***
Keeton peeled a złoty from his money clip and handed it to the night-shift concierge at the Krakow train station. It was twenty minutes past midnight, and their train had arrived on schedule. As luck would have it, Keeton and Luiza had been situated in different rail cars on the journey from Warsaw to Krakow. By the time he had decided on a strategy to conciliate with her, he had peeked into her carriage to see her fast asleep against the window, her head insulated from the bouncing car by her purse-turned-pillow.
After two more checks on her, he had decided to inspect the letter that had been meant for the diplomats. Alone at his own seat, with the darkening Polish countryside sliding by in the window, he had carefully torn open one end of the envelope bearing the name Marcin Bylica, slid out the folded sheet of paper, and read the note.
To: American Government
From: Concerned Citizen
I have written to you before, but, of course, I do not know if my letter reached anyone. As I stated in my second letter, my friend is no longer willing to risk passing my information to the embassy in Warsaw. So I will do this myself. I will look for the signal and will place future information in the place I wrote about.
Bishop Paszek is in danger. The man Anatol Kozlow told me that it might be best for the bishop to die as a martyr to help the church in Poland. He appears to be with two minds about the bishop. I think perhaps he is being influenced by the SB officer who follows Paszek, but I am not sure. Anatol is not stable, I think. I have been able to find out the SB man is named Borys. He calls his SB boss Slaski.
I do not know if Americans care about Poland or about the church or about the bishop. Shedding blood is more common here, I think. We have already had our share of martyrs. If there is a way to protect Baca—I do not know what this is—but please help.
Dziekuje!
Then he had spent the remainder of the ride alternately resting, thinking about Luiza and what she had written, and looking out for SB agents.
“Papier i ołówek, proszę,” Keeton now said to the concierge, who nodded and produced a pencil and a sheet of stationery from the state railway company and slid them toward him. Keeton then scribbled a note and folded the paper in half. “English?”
The concierge shook his head apologetically.
“Deutsch?”
“Ich spreche Deutsch, ja,” the man answered, happy to accommodate this tourist with a money clip of złoty and English pounds.
Keeton gave him hurried instructions in German, then thrust several more złoty and five one-pound notes into his hand and walked out of the station to one of the cabs the concierge already had queued at the curb for the late-night arrivals.
Not ten seconds later, Luiza rounded the corner from the platform, having stopped at a washroom to splash her face and put a light sweater on over the cotton dress. Pretty, blond, with a blue suitcase, the concierge noted, just as the Englishman had described.
“Excuse me, Miss Rolek,” he said as he walked toward her.
Luiza looked at him warily. “Yes?”
“I have a cab waiting for you just outside, compliments of…well, it’s here,” he finished as he exchanged her suitcase for the folded note from Keeton. “Please just follow me.”
Luiza frowned in confusion as she opened the paper, then, as she read the note, her face lightened into a grin.
To: Miss Rolek
Thank you for the cab. Please let me return the favor. Perhaps we shall continue our conversation, with fewer politics, soon.
Toby
Chapter 5. Opposite Numbers
“Of course, Jakub, whatever you need,” Anatol Kozlow said softly as the waiter left them alone at the little outdoor table. He had just assented, as usual, to something his clandestine handler had asked of him.
“Thank you, my friend,” Jakub purred through a smile. “You don’t know how much having a confidante in these matters means to me.”
The café was named Jama Michalika, nestled along the narrow Floriańska Street two and a half blocks from the Town Hall. It was close enough to be convenient, far enough away to be discreet, and upscale enough to fit Jakub’s honed tastes. His career with the KGB had taken him to many dark and dirty locations, and it was without reservation that when he had the opportunity to work in one of the more refined cities in Europe he took full advantage of it. He moved from crude village to adorned metropolis with the full confidence that he could resist the lure of the easy life.
“So,” he said to Kozlow, “we have the invitations sent. Did everyone accept?”
“All but two,” Kozlow replied. “The seminarian and the professor. We still have a couple of days.”
Jakub’s eyes wandered in thought. “Do you think they’re suspicious of such a dinner party? After all, most of them you only know through others, correct?”
“Well…no,” Kozlow said uncertainly. “That is, yes I don’t know them very well, but each invitation was written personally to explain why I wanted them to come, just like we discussed. And no to your question about them being suspicious. Nothing I’ve detected, anyway.”
“That’s good,” Jakub said after taking a sip of coffee and considering the information. “I’d like you to contact these last two if you don’t hear back by tomorrow.”
“I will,” Kozlow replied. “And with your permission I’ve engaged the caterers as well.”
Jakub nodded offhandedly, and he felt the slightest thrill of his newly enhanced situation. His was a sought-after assignment among his KGB colleagues—and competitors—which allowed him more freedom and a larger budget. Their psychoanalysts had predicted a political threat from the Polish state. If he was successful in eliminating the threat by discrediting Paszek or if necessary taking more drastic measures, he would be amply rewarded. Could a promotion to rezident be far behind such a resounding success? The easy life whispered to him from the horizon.
“I’ll pay for it all,” Jakub confirmed. He opened the folder in front of him and sorted out the pictures of the two dinner holdouts. Each photo had Kozlow’s original notes about the subjects, as well as additional comments from Jakub. The first was of Nikodem Winograd, who was studying to become a priest at Krakow’s major seminary. Jakub pitied the delusion of the young man, to believe in something higher—higher than the state or than simple raw power. Still, the happy smile mocked back at him. The second picture was of Luiza Rolek, the history professor at Jagiellonian. Her beauty and figure attracted him, and he hoped that they might become lovers. He could try charming her or resort to blackmail—the means were less important than the end. She was also an academic and thus in addition to an instrument for his physical pleasure, she might even be useful as an instigator against Paszek.
“Jakub, perhaps we should discuss your objectives for the dinner again,” Kozlow said softly. “Take these two, for instance. Winograd, yes—I expect him to fully support the bishop. But Professor Rolek”—he shrugged—“not so much.”
Jakub understood the delicate manipulation at work. Kozlow was, strictly speaking, a devout Catholic before he was a devout Paszek-ist. Nonetheless, the love for one implied and informed love for the other. There was at least a sense of loyalty toward the bishop. The trick for Jakub was slowly building the case that Paszek—his charisma, his writings, his speeches, his resistance to the state—were correct from an immediate moral point of view but counterproductive and even dangerous for Mother Church in the long run. Jakub would twist and metamorphose the message until Paszek was seen as too radical and reckless to lead the Polish church, driven by his own ego and self-importance. He had been working on Kozlow for several months, and they had had similar conversations many times already.
“That’s a good analysis, Anatol,” Jakub responded with a smile and then a nod to the waiter to bring their dessert. “I need you to help me think through what we’re up against and how to best combat it. Perhaps I’ve been considering this whole matter from too literal a point of view. You obviously see the nuance to
what is happening to the church. The question is, what is the role of each of us in this big drama? As with any human, imperfect as we are, each of us can do good or evil. Of course, sometimes what seems good is a mere superficiality that’s really not good at all.”
The waiter brought the small cakes, and Jakub waited for Kozlow to swallow the first fork of the most delicious menu item the Jama Michalika offered. It wasn’t only an army that marched on its stomach. The nearly imperceptible sigh from Kozlow signaled the victory.
“You see what I’m driving at, don’t you, Anatol?”
“I believe so, yes,” Kozlow answered as he cut into the cake again.
“Right,” Jakub said. “So the question is, does Baca himself even really know what he’s up against and the best stratagem to defeat his enemies?”
Kozlow nodded. “So we need to find out who are his enemies and how we can help him succeed.”
Jakub waited again, measuring the moments for optimal timing. “I’m afraid it’s even more complicated, my friend. On the battlefield the first man across is usually cut down, but without him no one else would charge forward at all. As we’ve said before, the church does have need for martyrs.”
***
Keeton pushed open the curtain and peered from his second-floor room to see what he could of the complex of buildings called Wawel. The Hotel Royal was located half a block east of it and, of course, had been chosen for the proximity, just as the room had been chosen for its western-facing windows. However, a copse of tall ancient trees allowed him only to discern a few patches of the red-orange slate roof of the Wawel Castle.
After arriving around midnight from the train station, he had managed to haggle his way into the room with a mix of English charm, rudimentary Polish language, and a handful of złoty notes. He had settled in quickly to what was considered the Royal’s luxury accommodation and slept until nearly nine thirty.
In the tiny en suite he drew a bath and then shaved while awaiting the tub to fill, repeating his routine of meditation on the mission as he prepared for the day. The hotel would be his central base in Krakow, an oasis where he would plan his actions and store unneeded trade craft. As in any Iron Curtain location, he would have to be wary of watchers and electronic surveillance and room searches. He was confident that the thick leather satchel, with the disassembled gun and emergency passports, would hold up under a normal security pat-down but not to an experienced spy with a saw.
After bathing and dressing, he rang the bell for room service and asked for laundering and pressing of his other clothes. After the attendant had gone he carefully extracted the pieces of the Smith & Wesson, reassembled it, and slid it beneath the mattress of the bed, elbow-deep. Then he pushed the Star envelope next to the gun and prepared to leave the room.
The last precaution was to pull a bristle from the handle of the shaving brush so that he held the four-inch fiber delicately at one end. The portion that had been plucked from the handle was coated in an adhesive. With the satchel slung across one shoulder he stepped into the hallway, confirmed that he was alone, and then carefully applied the pliable bristle to the inside of the jamb, only an inch from the floor. If someone got into his room while he was gone he’d see the fiber bent back into the gap when the intruder had closed the door.
“Room 214. Please do not disturb it today, until we speak again,” Keeton said to the front-desk clerk, who smiled and nodded obediently as he was discreetly handed a five-pound note. He then asked for a tourist map, which the well-paid clerk found for him at no charge.
Keeton walked out of the hotel and donned his hat and sunglasses, then headed up Saint Giles Street to the corner of Grodzka. From there he looked toward Wawel Hill, with the impressive fortified wall and beyond that the castle. He already knew from his training that the cathedral was located even farther back. The bishop himself might be atop Wawel Hill right now or perhaps a few blocks away in the episcopal mansion. The relatively tight quarters of Krakow as an operational sphere would make Keeton’s task of assessing the threat to Paszek easier, but it also lightened the burden of his adversaries.
Ten minutes later Keeton emerged onto Krakow’s Town Square and felt immediately immersed in its history and culture. He had traveled all over Europe—both sides of the Curtain—in his capacity as an agent of the American government, including two brief missions in Warsaw. Unlike the Polish capital, however, with its towering Soviet-era Palace of Culture and Science, the town square of Krakow was literally flanked on all sides by centuries-old churches, not the least of which was Saint Mary’s Basilica with its imposing double towers. He was beginning to see what the headshrinkers and analysts working on the Camelot Project were getting at. He could almost feel the resilience and strength of the people reflected in this bustling marketplace despite the formal communist rule. Still, was the populace really just waiting with latent defiance for that one igniting spark? Could one lone bishop really make such a difference? Lost in those reflections he sat down at an outdoor table of a popular café and was attended to by a waiter dressed in formal black and white.
“Czarna herbata z cytryną, proszę,” Keeton said to him. Black tea with lemon. The waiter nodded and left, and Keeton pulled the tourist map from the satchel and opened it on the table in front of him. Fortunately, much of it had English subtitles. He quickly located the square and was surprised to see the Jagiellonian University very near him. Of course, he thought of Luiza Rolek—the first time he had seen her walking into the hotel in Warsaw and the last time just before he paid her cab fare and left the note.
The waiter brought the tea on a small tray with sugar. Keeton knew from experience to add at least a spoonful. He was hungry, too, but the prospect of meeting Luiza again distracted him until he admitted wanting to finish the tea and move on. That’s when he noticed the man across the makeshift patio of the café watching him.
Keeton’s training had taught him to avoid reaction, although his sunglasses gave him an advantage under these circumstances. The man was paunchy and balding, and his face appeared stoic to the point of apathy. Keeton maintained his pose of consulting the map and sipping his tea nonchalantly and saw that the man’s hands were scarred and gnarled from some harsh trauma in his past. After a couple of minutes, Keeton pretended to look around for the waiter and saw that the man was now looking out beyond him, in the direction of the Cloth Hall. Keeton also noticed the red notebook sitting next to the pencil on the table, which he knew to be standard issue for the SB, the Polish secret police. Had the SB agent simply seen him with his tourist map as a brief curiosity, or had he been actively spying on Keeton? The SB man was at the café first, so Keeton chose to think it was coincidence rather than intent.
In rough Polish Keeton asked for the bill and immediately paid in złoty. He then left the café with map in hand and satchel strapped over his shoulder. Halfway to the Cloth Hall he turned around as if orienting with the map, only to see the SB man still sitting at the patio but now with a plate of food in front of him.
A key advantage of Keeton’s dual cover as reporter and tourist was the array of items he’d naturally carry that could be used as field gear or converted to it. The best example was the Minox B, a versatile little camera sold commercially with all the features needed to record both landscapes and secret documents. He pulled the Minox from the satchel and slid it open, then pushed the gray filter into place for bright-light exposure. At that moment the SB agent looked around for the waiter, so Keeton raised the camera to his eye and snapped three quick shots of the man’s profile. Satisfied, Keeton stowed the Minox and continued on his walk to the Jagiellonian, although twice more he stopped under pretenses of admiring a building or a vendor’s wares—he was not being followed.
Leaving the town square at the southwest corner, Keeton soon found himself walking among a younger crowd as he crossed onto the Jagiellonian campus. There were no big signs or ironwork fences announcing his arrival, the older portion of the campus having been part of the square
for centuries. He walked a few blocks, in circles, and then finally asked a student where he might find the history department.
“Right there is the place,” the young man answered in broken English, pointing to an ornate and imposing three-story brick building just a hundred feet away. “History teaching.”
Keeton thanked him and walked up to the building and entered through the open double doors and removed his hat. The foyer was a mix of plasterwork, arches, and marble columns, dotted with the standard bulletin boards and paraphernalia of the college scene. A few students and presumed administrators walked through as he stood to get his bearings. Then an elderly woman noticed his furrowed brow and walked up to him.
“Mogę pomóc panu?” she asked him. May I help you, sir?
“Profesor Luiza Rolek, proszę,” he said. The old woman smiled and nodded and waved him to follow her. She led him up a flight of stairs and down one long hallway to the next intersection, where a closed door held a placard reading L. ROLEK PROF NADZW HISTORIA.
Keeton thanked her and approached the door, at first disappointed that it appeared Luiza might be absent. Then, through the slice of window, her face was suddenly framed as she sat at her desk reading, and his spirits lifted. However, just as he knocked on the little window and Luiza looked up, Keeton realized his mistake, which her immediate look of confusion and then fear confirmed. His mind raced to correct the error as she stood, straightened out her dress, and walked tentatively to the door and opened it.
“Hello,” she said softly, barely smiling.
“Good morning, Miss Rolek—I mean, Professor Rolek,” Keeton said, feigning nothing but lightness in his mood even as he consciously chastised himself. His operational mistake—that he should not have known her profession or location—must have been frightening and suspicious to her. Behind the Iron Curtain, even in the freest of the unfree Soviet satellites, such incongruities could precede a summary arrest. At the door he had decided to tackle the miscue head-on. “I’m quite proud of myself, for finding you, that is.”
The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2) Page 9
