Charles McCarry - The Miernik Dossier

“That policeman will make a report to the WRO. No contract after that.”

“Yes. And he may file charges, diplomatic immunity or no diplomatic immunity. There’s a law against insulting the police in this country.”

“In all countries.”

“Almost all. It’s a sad world.”

“What about America? What is the law there?”

“You can say what you want to the cops. If they don’t like it, they break your skull.”

Miernik turned over and put his face in the cushions of the sofa. “Tonight I lost everything,” he said. “My contract, my Swiss asylum.”

“We’re both losing sleep,” I said.

“I must become an American. That is the solution.”

“I don’t think you can. You’re a Commie rat.”

“I am a Christian and a lover of truth.”

Miernik sat up. His hair fell into his face. His suit, in spite of everything, was still neatly buttoned. He looked odd without his glasses.

“Paul,” he said, “I am lost. I have insulted the Swiss police. You should have stopped me.

“You were too quick for me. Léon and Nigel both tried to stop you.

“No Swiss asylum now. I am in their files as a troublemaker. The Polish wheel turns against the Swiss wheel, and Miernik is in between.”

“You’d better go to bed.”

“I’d rather go to America.

“With your background, you’ll have to go by Russian submarine.”

“I die. You joke. That’s the American answer to the Polish question.”

“You won’t die, Miernik.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I think you’ve had a lot to drink.”

“I will die, my friend. You will live. Do you know why? Your passport is green, mine is brown.”

“Go to bed.”

Miernik got up and searched for his glasses. He examined the broken lenses and put the frames in his breast pocket. He began to laugh.

“I am now seeing the humor in this situation,” he said. “You are bored. Victims bore you. Would you save me if I were less of a bore?”

I didn’t answer. Miernik smelled his own armpit. “I’ve always thought that I smell like a corpse,” he said. “It’s a Central European malady.”

I said good night. In the street, I looked up at his window. He was moving around inside, clearing up the mess of the party. When he opened the sash to let in the air, I saw that he was wearing glasses again-an extra pair, no doubt.

Kirnov [2]emerged from Hotel du Rhône at 0312 hours on 22 May. He proceeded on foot to the corner of Boulevard Georges Favon and Rue du Stand, where he unlocked a gray Simca Aronde with registration number BE 80987 and drove away.

Chase vehicle kept subject in sight northbound across Pont de la Coulouvrenière, then eastbound on Rue de Lausanne, south on Avenue de France and the quais to the Pont du Mont Blanc. Subject then proceeded to the left bank and through a number of small streets in the vicinity of the Parc de la Grange. This was interpreted as a maneuver to spot our surveillance, and we accordingly ceased following so as to avoid detection.

We made new contact four minutes after breaking it, in Place Neuve. Kirnov parked and locked car and proceeded on foot to 21-bis, Rue Saint-Leger.

He buzzed an apartment inside this building from the entryway and was admitted. After his buzz, a light appeared in a third-story window, fourth from west end of building. Subject entered the building at 0331 hours.

At 0334 hours, Bamstein entered the building with a passkey and proceeded to the third floor by way of the fire stairs. Bamstein attached a contact microphone to the door of Apartment 23, which had been identified as the apartment with the lighted window.

Apartment 23 is occupied by Tadeusz Miernik, a Polish national employed by the World Research Organization.

The microphone, which was left in place until 0348 hours, picked up nothing but the sound of typing. Microphone was removed when a voice, identified as Kirnov’s, said “Good night” in Russian. This was the only spoken word overheard by Bamstein.

Kirnov and a second white male assumed to be Miernik walked together to the elevator shaft. Bamstein, concealed in the stairway, overheard indistinct conversation in Russian. Bamstein was able to identify the name “Zofia” spoken several times by Miernik. Also the phrase “Don’t worry, I will see to her,” spoken by Kirnov.

Subject left building at 0351 and returned to his own residence by a circuitous route.

MIERNIK: Hello, Zofia? Zofia?

“ZOFIA”: Tadeusz? Why are you calling?

MIERNIK: Must I have a reason to call my sister? I am lonely for you.

“ZOFIA”: And I for you, Tadeusz. How is Geneva?

MIERNIK: Beautiful. Beautiful. Spring is here.

“ZOFIA”: Warsaw is beautiful, too. Perhaps you cannot remember.

MIERNIK: I remember every day. Zofia, I would like a little holiday.

“ZOFIA”: So would I. It must be the weather.

MIERNIK: With you, I mean. Can you come to me here?

“ZOFIA”: How? I have my studies.

MIERNIK: Have you a passport?

“ZOFIA”: No, I have no passport.

MIERNIK: I should love it if you could get one and come to me for a few days. We will go walking in the Jura.

“ZOFIA”: Why not the Alps? (Laughter)

MIERNIK: There is snow in the Alps.

“ZOFIA”: The Jura, then. I wish that I could, Tadeusz.

MIERNIK: Perhaps you can. Apply for a passport. I long to see you. Write to me when you are coming.

“ZOFIA”: I will try, if I can arrange my studies and a passport.

MIERNIK: I will wait for your letter. Good-bye.

“ZOFIA”: Good-bye, Tadeusz.

Darling Heinz,

Spring has come to Geneva, and I am foolishly happy about it. The city’s face has changed in a week from that of an old man to that of a young girl with flowers in her hair. Blossoms everywhere, smiles everywhere. It hardly seems possible that a month ago the wind they call the Bise was blowing down the lake, that the bridge railings were curtained with ice, that people were so distressed that one read almost every day of another suicide. (The Swiss are bizarre suicides, they always find some way to do it that not even a Hungarian would have imagined: one man suffocated himself in January by placing a transparent plastic bag over his head, sealing it around his throat with a large rubber band. “He drowned in his own breath!” said La Suisse.)

My little love affair continues. I see him every day. He says nothing of his work. I accuse him of being interested only in an affair of bodies. He laughs. He is not always a gay lover, he has black moods when he will not speak. The state of the world troubles him; he believes that civilization is going into a long night, that the bomb will be dropped, that history is one long prank designed to be played on our generation. On this subject he will not laugh. I never see him on Saturdays. He gets into his car and goes to the Alps. He wears climbing clothes, but perhaps this is a disguise. I accuse him of meeting some wild girl on a mountainside. I have threatened to follow him to see if this is true. I can see that the threat disturbs him. Do you think that I should do this? I should not confront the other girl, if there is one. I should hide behind a tree and watch, perhaps take pictures. Tell me, dear Heinz, if this is what a jealous woman should do?