Alan Furst - The Spies of Warsaw

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 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.

“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 mid-night 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.”

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 a child, old men with newspapers under their arms. And of this drama he would have been the star, summoned from his dressing room only when the moment came to take center stage and deliver the grand soliloquy. But not this time. This time he had to do the work by himself.

He ordered a beer. The man behind the bar brought him a pilsener, then lingered a moment, taking a good long look at him. And who the hell are you? It was that kind of neighborhood. But the beer was very good. He turned on the stool and stared out the window, the melancholy stranger. Out past two well-attended strips of flypaper, the house on Opava street. Where a child now climbed the steps, home from school, swinging a blue lunchbox as she disappeared through the door. Next, a woman came out with a net bag, and returned fifteen minutes later with her marketing. Mercier had a second beer. The barman said, “Warm day, we’re having.”