Alan Furst - The Spies of Warsaw

“Solvents for the metals industry.”

Halbach studied the card, then put it on the nightstand. “What would you want with me?” Suspicion was slowly giving way to curiosity. “I’m a teacher.”

“But not always. Or, rather, that is your vocation. It is your political history that brings me here.”

Halbach’s hand moved toward the drawer, Mercier feared he was about to be shot. “Please, no violence,” he said softly. “I’m here to make an offer, nothing more than that, and if you’re not interested I’ll go away and that will be the end of it.”

“You said politics … meaning?”

“Your resistance to the present government in Berlin.”

“You know who I am,” Halbach said, an accusation.

“Yes, I do know that.”

“So, you’re no chemical salesman, Herr Lombard, are you.”

“Actually, I am, but that’s no part of our business today.”

“Then who sent you?”

“That I can’t tell you. Suffice to say, powerful people, but not your enemies.”

Halbach waited for more, then said, “How did you find me?”

“As I said, powerful people. Who know things. And, I feel I should point out, it wasn’t all that difficult to find you.”

“In other words, spies.”

“Yes.”

“Not the first I’ve encountered, Herr Lombard . And no doubt working for the Swiss government.”

“Oh, we never say such things out loud, Herr Halbach. And, in the end, it doesn’t matter.”

“To me it does.” He had suffered for his politics, he wasn’t about to compromise his ideals.

“Then let me say this much-a neutral government is not a disinterested government, and, as I said before, in this instance on your side.”

Now Halbach was intrigued-he’d spent enough time with Mercier to sense he needn’t be afraid of him, and felt the first flush of pride that “powerful people” were interested in him. Which, of course, they should be, despite his present misery.

Now Mercier advanced. “Tell me, Herr Halbach, this life you live now, as a fugitive, how long do you expect it to last?”

“For as long as it does.”

“Months?”

“Certainly.”

“Years?”

“Perhaps.” A shadow settled on Halbach’s face. He knew it couldn’t be years.

“You read the newspapers, you’re aware of Hitler’s intentions in Czechoslovakia-what’s going on in the Sudetenland.”

“ Casus belli. ” Halbach flipped the tactic away with his hand, his voice rich with contempt.

“True, a reason for war, and perfectly transparent to those who understand what’s going on. Still, Hitler may well send his armies here. What then? Where will you go?”

“To a cellar somewhere.”

“For months? Or days?”

Halbach would not give him the satisfaction of an answer, but the answer hung unspoken in the air.

“You asked why I was here, Herr Halbach. I’m here to offer you sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary,” Halbach said. The word had its effect.

“That’s correct. The people I represent want you to continue your resistance, but you cannot do so in Czechoslovakia. The Gestapo will find you, today or tomorrow, and the result for you will be very unpleasant. Very, very unpleasant. With the best of luck, it’s only a matter of time.”

“What is this sanctuary?”

“Money, and a new nationality.”

“How much money?”

“Five hundred thousand Swiss francs.”

“That’s a fortune!”

Mercier’s brief nod meant, of course it is, but not for us.

“Five hundred thousand, you said?”

“I did. And a Swiss passport. The passport of a Swiss citizen, not the papers of a foreign resident.”

“For nothing more than writing a few pamphlets?”

“No, there is more.”

Silence in the little room-quiet enough to hear the family eating dinner below them. Halbach lowered his voice. “And what would that be, Herr Lombard?”

“A visit to an old friend, a request-a request accompanied by the same offer I’ve made to you, so you will not go empty-handed, a few days’ work on his part, a successful result, and then, for both of you, new lives. Wealthy lives. Safe lives.”

Now Halbach saw the trick. “All this you offer would be in the future, naturally, and conditional. Just around the corner, just up the road.”

“No, sir, it doesn’t work like that. Simply agree, and I will hand you a hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs.”

“Now? This minute?” Halbach stared at the briefcase.

“Yes.”

“How do you know I won’t accept the money and disappear?”

“Because then you will have stolen it, Herr Halbach. Stolen it from us.” Again, silence. Mercier waited, the soul of patience; he could almost see Halbach’s mind working, back and forth. Finally Mercier said, “What will it be, sir, shall I be on my way?”

Halbach’s voice was barely audible. “No,” he said.

“Then we are in agreement?”

Halbach nodded. He’d begun to grasp the very sudden turn his life had taken, and he didn’t like it, his expression sour and resigned, but, really, what choice did he have?

“Please understand,” Mercier said, his hands now holding the sides of the briefcase, ready to hand it over, “that your actions will be directed against the Hitler regime, not against the German people, not against your homeland. We know you would never agree to harm your country, misguided though it might be.”

Halbach didn’t answer, but Mercier sensed that he’d accepted the distinction-this wasn’t treason, this was resistance. From the foot of the stairs, a woman’s voice. “Herr Halbach? Will you be having your dinner?”

“Not tonight, thank you,” Halbach called out.

Mercier handed him the briefcase. It was heavy and full: thirty packets, bound with rubber bands, of fifty hundred-franc notes. Halbach unbuckled the straps and opened the flap, took out one packet, counted twenty, riffled the rest, and put it back. When he looked up at Mercier his face had changed; the reality of the banknotes had struck home.

“And three hundred and fifty thousand more, Herr Halbach, when the work is completed.”

“In cash?”

“There’s a better way, a bank transfer, but I’ll explain that in time.”

Halbach again looked in the briefcase. No, he wasn’t dreaming. “What do I have to do, for all this? Kill somebody?”

“A train ride to Berlin. A conversation.”

Halbach stared, opened his mouth, finally said, “But …”

Mercier was sympathetic. “I know. I know, it’s risky, but not foolish. With a Swiss passport, hiding in a small hotel, you’ll be reasonably safe. And I’ll be there with you. Of course, danger is always part of this business. For me to come here today is dangerous, but here I am.”

“I’m a wanted criminal, in Germany.”

“You won’t be in Berlin for more than a week, and, except for arrival and departure, you will be visible for only one evening. We want you to contact a man who used the alias ‘Kohler,’ an old comrade of yours, from the Black Front, now serving in a section of the General Staff, and make the same offer to him that I’ve made to you.”

Mercier had worked this sentence out and memorized it. The question he didn’t want to ask was: Do you know Kohler? Because a simple “Who?” would have ended the operation.

“Hans Kohler,” Halbach said, his voice touched with nostalgia. After a moment, working it out, he said, “Of course. Now I see what you’re after.”

Casually, Mercier said, “I expect he serves under his true name.”

“Yes, Elter. Johannes Elter. He is a sergeant in the Wehrmacht . Luckily for him, Strasser ordered that every man in the Front use a nom de guerre .”