"I suppose I can. I'd almost forgotten, that sort of life."
"Will you fly to Zurich?"
"Perhaps tomorrow. The funds will be there?"
"We are true to our word," Mercier said. "It's all in the account."
Halbach looked out the window; the two passengers left the customs shed. "And will this," he said, "all this, make any difference, in
the long run?"
"It may. Who knows?"
Halbach climbed out of the car, retrieved his suitcase from the
trunk, returned to the passenger side, and looked in at Mercier, who
leaned over and rolled the window down. "Likely I won't see you
again," Halbach said.
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"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
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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
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.
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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
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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."
"I've thought about this night and day, since Halbach approached
me. And I came to a certain conclusion. Which is, if I can be of service, and you are willing to pay . . ."
It was the last thing Mercier expected to hear, but he recovered
quickly. "We have your address, Herr Elter. And we always pay people
who help us."
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Elter nodded. "Then I'll expect to hear from you."
"Good night, Herr Elter," Mercier said, turning back toward the
door. "And be careful."
"Yes, good night," Elter said.
Mercier left the room and descended to the lobby. He checked out,
retrieved his passport, found a taxi at the entry to the hotel, and
returned to the Adlon.
The briefcase held seventy-three papers, now laid out on the bed in his
hotel room. Some of it useless-- Meet with Klaus, 4:30 Thursday--
some of it valuable. A draft for a report on the fuel consumption of
Panzer tanks. A hand-drawn sketch of an area within the Ardennes
Forest, with arrows showing potential attack routes. A roneo copy of
a forest survey map, made by French military cartographers in 1932,
according to the legend in the lower corner. This copy bore handwritten symbols and numbers--meaningless to Mercier--which implied
that copies of the map were being used as worksheets. A draft for a
memorandum on the ground clearances of various tank models, some
of the designations unknown to Mercier. Planned? In production? A
significant proportion of the documents had originated with a certain
Hauptmann--captain--Bauer, including a note from Guderian himself, thanking Bauer for his contribution to a discussion of meteorological patterns on France's northeast frontier.
But what particularly interested Mercier was what wasn't there;
nothing on the subject of the Maginot Line, nothing to do with the
defense system built on France's eastern frontier--no forts, no bunkers, no pillboxes. If Germany were to invade France, the attack
would come with tanks, through the Belgian forests. That was the
position of the I.N. 6, that was the position of the German General
Staff, that's what was laid out in seventy-three papers on a bed in the
Hotel Adlon.
Was this enough? For the generals in Paris? Well, there was more
to be had; they could go back to Corporal Elter. Surely they would. A
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gift from the gods--the gods of greed--and entirely unanticipated.
Nonetheless, a victory.
But if this was victory, it had taken him somewhere very close to
exhaustion. Weary beyond strength, Mercier managed to rid himself
of socks, shirt, and trousers, made sure of the lock on the door, turned
off the lamp, and lay down on the other bed. He lit a cigarette and
stared at the papers. In the morning, he would hide them below the
false bottom of his valise, take a taxi to Tempelhof airport, and fly to
Le Bourget. A taxi ride to de Beauvilliers's apartment in the Seventh
Arrondissement, a report to be written, and then back to Warsaw. A
job well done.
Or so he thought. In Warsaw, a hero's welcome on Sienna street--
where Anna went shopping and returned with the best Polish ham, rye
bread from the Jewish bakery on Nalewki street, and a bottle of Roederer champagne. Then, later on, a black negligee, purchased for the
hero's return, which turned her shape into a pale image obscured by
shadow--for as long as it stayed on. At the embassy, the following
morning, again the hero. They didn't know what he'd been doing,
but they knew it was some sort of operation, and they could see he
had returned safe and sound and in a good mood. "It went as you
wished?" Jourdain said. Mercier said that it had, and Jourdain said,
"Good to have you back."
Over the next few days, perfectly content with meetings and paperwork, he waited for word from Paris. It came on a Monday, the eighth
of May, a telephone call from General de Beauvilliers. A series of
oblique pleasantries, "Overall, we are quite impressed here," not
much more than that, one had to be cautious with the telephone. And
then, finally, "I'd very much like to have a talk with you, I wonder if
you could come over here. I believe there's an early flight in the morning." Merely a suggestion, of course.
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Mercier hung up and called Anna at the League office. "I'm flying
to Paris tomorrow."
A sigh. "Well, I hate to give you up. Is it for long?"
"A few days, perhaps."
"But I'll see you tonight."
"You will, but that's not why I called. Would you like to come
along?"
"To Paris?" She said it casually, but there was delight in her voice.
"Maybe I could. I'm supposed to be in Danzig on the tenth, but I can
try to move it back."
"Do what you can, Anna. There's a LOT flight at eight-thirty. We
can stay on the rue Saint-Simon, at the apartment. What do you
think?"
"Paris? In May? I'll just have to make the best of it, won't I?"
9 May. At five-thirty, he met with de Beauvilliers in an office at the
Invalides, in the maze of the General Staff headquarters. Gray and
Napoleonic as it was, the trees were in
new leaf and birds sang away
outside the window. "Surely you are the hero of the moment," de
Beauvilliers said. "I have to admit, the day we had lunch at the
Heininger, I didn't really believe it was possible, but you did it, my boy,
you did it to perfection."
"Some luck was involved. And, without Dr. Lapp--"
"Oh yes, I know, I know. Credit goes here and there, but we've broken into the I.N. Six, and we'll go back for more."
"Will you want me to handle the contact with Elter?"
"We'll see. Anyhow I wanted to congratulate you, and I wanted to
talk to you before your meeting with Colonel Bruner; he's waiting for
you in his office. First of all, you're going to be promoted to full
colonel."
"Thank you, general."
"Bruner will tell you again, so you'll have to pretend to be surprised, but I wanted to be the one to give you the good news. And
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that isn't all. You will want to think this over, but I'm requesting, officially, that you come here and work for me. It's a small section, very
quiet, but you'll find people like yourself. And what we do is meaningful, sensitive, far beyond the usual staff drudgery. Does it appeal to
you, colonel, work in the upper atmosphere?"
"It does. Of course it does."
"Good, we'll talk again, maybe tomorrow, but best go see Bruner
and have your meeting."
Mercier walked over to 2, bis, avenue de Tourville, then waited for fifteen minutes in Bruner's reception before he was admitted to the inner
sanctum. The colonel's freshly shaved face glowed pink, and he sat at
attention, puffed up to his grandest hauteur. "Ah, Mercier, here you
are! A great success, our brightest star. Congratulations are certainly
in order--bravo! There will be a promotion in it for you, you can
depend on that, colonel."
Mercier was dutifully surprised, and grateful.
"Yes, you've surely given us a view into the I.N. Six," Bruner said.
"We've had meeting after meeting, and we're still working on the documents. This information will, believe me, be taken into account as
we make our own plans."
"That's what I hoped for, colonel."
"And so you should have. Of course, we do have to consider the
possibility that we're being misled."
"Misled?"
"Well, it's almost too good to be true, isn't it. And a recruitment