“Two years after the war he was ordained a priest,” Keeton recited from memory. “And then spent several years finishing his graduate education and doing some teaching at the Catholic university, in Lublin.”
“The schoolboy,” Morrison commented dryly. “Seems like the Polish communist government doesn’t exactly know what to do with guys like him.”
Keeton nodded. “Curious thing about Poland. They’ve been carved up over the centuries, fought over, dominated, and oppressed. Somehow they’ve managed to come out of it all with an intact church with a fair amount of influence. Paszek has definitely benefited from it, but he’s also accelerated it by all accounts.”
“That’s why you’re on this mission,” Morrison said as he dug a particular sheet from the SCHOOLBOY folder and slid it in front of Keeton. The roughness of the print indicated that it was the product of multiple xerographic copies. The stamp of SECRET had been applied haphazardly, but the rest of the printing was standard issue Courier in neat regimented prose. “We’re not supposed to have this, by the way.”
Keeton picked up the sheet. It was an intelligence report with the heading PROJECT CAMELOT SUMMARY ASSESSMENT, and underneath that it read, POLISH SOCIETAL TREND VIS A VIS CATHOLIC CLERGY—THREAT TO COMMUNIST SPHERE IN POLAND AND EUROPE.
“Camelot was commissioned by the army last year,” Morrison said. “The goal was to apply a bunch of social sciences and statistics to a country or a region and predict their stability and the factors that ensure it.”
“Or what could happen that might disrupt it,” Keeton added. “I remember the dustup in the press and a congressional hearing about this. I thought it essentially never got off the ground.”
Morrison gave a shrug and a wry grin, and Keeton read the remainder of the page.
“Historical factors suggest a unique leverage inherent in the Catholic church in Poland, born from the population’s reaction to shifting national borders and allegiances, in which the church provided a certain cultural anchor point. The near-homogeneity of Catholicism acts as a soft power base for dissent, but a base that nonetheless has managed to extract certain extraordinary concessions from what is otherwise a forced atheistic society in all other Soviet satellites. In the modern construct, the diametric opposition of the church can become a germination point for a freedom movement, the origins of which may be certain dioceses, parishes and even individual clergymen. Once begun, with Western support it is possible for such a movement to gain solidarity across Polish society and even to other satellite states, and to become a political and social wedge that threatens Soviet hegemony.”
“Big talk,” Keeton said as he looked up. “And with a huge dose of speculation. I admire the headshrinkers who give us our psych evals, but letting them loose to predict what will happen to the Soviet Union seems to go too far.”
“I can’t say I disagree,” Morrison smiled. “But the truth is, the Reds have a similar program and have come to the same conclusion—about the overall threat evaluation, about Poland as a country, and about Paszek himself. The Soviet program is called Echo.”
“That brings us around to the rest of his dossier,” Keeton said. “Six years ago he was appointed auxiliary bishop. Then two years later his predecessor died of a heart attack, and he was elevated to the bishop’s chair at Wawel Cathedral in Krakow. Paszek’s writings are aggressive but always just within bounds of the enforced rules there. He hasn’t gone to jail yet, which is amazing considering some of the material I’ve seen that’s been smuggled out and reprinted. You think the KGB would really take a crack at him?”
Morrison shrugged. “If they believe their own version of Camelot, yes. If they do, it’ll be something quiet—well, as quiet as killing a bishop can be. I’m guessing something local, maybe using the Polish secret police, the SB. Make it look like an accident or talk some antichurch lunatic into it. What about this council thing in Rome?”
“Second Vatican Council,” Keeton confirmed. “Three sessions so far, once a year in the autumn. They’re discussing changes in the church, and all of the bishops are invited, including Paszek. He’s been outspoken about some things that probably don’t thrill the Reds, and I’m sure they’re watching. The last session is scheduled to open in September, and the biggest document to be finished is a statement about religious freedom. Something like this council doesn’t happen that often, so I expect a splash.”
“This document they’re working on could become a target painted on Paszek’s back. Would they go after him in Rome?” Morrison asked.
“That would definitely be public,” Keeton answered. “But bold. Maybe their analysis shows that assassinating a mouthy clergyman would tamp down dissent. At any rate, there are worse assignments than rescuing an ECP in autumn in Rome.” He sipped his coffee and grinned at his boss.
“First things first,” Morrison said flatly. “You need to finish training up with Donny Boyle and getting your covers straight. Then we’ll get you into Krakow to assess the situation. Last piece of intel. A Polish woman in Krakow who claims to be a parishioner at Wawel Cathedral somehow got a handwritten letter into the American embassy. The letter stated that she’s been approached by a man who was trying to dig up dirt against Paszek and get her to spy on him. She also claims that the man—by the name of Anatol Kozlow, it’s all in the folder—has begun talking about silencing the bishop, for his own protection, whatever that means. That was two weeks ago.”
Keeton sat the cup down and nodded. “So maybe phase one of Schoolboy is just getting him to Rome.”
Chapter 2. Hunter and Hunted
The omniscient observer might have wondered in bemusement at the extraordinary chain of men stretched across the town square of Krakow. It began with the man in the tan fedora, sitting at a table outside one of the Cloth Hall cafés. He sipped his vodka and read the daily edition of the Echo Krakowa—or pretended to, since in reality he was watching the SB chief Slaski, who himself was hidden in sunglasses and a tourist brochure as he loitered at the corner near Saint Mary’s Basilica spying on his employee, Borys Gomulka. For his part, Gomulka sat on one of the benches that ringed the famous statue of Adam Mickiewicz, the Polish poet. He had dropped all pretense of disguise and, with red notebook and pencil in hand, simply watched Bishop Paszek joyfully talking to a close-knit throng of followers on the other side of the monument—Baca tending his flock.
Between them, the man in the tan fedora alone knew what was going on in the square, and he swore bitterly and thought the two SB agents clumsy Polish fools. His own assignment included actively plotting against the bishop. Knowing the goings-on of the SB was important to him. He had complete dossiers on both Slaski and Gomulka and had strongly complained to his KGB supervisor that the SB could only be impediments to the campaign to erode Paszek’s influence and freedom. But he had been told to consider the SB to be his counterparts and colleagues, albeit worse-trained and less ruthless. Mutual noninterference had been the order of the day, and he followed this policy meticulously—for now.
Suddenly the group of young people around the bishop began to break up and say their goodbyes. A trio of grade-school boys skipped by, kicking a soccer ball between them. Paszek called to them to pass the ball to Baca, which they did without question. Paszek caught the ball deftly on one foot, swiveled about, and kicked it in the direction of Gomulka, who was obliged to drop his notebook and raise his hands to avoid getting knocked from the bench.
“Excuse me, sir,” Baca said with his characteristic grin. “If you would please just pass the ball back to us. Remember those younger days in the schoolyard?”
Gomulka was once again flummoxed under the bishop’s attention. He stared at the ball by his feet until the youngsters began calling for him to kick it. Several students and other onlookers joined in the entreaty, until finally Gomulka struck at it with his powerful leg. The ball shot away from him but hit the base of the monument and bounced back, stopping almost exactly where it had begun.
“A perfect sho
t!” Baca called out, stooping toward the boys and raising his hands in the air. They laughed and cheered. Gomulka kicked the ball again and this time it rolled toward the bishop, who deflected it to the awaiting children. Baca and Gomulka locked gazes for several seconds. Then the bishop gave the slightest nod and turned south with his hands clasped behind his back and walked away.
The man in the tan fedora watched the incident with distaste. In the motherland, such laxity would certainly have been viewed as incompetence to the point of treason and punished accordingly. It was no wonder the Soviet Union found it difficult to corral the stubborn Poles, when the authorities of the Polish People’s Republic used idiots like this to perform the critical work of surveillance and evidence gathering. It was a good thing he was there, to make sure this upstart bishop would be brought to heel.
At that same moment, Slaski was making yet another notation about Borys Gomulka in his little red book. Between the incidents with Paszek and the outburst in the bar the night before, he wondered how long it would be before action was needed. Borys was his responsibility, after all. That meant Slaski’s own throat was on the line, and he was not about to let Borys get it slit.
Better him than me, he thought gravely.
***
Keeton synchronized his breathing with his footsteps—one to four—as he ran along the dirt path in the thick and humid Virginia woods. A year earlier he was training at this same location under the watchful eye of the same tutor, as he prepared for the rescue of the Cavalry’s own Agent Red from an East German prison. Ultimately Red had been brought home, but the years of tension in his deep-cover assignment in the Soviet Union and then weeks of torture at the hands of the sadistic East German Stasi had broken him, and he had resigned the post.
Keeton did not begrudge the agent his decision. As Agent Orange, Keeton had been captured several times, faced death many more, and had had to kill men and women in order to carry out his missions and to survive. He knew about the flashbacks and the nightmares and the doubts. The doubts were the worst of it, which if not checked could weave that blanket of indecision, which might eventually lead to the deadly bad choice or lethal moment of hesitation.
Donny Boyle, the indefatigable Irishman, knew of these things as well. He knew that focus, preparation, and resourcefulness maximized the odds of success, which was the best one could expect in this line of work. So he trained agents hard but professionally and well.
“Looking good, boyo,” Boyle called from the porch of the main house as Keeton reached it. “Decent lap time, too. I saw on your sheet that you’re four pounds lighter than last summer. A bit on the thin side—might need an extra egg or two for breakfast.”
Keeton stood looking at Boyle with a slight smile, as his breathing and heart rate recovered. He was soaked with perspiration and caught the white cotton towel Boyle threw to him. “You seemed surprised, Donny. I wouldn’t dare show up out of shape. Decadence is too painful when you’re around.”
“As it should be,” Boyle said with a smile tinged with hardness. “Right, it’s eight-twenty. The team’s just landing over at the airstrip. Shower up and we’ll meet in the library in twenty minutes. I’ll introduce you to a couple of our specialists. And Roy will be here with the new kid, too. A regular family reunion. Now go.”
Keeton nodded obediently and bounded onto the porch and through the front door, immediately immersed in the familiar environment of Boyle’s regimen. A CIA security detail sat finishing breakfast in the main house’s dining room, while a pair of cooks worked diligently in the kitchen preparing the next round of morning meal for Keeton, Boyle, and the mission team. The smells of food and bitter, strong coffee permeated the house. Stewards would quickly clear the table and set it again in the clockwork choreography that Boyle demanded.
Up in his bedroom, Keeton stripped off the sticky clothes and stuffed them into a nearby fishnet duffel. Then he made his way into the attached bathroom and started a cool shower. Four minutes later he stood before the sink and mirror shaving, the fading slash on his cheek high enough not to interfere with the scraping blade of his razor. It was the brief perfect time that he allowed himself for reflection, a morning respite during which he considered what had gone before and what was to come. The nasty healed wound on his right shoulder fell into the former category, the product of a Stasi captain’s knife meant to kill him near the end of the Red rescue mission, followed by two surgeries to weed out the infection and repair the damage. The taxpayers had provided him the best neurosurgeon in the country, and he found himself back in action and able to defeat an out-of-shape British flunky at a racetrack in Kentucky. He wondered how he might fare against a greater opponent. The sudden sound of the five-minute bell ringing down in the courtyard told him it might be time to find out.
He considered his own meager suitcase on the bed but knew that the closet and drawers had been filled with whatever clothes he might need for Donny’s “book learnin’” and for the physical training. He would likely change outfits two or three times a day. A steward would clear the duffel and replace the garments as necessary. So he dressed in the drab wardrobe provided by the CIA and made his way down to the dining room.
Even before he entered the room, familiar voices reached Keeton’s ears and cheered him with the expectation and stimulation of a new mission. It was a stew of accents—Irish, French, Midwestern American, and Slavic. The group of men at the table were already sitting in front of coffee and food but had not started eating yet. When Keeton walked in, the five of them stood and began a round of greetings and introductions refereed by Boyle.
“Of course you know these two muckers,” Boyle said of the two men who formed Keeton’s operational field team. There was Romain Roy, the French American who had shared several Iron Curtain adventures with Keeton; and Jimmy Morel, the fresh-faced volunteer whom Keeton had met during the Red mission. During the big fight in which Keeton’s shoulder had been stabbed, a teammate had been killed. Morel was the replacement.
Keeton stepped over to the table and shook Roy’s hand first. “Welcome to Donny’s camp of horrors,” he said lightly. “Good to see you, and to be back on the board.”
“Same here, Andrew,” Roy replied with an affectionate smile. “I hope we didn’t become too rusty in the meanwhile.”
“Mr. Keeton, good to be here,” Morel said next with a formality that caused Keeton and Roy to exchange playful glances. Keeton held firmly to Morel’s hand until the younger man realized he was being teased. The light hazing would simply have to be endured for a while, the unspoken rule of camaraderie.
“I can’t wait to get you in a pair of boxing gloves,” Keeton said mockingly. “Ain’t that right, Donny?”
“Looking forward to it,” Morel replied as he leaned across the table toward Keeton, like two prizefighters mugging for the reporters to gin up controversy. The men laughed, and Keeton looked back again at Roy with raised eyebrows.
“And two new faces,” Boyle announced, pointing to the other men at the table. Keeton sized them up quickly. The first man was tall with blond hair even lighter than Morel’s, with a face that showed creases Keeton suspected were born from field deployment. He was also wearing the standard-issue khaki trousers and polo pullover of the agency, down to the training sneakers that matched Keeton’s. A deep scar traced around one ear, and Keeton immediately desired to know the story behind it. The second new man was older than the rest, with dark hair and thick eyeglasses atop a broad snub nose. His dress was completely different—leather oxfords, dark trousers, and suit jacket, with a white shirt underneath. The tie clip remaining affixed near one of his shirt buttons indicated that he had arrived in full business attire but had removed the tie, probably at Boyle’s insistence. Everything he had on was wrinkled, either from the travel to the camp or habitual carelessness. Not a field man, in Keeton’s opinion.
“Meet Robert Curtis,” Boyle said of the tall blond. “He’ll be helping with your main cover as a British reporter. Apparentl
y there’s been some kind of dustup between MI-6 and us—” Boyle gave Keeton an impish, knowing glance—“and Curtis is here to make sure it all goes right.” When they shook hands, Keeton noted the firm grip he had expected.
“I suspect you’ve been here before,” Keeton said.
“Yeah, a few times,” Curtis replied with a smile, in a voice Keeton reckoned was American West Coast. “Nice to meet you, Keeton.”
“And this is Pawel Szwedko,” Boyle introduced the older man. “Szwedko’s an American citizen now, but ten years ago he decided he didn’t much like the Polish Iron Curtain lifestyle, so he managed to hitch a ride on a cargo boat from Gdansk to Copenhagen—I’m told he jumped ship and swam the last mile himself, at night.”
“Miło cię poznać, panie,” Szwedko said in a gravelly voice. Through the thick lenses, he peered deeply at Keeton as he spoke, as if looking for a clue to something. Along with Szwedko’s strong handshake and the quick story from Boyle, Keeton wondered if he had misjudged the man’s fortitude.
“Ty też,” Keeton replied.
“You speak the Polish?” Szwedko asked in his Slavic accent as his gaze turned from searching to surprise.
“I told you Keeton’s a natural,” Boyle announced. “You shouldn’t have to work too hard on him. Pawel here is our cultural trainer on Poland—language and customs. Even though your cover will be as a westerner, you’ll be expected to have done your research—and you might need an emergency cover to get out. We want to be prepared.”
“I’ve only studied a bit,” Keeton told Szwedko. “My Polish is still rough.”
“I see,” Szwedko answered with a nod. “But I think not so bad. You will be fine.”
The men then all sat and began the meal, another training rite that Boyle used to quickly build teamwork. After several minutes of idle pleasantries, the innate curiosity that made for effective spies came to the fore, and they began the back and forth of collecting intel on one another.
The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2) Page 3
