The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  Finding a piece of intelligence at a dead drop in his current assignment was not an occasion of either optimism or dread. He was too experienced and analytical to presume any sort of harbinger of good or ill; such a thing would simply be a waste of his time. He was required to check the two locations around Krakow three times a week each, and he obediently did so. That was that. Two days earlier nothing was under the stone; today there was an envelope. Its color told him which onetime cipher pad would decode the message it contained.

  Yellow. He walked over to a standing bookcase and pulled out an apparent volume of poetry, which was in reality a hybrid of authentic Mickiewicz poems and special cipher pad from Moscow. The pads for outgoing blue messages were hidden elsewhere in the apartment, under floorboards. For yellow, the pages of the book alternated, and once Jakub found the cipher page corresponding to the correct date he bothered to read the verses on the adjacent side. Actually quite beautiful, he thought. Then he opened the envelope, pulled out the sheet of paper on which the scrambled code had been typed, and began finding each of the letter substitutions in order to reveal the actual message.

  Finally, as he finished writing the last two words from the note, he stopped suddenly, poured himself a third shot, and sat back. Jakub did not believe in God or coincidences, and so with furrowed brow he considered the message in total as well as its tantalizing climax.

  URGENT AND CAUTION. PASZEK DEFENDER NAME WALTER ZAN CONFIRMED, PICKED UP, INTERROGATED. WORKS AMERICAN EMBASSY. STUDENT UNIVERSITY WARSAW. ADMITS PASSING INFORMATION FROM CO-CONSPIRATOR KRAKOW. INVESTIGATE AND ACT AT WILL. PROFESSOR UNIVERSITY JAGIELLONIAN. NAME LUIZA ROLEK.

  Chapter 7. Means to an End

  The Wierzynek’s origin goes back several centuries, but it is still considered one of the finest restaurants in Poland. That’s what the maître d’ told Keeton as they stood together near the front door, awaiting Luiza’s return from a bit of “freshening up.” His English was decent enough, and although their conversation was brief and superficial, Keeton found him likable and convincing.

  “Chwalenie się ponownie, Stanisław?” Luiza asked as she approached from the ladies’ room. Bragging again, Stanisław? To this question the maître d’ simply shrugged good-naturedly and offered his arm to Luiza. Together they walked back to the appointed table with Keeton a step behind them.

  Their familiarity was not an occasion of jealousy for Keeton. Why would it be? he asked himself. Keeton had met her not by chance but by careful intelligence gathering, purposeful and calculating. She was part of a cycle of intrigue that he needed to learn. Perhaps under other circumstances his sentiments on the matter could be different, but for now in the simplest formulation she was a means to an end. Wasn’t that how I’d been trained to treat an asset? He smiled—yes, even one that was female and beautiful.

  Stanisław seated Luiza at a cozy table covered in finery that rivaled anything Keeton had seen. Then he stepped across and pulled out the opposite chair for Keeton, who faced the maître d’ and deftly handed him a five-złoty note with a knowing smile. Keeton was not exactly sure of the Polish customs around such gratuities, but fortunately his cover as an affluent British layabout fit the careless demeanor concerning small change—especially cheap and gaudy foreign money. After Stanisław had left them with the promise of imminent waiters, Keeton leaned toward Luiza.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked with the slightest affect of conspiracy.

  Luiza smiled back. “Stanisław Janda is happily married and has five sons, and three of them have entered university. They all received his handsome looks—and his limited tolerance for academics. So I’ve helped them make it through so far, and occasionally he repays me by finding a table without reservations. I’m actually not sure how I’ll get a table here once all of them graduate. Maybe I should talk the Jandas into having more babies.”

  Keeton laughed lightly. “Good luck. But, something tells me you don’t have any trouble getting asked out to dinner.”

  “Well, I do have high standards,” she answered.

  Just then the waiter appeared and welcomed them to the Wierzynek. When Luiza began to translate into English the waiter hesitated with sudden embarrassment, but she waved away the concern and continued as their intermediary.

  “First of all, our waiter’s name is Aleksy, and he invites us to enjoy the unique ambience of the Clock Room.”

  “I wondered about that,” Keeton said with a sweeping nod. Each of the room’s four walls had clocks of various sizes and designs hanging in clusters, over doors and even between the large windows that faced out to the street.

  “A drink, perhaps?” Luiza asked him. It was not clear whether she was translating or suggesting it herself.

  “I suppose a vodka would be a natural start,” Keeton said.

  “Toby,” Luiza said in a low voice as she leaned toward him. “If you don’t mind…that is, I know the menu here very well, and…”

  Keeton raised his hands in a mock surrender. “I’m completely in your hands, Luiza.”

  She smiled and nodded, then turned toward Aleksy and began instructing him about the courses of food and drink. Keeton would find out as each dish arrived exactly what Luiza had ordered, starting with a Grodziskie-style wheat beer and a dish of śledzie—cold herring awash in a tangy marinade—and fresh bread as appetizers. Aleksy dutifully recorded it all on a small notepad and left to relay the dinner plan to the kitchen.

  “So do I,” Keeton said as soon as the waiter had gone.

  “I’m sorry?” Luiza’s brow furrowed. “So do you, what?”

  “You said a few minutes ago that you had high standards,” he answered. “Well, so do I.”

  Luiza smiled again. She had on a yellow dress that again seemed to tell the world she was going to stand out. Her hair had been braided and then pinned up into an elaborate bun. A silver chain adorned her neck and was pulled down near the start of her cleavage by a small silver medallion. Otherwise, she wore no makeup, nor did she need to, Keeton thought. The clothes and hairstyle accentuated her simple beauty, and he naturally wondered if she had prepared more for the Wierzynek or for him.

  “First of all,” Keeton began. “Let me thank you for choosing this restaurant. I’m inclined to believe everything Stanisław said about it.”

  She declined her head slightly in acknowledgment. “I’m glad you invited me to dinner, Toby. I’m always happy to talk about the history of our people and our country.”

  Keeton nodded. “May I ask if you were born here in Krakow?”

  “I was,” she answered. “Well, not far outside of it, anyway. My father was a farmer who managed to keep hold of his land through the big war—the second big war—and it’s even in our family still, although the tillable portions are leased out to men and women whom the government designate as tenant farmers. Not much money comes from this but at least the land is used for something.”

  “And your father is happy with this arrangement?” Keeton asked.

  “My father has been dead for five years,” she answered, not with the bitterness of the proletariat victim but with a simple gentle sentiment.

  “I’m sorry, Luiza,” Keeton answered. “I suppose that doesn’t say much for my reporter’s instincts.”

  “Don’t worry, Toby. My father was a very strong and good man and proud of his occupation.” Just then Aleksy returned with their beers, which he carefully poured into tall conical glasses and set before them and then silently left. “My mother, on the other hand, was no farmer. What do your reporter’s instincts tell you about her?”

  Keeton thought and smiled. Luiza had used the past tense so he would do likewise, under the presumption that Mrs. Rolek was also deceased. “By your definitive statement about her just now, I’d say that her occupation was very different. I suppose you inherited your personality from her, which means of the academic type. I see your smile at that, so I’m on the right track, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” Luiza answered. “I’ll give you a h
int. Her work was very important during that second big war.”

  “Her work was very important,” Keeton repeated slowly. Academic, Polish, Second World War…“Encryption,” he said suddenly. “Mathematician?”

  Luiza’s eyes widened. “Toby, I…well, yes. Mathematician. She taught at the university before the war but was then called to Poznań University on several occasions to help decipher the German coded messages. Of course, I heard about the details only much later, just before she died.”

  “Here’s to strong, brilliant Polish women,” Keeton said as he raised his glass. Luiza completed the toast, and they each took a draft of beer. Keeton at once appreciated the chilled drink and the surprising smoky flavor and swallowed two more generous portions. It also afforded him a few extra moments to consider how to handle the next part of their conversation.

  “So Toby,” she said. “You’re from London. Were you born there?”

  “Yes, I was,” Keeton answered. “Raised there, until the age of ten. My parents were both killed in the war, from a German V-2 rocket attack. I was sent to live with a relative, a bit out of town, like your homestead. Still have the original place in London, of course. You could say I am what we call privileged.” Measure out the information. Look for connections and probe reasons for her to like me, to trust me.

  “Privilege is an elusive concept, isn’t it?” she asked. “One might think of money as a sort of privilege, but of course there are other aspects of life that make a person happy. Family, for example.”

  Keeton nodded. “You’re right. You grew up with your parents, into adulthood. I envy that. And there are other things—freedom.” He had not meant for the words to sting her but simply to plant a seed. “Naturally, you enjoy a unique place in the Eastern European sphere.”

  “We do,” Luiza answered back. “But it’s a controlled sphere nonetheless.”

  “And we both have the privilege of good beer,” he said as he raised his glass again. Don’t let it get too heavy, not yet.

  “That’s true,” she said, her face lifting from the solemnity of her last statement. “But I think maybe this beer is different from your English style.”

  “Different, yes, but in a good way. I have to say, so far Poland has given a very good first impression.”

  As if on cue, the appetizers arrived. A server arranged their plates and silverware, and Aleksy placed the small platters of bread and herring between them, then dished each of them an initial serving.

  “Mogę polecić schłodzoną wódkę?” Aleksy asked. May I recommend a chilled vodka?

  “W ciągu kilku minut, chyba,” Luiza answered him. In a few minutes, perhaps. Aleksy nodded obediently and left them again. “Toby, it strikes me that you’re a stranger in a strange land, and completely helpless.”

  “Like the Martian in Heinlein’s book?” Keeton asked.

  “I was thinking more about the original actually,” she answered. “Moses’s son in the book of Exodus. But you probably didn’t think I’d heard of the science fiction book.”

  “Why would I…?” he started.

  “It’s OK, Toby,” she interrupted with the slight laugh. “Normally you’d be right. I had a friend of mine smuggle a copy to me after she’d been granted a travel visa to Germany—West Germany, I mean.”

  “Luiza, it strikes me that perhaps you are a stranger in your own land, with a wide circle of friends who help you bend the rules.” He tipped back the last of the Grodziskie beer. “I could do with some of that chilled vodka, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Surprise,” Luiza said softly with a smile. “Maybe not completely helpless, after all.”

  Keeton shrugged. “I tried studying up before I came here. Languages come natural to me, I guess. Jesteś piękna, Luiza,” he added suddenly.

  “Thank you, Toby, you’re very kind,” she answered as her face flushed a bit.

  The banter and the compliment had broken the ice with them, and they spent the next hour exchanging stories about their lives while Aleksy kept the vodka and food courses coming: Golabki—cabbage rolls in tomato sauce—along with a sampling of the stew called bigos, and finally a fantastic pork cutlet for Luiza and rolled beef with vegetables for Keeton. Sometime during their dinner Luiza reached for her drink but grasped Keeton’s glass by mistake at the same time he did, and their fingers touched. She playfully snatched it from him and finished the drink. From that point forward they freely shared their meals under the pretense of acclimating Keeton to Polish cuisine. Of course it was that and more. Keeton finally ordered strong coffee and begged off dessert after Luiza ordered a slice of sernik—traditional Polish cheesecake.

  “I admire your capacity for…well, just your capacity,” Keeton said with a laugh.

  Luiza smiled back and leaned toward him. “Another inheritance, I suppose. Mother could think and drink as well as any man. Think and drink—that rhymes, doesn’t it?” Despite her strong genetics, she was tipsy. Keeton caught Aleksy’s eye from near the doorway and signaled for a coffee for the lady. “Toby, explain to me again what you write about and why.”

  “I’m not going to risk this wonderful dinner,” he answered with some seriousness. “We said no politics, remember?”

  “That was back at the train station in Warsaw, when we were strangers,” she said.

  Keeton nodded as his mind raced. The vodka had lowered his defenses even as he felt it happening. Was he hesitating now in deference to his trade craft or simply to avoid alienating this woman? He reached out and put his hand over hers on the table. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Luiza. Of course, I want to share more. But I wouldn’t want our conversation to make us miss the beautiful countryside you promised. Why don’t we walk a bit to settle our dinner and then take that drive?”

  “That’s a good idea,” she said happily as the coffees arrived. “I think you’re going to like what you see.”

  ***

  “I definitely like what I see,” Keeton whispered. He leaned in and gently kissed Luiza’s ear a second time, and he heard her sigh softly.

  They were standing together on an earthen terrace outside of Krakow that overlooked an expanse of verdant farmland. During their after-dinner stroll around Krakow’s town square, Luiza had proudly recited many facts about the businesses and churches that formed the richness of the city. Keeton had listened attentively and asked many questions, and eventually their hands had touched once or twice before finally joining. Then she had driven him out into the plush countryside, away from the elaborate ancient architecture and industrial base, along narrow winding roads—many of them simple dirt or gravel—and over undulating hills until she’d finally stopped at this raised and remote prominence.

  She stepped in front of him and he naturally encircled her waist with his arms, locking his fingers together over her stomach and pulling her back into him. “Do you see that house out there?” she asked, pointing to a simple but well-kept country home half a mile from them. “That’s the Rolek family farm, or what’s left of it.”

  “Looks very nice,” Keeton commented. “I bet it’s quite peaceful.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. After several seconds she leaned her head back and looked up at him. “Would you like to see it, Toby?”

  “I would, very much,” he answered. Then he opened his hands and placed them on her waist and turned her around to face him. They kissed with a strength that surprised them both. “Let’s go, then,” he said with a smile.

  Together they walked the short distance back to Luiza’s car, a rare 1960 Mikrus model. It was a coupe and sprightlier than Keeton would have predicted. Nonetheless, the engine whined, and the gears grinded, and the ride was quite unforgiving along the primitive unpaved roads that led to the Rolek farm.

  “Home, sweet home,” Luiza said playfully after she cut the engine and fixed the car in place with the manual gearbox. “Isn’t that the saying?”

  “Indeed it is; let’s take a look,” Keeton answered. He stepped out of the car and fol
lowed her up to the small front porch. The house was a modest A-frame made from nineteenth-century brick topped with a roof of wooden shingles. It was surrounded on three sides by fields of maturing crops, with a lush hillock to the north.

  “Mostly wheat, with some sugar beets,” Luiza said as she pointed out to the expanses. “And whatever the state dictates to the tenants.”

  “It’s beautiful out here, Luiza,” Keeton said.

  “I’ll always remember it this way,” she answered. “Even with the German invasion. They spared the city, and they spared the farms in this area, for the most part. I like to think no one around us knew about the camps just an hour west of here—Auschwitz and Monowitz. I was three years old when they began and eight when the Nazis were expelled, and kept quite naive.”

  Keeton took Luiza’s hands in his. “You were naive. The rest of the world—who knows? Naive, blind, complicit…” He shrugged and smiled wryly.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said as she delicately pulled her hands back. She fished a set of keys from her handbag and unlocked the front door and led him into the main level room where the family had gathered in the long winter evenings around the brick fireplace to read or play music or listen to German propaganda on the family radio. It was dim and hot, and she immediately began opening windows. In the meantime, Keeton spotted a lantern on the small dining table and lit it with a match from the book he’d taken at the Royal’s restaurant that morning. In the glowing light he noted that this room opened into a tiny kitchen area that contained a wood-burning cooking stove, a hand-operated water pump, and several dingy cupboards.

  When Keeton turned toward Luiza, she was struggling with the last window to be opened. He walked over, slipped his arms under hers, and pushed the stubborn pane up halfway. A cool cross breeze washed over them.