as well. No doubt the future material will support what we already
have."
"No doubt? Why do you say that, colonel?"
"The Germans are clever people, not in any way above misleading
an opponent. It's the oldest game in the world: guide your enemy away
from your true intentions. Are you unable to look at it from that perspective?"
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A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 6 3
"I suppose I can, still . . ."
"Now see here, Mercier, nobody's taking anything away from
what you've done. You deserve credit for that, and, as a full colonel,
you'll have it. But you must accept that we have to take other possibilities into consideration, and that includes an Abwehr operation using
rogue Nazis, supposedly rogue Nazis, to send us down the wrong
path."
Mercier worked hard to conceal his reaction from Bruner, but he
failed. "Halbach was the real thing, Colonel Bruner."
"Yes, so your report suggested, but how can you be sure? Was
the Halbach you found the real Halbach? Or an Abwehr officer
playing the role of Halbach? Well, I can't pretend to know that for a
certainty--can you?"
"Not for a certainty. Nothing is ever certain, particularly in this
work."
"Ah-ha! Now you're on to the game! I'm not saying this is final,
but it's one view, and we would be negligent if we didn't take it seriously. No? Not true?"
"Yes, sir," Mercier said, now eager to be anywhere but Bruner's
office. "I understand."
"I'm glad of that. We know you have ability, colonel, you are an
excellent officer, that's been proven. Surely wasted on an attache
assignment in that Warsaw rats' nest. General de Beauvilliers has
asked for your transfer, and you can pretty much count on our agreement. Does that please you? Colonel?"
Mercier nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Well then, I won't keep you. I expect you'd like to go out and celebrate."
Mercier walked home through a rich spring afternoon, a Parisian
spring, that mocked him in every way. Amid chestnut blossoms fallen
on the sidewalk, the outdoor tables of a cafe were at full throb with
city life--the lovers, with their hands on each other; conversing busi-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 264
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nessmen, afloat on a sea of genial commerce; the newspaper readers,
solemn, intent on the politics of the day and a favored journalist's acid
comments; and the women, lovely in their spring outfits, alone with an
aperitif, and perhaps, perhaps, available. A wondrous theatre, Mercier
thought, each and every spring, now, next year, forever.
As he walked, his soldier's heart steadied him. Bruner and his
would not have their version of military doctrine spoiled by what he'd
learned--there would be no German tanks, no attack through the
forests. The current thinking could not be wrong, because they could
not be wrong.
Had they betrayed France? Or just betrayed Mercier? He would, in
time, find a way to accept their decision and in the future, working for
de Beauvilliers, he would certainly press on, trying to prove that his
discovery had been true. That's what an officer did, forever, down
through the ages. If an attack failed, you gathered your remaining
troops and attacked again. And again, until they killed you or you
took their position. He knew no other way. Yes, he was angry, and
stung. No, it didn't matter. He could only remain true to himself, there
was no other possibility.
And the people on these lovely old streets? The crowd at the cafe?
Would they be forced to live with a lost war? He hoped not, oh how
deeply he hoped not, he'd seen the defeated, the occupied, the lost--
that could not come here, not to this city, not to this cafe.
Then he sped up, walking faster now. Now he wanted to be back
with people who cared for him, his private nation.
Back on the rue Saint-Simon, as Mercier let himself in the door, he
heard a raucous laugh from the parlor. Then Albertine's voice. "Is that
you, Jean-Francois?"
Mercier walked down the hall to the parlor.
"Welcome back, love," Anna said. "We've been having the best
time." Clearly they were. On a glass-topped bar cart, a half bottle of
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A S H A D O W O F WA R * 2 6 5
gin stood next to a seltzer bottle, alongside a squeezed-out lemon and
a sugar bowl.
"We've taught ourselves to make gin fizzes, right here at home,"
Albertine said. Both she and Anna were flushed, the latter sitting sideways in an easy chair, her legs draped over the arm.
"The conqueror has returned," Anna said. "Covered in laurels."
Mercier collapsed in the corner of the sofa, took his officer's hat
by its stiff brim and sailed it across the room, where it landed on a
brocaded loveseat. "They fired me," he said. "The bastards."
"What?" Anna said.
"We'd best make a new batch," Albertine said, rising unsteadily
and making her way to the drinks cart.
"I gave them treasure," Mercier said. "They threw it on the dung
pile."
"Oh, those people," Albertine said. "I'm sorry if they've treated
you badly, but you ought not to be so shocked."
properly.
"I found a way to acquire important information. They, the officers of the General Staff, have chosen not to believe it."
"Half of them are in the Action Francaise, " Albertine said, naming the high-brow French fascist organization. She worked a cut lemon
around a glass corer, then poured the juice into a highball glass. "They
want France to be allied with Germany, the only enemy they think
about is Russia."
"Who knows what they want," Mercier said. "They tossed me a
promotion and they're transferring me back to Paris."
"And that's so bad?" Albertine said.
"My highly placed ally likely went to war, but he didn't win. Now
he's rescued me, I'm going to work for him. I guess that's a promotion
as well."
"Nothing quite like winning and losing at once," Albertine said,
adding sugar to the glass. "You'll feel better in a moment, dear."
"You're leaving Warsaw?" Anna said.
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2 6 6 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
"Yes. I don't suppose you'd care to come along, would you?"
"Am I de trop?" Albertine said.
"No, no. Stay where you are," Mercier said. "Could you do that,
Anna? Move to Paris?"
"If you want me to. I'd have to resign from the League."
"They hire lawyers in Paris," Albertine said. "Even woman
lawyers."
"Well, we don't have to decide all this tonight," Mercier said. "But
I'm not going to have us living in two places."
"Ah, good for you," Albertine said. Then, to Anna, "He's the best
cousin, dear, is he not? And he might do for a husband."
"Albertine, " Mercier said. "We'll talk about it in the mor
ning. For
now, where's my gin fizz?"
"Just ready," Albertine said. She brought Mercier his drink and
settled down at the other end of the sofa. Then she raised her glass.
"Anyhow, salut, and vive la France, " she said. "It's the good side, and
I do mean the three of us, who will win in the end."
They didn't.
Twenty-four months later, with Guderian in command, a massive
German tank attack through the Ardennes Forest breached the French
defenses, and--on 22 June, 1940--France capitulated. The former
Colonel Charles de Gaulle, by then promoted to general, left France
and led the resistance from London. After many adventures, Colonel
Mercier de Boutillon and his wife, Anna, also made their way to London, where Mercier went to work for de Gaulle, and Anna for the
Sixth Bureau, the intelligence service of the Polish resistance army.
And on 25 June, 1940, Marshal Philippe Petain accepted the leadership of the Vichy government.
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A B O U T T H E A U T H O R
Alan Furst is widely recognized as the master of the
historical spy novel. Now translated into seventeen
languages, he is the author of Night Soldiers, Dark
Star, The Polish Officer, The World at Night, Red
Gold, Kingdom of Shadows, Blood of Victory, Dark
Voyage, and The Foreign Correspondent. Born in
New York, he now lives in Paris and on Long Island.
Visit the author's website at www.alanfurst.net.
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A B O U T T H E T Y P E
This book was set in Sabon, a typeface designed by
the well-known German typographer Jan Tschichold
(1902-74). Sabon's design is based on the original
letterforms of Claude Garamond and was created
specifically to be used for three sources: foundry type
for hand composition, Linotype, and Monotype.
Tschichold named his typeface for the famous
Frankfurt typefounder Jacques Sabon, who died in
1580.
Document Outline
COVER
ALSO BY ALAN FURST
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
EPIGRAPH
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TYPE