The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  “Dziękuję,” she said. A moment later, face-to-face, she was kissing him again.

  Keeton returned her energy, savoring the bit of perfume she’d put on earlier in the evening as well as the taste of salt on her neck from the perspiration. She reached up and began to undo his tie. He let her, then removed his suit coat and tossed it over a nearby chair.

  “Drink?” she asked as she draped the tie on the coat and walked over to a small hutch on which there were several bottles and glasses.

  “Absolutely,” he answered. “Whiskey?”

  “Sorry, Toby, no,” she said with a soft laugh. “But I’ve got something else for you to try.” She poured two fingers in each of two glasses and brought them over to him. Then she took him by the hand and guided him to the settee.

  “What is it?” he asked after carefully nosing the liquor.

  “It’s called Krupnik,” she said. “It’s a kind of vodka but sweetened with honey. Go ahead and try it.” She raised her glass and waited.

  “To getting to know each other even better,” Keeton said. Their glasses touched, and they sipped at the same time. Keeton enjoyed the taste of the unusual liqueur, and his second drink was longer, exhausting his glass. Luiza smiled and tossed the rest of hers with a gleam in her eye.

  “Another?” she asked.

  “Allow me,” Keeton said, taking her glass and pouring refills at the hutch. “Luiza, are you trying to lower my defenses?”

  “You have defenses?” she asked playfully. “I had no idea. Now, about your toast—getting to know each other better…”

  Keeton handed her the glass and sat back down next to her on the settee. “Yes? What can I tell you?”

  “When I asked you at dinner about your writing, you didn’t want to talk to me about it. I assume a couple of Krupniks will loosen your tongue.”

  Keeton smiled and wondered if there was any double entendre intended in Luiza’s last statement. He hoped there was, but he was also thinking about how to utilize her curiosity and eventually discuss Anatol Kozlow. “Well, then, we might as well jump in. I’ve written about the economic factors in various places, but I’m particularly interested in Eastern Europe.”

  “Because of the socialist system?” Her question had less bite than in their first conversation at the taxi stand.

  “I suppose so, yes. It’s caught on around the world, you must admit.”

  “Caught on—you make it sound like the people have chosen it.” She took a long draw from her glass.

  “Just so,” Keeton said. “It comes down to how much choice the people have. If given the power, would the masses make the right decisions? And that brings me to Poland. By virtue of the strong church here, you’ve been able to maintain more autonomy than any other Soviet satellite. That’s why I’m here to finish my story about Bishop Paszek.” At the name, Keeton saw the change in Luiza’s face, the slight tightening of the jaw and the dilation of her pupils, as expected.

  “The bishop,” Luiza started absently. “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s becoming something of an icon, isn’t he?” Keeton said. “In some ways he’s the embodiment of Polish culture and independence.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” she answered. “Popular with the people—but not with the government leaders.”

  Keeton sensed an opening. “It’s a natural tension, of course, in every country. Luiza, I know the situation here. Both British and Pole fought the Nazis, none more vigorously than Paszek. There are different levels of socialism, different levels of freedom. How much individuality can a strong authoritarian system allow? When will the agents of the state take action against an instigator?”

  Luiza sighed and sat back. “Instigators are cut down, eventually.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Keeton said and leaned toward her. “Do you think Bishop Paszek is in danger?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “Toby, I…yes, I think he’s in danger. I do.”

  “And, socialist system or not, do you think he should be protected?” he asked.

  Luiza’s eyes lowered for a moment, then came back up to meet his. “Yes, of course. As you say he represents us, the best of us. Yes, we should protect him. I don’t happen to be particularly religious—fallen away, you could say. I respect Paszek for his aspirations for us. But who is there in Poland to do this, to take on the state?” Her question ended in a desperate shrug, and she quickly finished her second glass of Krupnik. Keeton gently took the glass from her, put his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her to him. Her head settled against his neck.

  “What about me?” he said after a few seconds of silence.

  “You, Toby?” she asked softly. “Protect us? Take on the state?”

  “In my own way, yes,” Keeton answered. “The story I’m writing for the Ploughshare can help. Of course my editors want me to be accurate, but from what I can see there’s no reason I can’t present the bishop as a sympathetic figure. He’s traditional, as you’d expect, but that’s why the People’s Republic of Poland is so strong. You see? The state would be stupid to do anything to Paszek.”

  “I wasn’t sure you and your paper would see things this way,” she said.

  “Our editorial point of view isn’t so close-minded as you might think,” Keeton said. He knew his statement belied the cover background of both the newspaper and Toby Lodge, but he sensed an opportunity. “I’m beginning my research in earnest tomorrow, in fact, starting with finding a certain man, a photographer who was recommended to me.”

  “Who is it?” Luiza asked as she nestled a bit closer to him under the effect of the drink. For a few seconds Keeton was silent as he let the wave of revulsion rise and fall in his subconscious. In that interim he hated his profession and himself, but then he figured that this was just his own dulled nerves letting the weakness of sentiment get an advantage, and he snapped out of it.

  “His name is Anatol Kozlow,” he said evenly. The signals again, from Luiza: the slight twitch of reaction, the sharp breath, and the quickening pulse, which Keeton felt transmitted from her wrist and into his fingertips as he held her hand in just the right position.

  “Kozlow?” she asked. “Did you say Anatol Kozlow?”

  “Yes. You know we don’t see many publications from Poland out in the West. I was fortunate to see some workers’ pamphlets that included photos of Paszek that Kozlow had taken. I’m hoping he can be my assistant, so to speak. I intend to pay him. Why did you ask his name again; do you know him?”

  When she laughed and sat up on the settee, Keeton thought perhaps his ruse had been discovered. However, when he looked at her face he saw only bemusement, not betrayal. That would come later.

  “I do know him, yes,” she said. “It’s quite odd, really. I met him at various community meetings, and I know he had taken an interest in the bishop. We’ve spoken several times about it, but honestly I wouldn’t call us friends. The thing is…”

  “What is it?” Keeton asked.

  Luiza stood and took their glasses over to the hutch, poured refills, then retrieved a white card from her handbag and passed it to Keeton. The handwriting was in Polish, and Keeton looked up helplessly. Luiza smiled and took it back. “It’s an invitation,” she said. “To a dinner party tomorrow evening at Kozlow’s flat. He says it’s for a few interesting friends to share a meal and talk about the state of things. He mentions our community meetings, but, like I said, I wouldn’t expect to be considered close to him.”

  Keeton took the glass from her and sipped it slowly as his mind worked over this new intelligence about Kozlow. Now it was his turn to wonder whether the dinner party was coincidence or a danger sign.

  “Luiza, I can tell you’re not comfortable about this,” he said, mustering a tone of innocence. “Is there something about the invitation that makes you afraid?”

  She sat down next to him again. “Toby, everything here is so…complicated, political. The conversation we just had about the bishop—well, we neve
r would talk this way in public. It would be unwise and maybe even…”

  “Dangerous?” he asked. When she nodded he pulled her against him again, and she let herself be pulled. “Then don’t go; simply decline.”

  “It’s not that easy, Toby. Yes, I’m worried. One never knows what the unexpected means. Besides, it’s too late; I called Anatol and told him I would be there.” And there it was, the opportunity that blossomed from the surprise invitation. Keeton had already memorized the address from the card, had done so immediately when he saw Kozlow’s name and an obvious street number under it. His original intent was to simply use the information to make it easier to find the man. Now there were other options. Why not take the boldest one, he asked himself.

  “Luiza,” Keeton said. “I have to say that I don’t like this development. In my profession I’ve honed my senses for danger, or at least I like to think I have. I want to help you, or—dare I say it—protect you.” He had closed his eyes and now felt Luiza’s hand stretch across his chest to his shoulder and hold him. “Do you think it’s possible for me to attend the dinner with you?”

  The delay in her response caused Keeton to wonder if he had pushed too quickly, the ever-present risk in running an asset. He ran through the few responses he might need depending on her reaction: if she rejected his offer, feign indifference or push harder or simply delay.

  “Toby, you would do this for me?” she asked suddenly, pulling back so that their eyes met.

  “Of course,” Keeton said very seriously, then grinned. “What better way to get a second date?”

  She smiled through eyes that were beginning to tear. “Thank you. You know, the first date isn’t over just yet. Care to see the rest of the house?”

  ***

  Borys Gomulka looked down into the glass, for a moment fixated on the rippling of the vodka caused by his own shaking hand. His boss, Slaski, was dead. That’s all the SB supervisor would tell him at a hastily arranged noon meeting earlier in the day. Well, that and the thinly veiled encouragement that he, Gomulka, would need to be even more diligent in his surveillance of the bishop, especially if he wished to advance up the chain of command. Borys knew better than to ask what had become of Slaski’s red SB notebook. Like so many others in the center of town, he had learned of Slaski’s fate through snippets of hushed conversation. By the time he wearily pushed open the door to his flat and sat down for supper, he knew that Slaski had been strangled to death and then robbed. After a silent and joyless meal, he had waved to his wife and retired to the familiar bar.

  He drained the glass and brought it down against the table twice to get the barman’s attention and lifted his fingers in a V-shape. Why was Slaski killed anyway? Because someone thought he was rich? That was doubtful. Besides, why kill him for a bit of money and a watch? Yes, it happened—probably it happened everywhere. But not often, not in Krakow. The barman replaced the empty glass with two filled ones. Slaski nodded for him to sit across the table.

  “Dziękuję,” the barman said quietly. His name was Lev, and he knew Borys as a regular. His profession afforded him his own brand of intuition, and from keen observation over the last hour he knew Borys was wrestling with a troubled conscience. “So, what’s wrong, my friend?”

  Borys sighed heavily. “Someone has died,” he said simply.

  “My condolences,” Lev answered. “A relative or a friend?”

  Borys’s foggy eyes managed to focus briefly on the man across from him. He smiled broadly but grimly. “Neither. Isn’t that funny? Neither, and very strongly neither. But here I am anyway. Why is that? A…a colleague, let us say—is dead. That’s all he was, really. What am I to do now?”

  “I think you know exactly what to do,” Lev answered. “It’s why you ordered a second glass and asked me over here, isn’t it? No matter whether you liked this man or hated him. You know what to do.”

  Borys stared down again and nodded. Then he slowly brought his glass up from the table and held it toward the barman. Lev reciprocated, and their glasses hit together with vigor.

  “May this man rest in peace,” Lev said definitively.

  Borys’s mouth twitched in a concessive smile before he tossed back the drink. In his heart he knew that one way or the other, Slaski had been another victim of the state and its machinations.

  On the other side of Krakow, Jakub sat similarly but alone in the bar across the street from his apartment. He, too, had sought the solace of alcohol, that false friend that dulled his senses just when the clarity of his intellect was most needed. How quickly news of Slaski’s death had made its way among the town dwellers, and how sincerely they lamented the damnable deed rather than its effect! They were rid of one perceived oppressor, weren’t they, at least temporarily? Why give him such courtesy in death? Once again he found the Polish people a vexing puzzle, and he suddenly wished to be done and removed from this place.

  Don’t be soft, he chastised himself sharply as another shot slid down his throat. The reward will come when you’ve completed the mission. Utilize your assets, discredit the bishop, and if possible turn one of these simpletons into his enemy; if that fails, activate the asset in London. What about the girl, he wondered sadly. He had hoped to make her a lover, had selected her from Kozlow’s pictures simply out of attraction. Reading the latest intelligence, that this beautiful university professor might be a Paszek ally and thus would need to be—what word might he suggest?—neutralized was yet another dart of cruel irony.

  His watch read nine thirty, and he figured he would be drunk enough to fall asleep by the time he finished reading the crumpled edition of Dziennik Polski he had picked up. The front page featured news about the recent Polish elections and a story from London about the conflict in Vietnam. South Vietnamese troops had attacked the town of Quang Ngai, then retreated. American planes had dropped napalm bombs on the Vietcong, and in other action forty-five US marines had been killed. The damned Americans, he thought. Yanki! Serves them right for interfering in the wrong hemisphere. His KGB connection in Southeast Asia predicted that the westerners had no idea what they were in for and would soon rue the day they took the place of the French in that little dung strip of a country, fighting for even more insignificant dung heaps like Quang Ngai.

  The rest of the paper was a litany of banal local items like the weather report, sports scores, and Polish party propaganda. After thirty minutes he pushed up from the table and walked over to the bar to pay his bill. The barman gruffly wished him a good night, and Jakub returned the greeting in kind through watery eyes. Across the street he stabbed his door key toward the cylinder three times before hitting the target and letting himself in. It was one of those nights when he would fall back onto the small couch with his head propped on its padded arm and stare up at the ceiling ready to confront what might come when he fell asleep. His only fear in life was not the judgment of his violent acts or of working to destroy the life of a churchman but failure.

  Just before succumbing to the swirl of his stupor, Jakub turned his head to look over at the bookcase across the small living room. My plans. My plans and codes and my protection. What was the English expression? “Safe and sound.”

  ***

  Keeton dropped suddenly into a small flat in London. He knew it was London, not by spotting the Tower or a red call box but by that certain intuition that accompanied slumber. It was a suite, and he heard a grainy record playing in another room. The flat was familiar. He walked down a short hallway until he came to a closed door, behind which the music droned. By the same unconscious sense, he knew it was a bedroom.

  He pushed open the door and walked in and suddenly was no longer in the London flat but in Luiza’s house, upstairs in her bedroom where she had taken him earlier in the evening. There was the bed, the old corroded brass frame made up with fresh linens and down pillows. Luiza lay under the intensely white sheet, unmoving and beautiful. Her blond hair was disheveled—from their lovemaking? No, he was clothed and did not seem to remember b
eing with her. He tried to look around to get his bearings, but his head would not turn.

  Then a red spot, dark and fluid, began to grow on the sheet just about where Luiza’s stomach would be. She still did not move. Keeton watched the spot expand as it saturated the white cotton fabric. It was only with a supreme effort of his will that his hand reached out and flipped the sheet away from her.

  The wound was gory, made by the exit of a sniper’s bullet. He began breathing heavily and sweating. He wanted to reach down to pull together the jagged folds of skin, but he was powerless. Why did this have to happen? He suddenly hated this woman, but his mind told him it only looked like Luiza. Lynette?

  Suddenly her eyes opened, and he drew back. She blithely brushed hair from her eyes and said simply in an English lilt, “Me too, Andrew?”

  As Keeton’s eyes blinked awake he saw that he was really in Luiza’s bed, and she was next to him, breathing soundly. As in the dream, however, his forehead and face were wet with perspiration. A cool but humid morning breeze fanned him from the open bedroom window as he lay his head back and let his heart rate recover. Then he carefully extracted himself from under the sheet, slipped on his boxer shorts, and navigated himself down the stairs in the early dawn light.

  Ten minutes later Keeton had washed and filled the empty Krupnik bottle with cold water from the hand pump in the kitchen, used the outhouse, and retrieved the leather satchel from the Mikrus. Although it appeared undisturbed he chastised himself for letting it sit in the car all night. Back up in the bedroom Luiza was stirring as Keeton climbed back under the sheet holding the bottle of water.

  “I think I might’ve given your tenant farmer a scare,” he said as she rolled toward him.

  “You must think this is all very primitive,” she said. “Regale me with stories of indoor plumbing and electronic televisions.”

  “Not at all,” he answered and leaned in to kiss her neck. “Besides, primitive is not all bad.”