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crews will die for the cancan."
    "What do you have now? The last figure I heard was two hundred."
    "That's about right, unfortunately. The Russians have two thousand, best we know, and the same for the Germans. The Ursus factory
    is working on the Seven TP, our own model, under license from Vick-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 28
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    ers, but Ursus has to make farm tractors as well, and we need those. In
    the end, it's always the same problem: money. You've been out to the
    Ursus factory?"
    "I was. At the end of the summer."
    "Maybe that's the answer, maybe not. It really depends on how
    much time we have until the next war starts."
    Mercier finished his coffee, then refilled both their cups. "Hitler
    loves his tanks," he said.
    "Yes, we heard that story. 'These are wonderful! Make more of
    them!' An infantry soldier in the war, he knows what the British did at
    Cambrai, a hundred tanks, all at once. The Germans broke and ran."
    "Not like them."
    "No, but they did that day."
    For a moment, they were both in the past.
    "Who else is coming to the dinner?" Mercier said.
    "Well, they have a senator, so we'll have somebody from the Sejm.
    Then a few people from the French community: the ubiquitous Monsieur Travas, the Pathe agency manager, is coming, with some gorgeous girlfriend, no doubt, and we've asked your ambassador, of
    course, but he's declined. We may get the charge d'affaires."
    "Who's the senator?"
    "Bernand? Bertrand? Something like that. I have it back at the
    office. One of the Popular Front politicians. Somebody from Beck's
    office will talk with him, though we doubt he'll have anything new to
    say."
    Josef Beck was the Polish foreign minister, and Vyborg now
    referred to the issue that stood between him and Mercier, between
    France and Poland. Treaties aside, would France come to Poland's aid
    if Poland were attacked?
    "Likely he won't," Mercier said.
    "We think not," Vyborg agreed. "But we must try."
    France's political condition--strikes, communist pressure, a right
    wing divided into fascists and conservatives, failure to aid the Spanish
    Republic--continued to deteriorate. The most absurd views were held
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    sacred, and there was too much deal-making, though all of this was
    seen by a tolerant world as a kind of amiable chaos--a British politician had said that a map of French political opinion would look like
    Einstein's hair. But, to Mercier, it wasn't so amusing. "You know what
    I think, Anton. If the worst happens, and it starts again, you must be
    prepared to stand alone. A map of Europe tells the story. It's that, or
    alliance with Russia--which we favor but Poland will never do--or
    alliance with Germany, which we certainly don't favor, and you won't
    do that either."
    "I know," Vyborg said. "We all know." He paused, then brightened. "But, nevertheless, we'll see you at the Renault dinner."
    "And then at the Adria."
    "You will ask my wife to dance?"
    "I shall. And you, Madame Dupin."
    "Naturally," Vyborg said. "More coffee?"
    At eleven, Mercier was back at the embassy for the daily political
    meeting. The ambassador presided, touched on political events of the
    last twenty-four hours, and looked ahead to the Renault visit--special
    care here, don't bother there. Then LeBeau, the charge d'affaires and
    first officer, reported on unrest, potential anti-Jewish demonstrations
    in Danzig, and a border incident in Silesia. Then the ambassador
    moved on to the topic of electricity consumption at the embassy. How
    difficult was it, really, to turn off the lights when not in use?
    Mercier had a bowl of soup for lunch at a nearby restaurant; half a
    bowl--Polish chicken soup was rich and powerful, laden with heavy,
    twisted noodles--because the ponczkis had finished his appetite for
    the day. He did paperwork in his office until two-thirty, then returned
    to his