"I think it is very interesting," Kamila said. "Mynheer de Vries has
met Greta Garbo."
"And thinks you look just like her. Am I right?" Travas said.
"Well, yes, he did say that. Exactly that."
"Colonel Mercier is a war hero," Travas said.
"Oh yes? You must tell me your story, colonel."
"Someday," Mercier said. "At the next party."
Oh no! Here came the Rozens, everybody's favorite Russian spies,
the sweet old couple bearing down on him like feeding sharks. "I think
you're in demand," Travas said, steering his prize away. "A bientot, "
he said with a grin.
"So here you are!" Malka Rozen said, patting his cheek. "I told
Viktor you'd be here, didn't I, Viktor."
Viktor Rozen looked up at her from his permanent stoop and said,
"You did. It's true. Here he is."
"Now see here, my French comrade," Malka said. "Don't you like
us? The most delicious dinner awaits you at our apartment, and you
must eat sooner or later, no? You can't live on canapes."
"I've been very busy, Madame Rozen. The holidays--"
"Naturally," Viktor said. "But now it's January, the long freeze,
time to visit friends, have a drink, a nice chicken--is that so bad?"
"Not at all," Mercier said, charmed in spite of himself. "Tell me,"
he said, "how are things back in the motherland?" That ought to do it.
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A shadow crossed Viktor's well-lined face. Was he actually, Mercier
wondered, going to say something?
"The trials--"
"The trials of winter." Malka cut him off, and gave him a look.
"That's it," Viktor said. "Always difficult, our winter, but we seem
to survive."
"Did you go home for the holidays?" Mercier said.
"No." Viktor's voice was excessively sharp. "I mean no, it's such a
long train ride. To Moscow. Maybe in the spring, we'll go back."
Malka changed the subject. "You know what I think, Viktor? I
think that Colonel Mercier won't come to dinner unless he gets an
invitation. A written invitation."
"You're right," Viktor said. "That's what we should do. Send him
a letter."
"You needn't do that," a puzzled Mercier said. "Of course I am so
very busy, this time of year--"
"But it will make a difference," Malka said. "I'm sure it will."
Mercier looked around the room. Had Anna Szarbek arrived? No,
but Colonel de Vezenyi, the Hungarian military attache, caught his
eye and waved him over, so Mercier excused himself. And, oddly, the
Rozens seemed happy enough to let him go.
For the next half hour, he circulated, visiting briefly with the usual
people, saying nothing important, hearing nothing interesting, then
thanked his hosts, told Mynheer de Vries they'd see each other soon,
and gratefully headed out the door into a cold, clear evening.
The gleaming diplomatic cars stood in a long line outside the
embassy; he found the Buick, and Marek held the door for him. As he
slid into the back, he saw an edge of yellow paper on the floor, tucked
beneath the driver's seat. As Marek pulled out of line and drove down
the street, Mercier bent over and retrieved the paper--a square envelope. "Marek?" he said.
"Yes, colonel?"
"Did you stay in the car, while I was inside?"
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"No, sir. I joined some friends, other drivers, and we sat in one of
the cars and had a smoke."
Mercier turned the envelope over, then back. It was cheaply made,
of rough paper, not a kind he remembered seeing. The flap was sealed,
and there was no writing to be seen. "Is this yours?" Mercier said.
Marek turned halfway around, glanced at the envelope, and said,
"No, colonel."
"Did you lock the doors, Marek? When you joined your friends?"
Carefully, Mercier inserted an index finger beneath the flap and
opened the envelope. The paper inside had been torn from a schoolchild's copybook, grayish paper with blue lines. The writing was
block-printed, with a pencil, in French. There was no salutation.
We are in great difficulty, recalled home, and we cannot go
there, because we will be arrested, and executed. Please help us
leave this city and go somewhere safe. If you agree, visit the
main post office on Warecki square, at 5:30 tomorrow. You
won't see us, but we will know you agree. Then we will contact
you again.
Please help us
Mercier read it once more, then said, "Change of plans, Marek."
"Not going home?"
"No. To the embassy."
The ambassador's residence was in the embassy, and he appeared at
the chancery, in velvet smoking jacket over formal shirt and trousers, almost immediately after Mercier telephoned. Jourdain took
longer, arriving by taxi a few minutes later. When he entered Mercier's
office, the letter sat alone on a black-topped table. "Have a look,"
Mercier said.
Jourdain read the letter and said, "Well, well, a defection. And I
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thought it was going to be a boring winter. Cleverly managed, isn't it,
not a clue to be found, unless you know which country's shooting people when they go home. Who wrote it, Jean-Francois, any theories?"
"The Rozens," Mercier said.
"You're sure?"
"Yes. They told me to expect it, at the Dutch cocktail party."
"I'm not surprised," Jourdain said. "Stalin's killing all the Old
Bolsheviks now, cleaning house, installing his Georgian pals."
"How important are they?" the ambassador asked, reading over
the letter once again.
"They're believed to be GRU officers," Jourdain said. "Soviet military intelligence. We don't know their ranks, but I'd suspect they're
senior, just below the military attache."
"Not NKVD?" the ambassador said.
"No, not the real thugs. Of course they could be anything. Viktor
Rozen could be a minor official, and Malka simply his wife."
"I would doubt that," Mercier said. "They work together--the
invitation to dinner turns into a request for information, something
very minor, then they'll try to give you money."
"Well, now they'll take the money," the ambassador said. "Or at
least safety, their lives. And the information comes next. Not a provocation, colonel, is it?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"Devious people, the Russians," the ambassador said. "They see
life as chess, draw you into some sort of clandestine rat maze, then
shut the trap."
"I believe it's a legitimate offer to change sides," Mercier said.
"Viktor Rozen seemed, ah, at least worried, maybe desperate. His
wife's the strong one."
"Maybe she outranks him," the ambassador said. "That's not
unknown. As for what's next, we--I mean you, colonel--cable Paris.
Tonight. I'll want to see the text before it goes to the code clerk."
"Tonight?" Jourdain said. "Couldn't we . . . explo
re the possibilities?"
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The ambassador's smile was all too knowing. "Your instincts are
perfect, Jourdain, but if we dawdle, the bureau in Paris will want to
know why. Still, colonel, don't say more than you have to, just follow
the form."
"They'll be out here, sir," Jourdain said. "All over us."
"Maybe. Can't be helped."
"So, five-thirty tomorrow," Mercier said. "A visit to the post
office."
"One can never have enough stamps," the ambassador said. "As
for me, I'm off to the Biddles' dinner party, you two work out the
details."
Jourdain and Mercier talked for a long time--what did they want,
what could they get, what was the price of salvation, this week?
10 January. In civilian clothing, but well dressed for the occasion,
Mercier strolled around Warecki square in a light snow. Then, precisely at five-thirty, he entered the busy post office, stood on line, and
bought a sheet of stamps. Very pretty, they were, the two-groszy issue,
blue and gold, with a handsomely engraved portrait of Chopin.
14 January. At the Spanish embassy, an evening of flamenco. The
ambassador represented the Republican, the legal, government of
Spain, but it was known that there was a Nationalist, a fascist, ambassador in Warsaw, waiting to present his credentials. Franco's forces
had now cut the country in two parts, holding the larger area, so it
was, the diplomatic community believed, just a matter of time.
Mercier arrived at the Spanish embassy precisely at nine and
found a seat at the end of a row toward the back. Not quite the usual
crowd, he saw, the audience determined by political alliance, so neither the German nor the Italian diplomats were to be seen. But no
problem filling the room, because half the Soviet embassy was evidently passionate for Spanish dance. Mercier did find Maxim--that
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was logical, because an evening of flamenco, political flamenco, was
just the thing for Maxim's clever column in the newspaper--who'd
saved the seat next to him with his folded overcoat. Then, as the
lights dimmed and the Spanish ambassador took the stage, a familiar silhouette hurried down the aisle and took the saved seat. What
went on in Mercier surprised him--only a glimpse of her silhouette.
But enough. The Spanish ambassador was speaking, though Mercier
never heard a word of it, until the end: ". . . the old and honored heritage of our nation, tonight gravely wounded and in peril, but which,
like the passionate art we bring you this evening, will endure." Thunderous applause.
Mercier liked the flamenco well enough--the fierce guitar, the
hammering rhythms of the dance--but his heart was elsewhere. And
as the troupe returned for a second encore, he walked quickly up the
aisle and out the door into the room where the reception would be
held. On a long table covered with a red cloth, bottles of wine and
plates of bread and cheese. He stood to one side and waited as the
audience filed out.
Maxim was delighted to see him. He strode over, swung his hand
back, then forward, grasping Mercier's extended hand as though he
meant to crush it. "Here's the general! Say, how goes the war?" Standing slightly behind him, Anna raised her eyes, looked at Mercier, then
lowered them.
"It's going well enough," Mercier said.
"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it, general, keep up the good work."
With a proprietary hand on Anna's arm, he headed for the wine.
An intense crowd, that night. As Mercier made his way across the
room, the conversation was loud, excited, fervent. Opinion on the war
in Spain was savagely divided--the battle for an ancient nation had
become a battle for the heart of Europe. At last, by the door to the
lobby, he spotted the Rozens, being lectured by a comic-opera official,
a minister of some state, in tailcoat, pince-nez, and Vandyke beard. As
Mercier approached, Viktor said something to the official and began
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to lead him away, the man making slashing motions with his hand as
he talked.
Malka Rozen wasted no time. "It must be soon," she said, her
voice an undertone, her false smile broad and beaming.
"Are you being watched?" Mercier said. "Here? Tonight?"
"I can't say. They're very good at it, when they don't want you to
know."
"Our answer is yes--we're going to help you get out of Poland."
"Thank God."
"But you will have to help us, in return. You will come bearing
gifts, as they say."
"What do you want?" The determination beneath the warm exterior was like steel.
"Photographs, that's best. Or hand copies. Of documents relating
first to France--operations in Poland that involve French interests--
and then to Germany."
"Why do you think we have anything like that? Our work is
against Poland, not France, or Germany."
"Madame Rozen," Mercier said. He meant: please don't play
games with me.
"And if we can't get anything you want? Then we die?"
"You work for people, madame, and I work for people. Maybe
they're not so different, the people we work for."
"I hope they are," she said.
"Are you saying you won't try?"
"No, no. No. We'll try. But we don't have long. We were directed
to return to Moscow last week. We told them we had important meetings in Warsaw, so our return was postponed--two weeks from today.
After that, the knock on the door at midnight, and finished. For
twenty years of secret work, for twenty years of faith and obedience,
nine grams." The weight of a revolver bullet, Soviet slang for execution.
"We'll meet again, in four days," Mercier said. "There's a talk
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being given at the Polish Economic Ministry, 'The Outlook for 1938.'
Surely you won't want to miss that. But, in an emergency, you can
signal us. At the central post office, you'll find a Warsaw telephone
directory in the public booth, the one by the window. On page twentyseven, underline the first name in the left-hand column. Do this at nine
in the morning or three in the afternoon, and we'll pick you up at the
cafe on the other side of Warecki square, thirty minutes later."
"Page twenty-seven? Left-hand column?"
"That's correct. But I expect to see you on the eighteenth. And I
expect you'll have something for us by then. At least a beginning."
She thought a moment, then said, "So, allright, we'll look through
the files." Her mood had changed: to resignation, and something like
disappointment. Yes, she knew all too well what his job entailed, but
she'd sensed in him some basic decency she'd hoped might play to
their advantage and so had approached him and not the British--the
other logical choice. But now, she discovered, he was like all the rest,
and would play by the rules. When he didn't answer
immediately, she
said, "Maybe there's something."
"You'll do what you have to do, Madame Rozen. You know what's
at stake."
Viktor returned, having shed the talkative official. "Playing nicely,
children?"
Her look, sour and grim, told him what he needed to know.
Mercier nodded a formal goodby, walked away, and out the door.
On the eighteenth, Mercier was among the first to arrive at "The Outlook for 1938," but the Rozens never appeared. He tried, sitting on a
hard wooden chair, to keep his imagination in check, but it didn't
work. As the economic minister droned on--"With the reopening of
the Slawska mine, Silesian coal production . . ."--he could see them,
as in a movie, opening the door at midnight, led to a waiting car,
driven up to Danzig, then put under guard on a Soviet ship bound for
Leningrad. Then the Lubyanka prison, the brutal interrogation, and
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the nine grams in the back of the neck. Mercier knew also that not all
Stalin's victims got that far; the lucky ones died early, from rough
treatment, or purely from fright. He hoped he was wrong--there had
been no signal, and there were all sorts of explanations for the Rozens'
absence--but feared he was right.
With Jourdain supervising the watch on the post office, Mercier left
the embassy on the afternoon of the nineteenth. At home, he packed
carefully, then dressed even more carefully, choosing a shirt on the
fourth try--a soft one, thick and gray, with a maroon tie, and a
subdued tweed sport jacket. Then he considered the supposedly
"woodsy" cologne he'd bought the previous day, but decided against
it. He was determined--strange, how desire worked--to be as much
his usual self as he could be. And he guessed, given burly Maxim, that
Anna Szarbek wasn't the type who liked men who wore scent. What
did she like? What did she like about him?
Such obsession was better than brooding about the Rozens. There
had been a flood of cables from Paris: someone in the bureau wanted
double agents, the great prize of their profession, who would reveal
what the Russians knew, and tell the Russians what the French wanted
them to believe. The classic game of spies. But there was no time for
that, and Mercier and Jourdain wound up defending them, like lions