The spies of warsaw (30 page)

"There was some talk of moving it to nine-thirty."

"No, eight-thirty, bright and early."

"Very well, I'll see you then. Sorry if I disturbed you."

"Don't be concerned. Good night, Jean-Francois."

There was no meeting. The telephone call was a signal--

operations could now begin to take two Russian spies out of Poland.

1:45 a.m. Outside, the silence of a winter night, so cold that frost flowers whitened the windows of the study. Viktor Rozen, now apparently

recovered, sat near the fire, wearing Mercier's bathrobe, his heaviest

sweater, and two pairs of his socks. He warmed his hands around a

glass of hot tea laced with brandy, sipping it Russian-style, through a

cube of sugar held between his teeth. Malka sat by his side, smoking

one cigarette after another.

"There wasn't much to do with France," Viktor said. "Our agents

in Polish factories reported on armaments produced under French

license, and we tried to reach your diplomats. . . ." Both Rozens gave

Mercier a glance.
And you see how that turned out.

"Our own operations worked against the Poles," Malka said. "A

major on the General Staff, a director of the telephone company,

maids at the hotels, a few factory workers. And significant penetration

of the socialist parties--Moscow Center is obsessed with this, so

that's where we spent money."

"What were the maids doing?" Mercier asked.

"Going through briefcases. Foreign diplomats, businessmen, anyone important. Including the Renault delegation from Paris, back in

October. One of them kept a diary, foolish man, a, how shall I say, a

very
frank
diary. His conquests."

"Did you use it? Against him?"

"Who knows, what Moscow does. We just sent the photographs

of the pages."

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"Well, try to remember the name--you'll go through all that in

Paris," Mercier said.

"When do we leave?" Viktor said.

"Tomorrow," Mercier said. "That is, today."

"They'll be watching everywhere," Viktor said. "You'd better be

armed."

"Don't worry, we're prepared for, eventualities."

"I hope so," Malka said.

They sat for a time and watched the fire, logs glowing red, a firefall of sparks. Viktor said, "Mostly, we did what everyone does--

war plans, arms production, political personalities, border defenses."

He shrugged. "I doubt it's very much different from what you do,

colonel."

Mercier nodded--that was likely true. "Any German networks?"

"Quite a number of them," Malka said. "But we didn't handle

them. That was the preserve of the elite."

"Not you?"

She smiled. "Once upon a time, a few years ago, but the Jews in

the service aren't so favored, these days. They no longer trust us, the

Old Bolsheviks--look what they were going to do to Viktor and me.

Don't tell the world, but Stalin's just as bad as Hitler."

"Why not tell the world?"

"Because they won't believe it, dear colonel." She threw the end of

her cigarette into the fire and lit a new one.

"So, no German information."

"Gossip," Viktor said. "In an embassy, you hear things."

"Such as?"

"Surely the Poles already know. Camp Rummelsburg, in Pomerania, where they train spies to work in Poland. It opened in 'thirty-six,

they're thought to have run about three thousand people through

there. And, of course, the Polish branches of I.G. Farben and SiemensSchuckert are used as espionage centers. But, as for names and dates,

this never came our way. Maybe if we'd had some time with the

files . . ."

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"Any gossip about the I.N. Six?"

"I.N. Six?" Viktor said.

"Guderian's office," Malka said. "In the Bendlerstrasse." The

address of the German General Staff.

"Oh," Viktor said. He pondered a moment, then shook his head.

"What do I remember about I.N. Six?" Malka said. "Was that

CHAIKA? Kovak's operation?"

"No, no, it wasn't Kovak, it was Morozov."

"He's right," Malka said. "It was Morozov."

"What's CHAIKA?" Mercier said.

"A codename. Means the bird, very common water bird, makes a

squawk? In all the harbors, everywhere."

Mercier came up with
seagull,
but didn't know the German. "I'll

look it up," Mercier said. "What does it have to do with I.N. Six?"

"A GRU officer called Morozov had this operation a few years

ago," Malka said. "Someone who worked in the I.N. Six office, codename CHAIKA, had concealed a political affiliation, from the early

thirties. He'd been a member of the Black Front, Adolf Hitler's opponents in the Nazi party, the left wing. You remember, colonel, the

Strasser brothers?"

"I do. Gregor was murdered in 'thirty-four, the Night of the Long

Knives. But his brother Otto survived."

"He did, went underground, and continued his opposition."

Mercier knew at least the basic elements of the story. The Nazi

party, soon after its birth, had split on ideological lines; some of the

original members were committed to the socialist agenda--it was,

after all, the National Socialist Party,
Nazi
the German slang derived

from the first word--and proposed sharing German wealth and land

with the working class. But the wealthy supporters of the party, Baron

Krupp, Fritz von Thyssen, and others, wanted no part of that and

Hitler, desperate for money, sided with them, ordered the murders, in

1934, of some of his opponents, and forced the others to pledge support to the right-wing side of the ideology. Otto Strasser, Mercier

knew, was still in opposition, operating from Czechoslovakia.

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"Anyhow," Malka continued, "Morozov determined to put pressure on this CHAIKA, to force him to become a Soviet agent."

"What happened?"

"Morozov was purged. But this operation never really got under

way, because . . ." She stopped, unable to remember the reason.

"Because of the name!" Viktor was delighted with his memory.

"Morozov had the name--Kroll? something like that--from a German informant who'd been a member of the Black Front and was now

hiding in Poland, but the problem was that the Black Front used false

names--after all, they were being hunted by the Gestapo. So the name

Kroll, or whatever it was, was meaningless, there was nobody in the

I.N. Six with that name."

"Not Kroll," Malka said.

"I think it
was.
"

"No, it wasn't."

"What then?"

"Kohler, dear. That was it."

Viktor smiled fondly and said to Mercier, "Isn't she something?"

30 January, 6:35 a.m. Fully dressed, his Browning automatic on top of

his folded overcoat, Mercier telephoned Marek, his wife answered,

and the driver was called to the phone. "Good morning," he said.

"I must go to the embassy, Marek."

"Yes?" Marek's voice was cautious, Mercier almost always walked

the few blocks to the embassy.

"To prepare for a meeting," Mercier said.

"When shall I come for you?"

"As soon as possible."

"Ten minutes," Marek said, and hung up.

By 6:50, they were under way, the Rozens in the backseat, Mercier

sitting beside Marek. Mercier had left the building first, walked up

and down the street, then returned for the Rozens. Marek on one side,

Mercier on the other, they ran for the idling Buick.

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"We're going to Praga," Mercier said. "Do you have a weapon?"

Marek patted the side pocket of his bulky coat.

"Don't hesitate," Mercier said.

"Who are we expecting?"

"Russians. NKVD Russians."

"Will be a pleasure."

They crossed the Vistula, now a sheet of gray ice, wound through

the factory district, down a side street, and into the loading yard of a

vacant foundry, the smell of scorched brass strong on a windless

morning. Jourdain was waiting by his car, slapping his gloved hands

against each other to keep the blood moving. "Nice day for a ride in

the country," he said to Mercier, his words accompanied by puffs of

white steam. Then, to the Rozens, "Good morning, I'm here to help

you." Formally, they shook hands.

"Where's Gustav?" Mercier said.

"He should be along in a minute; he's been trailing your car since

you crossed the river."

A motorcycle pulled into the yard, skidding to a stop on the cinders. The rider's face was shielded by a wool scarf, worn just below his

goggles. He nodded hello and revved his engine by way of greeting.

"No point waiting, Jean-Francois. Gustav leads the way, you follow, I'll be right behind you."

As they drove away from the factory, Malka Rozen said, "Where

are we going?"

"Konstancin," Mercier said.

They drove fast through the early morning streets of Praga, past factory smokestacks, the black smoke hanging still in the frozen air,

crossed back into Warsaw, turned southeast, and followed the river,

the motorcycle slowing, then accelerating, as Gustav watched for

idling cars, or trucks moving to block the way. Speed was something of

an art, Mercier realized--the traffic policemen gave them a look, but

did nothing. Gradually, the city fell away and they moved swiftly along

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a country road, through the village of Konstancin--elaborate houses

and well-groomed gardens--and out the other side.

Mercier saw that Marek was intent on the rearview mirror, shifting his eyes every few seconds. "What's back there, Marek?"

"A big car; he's been with us since the outskirts of the city."

"What kind of car?"

"It has a hood ornament--perhaps the English car, called Bentley?"

Rozen--Russians and Poles understood each other's languages--

said, "Nothing to worry about."

"You're sure?"

"Too rich for us."

Not if it's been stolen.

But a few minutes later, Marek said, "Now he turns off," and

Mercier relaxed. It was quiet in the car. Up ahead, Gustav leaned over

as they sped around the curves, and then he signaled, pointed down a

dirt road, and swung into it. They slowed, bouncing over frozen ruts

and potholes, turned hard at a sharp corner, and jolted to a stop.

Parked in the road: an ancient relic of a truck, its bed holding rows of

milk cans. Gustav reached inside his leather coat and produced a cannon of an automatic pistol, a box magazine set forward of the trigger

guard. As the motorcycle sped around the truck on the driver's side,

Mercier twisted around to see that the Rozens were staring at each

other, and Malka had taken Viktor's hands in hers. "Get on the floor,"

Mercier said, turned back, drew his own weapon, and opened the

door a crack. From the right-hand side of the truck, a path ran up a

hillside and disappeared. A dairy farm up there? Maybe. Maybe not.

Gustav came skidding to a stop by the driver's window of the

Buick. He said, his words muffled by the scarf, "Nobody in there.

What do you want to do?"

"Wait." Mercier left the Buick and, keeping his eyes on the hillside, walked backward to Jourdain's car. "No driver," he said.

"They'd have been on us by now," Jourdain said.

"I think so too."

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Mercier walked back past the Buick and, as he did, Marek got out

of the car and started to follow him, but Mercier motioned for him to

stay with the Rozens. Reaching the truck, he yanked the front door

open and looked inside. On the seat, a newspaper and half a sandwich

in a piece of brown paper. Planting one foot on the running board, he

hauled himself up and slid behind the wheel, searched the dashboard,

flipped the starter switch, and gave the engine some gas. When it

coughed, Mercier pulled out the choke and it rumbled to life. He

shifted into first gear and raised the clutch, driving forward a few

yards, then turning the wheel hard. The truck went bumping into a

pasture. Mercier looked back, made sure he'd left room for the cars to

get by, then turned off the engine.

As Mercier walked back toward the Buick, a man pushing a handcart loaded with milk cans appeared on the crest of the hill, dropped

the handles, and came running, shouting and waving a clenched fist.

Mercier was then next to the motorcycle and Gustav waggled his

huge pistol and said, "Shall I calm him down?"

"Don't bother."

"He is quite upset."

"So would you be."

Jourdain was leaning against the hood of the Buick. He raised an

eyebrow, his expression ironic and amused. "
Vive la France,
" he said.

A mile down the dirt road, a hand-painted sign said
Konstancin Fly-

ing Club
. Since the 1918 rebirth of the country, flying had become

immensely popular, and private clubs dotted the countryside surrounding the wealthier villages. Not much to look at: a few old planes