Alan Furst - The Spies of Warsaw

“No, likely not.”

Halbach nodded, then walked toward the dock. At the door to the customs shed, an older couple, poorly dressed, entered just as he arrived. Then, a moment later, Halbach followed them. Mercier waited, the Renault engine idling. The ferry creaked as it rose and descended on the harbor swell. Mercier checked the time: 11:39. A sailor walked down the gangway and stood by one of the bollards that held the mooring lines. Now it was 11:42. Somebody in the customs shed reached out and closed the door. Had something gone wrong? They couldn’t get this close, just to … Five minutes, six, then ten. Should he go to the shed? To do exactly what? Above the door, the breeze toyed with the red and black flag. 11:51. The sailor at the bollard began to unhitch the mooring rope, and the ferry tooted its cartoon horn, once, and again. A few passengers had gathered at the railing, looking back into Germany. Mercier’s hands gripped the wheel so hard they ached, and he let go. Now the couple left the shed, the man supporting the woman with an arm around her waist. When the sailor called out to them the man said something to the woman, and they tried to hurry. Mercier closed his eyes and sagged against the seat. Not now. Please, not now. The sailor tossed the mooring line onto the deck and strolled over to the other bollard. Two crewmen appeared at the end of the gangway, ready to haul it aboard.

Then Halbach came out of the shed, tall and awkward, running, holding his hat on his head as he ran. At the end of the gangway, he turned and looked at Mercier, then disappeared into the cabin.

Mercier took a hotel room in Rostock; then, early the following morning, drove back to Berlin and, at the northern edge of the city, parked the car. Carefully, he searched the interior and the trunk, found no evidence left behind, and locked the doors. There it would remain. He took a taxi to the Adlon and settled in to let the days pass. He felt much safer now that Halbach was no longer in the country, and he had to work to keep elation at arm’s length. Because Elter might not show up at the Birdcage Bar, because the Gestapo might show up instead-if he’d been caught in the act, or if he’d been so foolish as to go to his superiors. Or, really, was that so foolish? Play the contrite victim, tell all, hope for the best.

No, Mercier told himself. That look of murderous hatred had revealed something of Elter’s true self-the brute inside the clerk. Mercier had not been displeased by that look, far from it. It meant secret strength, just what Elter would need to do what he had to. Save Otto Strasser? Save Halbach? A joke. Elter would save Elter. And then, struggling along on a corporal’s pay, war on the horizon, welcome to Switzerland.

The Adlon was busy, only a luxurious double had been available. A warm room, and very comforting, lush fabrics in subdued colors, soft carpet, soft light. Mercier took off his shoes to stretch out on the fancy coverlet, stared at the ceiling, missed Anna Szarbek. The telephone on the desk tempted him sorely, but that was out of the question. Still, there was something about these lovely rooms, not just flattering-only success brought you to such places-but seductive. Now he wanted her. She liked nice things, nice places. She would march about in her bare skin, showing off her curves. He rose from the bed, went to the telephone, and ordered dinner brought to the room. Better to stay out of sight. Friday .

28 April.

Hotel Excelsior. A vast beehive of a hotel, buzzing with guests-the swarm concentrated at the reception counter and spread out across the lobby. Mercier waited his turn at the desk, signed the register, and handed over the Lombard passport-this was not the Singvogel. A bellboy took his valise and they rode the elevator to the eighth floor, as the operator, wearing white gloves, called out the floor for each stop. In the room, he tipped the bellboy and, after he’d left, paused before the mirror: anonymous as he could be, in dark blue overcoat, gray scarf, and steel-gray hat. He left the valise in the room and descended to the lobby.

Across from the reception, the Birdcage Bar. Mercier pushed the padded door open, and yes, there it was, as advertised: a gilded cage suspended from the ceiling, its floor covered with oriental pillows for the comfort of the bird presently in captivity, an indolent maiden, very close to nude but for her feathered costume and tight gold cap. At rest when Mercier entered, she now rose, circled the cage, went to her knees, held the bars, and reached out for a passing guest, who circled the outstretched hand with a nervous laugh and rejoined his wife at their table.

Standing at the bar, Mercier surveyed the tables in the room. Elter? Not yet, it was only 7:20. Surveillance? No way to tell, dozens of people, drinking and talking; it could be any of them. Would this contact have been safer under a railway bridge? Maybe, but too late now. Mercier left the bar, and found a chair in the lobby, a potted palm on one side, a marble column on the other. Elter came through the door at 7:28, wearing hat and overcoat and carrying a large briefcase by its leather handle. He peered about him, found the neon sign above the door to the bar, and headed across the lobby. Mercier watched the entry doors-two dowdy women with suitcases, a young couple, a beefy gent holding a newspaper, who walked toward the elevator. Mercier stood up and hurried over to the bar. Elter was just inside, looking around, not sure what to do next-every table was taken. “Herr Elter,” Mercier said, “would you please come with me?”

Mercier led him to the elevator and said, “Eight, please.” Above the door, a steel semicircle, where an arrow moved over the floor numbers as the car rose. Four. Five…. Eight. Mercier got out, Elter followed, and they walked together down a long empty hall. It was very still inside 803, a common hotel room with a print of an old sailing ship above the bed, and almost dark, but for the ambient light of the city outside the window. Mercier left it that way, he could see well enough. “Please put the briefcase on the bed,” he said.

Elter stood at the window. Mercier opened the briefcase. Papers, of various sizes, many of them crumpled and straightened out, sketches, memoranda, a study of some sort, several pages long. From the pocket of his jacket he brought out a manila envelope, its flap unsealed. “You’d best have a look at this,” he said to Elter.

“Very well,” Elter said, his voice quiet and firm.

Mercier opened the envelope and handed Elter a Swiss passport. “There is an address in here, a photography studio in Prague. They will complete the passport for you. Can you go to Prague?”

“Yes. I don’t see why not.”

“In this envelope is also an account number and the address of a bank in Zurich. The account holds five hundred thousand Swiss francs, you need only submit the number. Is that clear?”

“It is.”

“Did you tell anyone about this?”

“I most certainly did not.”

“Your wife?”

“No.”

“Best keep it that way, until you leave Germany.”

“I have no intention of leaving.”

“Well, that’s up to you.” Mercier snapped the briefcase closed and picked up his valise. “It would be best,” Mercier said, “if you remain in this room for fifteen minutes.”

Elter was studying the bank information, hand-printed on a square of notepaper. “There is one thing I wanted to ask you,” he said.

“Yes?” Mercier had taken a step toward the door, now he turned back.

In the darkened room, the two men in hats and overcoats stood, for a moment, in silence, then Elter said, “Will you seek further information? About the I.N. Six section?”

Mercier’s mind raced. “We might.”