want a word with you.”

What was this?

The one in the middle suddenly moved faster, and Mercier could see something in his hand. For a moment, it didn’t make sense, not at a factory, this time of night, for it looked like a riding crop, the leather loop at the end circling the man’s wrist. He ran the last few steps toward Mercier, his face contorted with rage, and swung the riding crop, which lashed Mercier across the cheek and knocked his hat off. Mercier stepped backward and raised his hands, taking the next blow on his palms. For a second, no feeling; then it burned like fire.

“Get his hands,” the man said.

The other two advanced, Mercier swung at them with his stick, which hit the one on the right-the one with a big belly-across the forehead. Mercier had swung as hard as he could, using both hands, and he thought the stick might break, but ebony was a hard wood; the impact produced only a thud, and the man sat down on the brick walkway and held his head. Meanwhile the tall one, with a dueling scar on his cheek, had grabbed Mercier’s arm and hung on to it as his friend swung again, a downstroke that landed on Mercier’s shoulder. Mercier kicked at the man with the riding crop, lost his balance, and fell on his back, the tall one landing on top of him. The man was panting, his breath foul and reeking of alcohol. As Mercier tried to push him off, he growled, “Stay still, you French bastard.”

“Fuck you,” Mercier said, and tried to hit him with his forearm.

The man with the riding crop, cursing wildly, stumbled around Mercier, trying to find an angle for another blow. Then, from the direction of Zelazna street, a gunshot, and he stopped dead, riding crop frozen at the top of its swing. The tall one rolled off Mercier and struggled to his feet. “Time to go,” he said. The two of them went to help their friend-he groaned as they stood him upright-and, moving quickly, trotted around the corner of the building and disappeared. Mercier’s instinct to pursue them was immediately suppressed.

Looking toward the direction of the shot he saw a broad shape running across the railway tracks-Marek-who arrived a moment later, extended a hand to Mercier, and said, “Where did they go?”

“Was that your shot?” Mercier retrieved his stick and hat.

“It was. When I parked on Zelazna there was another car there, and a little man jumped out and aimed a pistol at me. Said something like Halt! ”

“And?”

“I took the Radom from my coat and shot him.” What else? Out in the darkness, the sound of a powerful engine, accelerating as the driver shifted up through the gears, then fading into the distance. Marek said, “Do you need help, colonel?”

Mercier shook his head, one finger cautiously touching the burning welt on his cheek. “What happened next?” he said.

Marek shrugged. “You know. He fell down.”

Slowly, they walked across the tracks toward the Buick, Mercier’s knee aching with every step. “Who were they?” Marek said.

“No idea,” Mercier said. “They spoke German.”

“Then why …?”

Mercier couldn’t answer.

They climbed into the car and Marek drove up Zelazna, then took the first right into a long street, dark and empty, wet pavement shining in the headlights. Peering through the cleared space made by the windshield wipers, Mercier saw what looked like a mound of discarded clothing, half on the sidewalk, half in the street. Marek nudged the brake and, when the mound became a man, stopped the car and they both got out. The factory wall that met the sidewalk had windows covered with wire mesh and, from somewhere inside, came the slow, rhythmic drumming of a machine. For a moment, they stared down at the body, its face wedged into the gutter, then Marek slid his foot beneath the man’s waist and turned him over. “That’s him,” he said. A flowered tie lay over to one side, and there was a small red hole in the pocket of the shirt. “What did they do? Throw him out of the car?”

“Looks like it.”

“Afraid of being stopped, I guess. With a body in the trunk.”

The face was blank, eyes open. Like the others, he wasn’t anybody Mercier had ever seen. Marek bent over and patted the man’s pockets, found a wallet, and handed it to Mercier. Inside, a Polish identity card with the name Winckelmann-a name he’d heard from Vyborg-and a photograph of the man he’d come to think of as the weasel . He looked down at Winckelmann’s face and realized that in death he’d become a different self.

“What now, colonel? The police?”

“No. Just put the wallet back.”

“So, nothing we know about,” Marek said, clearly relieved.

“Nothing we know about.”

Mercier was supposed to be at Anna’s at seven-thirty, and when he came through the door she was startled, then turned his chin to look at the welt.

“I was attacked,” he said, before she could ask. “One of them hit me.”

“Attacked? Who attacked you?”

“I don’t know who they were.”

“What did they hit you with? Come into the light.”

She was very agitated, touching his cheek with her fingers and anxious to care for him. “You sit there. I’ll get a cold cloth.” Mercier doubted it would help but knew better than to say so. She ran cold water on a clean dish towel, then pressed it to his face. “Hold that there,” she said. “What makes such a horrid mark?”

“A riding crop.”

“No! Who would do such a thing?”

How much to tell her? “They were Germans, and I suspect it was revenge of some sort, but please, Anna, don’t ask anything about that part of it.”

“Your work,” she said, angry and disgusted.

Mercier nodded.

“They could have killed you, you know.”

“I’ll have to think up an explanation. I walked into a door-something like that.”

“A drunkard’s explanation, my dear.”

“Hmm. Very well, then it was a drunk who hit me.”

“Dreadful. Will you not tell them the truth, at the embassy?”

“I can’t,” he said. “There would be endless difficulties.”

“Then say nothing. An absurd domestic stupidity, too silly to explain.”

He thought for a moment, then said, “Of course, what else.”

“Does it feel better?”

“Yes. The cold helps.”

She rose abruptly, went looking for her purse, and lit a cigarette-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.”